London Calling - James Craig [103]
‘I understand, of course, I do.’ Dominic stepped closer. ‘Anyway, it doesn’t have to be like that,’ he said, with a slight desperation in his voice that Carlyle had never heard before. ‘You know how it works. I’ve helped you before. I have contacts. I can get information. I can help you again.’
Carlyle started pawing the ground with his right boot. He knew that the smart thing here to do would be to just walk away.
‘C’mon,’ Dom pleaded, ‘this will be a great investment in your future career.’
Carlyle rubbed his neck, not even wanting to think about it. He looked at Dom. ‘What are their names?’
‘Pearson and Manners. Nice middle-class boys, both.’ He gestured at the chaos around them. ‘Fit right in with this mob.’
‘Fucking idiots.’ Pushing his hand into the back pocket of his jeans, he pulled out his Police ID and ducked under the tape. ‘Wait here.’
THIRTY
Fifteen minutes after speaking to Dominic Silver on the phone, Carlyle headed into St James’s Square carrying a small see-through plastic bag containing lunch for them both. Before entering the garden in the middle, he stopped by the simple memorial erected to Yvonne Fletcher to pay his respects. A round plaque told him what he already knew: twenty-five-year-old WPC Fletcher had been shot in the Square on 17 April 1984. She had been on crowd control, looking after a small demonstration outside the Libyan People’s Bureau. Twenty-five years later, her killer had yet to be brought to justice. Carlyle hadn’t worked with her personally, but he knew that she had been well respected as a decent, friendly copper, and also a good colleague.
Carlyle stood there for a minute as the cars rushed past and people went about their business. His thoughts were the same as always. How unlucky was it to have died on what should have been a routine shift in the heart of London? A year after the shooting, Carlyle had stood to attention in the same square while Prime Minister Thatcher had unveiled Fletcher’s memorial. In her speech, Thatcher had signed off with a quote from Abraham Lincoln: ‘Let us have faith that right makes might; and in that faith let us, to the end, dare to do our duty as we understand it.’ We’ll dare to do our duty, Carlyle often told himself in the years afterwards, if only we’re allowed to by the politicians.
By the time he entered the garden, Dominic Silver was waiting for him on a bench under a tree. The day was warm, but there was a pleasant breeze, and Dom had managed to commandeer the best of the available shade. The park was quite busy, with office workers spread out on the grass to enjoy the sun. Without introduction, Carlyle handed over the plastic bag. Dom rooted about in it for a few seconds, taking what he wanted before handing it back. Together, they sat eating in happy silence for ten minutes or so. When they’d finished, Carlyle gathered up all the rubbish and dropped it in a nearby bin.
‘Thank you for lunch,’ said Dom, as Carlyle returned to the bench.
‘No problem.’
‘It’s a great day to be sitting here in the square,’ Dom said, wiping some crumbs off his Neil Young ‘Like a Hurricane’ T-shirt.
‘Sure,’ said Carlyle, letting the food settle in his stomach.
‘The world’s most expensive house used to be over there.’ Dom, the property guru, pointed a finger over his left shoulder. ‘Number eight went for more than a hundred million, once upon a time. The Russians have pissed on that amount many times over in the last few years, of course.’
‘You wanted to talk about the Russians?’ Carlyle was bemused.
‘No,’ Dom smiled, ‘I wanted to talk about Susy Ahl.’
Carlyle made a face that said Be my guest. A pigeon was trying to stick its head into a discarded crisp packet on the grass. It wasn’t having much success and he knew how it felt. By now he was getting used to everyone else being at least one step ahead of him on this case. ‘And who, pray tell, is Susy Ahl?’
‘Susy Ahl,’ said Dom casually, ‘was Robert Ashton’s girlfriend, back in the day. She is the woman you need to speak to about the