‘The guy who runs it,’ Marcello grumbled, ‘he’s a proper nutter.’
Carlyle shrugged. ‘His pastries certainly aren’t up to Il Buffone standard, that’s for sure.’
Marcello gestured at a plate of large raisin Danishes, smothered in icing, behind the glass-fronted counter. ‘Want one?’
‘Don’t tempt me.’ Carlyle patted his stomach and winced. He seemed increasingly well-upholstered these days. ‘Just a green tea.’
‘Green tea.’ Marcello tutted. ‘That’s all you drink these days.’
‘Hardly. Anyway, Helen says it’s good for me.’
‘Suit yourself.’ Marcello filled a mug with boiling water and dropped in a tea bag. Slipping round the counter, he placed it on the table in front of the inspector.
‘Thanks,’ Carlyle smiled, mildly surprised when the owner sat down opposite him.
‘It’s done,’ said Marcello quietly, looking at the table.
Carlyle nodded. ‘Congratulations.’
‘Yeah.’ Marcello wiped his hands on the tea-towel draped over his left shoulder. ‘The family are happy – Cathy in particular. She says we should have retired years ago.’
Carlyle forced himself to smile. ‘I hope you guys have a long and happy retirement.’
‘I’m sure that the kids and the grandkids will keep us busy.’
‘That’s the way it should be, Marcello,’ said Carlyle, offering his hand to shake. ‘But you’ll still come and see us, won’t you? I know that Alice and Helen will want to keep in touch . . . and me too.’
‘Of course,’ Marcello nodded. ‘Definitely.’ Both of them knew, however, that it wouldn’t happen. At that moment, the door behind them opened and a couple of office workers in search of an early lunch shuffled towards the counter, staring at the menu on the wall. With a sigh, Marcello got to his feet. ‘
Buon giorno
, gentlemen! What can I get you?’
Back at Charing Cross, Carlyle put a call in to Rose. She informed him that statements had been taken from McGowan and Eddie, and the priest had been bailed to reappear at Holborn police station in three weeks’ time. ‘That’s convenient,’ Carlyle noted. ‘Nothing will be done till after the Pope’s been and gone.’
‘These things happen,’ she said philosophically. ‘There is pressure coming down from the higher-ups to keep this thing under wraps. I’ve been told that if there are any more stories about McGowan in the papers, I’ll be shipped right back to the NSPCC.’
‘Subtle,’ Carlyle mused. There was a time when he wouldn’t have thought twice about picking up the phone and tipping off some friendly journalist, if only to annoy the brass. Now, however, he had more important things to worry about. ‘How did McGowan react when you told him that Simon Murphy was dead?’
Rose thought about it for a moment. ‘He looked relieved, to be honest,’ she said. ‘Then he started mumbling about suicide being a mortal sin and the incumbent obligation on man to preserve his own life.’
‘Good God!’ Carlyle moaned. ‘These people really know how to talk shit.’
‘Yeah,’ Rose agreed. ‘His lawyer quickly made him shut up. That Slater woman is quite a piece of work.’
Carlyle laughed. ‘She certainly is.’
‘Anyway,’ said Rose, ‘the whole thing will progress at its own pace. One thing that would be helpful is if you could send me the video you shot on your phone of Eddie “in action”, as it were.’
‘Sure,’ said Carlyle, not having a clue how he would get the video off his phone and into an email.
‘Great. I’ve got to run. Speak soon.’
‘Bye.’ Ending the call, Carlyle looked at the handset, trying to find the images he had recorded in the crypt of the church. For a while, he was worried that he hadn’t actually recorded anything, but eventually he found it in a folder marked ‘Gallery’. Playing it back, he was surprised at the quality of the images, not to mention his own camerawork. Now all he had to do was send the damn thing to Rose. He was still grappling with this problem when, a few moments later, the phone started vibrating in his hand. He answered. ‘Hello?’
‘Inspector Carlyle?’
‘Yes?’
‘It’s Terence Myers.’
‘Ah, Headmaster, how are you?’
‘I’m very well, thank you.’
‘Apologies for not responding to the message from your office but I would be happy to come in and give another talk to some of the girls.’
There was a pause. ‘Good, good,’ said Myers finally. ‘Thank you. But that wasn’t what I was ringing about.’
Carlyle’s heart sank. ‘No?’
‘No. It’s about Alice . . .’
