‘Not that surprising, is it?’ Carlyle affected an air of insouciance. Inwardly, however, his heart sank. The fact was that he shouldn’t have touched this case with a bargepole. But no, he’d had to play the big ‘I am’ and wade right in. As a result, he’d fucked himself good
and proper. He turned grimly to the concierge. ‘Try to keep them downstairs,’ he instructed.
Well aware of the drill, Miles nodded and quickly disappeared. Carlyle turned to Phillips. ‘How much longer do you need?’
Standing over the crumpled body, the pathologist allowed herself a stretch. ‘An hour, maybe. No more than that.’
‘Okay.’ Studiously ignoring the victim, Carlyle stared out of the window. The view wasn’t much – just a brick wall – but it was better than looking at another body. He didn’t need to look at the poor girl’s face to know what had happened, broadly speaking. And pulling out his mobile, Carlyle dialled the number of Carole Simpson.
The Commander picked up on the second ring, catching him by surprise. ‘Yes?’ she asked brusquely. ‘What can I do for you, John?’
‘We need to call a press conference for an hour’s time . . .’
There was a pause while he listened to the negative vibes coming over the airwaves. Then, taking a deep breath, he explained what he wanted, and why. ‘I need to get the press away from the crime scene and into the station.’
‘And what am I supposed to tell them?’
‘Just the bare minimum; enough to be going on with.’
There was another pause, less hostile this time. ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ she said finally, ending the call.
Phillips watched him put away the phone. ‘Playing the media game, eh?’
‘Do I have a choice?’ Carlyle stepped towards the door. ‘We’ll get the reporters out of here and you can take the body back to the lab.’
Phillips nodded. ‘Okay – thanks. I’ll let you have more detail later. But I would say that Mr Swann should be helping you with our enquiries.’
‘Yes, indeed,’ Carlyle said wearily. ‘I wonder where the stupid little scrote has run off to.’
Thinking through his ‘to do’ list, Carlyle headed for the lifts. When he reached the hotel lobby, he was pleased to see that it was now clear of journalists who had, presumably, taken the bait of Simpson’s
press conference. Heading for the exit, he felt his stomach rumble. Remembering that there was a Caffè Nero two doors down, he decided that a latte and a panini were in order before he returned to the station.
He was less than ten feet from the street when he felt a hand on his shoulder.
‘Inspector,’ said Alex Miles in a low voice. Clearly embarrassed to be consorting with a policeman, the concierge scanned the room anxiously.
Reluctantly stopping, Carlyle half-turned and looked around for himself. Apart from a few tourists milling aimlessly about, the place was empty. No one was interested in their conversation.
‘How’s it going?’ the concierge asked.
‘I need to get on,’ Carlyle said brusquely.
‘There is someone,’ Miles coughed, ‘whom you need to see.’
Carlyle gave him a
convince me
look.
‘Trust me, you
do
want to see this guy.’ Miles gestured back towards the lift. ‘He’s in the Light Bar.’
Carlyle thought about it for a second. ‘Are you serving food at the moment?’
Miles glanced at his watch. ‘Yes.’
‘Let’s go then,’ said Carlyle, heading back the way he had come.
Bathed in a pale violet light, the bar was completely empty, apart from a large man sitting in a booth at the back. Letting Miles lead the way, Carlyle checked out the succession of enormous black-and-white close-up photographs of various celebrities that hung on the walls. Some – Neneh Cherry, Vanessa Paradis, Lenny Kravitz – he recognized, but the majority he did not, which pleased him considerably. As they approached the table, Miles nodded nervously at the man, who was busy tucking into a beef sandwich and a side order of chips.
‘This is the officer in charge of the investigation,’ the concierge announced
sotto voce
.
Inspired by the food, Carlyle pulled up a chair and sat down.
‘Inspector Carlyle,’ he said, extending a hand. ‘I work out of Charing Cross, just round the corner.’
The man swallowed a mouthful of chips and took a couple of gulps from a bottle of Singha beer. Placing the bottle on the table, he wiped his oversized mitts on a napkin and then finally shook hands. ‘Clifford Blitz, pleased to meet you.’ Carlyle noted the indistinct provincial accent; impossible to place, he knew it would be from somewhere he had never heard of.
‘Mr Blitz,’ Miles interjected quickly, pulling up a chair for himself, ‘is Gavin Swann’s agent.’
Is he now?
Carlyle thought. His phone started up but he ignored it.
