London Calling - James Craig [75]
Landlords in the ‘wet trade’ had taken a right kicking in recent years, victims of falling custom, the smoking ban, higher taxes and ridiculously cheap supermarket beer. By the more nostalgically inclined, pub closures were seen as a symbol of the death of London’s community spirit. Carlyle, who was most certainly not nostalgically inclined, personally considered this a load of old bollocks. For the fastidious inspector, the demise of these hovels, offering crap service and plenty of second-hand smoke, had to be considered a good thing. As far as he was concerned, that fake East End bonhomie, mixed with an undercurrent of prejudice and menace, would never be missed. More than a hundred London pubs might have closed during every year for the last decade, but he still didn’t notice any great shortage. That meant that there were still plenty of options for the likes of Clement Hawley to go about their business.
Carlyle tried to think of the last time he’d been inside a pub, other than for the purposes of work. He reckoned it had to be at least three years. Probably so he could watch Fulham lose to some fellow no-hopers on one of the various subscription-TV services that he couldn’t afford at home.
Now, he deliberately chose a corner table far from the door, after eyeing the half-dozen or so other patrons scattered about the place, who were drinking pints of lager and studiously ignoring each other. There, Carlyle sat down and waited, nursing a glass of Jameson whiskey, straight with no ice.
Clement Hawley was fresh faced and energetic. He was also completely predictable. As soon as he walked in to the Frying Pan, he started scanning the interior for his regular clients. He clocked Carlyle immediately and did a sharp U-turn. Why he was trying to escape was anyone’s guess. They knew where he worked and they had already checked that he had turned up there today. And he would have to get back to his desk sooner rather than later, in order to close himself out of the trading positions he had taken that morning. It was far better for Clement that Carlyle spoke to him here in the pub, rather than back at the bank.
So why did he try to run? Perhaps it was the stash in his pockets. Perhaps it was his criminal DNA. Perhaps it was just sheer fucking stupidity. Whatever, he didn’t get very far. As Clement approached the door, Joe walked in off the street, flipped him round again, and gave him a gentle push in the direction of his boss. Carlyle smiled to himself. It was nice when these things went according to plan.
With a shrug, Hawley allowed himself to be ushered towards Carlyle’s table. He was probably pushing thirty-five but had retained his boyish good looks, and his own personal drug use was keeping the extra pounds at bay. From a few feet away, he could have almost passed for a new graduate starting out on his career in his first work suit. All in all, it was a good effort for a bloke who managed to hold down not one but two stressful jobs.
‘Inspector.’ Clement gave a meek wave.
‘Clement.’ Carlyle looked past his guest, and eyed the two City boys who had just appeared at the far end of the bar. They had finished buying their pints and were now giving Clement the once-over, trying to read the situation. Was he open for business or not?
Turning back to Hawley, Carlyle nodded towards the stool next to him. Clement knew what had caught Carlyle’s eye,