London Calling - James Craig [88]
Then he headed off to see Mr Carlton.
Everyone likes a winner, and the Royal Academy of Engineering was full to bursting. Simpson would kill for a crowd like this, Carlyle thought. More than a hundred journalists and a dozen camera crews had turned up to listen as Edgar Carlton, flanked by two severe but eager-looking women, whom Carlyle didn’t recognise, revealed the secret of how precisely he was going to fix Britain’s ‘broken society’.
Waiting for it to finish, Carlyle quietly sat at the back, playing the BrickBreaker game on his BlackBerry. After about twenty minutes, they went to Q&A. After another ten, a PR flunky called a halt to the proceedings. Immediately, the journalists and cameramen swarmed to the front of the room to grab the man of the moment and ask him the same questions all over again.
Carlyle moved in the direction of the crowd. He was happily hovering behind a rather foxy-looking German reporter when he felt a hand on his shoulder.
‘Good morning, Inspector,’ said Rosanna Snowdon, ‘how nice to see you again.’
‘Er … yes. You too.’
‘You didn’t return my call,’ Rosanna said sweetly.
He casually feigned ignorance. ‘Sorry?’
‘I left three or four messages on your mobile.’
Three or four? He vaguely remembered one.
She gave him just the slightest pout. ‘You never called me back.’
Had that been deliberate or not? He couldn’t remember. ‘Sorry.’
‘Never mind,’ she said, in a cheerily forgiving manner. ‘I can’t even remember what my message was about.’
He assumed that was a lie. Rosanna Snowdon didn’t strike him as the kind of woman who forgot anything. ‘Ian Blake, perhaps?’
‘Who?’
Don’t over-egg it, he thought. ‘The guy who was killed at the Garden Hotel,’ Carlyle reminded her. ‘You came to our press conference.’ He gestured at the continuing throng. ‘Not quite as big a deal as this.’
‘Ah, yes,’ Snowdon nodded, ‘Carole Simpson. The superintendent is a very impressive woman. It must be great for you to be working with her.’
Carlyle said nothing.
‘Anyway,’ said Snowdon, moving on, ‘what brings you here?’
Carlyle realised that there was no point in trying to bullshit his way out of it. ‘I’m looking for a quick word with Mr Carlton.’
She smiled at him, in a very disconcerting way. ‘Ah, yes, that would be in relation to the Merrion Club, I suppose.’
Seeing the discomfited look on Carlyle’s face, she reined in the smile and returned her beautifully manicured hand to his shoulder to give him a reassuring pat. ‘Don’t worry, Inspector. Who am I going to tell? Your superintendent has everyone in line on this one. And if the papers don’t run it, the BBC isn’t going to touch it with a bargepole. We would never have the stomach for a legal dispute like that. Anyway, it is not the kind of publicity that Edgar needs right now. So, tell me, how is your investigation going?’
‘It’s going,’ Carlyle replied tersely, unable to manage a smile of his own. He glanced quickly around the room. The scrum of journalists was slowly thinning out, so Carlton himself would be off soon. Carlyle would have to try to grab his chance while he could.
‘I’m surprised you haven’t managed a chat with Edgar before now,’ she prodded.
Carlyle said nothing.
‘Come on,’ she said, taking his arm, ‘I’ll introduce you.’
In front of them, the PR flunky was trying to close it all down. ‘That’s it for this morning. Thank you all for coming. If you have any further questions, please call our press office.’ The remaining journalists ignored him and kept on hurling questions at his boss.
Rosanna pushed her way through a couple of cameramen until she was almost facing Carlton. ‘Edgar!’ she cried, stepping deftly in front