London Calling - James Craig [97]
‘It will be interesting to see what you make of him,’ Helen said, peering over her glasses at the newspaper, seemingly more interested in her puzzle than in his work.
‘I think we know that already.’
‘I know,’ she said, jotting down some numbers before immediately scrubbing them out. ‘But how often do you get to see people like that close up in the flesh? Maybe you’ll see him in a different light, afterwards.’
‘I doubt it.’
‘Aren’t you supposed to keep an open mind?’ she sniffed, not lifting her eyes from the page in front of her. ‘Isn’t it your job not to prejudge things?’
‘We’ll see,’ he said, non-committally.
‘Oh, by the way …’ Helen finally gave up on the Sudoku, letting the newspaper drop to the duvet and removing her spectacles. ‘… I forgot to mention it earlier but I spoke to Eva yesterday.’
Eva as in Eva Hollander, otherwise Mrs Dominic Silver.
‘Yes?’
‘She suggested that we get our kids together during the school holidays. I think Alice will love it.’
‘I agree,’ said Carlyle. He knew how much Helen worried about her daughter having playmates during the holidays, being an only child.
‘Eva said that you’d already spoken to Dom about it,’ Helen added.
‘Not really,’ said Carlyle, rather defensively. ‘I saw him in Soho for a quick chat the other day … mainly about business.’
‘What would he know about Carlton?’ Helen asked.
‘It’s what he can find out that I’m more interested in.’
‘Well, maybe he has found something out.’ Helen reached over to switch off her bedside lamp. ‘Eva says he’s been trying to get hold of you. You need to give him a call.’
‘I will.’
She quickly dived under the duvet.
Switching off his own light, Carlyle sat for a while in the darkness, reflecting.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Badajoz Consulting identified itself by a shiny brass nameplate alongside the nondescript door of 132 Half Moon Street, a thoroughfare which was home to a mix of offices housing companies that you had never heard of and stores housing luxury goods brands that you had. Offering ‘bespoke management solutions’, the firm occupied the upper three floors. On the very top floor, Edgar and Xavier Carlton and Christian Holyrod had been closeted in the company’s boardroom for over an hour. They eventually talked themselves to a standstill. Strewn across the Italian-designed, dark-oak boardroom table were used coffee cups, glasses and half-empty bottles of carbonated and still Highland Spring water. The shades had been partially drawn, while the air-conditioning kept the temperature at a steady sixty-five degrees.
The trio had been reviewing the ‘overall situation’, and the mood was now tetchy. With just two days to go, the election campaign had still failed to catch fire, and the polls were continuing to narrow. As far as anyone could tell, the voters were not particularly minded to support anyone. For the first time, one or two newspaper articles had begun speculating that the Carltons could actually snatch defeat from the jaws of victory. Meanwhile, the ongoing police investigation showed no signs of reaching a conclusion. The possibility loomed large of the whole thing exploding in their faces just before polling day.
At one end of the room, Christian Holyrod paced about in front of a monster, sixty-inch television screen, set up for video conferencing but currently blank. Feeling pale and bloated after a couple of years out of the army, the mayor was uncomfortable in his £3,000 suit and £750 Italian loafers. He was also distinctly uncomfortable at being here in the Badajoz boardroom. Above all, he was annoyed at himself for getting dragged into this sorry mess. As far as he could see, the whole thing was nothing to do with him. It wasn’t his problem and he wasn’t going to take any flak for Edgar’s wretched brother.
As far as Christian was concerned, Xavier had meant trouble ever since he’d known him. If he were to finally get his come-uppance, that would be no bad thing. Christian smiled to himself. He was a politician now. A professional politician, just as he had been a professional soldier, someone who