London Calling - James Craig [100]
‘I’m sure you don’t,’ said Carlyle, letting the reproach slide off him. He was trying to sound as humble as possible while resisting the urge to reach across the table, grab that little wanker Xavier Carlton by the throat and squeeze the truth out of him.
‘Do you have an actual theory about what’s going on here, Inspector?’ Trevor Miller lent back in his chair. ‘Or, indeed, any proof?’
Carlyle ignored the question and the questioner. He had rattled their cages enough for now, and decided to back off. He would play the dumb copper looking for leads. Turning back to Edgar, he asked, ‘Could this be about something else entirely?’ He waved his hands in the air in a vague fashion, ignoring Joe’s quizzical glance. ‘Those club members that have died, was there any other connection between them that we may be missing still?’
‘It’s possible.’ Edgar made a face. ‘We will meanwhile put our heads together and see if we can come up with anything.’ He stood up, which was a signal that the meeting was over. ‘In the meantime, thank you for coming to see us. If you need anything else, you can contact us through William’ – he nodded in the direction of Murray, sitting in the corner – ‘or Trevor, of course.’
Before Carlyle could respond, Murray had jumped up and rushed to open the door. Within seconds, they were out of the boardroom and back in the lift heading towards the ground floor. Glancing at his watch, Carlyle saw that their whole session had lasted barely eight minutes.
Back on the street, an extremely well-dressed but heartbreakingly ugly woman walked by, with a massive shopping bag in each hand. Shutting his eyes, Carlyle wondered if that meeting had taken place at all, or if he’d simply dreamt it.
‘What do you think?’ Joe asked.
Hands on hips, Carlyle looked up and down the street. He hadn’t been expecting a blast from the past like Trevor Miller to drop into the middle of an already troublesome investigation, and therefore felt distracted and agitated. Calm down, he told himself, then you can think straight.
He turned to Joe and smiled: ‘I think it’s time for an early lunch.’
Having wandered back towards Piccadilly, Carlyle steered them into the excellent but normally largely empty News Café in the basement of the massive Seringapatam & Mysore bookstore on Lower Regent Street. Few of the people browsing the bookshelves upstairs even realised that the café existed. The food was a bit expensive, but you could borrow a magazine from the nearby racks for a free read while you ate. Carlyle particularly liked it because you could usually guarantee getting a table to yourself. He didn’t like being squeezed in between strangers while he was eating.
A copy of France Football caught his eye. It promised an in-depth interview with the French national coach, who apparently used astrology and tarot to help him pick his team. It was a bizarre thought, but no one would have batted an eyelid if their results hadn’t been so crap. Given that the magazine was in French, Carlyle wouldn’t be able to read it properly, but he would still be able to get the gist and look at the pictures. Perfect.
Magazine in hand, he was weighing up the relative merits of a Summer Bean & Herb Soup or a Chicken Avocado Salad, when his phone went. With a sigh, Carlyle pulled the handset from the breast pocket of his jacket and peered at the screen. It took him a second to realise that it was blank. It was Joe’s phone that had gone off, rather than his.
The sergeant was no happier at being interrupted than his boss was, and he pondered for a couple of seconds before deciding to answer it.
‘Hello? … Yes … Hold on a second.’ He tapped Carlyle on the shoulder and held out the phone. ‘It’s for you.’
Still pondering whether to go for the soup or the salad, Carlyle felt reluctant to take the call. ‘Who is it?’
‘I don’t know,’ Joe shrugged. ‘They didn’t say.’
Carlyle sighed. Sometimes his sergeant’s lack of curiosity seemed quite baffling. He took the mobile and stepped away from the chilled cabinet.