London Calling - James Craig [76]
Carlyle let his hand tighten around his whiskey glass. ‘Sit!’ he growled.
Clement sat down and Joe took a seat next to him.
‘Looks like you’ve just lost some customers,’ Carlyle said, watching the duo drain their pints in double-quick time and head for the door. Maybe they could manage to get through the afternoon under their own steam, after all.
‘Yes, well,’ Clement smiled, ‘you know the score.’
‘I know the score,’ Carlyle nodded, ‘but do you?’
‘’Course I do, Inspector,’ the trader smiled. ‘I’m all yours. How can I be of assistance?’
‘First, empty your pockets and give the stuff to Joe. Then we need to have a quick chat.’
‘Inspector!’ Clement protested, his face scrunched up in pain, like an eight year old just reminded for the final time that it was bedtime. Nevertheless, he did as he was told. Joe shoved the stuff into his jacket pocket, without looking at it.
‘There’s no chance of a receipt, I suppose?’ When neither Carlyle nor Joe bothered to answer his question, Clement took a deep breath and rubbed the back of his neck for a few seconds. This type of police harassment was frustrating but, at the same time, it was factored into his overall business plan as part of the cost of doing business. When he turned back to Carlyle, the scowl had been replaced by philosophical calm.
Carlyle decided that they’d had enough preamble. ‘How’s your brother?’
‘Paul? He’s fine.’ Clement looked surprised, then worried. ‘Unless you tell me anything different.’
‘No, no,’ said Carlyle hastily. ‘It’s nothing like that.’
‘Good,’ said Clement, relaxing slightly.
‘Is he still at Cambridge?’ Joe asked.
‘Yeah,’ Clement smiled, ‘he finally got a job. The shock almost killed him. Assistant lecturer or something.’
Paul Hawley was eight or nine years older than Clement. He had gone up to university in the 1980s and never left. Clement was proud of his brother in the way that everyone likes having an academic in the family. To people who didn’t know any better, it suggested intelligent genes.
‘Did he ever finish his PhD?’ Carlyle asked.
‘It only took him seventeen bloody years!’ Clement made a face. ‘Drinking cultures in the early and middle Middle Ages. Published too – you can find it on Amazon, but I haven’t seen it in the bestseller lists yet.’
‘Maybe you shouldn’t have been bankrolling him for quite so long,’ Carlyle smiled. Clement had once revealed that he had been covering his brother’s costs to the tune of two thousand pounds a month.
‘Hah!’ Clement laughed. ‘That’s not going to change. He might have a job, but he’s still not making any money. Can you guess how much he’s earning?’
Carlyle shrugged. ‘No idea.’
‘Sixteen thousand a year!’
‘Bloody hell!’ said Joe.
Clement threw up his hands in despair. ‘Can you believe it? Sixteen grand. A fucking year! That’s not even the average wage, nowhere close. Why would you bother?’
Carlyle shook his head in genuine disbelief. Even he earned more than that, in fact a multiple of that. He tried to work the precise number out in his head, in terms of monthly income, but it was taking him too long, so he moved on. ‘I’m trying to find out about something called the Merrion Club. It’s a drinking society for well-heeled Cambridge students. I don’t suppose Paul was ever a member?’
Realising that they were not interested in him personally this time, Clement relaxed. ‘I’ve heard of the Merrion,’ he said, eager now to please. ‘It’s not like it’s a secret society, or anything, but Paul would never get invited to join something like that. It’s not something you just sign up for at fresher’s week. “Well-heeled” doesn’t quite do it justice, because it’s the crème de la crème de la crème. Paul’s not in that league. In fact, almost no one is.’
‘But he would probably have come across them?’ Carlyle persisted. ‘Might he know anyone who was a member?’
‘He might.’ Clement shrugged non-committally. ‘Cambridge is a small place. A very small place compared to London. Anyway, what do you