‘I see.’
The conversation was interrupted by the sound of the front door slamming and footsteps in the hallway. Carlyle got to his feet in time to see a short, rotund man walk into the room, loosening his tie as he did so. Clocking Carlyle, the man stopped in his tracks.
‘Derek,’ Barbara Hutton explained, ‘this is Inspector Carlyle, from the police. He’s come to warn us about a cat burglar in the neighbourhood.’
Derek Hutton grunted something that sounded very much like ‘bollocks’ to Carlyle. Pulling the tie from his neck, he tossed it onto the sofa, close to where the inspector had been sitting. His wife rolled her eyes.
‘Inspector, my husband.’
‘Since when do the police send an inspector round to talk about a potential burglary?’ Derek Hutton huffed, removing his jacket and throwing it on top of his tie.
Carlyle remembered that the bloke was a lawyer and began edging towards the door.
‘He also likes your print.’ Barbara Hutton offered a wry smile in the direction of Ulrike Meinhof.
‘What?’ Flicking a bead of sweat from his brow, the lawyer glared at his unwelcome visitor.
Ignoring the husband, Carlyle gave Mrs Hutton a big smile as he slipped into the hall. ‘Well, nice to meet you. Remember, if you see anything suspicious, please let us know immediately.’ Not waiting for a reply, he made a break for the door.
‘What the hell is this?’ Carlyle waved the letter in the direction of the kitchen doorway.
‘What?’ asked Helen, over the sound of the kettle coming to the boil.
‘This letter.’ He was momentarily distracted by the opening bars of Blondie’s ‘Atomic’ coming from Alice’s bedroom. Further proof that his daughter lived in something of a musical time warp; then again, a good song was a good song, however old it was.
Helen appeared from the kitchen, a mug in each hand. One bore a picture of Captain Haddock, the other the legend: Keep Calm and Drink Tea. ‘I haven’t read it.’ She handed the Captain Haddock mug to her husband. ‘What does it say?’
Carlyle peered into his mug.
‘It’s green tea.’
Carlyle would rather have had a whiskey, but he kept his mouth shut.
‘What does it say?’ Helen repeated, leading him into the living room.
‘It’s from a TV production company called Laxative Productions,’ he said, following after her.
‘Charming!’ Helen picked up a copy of that afternoon’s Standard from the floor and eased herself into the armchair by the TV.
‘Listen to this.’ Carlyle placed his tea on the coffee table and dropped on to the sofa. ‘Does your child take drugs? Are drugs destroying your family? We are an award-winning independent production company, responsible for hit shows such as Britain’s Biggest Chavs, Travellers from Hell and Born in Prison.’ He looked at his wife. ‘Born in Prison?’
‘Never heard of it,’ Helen said innocently. Before he could interrogate the truthfulness of that statement, she opened up the newspaper and started scanning the pages.
‘We are currently researching a show called My Teenage Drug Hell and are looking to talk to potential interviewees aged ten and above.’ A thought crossed his mind and he let out a low chuckle. ‘Maybe Alice could do it.’
Not wishing to be reminded of their daughter’s problems with drugs at school, Helen glared at him over the paper.
‘I was only joking.’
‘That’s not funny.’ Helen went back to her reading. ‘We’ve put all that firmly behind us.’
‘Let’s hope so.’
‘Make sure he doesn’t see it,’ Helen commanded. ‘Tear it up and put it in the recycling bag.’
After doing as he was told, Carlyle recovered his tea and took a sip.
‘How was work?’ Helen asked.
‘Fine.’ Not sure which recent lowlight to recount for his wife’s amusement, he finally plumped for the conversation between Umar and the statuesque Amelia Elmhirst about the former’s mysterious photograph.
Looking up from the newspaper, Helen eyed him suspiciously. ‘Is she good-looking, this girl?’
Trying to affect the air of the mythical male creature who never considered such things, he took a moment to pretend to give the matter some thought. ‘Yes,’ he said finally, trying to make the whole thing sound as abstract as possible, ‘I suppose you would say that she is.’
‘Then he’ll be sexting her, or sending her photos of his willy or something,’ Helen said.
‘Eh?’
She looked at him as if he was particularly dense. ‘That’s what boys do these days, if they fancy a girl. Apparently, sending someone a photo of your privates is considered a part of normal social discourse among the younger generation.’
‘But he’s not a boy,’ Carlyle protested.
Arching her eyebrows, Helen shot him a look that said All men are boys, present company included.
‘He’s married.’
‘And Christina will no doubt have a total fit when she finds out.’
‘Not to mention Simpson.’
‘Yes,’ Helen agreed. ‘If someone complains at work, I expect he’ll be out the door in almost less time than it takes to email your todger round the world. We had to sack a guy for something similar last year. When it comes to the Met, he’s bound to be breaking dozens of employment rules. I doubt if even the Police Federation would be able to save him.’
Carlyle lifted his feet on to the coffee table. ‘I’m beginning to think he has a bit of a death wish about The Job. It’s almost like he wants to get the sack.’
‘Maybe. It happens. But the sexting thing is more about him coming on to women, rather than a cry for help about his job. Probably, in his mind, it’s just an extension of flirting.’
There was a lull in the conversation. Helen returned to her paper. Carlyle tuned back in to the sounds of Blondie coming from the back of the flat. ‘Do you think we need to speak to Alice about this kind of thing?’ he asked. ‘You know, in terms of the boys at school?’
‘Only if you want her to explain it more to you,’ Helen said drily. ‘Alice has had to be alert for this kind of nonsense ever since she got her first smartphone.’
Carlyle grimaced at the thought of some degenerate little scrote sending . . . aaargh. He didn’t want to imagine it. ‘And?’
‘And what?’
‘Has she ever received-’
‘No, thank God.’ Helen, not wishing to dwell on it either, cut him off. ‘At least, not as far as I know.’ She gestured at the letter on the table. ‘It’s like the drugs issue, just another thing we have to try and keep an eye on.’
‘I suppose,’ said Carlyle glumly, wondering if he would ever get to the point where he could feel like he had this parenting thing even remotely under control.
THIRTEEN
This time of the morning was far too early for the beautiful people who haunted the Garden Hotel to make an appearance. For a few moments, it seemed as if he was the only person in the entire building.
Tapping the toe of his shoe on the limestone floor, Carlyle contemplated the empty lobby. They’d changed the artwork again, he noted, inspecting the massive canvas that ran almost the whole length of one wall. Paint of all colours had been smeared on with gusto and, to his mind at least, it looked like nothing so much as the contents of an ill child’s nappy. Even Derek Hutton’s picture looks better than that, muttered Carlyle’s inner peasant.
‘Striking, isn’t it?’
Carlyle turned to find a pretty, twenty-something girl at his shoulder. She wore the grey Mao tunic that denoted a member of staff, and her flat shoes meant that he could just about avoid having to look up to her. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a ponytail and she had the fresh-faced look of someone who had just started her shift. Above her left breast was a small badge that said: Deborah Burke, Chief Concierge.