James Craig - London Calling

‘You really haven’t learnt anything, have you?’ Miller sneered. ‘Even after all this time, you stupid, stupid little shit.’ Towelling himself down as best he could, he stepped towards the door, tossing the wet towel at Carlyle. ‘Come anywhere near any of our people and we’ll fucking crucify you. It’s case closed. This has finally been dealt with, no thanks to you.’ He jabbed a meaty finger towards Carlyle’s face. ‘Ironically, you might even get a bit of glory if you play your cards right. I’ll at least let you have that.’

‘I don’t think so,’ Carlyle snarled, but he was struggling to put on a brave face. Already, he could see how it would all play out.

The meaty finger retreated into a clenched fist. ‘Don’t fuck it up again,’ Miller smiled. ‘Remember which side you’re on.’ Then, pushing Carlyle out of the way, he squelched out through the door and disappeared along the corridor.

‘Give me a hand, boss!’ Joe called as he struggled to get himself out of the pool.

Ignoring him, Carlyle turned and left.

Edgar Carlton threw a large glass of Remy Martin XO down his throat, followed quickly by another. Feeling suitably relaxed, he plastered what he hoped was a confident smile on his face and stepped out of No 10 Downing Street to address the world. Gripping the lectern that had been placed out in the street, he acknowledged the assembled journalists corralled behind barriers on the pavement, and waited for the flash photography and the whirr of camera motors to die down. Clearing his throat, he fixed his gaze on a point just above the tallest head in the throng, and launched into his statement:

‘Her Majesty the Queen has asked me to form a new government, and I have accepted. I came into politics because I believe deeply in public service. I love this great country of ours and I think that its best days still lie ahead. I want us all to work together to help to build a society with stronger families and stronger communities. We should remember the words of St Francis of Assisi when he said: “Where there is discord, may we bring harmony. Where there is error, may we bring truth. Where there is doubt, may we bring faith. And where there is despair, may we bring hope.” I believe that together we can provide that strong and stable government that our country needs based on those values – rebuilding family, rebuilding community and, above all, rebuilding responsibility in this country. These are the things I care about. These are the things that I will now start work on delivering. Thank you very much.’

Before he had even finished, the hacks began hurling an avalanche of questions at him. Turning quickly away, Edgar fled back inside.

Carlyle sat in a small office, looking out over the empty newsroom: an open-plan arrangement of desks and monitors, with a small studio set in the far corner. On maybe twenty separate screens, he could see images of Edgar Carlton proclaiming his victory on the steps of Downing Street.

‘How did you make the connection?’

‘Huh?’ Carlyle returned his gaze to Rosanna Snowdon. On the desk in front of her lay William Murray’s mobile phone, recovered from the Carlton brothers’ hotel suite. She eyed it nervously, as if it was radioactive.

‘Between father and son? What made you realise that William Murray was Robert Ashton’s kid?’

‘It just came to me,’ Carlyle shrugged. ‘I was sitting in a pub as the polls were closing. Edgar appeared on the TV screen, and William Murray was at his shoulder. Then it hit me…’

‘And his mother was covering up for him?’

‘Yes. We don’t know the precise balance of power in that relationship, but they were in it together.’

‘Madness.’

‘Was it?’ Carlyle exhaled. ‘If someone did that to my family, well

…’

Rosanna drummed a perfectly manicured fingernail on her desk. ‘Are you actually condoning murder, Inspector?’

‘No,’ he said stiffly, quickly descending into a bit of jargon in order to mask his opinions. ‘But at least you can put together the pieces and, at the very least, begin understanding the motivation of the perpetrators. That is not the same as condoning it.’

‘It’s an amazing story…’

‘It certainly is,’ Carlyle agreed.

‘… but I can’t use it.’

She looked up at Carlyle, with a pained expression. ‘Why have you brought me this?’

‘I thought you wanted an exclusive,’ he said evenly.

She gestured at the mobile. ‘Not this kind of exclusive.’

Carlyle shifted in his chair. Maybe coming here wouldn’t be the brightest decision he had ever made – even in the course of this current investigation, which would certainly be saying something. ‘What kind is that then?’

‘The kind that will never see the light of day,’ she replied.

He waited for her to explain.

She screwed up her face. ‘How can I use this? It’s not a story.’

‘It seems like a story to me,’ Carlyle said, not convinced himself now. He felt a creeping embarrassment at his stupidity. Why was he even here? What was he thinking? Edgar Carlton was in his first week as prime minister. William Murray and Susy Ahl were both dead. No one cared about their deaths. Robert Ashton may or may not have been successfully avenged.

Who had chosen Carlyle as the one man to shine a light on this dark little corner of the past? He wasn’t even doing his self-appointed task very well. There wasn’t going to be any ‘closure’. All he was doing was digging himself into another hole.

She sat back and gave him a rather pitying smile. ‘That’s why you’re the policeman and I’m the journalist. A story is only a story if I can report it. No one can use this. The lawyers wouldn’t let us go anywhere near it.’

Feeling like a complete idiot, Carlyle sat in silence.

‘You think this security guy…?’

‘Miller.’

‘Yes, Miller. You think he murdered the aide and also his mother?’

Carlyle nodded.

‘And maybe that other guy… the one killed out near the airport.’

‘Allen?’ Carlyle shrugged. ‘Maybe. I don’t know, but it’s possible.’

‘Why would he have done that?’

‘Well, unlike the rest of them, I think Allen was ready to talk. Talk properly that is. He had agreed to speak to me once he returned to the country. If he had spilled the beans, then that would have been a problem for all of them.’

‘But you can’t prove any of this, otherwise you’d nick Miller.’ The word ‘nick’ was delivered with a childlike relish.

‘That is correct,’ Carlyle admitted.

‘So you dangle it in front of me,’ she smiled broadly, ‘hoping that I can stir up some trouble.’

‘But publicity is the very soul of justice,’ he said primly.

‘How profound,’ she said sarcastically. ‘Where did you pick that up from?’

It took Carlyle a second to dredge the name from his memory. ‘Jeremy Bentham – he was a philosopher.’

‘I know who he was,’ Rosanna laughed, ‘but he never worked for the bloody BBC. And, anyway, I don’t think he meant that journalists should allow themselves to be used as a tool of revenge by frustrated coppers.’

Carlyle could only smile. She had him sussed out.

After a few seconds, she added, ‘And you could never arrest them, could you?’

Them being the Carltons.

‘No,’ he conceded. ‘Never in a million years.’

Her face lit up at the thought of it. ‘Although that would certainly be a story and a half. Nicked during your first week as prime minister! Who’d have thought old Edgar Carlton might be so interesting?’

Carlyle sighed. ‘No one will ever face any charges in relation to any of this. Ashton was too long ago, and the Murray problem has been solved to the satisfaction of everyone… except me.’