Taking a deep breath, Carlyle opened the door of 3C and walked inside. Alice, sitting by the window, looked up as he entered the classroom. The deep scowl etched on her face did nothing to diminish her beauty in the eyes of her father. Listening to the beating of his heart, he walked down the row of desks and gave her a tender kiss on the top of her head. ‘C’mon,’ he said, picking her bag off the floor. ‘Let’s go.’
‘But I’m in detention,’ she said sullenly.
‘I’ve spoken to Myers,’ he said, his voice gentle, ‘and you’ve served your time. He is releasing you into my care.’
With a grunt of displeasure, Alice pushed back her chair and got to her feet.
Carlyle handed her the bag. ‘Let’s go and get something to drink. We need to work out what to tell your mum.’
Ten minutes later, they were sitting in a Starbucks just north of Smithfield Market. Alice was sipping from a can of Diet Coke and Carlyle had already downed a double espresso. He tried to count up the total number of shots he’d had already that day. Reckoning that he was probably well into double figures, he vowed to try and stick to green tea from now on. ‘So,’ he said, staring into his empty paper cup, ‘let me make sure I’ve got this right. You spliffed up at lunchtime and ended up falling asleep in Double French.’
Alice let out a disaffected belch. ‘I hate French.’
‘Everyone hates French,’ Carlyle grinned, amazed that his sense of humour was holding up. ‘Get over it.’
She gave him a sour look.
‘I thought we had a deal,’ Carlyle whined, angry at how lame he sounded.
‘I only smoked the damn thing because you lectured me about not being in possession on the school premises. They had a free concert in the Barbican – Mendelssohn’s Trio in D Minor – it was cool.’ She grinned maliciously, knowing full well that his knowledge of classical music was less than zero.
Makes a change from The Clash, I suppose
, Carlyle thought. He took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘so you took on board my point about not getting kicked out of school. That’s good.’
Alice smacked her can down on the table. ‘Don’t laugh at me, Dad!’
Carlyle looked around nervously, but the place was almost empty and none of the other customers showed any interest in their conversation. ‘I’m not laughing at you.’
‘Dad!’
‘Look,’ Carlyle snapped, his good humour rapidly evaporating, ‘you need to experiment. Fine, it’s part of growing up. But it’s like anything else, there’s a smart way to do it and a stupid way to do it. Your mother and I are not going to fight battles we can’t win but we know that you are canny enough to understand the advice that we’re trying to give.’
Alice looked at him blankly.
‘Keep clear blue water between school and non-school activities.’
Alice finished the last of her Coke. ‘Huh?’
For fuck’s sake!
Carlyle fought against a sense of despair. ‘Three simple rules,’ he said firmly, ‘that will help us all get along okay.’
She shrugged.
‘No drugs in school. No going to school intoxicated. No spliffing up at lunchtime – or on a school night, for that matter. No getting off your face so that you can’t think straight.’
Folding her arms, she gave him a stern look. ‘Is this what you and Mum have agreed?’
‘Yes,’ Carlyle lied, sticking out a hand. ‘Do we, finally, have a deal?’
After thinking about it for a few moments, she offered up the limpest of handshakes. ‘Deal.’
‘Good.’ Carlyle kissed her on the forehead as he got to his feet. ‘Now, I’ve gotta go.’
Alice lifted her bag from the floor. ‘Aren’t you coming home?’
‘ ’Fraid not. I’ve got a meeting. I’ll see you there later.’ After they stepped out into the street, he watched Alice saunter off towards Holborn Circus before turning away and heading north, past Farringdon tube. He had agreed to meet Sally Jones at her home in Islington, and the twenty-five-minute walk was easier than trying to use public transport.
Waiting to cross at the lights on Clerkenwell Road, he checked his mobile and was irritated to find that he had four missed calls. One was from an unknown caller who had not left a message; the other was from Roche, who had. Somehow, his answerphone had gone off twice without him noticing it. With a disgusted shake of his head, he hit 901 and listened to what Roche had to say: ‘
Where are you? I
’
ve found something interesting regarding Roger Leyne. Might be important
,
might not. Give me a call.
’
How very cryptic
, Carlyle thought sarkily. The lights changed and he skipped across the road. Reaching the other side, he phoned his wife. The number one priority was getting his story about Alice straight. His sergeant could wait.
Helen picked up on the third ring. ‘Is everything okay?’
‘Yeah, fine, fine.’ He braced himself. ‘I’ve just been over at the school . . .’ Quickly, before she could jump in and rip his head off, he told her about Alice’s detention, their subsequent coffee-shop conversation and the deal he had struck with their daughter.
