London Calling - James Craig [118]
Holyrod had already dismissed out of hand a suggestion that he cycle to his next engagement. However, not wanting to set the wrong tone at his departure, he had agreed to meet his driver at a more than discreet distance away, out of sight of any camera lens. His Jaguar was parked on Bedfordbury behind the London Coliseum, home of the English National Opera on St Martin’s Lane. At most, it was a three-minute walk.
Keeping his head down, he set off at a brisk pace in the hope of deterring well-wishers or any persistent hacks. It took him less than a minute to cross Trafalgar Square and reach the National Gallery on its north side. As he did so, a man fell in step beside him.
‘Mayor Holyrod?’
Expecting an autograph hunter, Holyrod slowed his pace slightly and turned towards the voice. He was surprised to recognise the plebeian policeman beside him.
‘Inspector.’ The mayor quickly resumed his previous energetic pace.
‘Mr Holyrod,’ Carlyle upped his own pace, ‘I would like a word, sir.’
‘Not a good time,’ said Holyrod stiffly, upping his pace some more, ‘I have an appointment.’
Already feeling hot and uncomfortable, Carlyle was not going to start jogging. Putting a firm hand on Holyrod’s arm, he ignored the surprised look on the mayor’s face, and stepped closer.
‘I have been very polite, so far …’
‘And we have appreciated it,’ said Holyrod, looking down at his unwanted companion in a way that made his exasperation clear.
The former soldier was a good three or four inches taller, but Carlyle was not prepared to be intimidated. ‘However,’ he continued, ignoring Holyrod’s sharp tone, ‘if you don’t stop fucking me about right now,’ he snarled, ‘I will arrest you. On the fucking spot.’
Holyrod snorted in astonishment.
‘And,’ Carlyle gestured back in the direction of the Square, ‘I will take you down there in front of the camera crews, in handcuffs, while we wait for a car. That should take about twenty minutes, I expect, and might prove a slightly bigger story than your bike thing. Wouldn’t that be a bit of a bugger on Election Day?’
Holyrod sighed. ‘Miller told us you were a complete arsehole.’
Carlyle smiled. ‘That’s Trevor for you. He always was an excellent judge of character.’
A bodyguard, who had been hovering in the background, stepped forward, but Holyrod waved him away. He looked back towards Nelson’s Column, down at the ground and then over Carlyle’s shoulder.
‘Let’s go over there,’ he said, quickly heading in the direction of the church of St Martin-in-the-Fields, on the opposite side of the road.
Pleased that his bluff had not been called, Carlyle followed as Holyrod slalomed through the stationary traffic and bounded up the steps, before disappearing through the open doors of the church. He knew that if the mayor had decided to simply walk away, arresting him would have been out of the question. Apart from anything else, Carlyle had left his handcuffs behind at the station.
Carlyle took his time in getting to the church entrance, giving the mayor a couple of minutes to ponder what might be coming next. As he approached, he watched a steady trickle of tourists wander up the steps and stick their heads through the door, before retreating back towards the dissolute chaos outside.
Inside St Martin’s, the air was musty but the mood was calm. Light flooded in from the windows on the east wall of the building, bouncing back off the white ceiling. A notice board by the door informed Carlyle that there would be a lunchtime prayer session at 1.15 p.m. He checked his watch: happily there was no chance of getting caught up in that. Another poster announced a performance of the Bach Cantata series. However, the thing that caught his attention was a poster for the church’s Thought For The Week. It proclaimed: ‘The truth will set you free.’ Amen to that, Carlyle smiled. If only more people could appreciate that counsel, his life would be a lot easier.
Holyrod was sitting waiting for him in the front pew on the right, out of the direct sunlight. ‘This must be