London Calling - James Craig [87]
With three days left until the election, Carlyle had read in the paper that Edgar Carlton would be holding a press conference to discuss his party’s social policies. Despite the narrowing opinion polls, victory still seemed the most likely outcome for the golden twins. The conference was scheduled to start at 10 a.m. at the Royal Academy of Engineering building, close to St James’s Park. Joe Szyszkowski had left for Cambridge, to visit Clement Hawley’s brother, so Carlyle decided to decamp to the park with a coffee and a copy of The Times while he waited for the presser to start.
It was a beautiful morning, with a clear blue sky. The temperature had not yet climbed above fifteen or sixteen degrees, so there was a pleasant nip in the air. He sat on a bench, with Buckingham Palace way off to his left, Downing Street on his right, and watched other people going about their business while he himself took a short time out. If he wasn’t exactly feeling blissed out, there was still a distinctly positive vibe flowing through the Carlyle veins. Things were moving now. Harry Allen’s death had been a new blow to the investigation, though not as big a blow as it had been to Allen himself. The silly sod should have spoken to me sooner, Carlyle thought. But at least his death showed that it was still game on. While that was the case, he remained confident that they would get their man.
Thinking of Allen, he pulled out his phone and deleted the dead man’s voicemail. No sense in leaving that hanging around in case there were any accusations of slackness further down the line. With hindsight, Carlyle knew that he should have tracked Allen down while he was abroad, rather than waiting for him to come back to London. He didn’t need Simpson or anyone else using that mistake as a stick to beat him with later.
Closer inspection of the phone indicated that he had missed another three calls. When did that happen? How come he had never heard the bloody thing ring? There was one voicemail as well, but he wasn’t going to check it just yet. It would doubtless be Simpson, and he didn’t want to speak to Simpson until after he’d seen Carlton. At the earliest. Instead, he called home and gave Helen an update on the situation.
‘Looks like you’re still quite a bit behind the game,’ she said, gently pulling his leg.
‘I know,’ said Carlyle, laughing, ‘but at least now I can start to shake things up a bit.’
‘You could be in for a busy few days?’
‘We’ll see,’ he said, watching a duck waddle towards him. It stopped about two feet away and looked at him expectantly. When he didn’t come up with some bread, it turned around and crapped on the path, before heading back the way it had come.
‘Be careful,’ she added.
‘Of course.’
‘I’m serious, John,’ she said reproachfully, ‘these are not normal people you’re dealing with here.’
‘They never are.’
‘I know,’ she said, ‘but this is the other end of the spectrum. Normally you’re wading through the bottom end of the gene pool. This is different.’
‘You mean I’m playing out of my league?’
‘Yes.’
‘Thanks a lot,’ he said, with mock indignation.
‘Don’t be silly. It’s not about you. With people like that, it never is. It’s all about them. Don’t get in their faces.’
‘Me? Never!’
Helen sighed loudly. ‘You never learn, do you? Just be careful. And good luck. I’ve got to get Alice to school now. Let’s talk later.’
‘Give her a kiss from me. Tell her I’ll try and take her sometime soon.’
After hanging up on his wife, Carlyle scoured the back pages of the newspaper for any decent football news. Finding nothing of interest, he folded the paper and tossed it on to the bench beside him, before checking his emails. There was nothing of interest on his BlackBerry either, so he moved on to his private mobile. There were yet more unanswered calls and another message, timed at 8.30 the previous evening. This time he checked his voicemail.
Dominic Silver’s message was short and to the point: ‘Why didn’t you tell me about the Merrion Club? Call me back.’
‘Why do you think?’ Carlyle said to himself. He switched the phone