London Calling - James Craig [63]
‘Good idea,’ said Carlyle, injecting a little false enthusiasm into his voice, trying to sound supportive. ‘But maybe that would be a bit over the top.’ DA-Notices were issued by The Defence, Press and Broadcasting Advisory Committee, requesting that editors not publish or broadcast items on specified subjects for reasons of ‘national security’. This present case might be a serious matter, but describing it as a national-security issue would be rather stretching it a bit. ‘A Defence Advisory Notice is probably inappropriate here, and this is not really a matter for the Press Complaints Commission,’ he continued, ‘but we could go through the Society of Editors. That’s what the Palace did a while back, when one of the young princes went to Iraq.’
‘Very brave of him,’ Simpson mused.
‘Far better for him than rolling around in the gutter outside some nightclub,’ Carlyle muttered, recalling one of the same young royal’s other hobbies.
‘What?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Now is not the time for any lack of focus, Inspector,’ Simpson said with smooth menace.
Carlyle ignored her tone and ploughed on. ‘Editors might accept a purely voluntary “understanding”, in return for special access later on.’
Simpson thought about it for a minute. ‘I would need to agree that with their people.’ Their people meaning the Carltons’ entourage.
This game is getting very complicated, Carlyle thought.
‘In the meantime,’ Simpson continued, ‘let’s avoid any leaks. And, of course, the quicker we can get this solved, the fewer problems there will be. Let me have a full verbal report every twenty-fours hours. Whatever you need to get the job done, take it.’
‘Thank you,’ he said, forcing himself to maintain eye contact.
‘John,’ Simpson smiled one of the fakest smiles he had ever seen in his life, ‘I am always here if you need me. You know that, don’t you?’
‘That is a great help,’ Carlyle lied.
‘Good. I’m glad,’ Simpson lied back. Picking up one of the papers on her desk, she began reading it.
This was his cue to leave, and he took it.
Feeling much happier than when he had arrived, Carlyle quickly left the station and sauntered down the Edgware Road. Heading south, in the direction of Marble Arch, he realised that he was in London’s North African neighbourhood and therefore spoilt for choice in terms of coffee and cake. He passed a succession of cafés with men in shalwar kameez smoking oversized hookah pipes at pavement tables. Taking a right turn, he passed the north end of Connaught Square, glancing up at the inevitable pair of heavily armed policemen guarding the fantastically expensive town house of a previous prime minister. It had been bought a couple of years just before he left office and as the lucrative lecture and non-executive director circuit hove into view. With his current successor struggling so badly, it looked as if Edgar Carlton would soon be the third PM in short order. All political careers end in failure, some more quickly than others, Carlyle reflected. He knew that, within twelve months of getting the job he so shamelessly coveted, Carlton’s ratings would be lower than a snake’s belly in a storm drain. People might want the old guy back, even though they had hated him when he was in the job. What a shit job: it was even worse than being a policeman.
Fifty yards down the road, Carlyle took a seat outside the Café du Liban and ordered some of their thick, strong, black coffee sprinkled with cardamom seeds, along with a heavy, sticky pastry. At this time of the evening, the place was basically empty, since he had been lucky enough to hit the gap between office workers leaving for home and the locals arriving for a post-dinner coffee and gossip. Enjoying the peace, Carlyle settled down to turn things over in his head and map out what to do next. However, with his mind flitting from one thing to another, he found it impossible to focus on the case.
Letting his gaze roam over the middle distance, he was distracted by the sight of a dwarf chatting with a Big Issue seller on a street corner across the road. The dwarf was waving his arms