London Calling - James Craig [77]
‘Never you mind,’ said Joe firmly. ‘We just want to go up there and talk to Paul. Nothing heavy, just to pick his brains. Can you tell him to be there to meet us?’
‘Sure,’ Clement shrugged. ‘Term finished last week, but he’s still there. He’s marrying one of his students, so they’re doing up their house.’
‘Isn’t that illegal?’ Joe asked. ‘Knocking off your students, I mean – not doing up your house. Isn’t it a violation of teacher-student ethics, or whatever?’
‘You would have thought so. But she’s switched her course from Medieval English to Media Studies, so it looks like he’s got away with it. She’s Serbian, twenty years younger than him, with a hell of a body. He’s a lucky sod.’
‘Rather him than me,’ said Joe.
Amen to that, thought Carlyle. Nice body or not.
‘You’ve got to be careful with East Europeans, though,’ Joe continued, graciously prepared to share the wisdom of a second-generation Pole who was married to an Indian. ‘The girls are fantastic, some of the best-looking babes in the world, but they don’t age well. They go from thirty to sixty in about three years. By the time she’s thirty-five, she’ll look even older than him.’
‘I’m not sure he’ll care by then,’ said Clement wistfully.
‘Give us Paul’s mobile number and we’ll give him a call to let him know when we know when we’ll be coming,’ interrupted Carlyle, boring of the chat. ‘And remember to tell him it’s not a big deal, just a few general inquiries. It will be nothing taxing. Not like an academic test.’
After Clement had gone back to the bank to churn a few billion of this and that, just in order to help keep the world’s currency markets in business, Carlyle sat in the corner of the Frying Pan pub, pondering what to do with the rest of his afternoon. Joe had returned to the station to book in Clement’s stash (every little helps for the year-end performance tables!) and prepare for making a court appearance in the morning. This had already been cancelled three times, but one never knew. Carlyle thought about heading for home, or maybe going to the gym. Realising he still had most of the whiskey in front of him, he lifted the glass to his lips and drained it in one go. He thought about another but decided against it, heading for the door via a quick trip to the gents.
Stepping out into the street, he was assaulted by a grubby, muggy afternoon. He could already feel beads of sweat forming on his forehead. A couple of streets away, someone was digging up the road, and the drilling just upped Carlyle’s discomfort level a notch further. Still trying to formulate a plan, Carlyle pulled out his ‘private’ mobile and switched it on. The Nokia 2630 was one of the cheapest, most ubiquitous pay-as-you-go models currently on the market. Carlyle had bought it for cash, and would top it up for cash at random newsagents well away from his usual haunts. He didn’t flash it around, and gave out the number to very few people. Even then, he changed both the handset and the SIM card every three or four months. This didn’t guarantee complete secrecy, but it meant that no one was routinely checking his calls. It allowed him some privacy, and for that the additional hassle and cost was worth it.
Crossing the road, he stood at the corner of Brick Lane and Chicksand Street, and scrolled down the list of names. He stopped at ‘DS’ and hit the call button.
The response was immediate. ‘Yes?’
‘Dominic? It’s me.’ No one else called him Dominic.
‘What can I do for you?’ The tone was neutral, not exactly guarded but not welcoming either.
‘I’d like to have a chat.’
‘About what?’
‘I’m just after some background information. Business-related, obviously, but nothing in any way related to you.’
‘Why not speak to your little pal Clement?’
Jesus, how could he know? Was he fucking psychic? ‘I already have. I’m just moving on up the food chain.’
There was a sigh at the other end, some muffled noises in the background. ‘OK, meet me at the usual place in an hour.’
They met Simpson in a discreet room on the fourth floor of Portcullis House, the £235-million