Blitz handed over a business card, which Carlyle dropped in his pocket. ‘Thanks.’
Blitz nodded graciously.
Carlyle turned his gaze to the concierge. ‘Alex,’ he said pleasantly, ‘I need something to eat as a matter of some urgency.’ He gestured at Blitz’s half-empty plate. ‘The same as Clifford’s having would be great.’
Miles shot him a dirty look. ‘Including the beer?’
Especially the beer
, Carlyle thought. ‘Yes, please.’
‘And I’ll have another,’ Blitz grunted, finishing off the last of his chips.
‘But,’ Miles started to whine, ‘I thought you weren’t allowed to drink on duty?’
‘That’s a myth,’ Carlyle lied as he looked the concierge straight in the eye. ‘Some sustenance would be gratefully appreciated while I have a
private
conversation with Mr Blitz.’
Miles reluctantly got to his feet. ‘Of course.’
‘Thank you.’ Carlyle watched the concierge slink off before turning back to the agent. ‘Now,’ he said evenly, ‘where is your client?’
Holding up a hand, Blitz drained the last of the beer from his bottle. ‘First things first,’ he said, placing the empty bottle on the table. ‘What’s the deal? I need to make sure my guy will be looked after.’
‘I don’t know what happened yet,’ Carlyle told him.
Blitz sat back in his chair as a waiter appeared with their beers. ‘I can fill all that in for you.’
I’m sure you can
, Carlyle thought. He nodded to the waiter. ‘Thanks.’
‘What have you got so far?’
‘That’s a very cheeky question,’ Carlyle said, chugging on his beer. It tasted good going down his neck, but in his empty stomach it felt cold and unsettling.
Blitz lifted his fresh beer bottle to his mouth. ‘I’m a cheeky guy,’ he grinned. Watching him sink half the beer, Carlyle pegged him at around five feet ten, well dressed in an expensive-looking navy suit and a white shirt, open at the neck. Maybe in his late forties, he was hard to age, with few lines around his eyes and remarkably little grey in his short brown hair. He wore a goatee, which, Carlyle thought, gave him a rather dissolute look, as did his overly full midriff.
Carlyle was delighted to see his sandwich arrive. He added some ketchup and took a hearty bite, then another. Blitz watched him as he swallowed.
‘Good?’
Carlyle nodded. ‘Not at all bad.’ He took another sip of his beer and sighed. His phone started ringing again. Again, he ignored it.
‘A sandwich is just a sandwich though, isn’t it?’ Blitz said, lifting the bottle back to his lips.
‘A great invention.’ Carlyle shoved the rest of the bread into his mouth and swallowed without chewing. ‘You can’t go wrong.’
Blitz signalled to the barman for another beer. ‘Want one?’
Carlyle shook his head. Turning in his seat, he shouted over, ‘I’ll have an espresso.’
‘So,’ said Blitz, ‘you were telling me about your investigation . . .’
‘No. I was waiting for you to answer my question,’ Carlyle said.
Sitting forward, Blitz leaned over the table and lowered his voice. ‘Inspector,’ he said, ‘you have a young girl’s body upstairs and a media circus on your doorstep.’
‘That, Mr Blitz, is all part and parcel of the job.’
A waiter reappeared with the drinks. Blitz let him clear the table. ‘I can sort this out for you,’ was all he said.
‘That’s very kind of you.’
The waiter left.
‘With the one condition . . .’
Here we go
, Carlyle thought, downing his coffee in three quick gulps.
‘That my client is properly looked after.’
This is not some fucking contract negotiation
, Carlyle objected silently. He placed his demitasse on the saucer and looked Blitz squarely in the eye. ‘Did he do it?’
Blitz didn’t blink. ‘No,’ he said evenly, ‘of course not.’
‘There’s no problem then. Tart battered by nobody. End of story.’
Blitz sighed. ‘You don’t know, do you?’
Obviously not
. ‘What are we talking about?’ Carlyle asked, trying to sound nonchalant. ‘Known unknowns or unknown unknowns?’
‘Fucking coppers.’ Blitz tutted. ‘The dead girl – don’t you realize who she is?’
‘Was.’
‘Whatever,’ Blitz snorted. ‘Don’t you know who she
was
?’
Sitting in the back of a black cab, Carlyle looked morosely at the line of traffic crawling up Tottenham Court Road. The taxi meter had already ticked up to £8.60 while covering a distance that he could easily have walked in less than two minutes. The taxi driver, happily listening to the usual procession of morons on a TalkSport radio call-in show, whistled to himself, secure in the knowledge that he was on for a bumper fare.