There was an ominous pause that told him he was in deep trouble. ‘Don’t you think,’ she said finally, the anger clear in her voice, ‘that we should have discussed this first?’
‘I felt that I had to seize the moment,’ he replied feebly, a sense of panic rising inside him.
‘And, of course, what I think doesn’t matter,’ she said venomously.
‘No, n-no, of course not,’ he stammered, dodging an onrushing cyclist zooming down the pavement towards him. By the time Carlyle was able to flip him the finger, the wanker was ten yards down the block.
‘And why didn’t you tell me about this when you got the call from the Headmaster?’
‘Well . . .’ Outflanked, he felt his brain begin to seize up and his mouth go dry. ‘I just thought I could handle it. You’ve got a lot on your plate and—’
‘Just . . . fuck off!’ she screamed, ending the call.
Turning into St John Street, Carlyle stared unhappily at the handset. ‘Well,’ he muttered to himself, anticipating the hostile atmosphere that would doubtless await when he got home, ‘that went well.’ After waiting a few moments to see if Helen would call back, he tried Roche. The call went straight to voicemail and he couldn’t be bothered to leave a message. Shoving the phone in his pocket, he kicked on towards Angel.
‘Would you like some tea, Inspector? Or a coffee?’ Sally Jones lived in an imposing four-storey Georgian house on Gibson Square, just off Upper Street. Sitting in the kitchen, he could see a couple of kids, a boy and a girl about the same age as Alice, mooching about in a large garden.
‘No, thanks,’ he smiled. ‘I’m fine. Thank you for seeing me.’
Leaning against a workbench, Jones held a steaming mug of chamomile tea in her hand. She was a slim, elegant woman, whom he took to be in her mid-to-late forties. Wearing jeans and a cream blouse under a fawn V-neck cashmere sweater, she lazily drew a circle on the ceramic floor tiles with the ruby-painted nail of her big toe. ‘I’m sorry it has taken so long, but we were away.’
‘That’s okay.’
Jones gestured towards the garden. ‘We took the kids to Tuscany for a couple of weeks. To be honest, I have to admit that we did know about Roger.’ She sighed. ‘My mother called me about it and we checked the story on the internet.’
Carlyle shrugged.
‘But this was one holiday he simply wasn’t going to be allowed to disrupt,’ she went on determinedly. ‘Even by dying.’
Carlyle laughed. ‘That’s fair enough. He certainly seems to have been a guy who managed to annoy a lot of people.’
‘Oh, he was,’ she said grimly. ‘Roger was the most self-centred man I think I’ve ever met. And that’s saying something.’
‘You said in your message that you might have an idea who killed him?’
‘Well, yes.’ She took a mouthful of tea. ‘I would have thought that it was quite obvious.’
Carlyle smiled indulgently.
‘I mean,’ Jones continued, ‘you’ve spoken to Rachel, haven’t you?’
‘Rachel Gilbert?’ Carlyle felt his phone go off and pulled it out of his jacket pocket. ‘Yes.’ He looked at the screen, it was Roche. Waving the handset in the air, he shrugged apologetically. ‘Excuse me a moment.’
Jones nodded. ‘Go ahead.’
Carlyle pushed open the sliding patio doors and stepped into the garden, waving at the children who eyed him warily and promptly ran inside to their mother.
Bloody kids
, Carlyle thought, irritated.
‘Inspector?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I tried to get hold of you earlier on,’ said Roche, with more than a hint of exasperation in her voice.
God Almighty
, Carlyle thought dolefully,
is there anyone at all who isn’t annoyed with me today?
You might not be able to please all of the people all of the time, but you certainly can piss all of the bastards off. At least he could. ‘Sorry,’ he mumbled. ‘Busy afternoon.’
‘Anyway,’ Roche went on, ‘I’ve been doing some digging into where the money from Roger Leyne’s bank accounts went.’
‘Wife number three – Rachel Gilbert,’ Carlyle interrupted. It should have been a question but he made it sound like a statement.
There was a moment’s silence on the other end of the line. ‘How did you know that?’ Roche asked, sounding even more irritated than before.
‘I’ve been doing my own digging,’ Carlyle lied. ‘I think we need to go and have another chat with Ms Gilbert. She should be at work, so meet me at a bar called Stearns’ in Golden Square in an hour.’
Ending the call, he stepped back inside, saying, ‘Sorry about that.’
‘It’s not a problem,’ Sally Jones told him, still leaning against her workbench. The kids had disappeared to some other part of the house.