London Calling - James Craig [82]
Carlyle shook his head. While the shit expert went inside, he sat biting his lip, trying to keep in check his annoyance at being patronised. This was all bollocks. No way was he going to end up with any glory. He was a police constable, for fuck’s sake. Dom was really dropping him in it, and treating him like an idiot to boot. There was no chance he could get away with closing a murder case in just a matter of hours and not find himself questioned very closely about it. If he didn’t come up with a decent explanation, he would be under investigation himself. He couldn’t even think what a decent explanation might be.
After a little while, Carlyle decided that there was only one thing for it. He stood up and walked round the side of the pub to an old-fashioned red phone box that he’d noticed on the way in. Stepping inside, he dialled 999. Putting on a hopeless Irish accent (that being the only one he felt he could do), he relayed the details to a bored-sounding girl, mentioning the Browning BDA in the hope that would help convince her that this was more than just another nutter calling in with a useless tip. That was as much as he could do. Ultimately, they could check it out, or not; he couldn’t really give a fuck.
Finishing the call, he walked back to the table, while Dom was steadily draining his second pint.
Carlyle didn’t sit down. ‘I think we better get going now.’
‘No problem. I’ll drive you back.’ Dom emptied his glass and stood up.
‘Thanks.’ Carlyle took a final mouthful of his own beer, which has lost its cold edge and now felt warm and flat. ‘Let me just take a leak first.’
TWENTY-THREE
Their usual meeting place was one of a string of properties Dominic Silver now owned in central London. Over the last couple of decades, he had steadily built up a London portfolio that was worth easily north of £20 million, even after the recent market crash. This one was a small Georgian house on Meard Street, a short pedestrianised alley between Dean Street and Wardour Street, in the heart of Soho. It was set back from the pavement, behind a wrought-iron gate, with a small plaque on the door that said NO PROSTITUTES HERE. Carlyle pressed the buzzer and the door clicked open. A voice on the intercom said, ‘Come right to the top.’
The house was home to Gideon Spanner, a former paratrooper who was currently Silver’s number one bodyguard, debt collector and personal trainer. Carlyle found both men in a large room that covered almost the whole third floor. It was empty apart from a sofa and two armchairs, which were positioned facing a fifty-inch Panasonic plasma TV screen. Carlyle stood in the doorway, eyeing the two men watching a boxing match. The fighters were really going for it and the commentary was reaching fever pitch. There was a station logo in the corner of the screen, but he didn’t recognise it, probably another one of those premium sports channels he didn’t subscribe to. Carlyle knew next to nothing about boxing, but this bout clearly wasn’t live. It looked like a tape of an old fight from the 1970s or the 1980s.
‘Drink?’ Dom looked up from the screen long enough to wave his glass in Carlyle’s direction.
‘What is it?’
‘Guavas, mangoes and goji berries. Not bad.’
‘Sounds good.’
‘In the kitchen, downstairs. Help yourself.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘No, go on.’ Dom nodded at the screen. ‘This is nearly finished.’
It took Carlyle five minutes to find the kitchen and pour himself some juice. When he came back, he plonked himself in the free armchair, and they all watched the boxing in silence. After a couple more rounds, one of the fighters called it a day.
Dom muted the TV and turned to Carlyle. ‘Leonard-Duran Two, generally considered one of the greatest fights in history.’
Carlyle made a non-committal kind of noise in response.
Dom looked at it him. ‘You know what I’m talking about?’
‘Not really,’ Carlyle admitted.
‘Sugar Ray Leonard and Roberto Duran – the artist and the street fighter. Both of them