Carlyle shifted somewhat uncomfortably in his seat. His best guess was that he had something in the region of £3.50 on his person. Presumably Clifford Blitz, who’d already coughed up for their snack in the Light Bar, would be solvent enough to pay.
After all
, the inspector thought,
he can always write it off against his tax bill
.
Blitz ended a phone call and opened the window on his side of the cab a couple of inches.
‘Where are we going?’ Carlyle asked.
‘A safe house,’ Blitz said. He pulled a Romeo y Julieta Churchill out of the inside pocket of his jacket and stuck it in his mouth.
The driver eyed him warily in the mirror and pushed the button on the intercom. ‘Sorry, sir, no smoking in the cab.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Blitz told him. ‘I won’t light it until I get out.’
‘Why do you have a safe house?’ Carlyle asked.
‘It’s a place that I use to stash clients in when they’re in trouble. Everyone thinks they’re off in rehab in the countryside or have done a runner to the Seychelles, or wherever, when in reality they’re here,
hiding right under the noses of the newspapers.’ He gave Carlyle a stern look. ‘This is all confidential.’
The cab edged forwards another ten yards.
The meter now read £10.20.
Carlyle gazed aimlessly out of the window. ‘Of course.’
‘You should really be wearing a blindfold.’
‘We have a deal. I keep my deals.’
Blitz clamped the cigar more firmly between his teeth. ‘We’ll see.’
‘Yes, we will,’ Carlyle replied. ‘My view is that you give someone the benefit of the doubt to start with. If people don’t live up to their word, that’s it.’
Blitz grunted something that could have been agreement or disdain.
‘You let me speak to Gavin Swann and—’
‘He won’t be arrested,’ Blitz interjected.
Carlyle nodded. ‘Nor will he be taken back to the station for further questioning. The conversation will not be a formal interview, nor will it go into the official police report at this time.’
Unclamping his jaw, Blitz pulled out the cigar and waved it at Carlyle. ‘And you won’t say anything to the papers!’
‘I don’t deal with journalists,’ Carlyle said firmly.
‘Yeah, right,’ said Blitz, with feeling, as he stuck the Romeo y Julieta back between his teeth.
‘I will carefully pursue the various lines of enquiry that need to be checked out, and when—’
‘
If
.’
Carlyle smiled. ‘
If
I need to speak to Mr Swann a second time, I will come through you.’
‘Good.’
Finally, the traffic eased and they accelerated across the Euston Road, heading towards Camden.
‘Thank God for that,’ Blitz sighed. ‘It should take about ten minutes from here.’
Carlyle felt his phone go off. No number was displayed but he had
a sixth sense that it was Simpson and slipped the phone back into his jacket.
‘Hiding from the boss?’ Blitz grinned.
Carlyle shook his head. ‘How long have you known Swann?’
‘Gavin? Donkey’s years. I first saw him playing on Hackney Marshes when he was eight. The little bugger was brilliant – scored six goals in a single game. It was obvious he was going to be a top player.’
Carlyle knew a well-rehearsed spiel when he heard one but he nodded amiably.
‘I signed him on the spot,’ Blitz continued. ‘Since then, I’ve been taken to court three times, been banned by those numpties at the Football Association twice,
and
fined a total of a million and a half quid.’
‘Blimey!’ said Carlyle, turning up the fake empathy as high as it would go.
‘I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve been sent bullets through the post,’ Blitz said smugly. ‘One time I was actually shot at but, through it all, I’ve still held on to my client.’
‘You must have made a mint.’
‘I’ve done all right,’ Blitz reflected. ‘I remember one meeting at a hotel at Heathrow. There was a Gola holdall with two million quid inside. It was sitting on the bed, next to a piece of paper and a pen. The bit of paper had just been torn from a lined notebook. On it was three lines of handwritten scrawl. It was supposed to be a contract with me signing over Gavin to this other agent, a twat called Marcus Angelides. Angelides was clearly scared shitless. I don’t know what he thought I would do to him. He was there with two Belgian cage fighters as muscle. He nodded at the bit of paper and said, “Sign it, take your money and fuck off”.’ He shook his head, smiling at the memory. ‘It was all in the papers.’
Knowing better than to spoil the moment, Carlyle waited. Reaching Camden tube, the cab took a left, heading towards Regent’s Park.
The meter now read £25.