‘And you think these two old lefties have got him?’
‘What other leads do we have?’
‘Fair point.’
‘So let’s find the old buggers then.’
‘OK, your call.’ Umar began ambling off in the direction of the station.
Yes, Carlyle thought as he watched him go. My call.
With a spring in his step, Carlyle bounced along the pavement mumbling the words to The Clash’s ‘London Calling’ as he danced between the oncoming pedestrians. The German case, as he had come to think of it, was in his bloodstream now and he felt energized. Whatever he had told his sergeant, he had no intention of heading home, not yet at least. Instead, he was off to do what he did best, tease out bits of information from unwilling sources that would allow him to inch closer to a resolution of the matter.
Walking into the lobby of the Garden Hotel, he checked his phone. There was another irritated message from Helen, but even that could not dent his mood. Deleting it with a flourish, he felt the handset vibrate in his hand. Casting caution to the wind, he answered without first checking the screen.
‘Carlyle.’
‘Inspector, you’re sounding very chipper.’
Shit. Carlyle cursed silently. Bernard Gilmore Esquire. The Fourth Estate’s finest. And a royal pain in the arse. ‘What can I do for you, Bernie?’
‘Just checking in,’ Bernie said lamely. ‘Keeping in touch with my contacts while I’ve got time on my hands. All this royal baby crap is making it impossible to get into the bloody paper at the moment.’
‘Uh-huh.’ The inspector couldn’t give a toss.
‘The bloody woman goes into labour and it’s the first sixteen pages of the first edition, for fuck’s sake. Imagine what it’ll be like when the damn thing pops out. At this rate there won’t even be any bloody sport.’
Carlyle yawned. ‘Didn’t have you pegged as a republican.’
‘I’m not, particularly. Then again, I’m not a seventeenth-century peasant either. All the fawning and grovelling does your head in.’
‘Helen says the same thing.’ On autopilot, Carlyle headed towards the lifts. Veering left, he came to the threshold of the Light Bar and peered into the gloom. ‘Look, I’m just about to go into a meeting . . .’
‘Yeah, right, so I was wondering what you could tell me about the Oakwood case.’
‘The Oakwood case?’ The name didn’t ring any bells.
‘Yeah,’ Bernie replied, his voice gaining strength as he got to the reason for his call. ‘I hear that arrests are imminent.’
‘Could be.’ Carlyle imagined that he could hear Bernie licking his lips.
‘And that there are some big names involved.’ He mentioned a couple of celebrities.
‘I wouldn’t know about that.’ He paused. If Bernie wanted a quote, he would have to beg.
‘Can you give me something?’
‘On background? No fingerprints?’
‘Of course.’
‘And you owe me?’
‘I’ll add it to your balance in my famous book.’
‘Fair enough.’ Carlyle took a deep breath. ‘So, how about something like this: An unnamed police source said: “We are very pleased with the way in which things are progressing and hope to be able to update the public on developments soon. Rest assured that no one will be given a free pass. Everyone will be required to account for their actions”.’ Rather pleased with himself, he waited for Bernie to scribble it down.
‘Great.’
‘Maybe make it: “Everyone will be required to fully account for their actions”.’
‘You’re a natural.’
‘Whatever,’ Carlyle said modestly. ‘Hope that helps you knock the sprog off the front page.’
‘Hardly. It might make page twenty-two, if I’m lucky.’
‘A good day to bury bad news,’ the inspector murmured. Who had said that? He couldn’t remember. It didn’t matter. Taking a second look around the bar, he finally located his target in a booth at the back just as another thought popped into his head. Might Werner Kortmann be on Bernie’s radar? Better not to ask. ‘Got to go. Keep me posted on . . .’
‘Oakwood.’
‘Yeah, right.’ Carlyle suddenly realized he was in the mood for a ridiculously expensive beer. Dropping the phone into his pocket, he strode manfully towards the bar.
For a man who had seen his client kidnapped and also just been released from hospital, Sebastian Gregori looked to be in pretty good shape. Without waiting to be asked, the inspector took a seat and placed his bottle of Kirin on the table, along with the glass that he wasn’t going to use. Looking up from his newspaper, Gregori smiled thinly.
‘I see that everyone is very excited about this royal baby.’
Carlyle made a face.
Closing the paper, Gregori tossed it on the seat next to him. ‘We don’t have this kind of thing in Germany.’
‘That’s why you are Europe’s leading nation,’ the inspector observed drily, ‘loved and respected around the world.’
‘That is good to know.’
‘How are you feeling?’
‘I am getting better, thank you.’ Gregori lifted his glass from the table and took a cautious sip of his carbonated mineral water. ‘The doctor said I should have no lasting effects from my unfortunate experience.’
‘That’s good.’ Carlyle reached for his bottle. The private eye watched him closely as he took a swig of beer. ‘I was wondering if you could remember anything else about what happened. About the men who attacked you, for example.’
All he got in response was a blank look and a shrug. ‘No. I am sorry, I do not.’
‘OK.’ Carlyle chugged down the rest of his drink; ten quid well spent. ‘So what will you do now?’
Sitting back on the banquette, Gregori folded his arms. ‘I will wait.’
‘For what?’
‘For you to find Herr Kortmann.’
Carlyle suddenly tuned into the music playing quietly from a speaker above his head. The song, a track from South Korea of all places, was so ubiquitous that even he recognized it. It was also profoundly annoying. ‘That may take some time.’
Gregori raised an eyebrow. ‘So I am beginning to understand.’
‘Which is why,’ Carlyle continued, ‘I would be extremely grateful for anything else that you might have that might help us in our investigations.’
‘Such as?’
No idea. ‘Anything.’
‘I’m sorry, Inspector, but I have told you all I know.’ Catching the eye of a passing waitress, Gregori signalled for the bill before finishing his drink. When the woman appeared with the tab he signed it with a flourish, adding his room number in a large child-like script at the bottom. Even with his dodgy eyesight, Carlyle could make it out: 226. Getting to his feet, Gregori toyed with the top button of his jacket. ‘You will let me know of any progress that you make?’
Carlyle nodded. ‘Of course.’ Playing with his empty bottle, he watched the German cross the lobby and head out on to the street. When the waitress appeared to claim the bill he ordered another Kirin with a whiskey chaser. They didn’t have Jameson’s, so he settled for Bushmills. As she cleared the table, he thought he caught a glimpse of Sonia Coverdale at the bar with another girl, but when she turned so he could see her face he realized it was someone else. The waitress reappeared with his drinks, slipping the tab on the table. Taking a mouthful of the whiskey, he let it linger on the back of his throat while he fumbled in the inside pocket of his jacket. Pulling out a biro, he squinted at the bill, wincing at the price.
‘Ah well, never mind. It’s only money.’
With a flourish, he scribbled a rough approximation of Gregori’s signature and added the room number. It’s the least you can do, he thought, for dropping me in this shit. Reaching across the table, he retrieved the newspaper and began flicking through its pages. He was almost at the middle before he found anything that wasn’t in some way related to the royal baby. Bernie Gilmore was right, he thought, it’s all a load of crap. Given all the domestic excitement, ‘World News’ had been relegated to half a page, next to the horoscopes. His eye caught a small story across three columns, under the headline REN QI FACES FIGHT TO SAVE HIS CAREER: High-flying Chinese politician Ren Qi is at the centre of China’s most serious political infighting for decades as Communist Party leaders try to clamp down on corruption and abuse of office.