‘What happened to Alex?’ Carlyle was well acquainted with Alexander Miles, who had been Chief Concierge at the hotel for many years. During that time, Alex had benefited on several occasions from the inspector’s ability to overlook a range of indiscretions on the part of both staff and guests. As a result, he still owed Carlyle more than a few favours.
‘He left a couple of months ago,’ the new Chief Concierge smiled. ‘He was headhunted to go and work in a new destination hotel in Battersea.’
What’s a ‘destination hotel’? Carlyle wondered. No matter, if the silly sod had gone south of the river he was unlikely to be of much use to anyone working out of Charing Cross. For Carlyle, the ultimate metropolitan snob, London stopped being London by the time you got to Fulham Broadway. As for Battersea, it might as well be Bournemouth.
‘Did you know Alex?’
The all too appropriate use of the past tense made Carlyle smile. He whipped out his warrant card and held it up for the late Mr Miles’s replacement to see.
The woman did a double take, glancing over her shoulder to check that no one was listening in on their conversation. ‘A policeman?’
‘That’s right, Debbie.’ Carlyle stuffed the ID back into the inside breast pocket of his jacket. ‘I work just round the corner at the Charing Cross station.’
‘It’s Deborah,’ she said stiffly.
‘OK, Deborah. Anyway, don’t worry, I’m just here to meet a couple of guys who happen to be staying in this place. Nothing to do with the hotel.’
‘Good, good.’ She edged further away.
‘But Alex and I had a good working relationship. We should have a chat about that when I’ve got a bit more time.’
The young woman smiled nervously, once again looking over her shoulder, this time for someone to come to her aid. ‘That would be great, thanks.’
‘Fine, I’ll see you later then.’ Not wishing to cause Deborah any more discomfort, he strode off in the direction of the reception desk to try and track down his two Germans.
* * *
Five minutes and four attempted phone calls later, he was none the wiser as to the whereabouts of Sebastian Gregori and Werner Kortmann. Neither man was answering the phone in his room. Their mobiles were going to voicemail. Gregori had not responded to the email Carlyle had sent earlier. The inspector looked at his watch. He had been late arriving and it was now more than forty-five minutes past the time they had agreed to meet. ‘If they’ve gone to see Barbara Hutton without me,’ Carlyle mumbled under his breath, ‘I’ll . . .’
You’ll what? said a voice inside his head. Why do you care what that pair get up to? This is not your problem. Leave it alone.
‘Good advice,’ Carlyle agreed, staring at the ground as if he was conversing with his shoes. ‘But what should I do now?’ Looking up, he caught sight of Deborah Burke watching him from behind her desk in the corner of the lobby. Not wishing to waste all of his morning talking to himself, he gave her a brisk wave and headed towards the exit.
‘Hey, Inspector!’
Carlyle turned and smiled. ‘Hey. How are you?’
Sonia Coverdale danced across the limestone floor of the hotel, wearing a flowery dress.
‘I hear I owe you an apology.’
‘Me?’ Carlyle frowned.
‘Yeah. I heard you had to deal with the guy who was demanding his money back.’
‘Ah, yes. The unhappy Mr Brian Yates.’
‘I never knew his name,’ she shrugged. ‘But what a nerve.’
‘It was a strange one,’ Carlyle agreed. Standing in front of him, the girl looked tanned and healthy. To his eyes at least, she was very attractive too.
She gave him a cheeky grin. ‘Did you nick him?’
‘Nah. I just sent him on his way with a flea in his ear.’
‘Shame.’
‘I don’t think he’ll do it again.’
‘That’s not much good to me,’ Sonia said, her face turning serious. ‘Word gets around.’
Carlyle gestured in the direction of the rooms upstairs. ‘It’s not like business has dried up completely.’
‘No,’ she conceded, ‘but I’ve got my reputation to consider.’
‘Well, it was the best I could do, under the circumstances.’
‘I know, and I’m very grateful.’ The smile returned and she slipped her arm through his and led him towards the door. ‘And, to show my appreciation, I’ve got something for you in return.’
Carlyle felt himself stiffen. He glanced nervously towards the concierge’s desk but Deborah Burke had disappeared.
‘Don’t worry,’ Sonia chuckled, pulling him closer, ‘it’s not that.’
‘What is it, then?’ Carlyle asked, relieved and disappointed at the same time.
‘In a minute.’ Reaching the revolving door, she gently pushed him in front. ‘First, I need some breakfast. It was a long night.’
He watched the last piece of toast disappear into Sonia’s mouth and wondered if he could have managed something more than a cup of tea. They were sitting in a café near Seven Dials. It was the kind of place whose name you could never remember, even when you were in it; not really a tourist trap, but not a hangout for the locals either.
‘Long night?’
‘Yeah,’ the girl grinned. ‘The pair of them kept me at it till almost five o’clock.’ She took a slurp of her tea. ‘That’s the problem with all this Viagra and stuff; people want to feel they’re getting their money’s worth.’
Carlyle’s eyes narrowed. ‘Two guys? They weren’t German, were they?’
‘Nope. Americans. Why do you ask?’
‘Doesn’t matter.’
‘Rich college kids.’ She made a face. ‘I much prefer older guys, like you.’
‘Thanks a lot.’
‘Apart from that wanker who made the complaint, obviously.’
‘Yates,’ Carlyle reminded her.
‘Whatever. The older blokes usually just hand me the cash there and then. Ten minutes of slobbering and it’s over and done with.’ She appraised the inspector coolly. ‘I reckon six or seven for you. Eight max.’
‘Good to know,’ said Carlyle, less than pleased with her assessment, even though he knew it was somewhat on the generous side.
‘The younger guys though, they’re popping the blue pills and trying to go all night. It’s an abuse of the fair usage policy.’
‘The what?’
‘Fair usage. Like with your internet company. You use too much and they cut you off. Happens to Darren all the time. Mind you, the silly sod spends all day downloading all the illegal crap he can lay his hands on.’
Carlyle wondered who Darren was, but wasn’t curious enough to ask.
‘Anyway, I’ve complained to the agency about it, but they don’t want to know.’
‘I suppose not.’
‘At the very least, we should be thinking about changing our pricing structure, to take account of that kind of thing.’
Christ, when did you do an MBA? ‘I don’t suppose Royal Escorts has given much thought to changing its business model,’ Carlyle observed drily, ‘given that they’re operating in the oldest profession of them all.’
‘No,’ Sonia nodded, ‘but you would have thought Harry would have been prepared to at least think about it. After all, it’s all about him making more money.’
Carlyle raised his eyes to the heavens. Harry Cummins, the cheery public schoolboy owner of Royal Escorts, had more than enough money already. For Harry, being a pimp was more about a lifestyle choice than putting bread on the table. ‘How long has he been out of jail now?’
‘I dunno,’ Sonia shrugged, ‘A couple of years, maybe?’
Carlyle tutted. ‘I don’t know how he gets away with it.’ Even when sending him down, the judge had commented favourably on Harry’s ‘remarkable’ and ‘enlightened’ business, which paid Corporation Tax, National Insurance, VAT and council tax, as well as refusing to have anything to do with trafficked women. ‘The whole operation had been kept as legitimate as a criminal enterprise could have been,’ the beak had concluded, before passing a ridiculously lenient sentence. So far, it had been Harry’s only spell inside.