London Calling - James Craig [72]
‘That was fine,’ Murray ventured.
‘Yes,’ Carlton yawned, ‘but the last thing I – we – need right now is this kind of problem. I must get back on the campaign trail. I need to be out on the road, like Xavier and Christian.’
‘Yes,’ Murray nodded.
‘And we need to draw the public’s attention away from the polls.’
‘Yes.’
‘Better still, we need some new bloody polls.’
‘Yes.’
‘Ones that show us what we damn well want to see.’
‘Yes.’
Three days of narrowing polls meant that Edgar Carlton’s lead was slipping towards single digits, just as the election itself headed towards its penultimate week. Unbelievably, given their appalling track record, the other side was regaining some momentum. That had to be stopped – and fast. The last thing he could afford now that he was fighting for his political life, was to be dragged into a multiple murder case.
‘I wish we could have more confidence in the way the investigation is currently being handled,’ Edgar mused. Why the police needed to crank up media interest by holding a damn press conference was beyond him. Indeed it was galling beyond belief that these people were so unbelievably incompetent when it came to handling the media. But it was a fait accompli. ‘This Simpson woman, does she know about the … context of the case?’
Murray sucked in his cheeks, then exhaled. ‘No, I don’t think so. The police don’t seem to have put the pieces together yet. But, of course, we have to assume that they will get there in the end.’
‘What about this Carlyle chap?’ Edgar asked breezily. ‘Should we just get rid of him? See that it’s handed to someone else?’
‘I think that would be premature,’ Murray replied. ‘There’s no obvious need at this stage. If it becomes necessary, Simpson can easily take care of Carlyle.’
‘So, what about the good inspector? What do we know about him?’
The aide took another peek at his notes. ‘Well … he seems a bit of a strange one.’ He shuffled some papers. ‘He’s a Londoner, joined the police in 1979, has done various jobs at various stations, received several citations. But there’s nothing that impressive in his file, and his career seems to have flat-lined in recent years. You get the impression that he’s never been able to fit in that well. Wherever he goes, he seems to do OK for a while, but then every couple of years the wheels come off. After the latest such incident, it was made clear to him that he really should be thinking about retirement.’
This sounds good, thought Carlton. ‘What happened?’
‘For some reason, a few years back, he was put on Royal Protection Duty—’
‘Seems a strange decision. Do we know why?’
‘Probably just some administrative error. Anyway, on one particular occasion he was responsible for looking after a couple of the young royals while they were conducting their civic duties at Pomegranate.’
‘I know it well,’ Edgar nodded. ‘At least, I’ve been there a few times.’ Personally, he felt that the Chelsea nightclub in question was like a school disco with silly prices, but he had been there quite regularly since royal patronage had made it ultra-fashionable among his own set. After all, it was good to show that you could still get down with the kids. Getting his picture in the newspapers along with ‘the boys’ – the two young princes who alternated between playing at being soldiers and playing at being playboys – didn’t hurt either. And the fact that his wife Anastasia wouldn’t go near the place was another big plus.
‘It gets to three a.m.,’ Murray continued, ‘and Carlyle’s charges fall out of the club, blind drunk as usual.’
‘Well,’ Carlton said airily, ‘everyone’s entitled to some fun.’
‘Of course,’ Murray nodded. ‘But then one of the young chaps got into an altercation with a press photographer.’
Carlton yawned. ‘So far, so unremarkable.’
‘Yes, but the suggestion was that Carlyle was rather slow to step in and sort things out. It was even suggested that he let the snapper – a big chap who had been in both the