London Calling - James Craig [22]
Waiting for the chief concierge to arrive, Carlyle stood in the pale yellow and green light of the lobby, thinking again how he really should be in bed. Even at this hour, a regular stream of people moved in and out of the place. To Carlyle, they all looked too confident, too complacent. The sound of laughter drifted over from the Light Bar at the rear of the building, where there was still half an hour to go until closing time. What kind of people go out drinking at two-thirty on a Monday morning, Carlyle wondered sourly. Young and rich, he supposed, the kind of people who didn’t have to worry about going off to work in an hour or two.
Tapping a shoe on the immaculate Portuguese Moleanos honed beige limestone, Carlyle picked up a copy of the hotel brochure and instinctively sniffed it. It smelled expensive and felt heavy in his hand. Flipping through the pages, he smiled at the marketing copy which spoke of ‘an utterly original urban resort’, ‘a new paradigm’, and ‘a manifestation of the cultural Zeitgeist’. The expensively printed booklet just confirmed that The Garden was not his kind of place, not that its owners would be losing any sleep over that. A rather shabby, middle-aged policemen was definitely not the kind of target customer for a high-end establishment aimed at an ‘itinerant “tribe” of world travellers who routinely stop off between the twenty-four-hour international gateway cities of London, Paris, Milan, New York, Los Angeles, Miami and the like …’
Actually, off duty, Carlyle had been here more than a few times with Helen before they were married. Back in the 1980s and early nineties, they had regularly come to visit the old Lumiere Cinema which had then resided in the basement of the hotel building. They had visited the hotel bar once, but the damage done to Carlyle’s wallet was so severe that he was never short of a credible alternative nearby thereafter. The thought of that one bill still made him shiver, more than twenty years after the event.
The Lumiere was another matter, however. He recalled it with affection, if not outright nostalgia. His now-wife would take him to see French movies like Betty Blue and Les Amants du Pont-Neuf. Waiting for the concierge, Carlyle thought about those days for the first time in ages. Early-afternoon matinees in an empty cinema. Perfect. Perfect and long gone, for now the Lumiere had been turned into a gym.
Patience was not Carlyle’s strong point. He quickly found himself tapping the ridiculously expensive floor with increasing fury, as the concierge still failed to appear. It had been more than five minutes now and he was getting ready to shout at someone, when Alex Miles finally appeared from behind one of the lobby’s pillars, offering a cautious hand and a pro-forma smile.
‘Inspector …’ the smile had drained from Miles’ face before the whole word was out. Dressed in a pair of polished brown brogues, freshly pressed blue jeans, a crisp white shirt and a Prince of Wales jacket (grey with tan and green in the check), Miles was thus signalling that he was off duty and therefore being even more gracious with his time than usual.
‘Alex …’ Carlyle eyed him blankly, signalling – as if it needed signalling at this time of night – that this was strictly business. More than that, it indicated that the very least he would be leaving with later this morning would be another debit written against Miles’ name in the Carlyle favour bank, the ongoing details of which were held in the policeman’s brain at all times.
‘Sorry to keep you waiting.’ Alex Miles bowed his head in supplication. ‘It’s all kicking off tonight. We had some problems with Carlton Jackson’s people …’
‘The boxer?’ Carlyle asked. Jackson was an American heavyweight recently arrived in London for a fight. Before the bout could take place, he had been arrested for being drunk and disorderly, and assaulting a police officer. ‘I thought he’d been deported.’
‘Not yet,’ Miles smiled. ‘Anyway, it’s sorted.’
‘Good,