‘My hero,’ Helen swooned. ‘Ever the pragmatist.’
Carlyle tentatively sniffed the air. ‘A smelly pragmatist. I’m going for that shower.’
* * *
He was just drying himself off when Helen handed him his mobile. ‘It’s your favourite sergeant.’ Smirking at his nakedness, she retreated towards the living room.
‘Great,’ Carlyle groaned. Jamming the handset under his chin, he wrapped a towel around his rather too thick waist. ‘What is it?’
‘I’m at the Garden Hotel,’ Umar explained, keeping his voice low. ‘There’s a bit of a palaver.’
A bit of a palaver? When did the bloody boy start mimicking his speech?
‘I’ve just spoken to a woman called Ros McDonald,’ Umar went on, barely whispering now, ‘and I think you’d better get down here asap.’
Fifteen minutes later, Carlyle burst through the Garden’s revolving doors and strode purposefully towards the concierge’s desk. The look on Sebastian Gregori’s face hardened as he watched him approach.
‘Why are you here?’ he ground out.
‘Because,’ the inspector said as cheerily as he could manage, ‘it looks like I’m turning into your own private policeman.’ He gave a brisk nod to Burke and McDonald in turn, before glaring at Umar. Until he learned how much the sergeant knew, Carlyle was determined to play things straight. ‘What seems to be the problem?’ All four voices started at once, forcing Carlyle to hold up both hands. Noticing that they were beginning to attract a crowd, he took the opportunity to get rid of Umar by sending him off to disperse the gawkers.
Turning to Gregori, he smiled unctuously. ‘Sir, why don’t you tell me what happened?’ Nodding at every opportunity, the inspector focused his attention exclusively on the private eye while he listened to his suspicions about the safe.
Reaching his conclusion, Gregori pointed at McDonald. ‘And she was in on it.’ Saying nothing, the Head of Security kept her gaze fixed on an indistinct point in the middle distance. ‘When I demanded to see the manager, they refused, so I called the police.’ He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘They sent your boy.’
Suppressing a grin, Carlyle looked across the lobby to see the sergeant deep in conversation with a very attractive middle-aged woman. For once, he was happy to let Umar get on with his flirting. Knitting his brows together, he turned back to the two women. ‘This is a very serious matter. Where is Nicky?’ Nicholas Lezard had been the manager of the Garden for almost fifteen years. The inspector knew him well enough to have a contact number programmed into his phone.
Burke coughed. ‘I haven’t been able to get hold of him, Inspector.’
‘Is that the manager?’ Gregori demanded. ‘She didn’t even try.’
Once again, Carlyle held up a hand for silence. Taking out his mobile, he pulled up Lezard’s number and hit Call. Almost immediately, it went to voicemail. With a sigh, he turned to Gregori. ‘Just give me a moment,’ he requested, heading for the reception desk. ‘I will sort this out for you.’
‘Thank you,’ Gregori mumbled, unconvinced.
He found Nicky Lezard in a serviced apartment on the top floor of the Garden, eating popcorn and watching a DVD. ‘Don’t you remember tonight is movie night?’ was all the hotel manager could bring himself to say when he finally responded to the persistent rapping of the inspector’s knuckles on the door. ‘We’ve got the latest Jennifer Aniston movie,’ he added, flouncing back into the living room. ‘At least, I think it’s the latest. The girl certainly knows how to churn them out.’
Carlyle mumbled something suitably banal and followed him inside. Nicky flopped back onto the sofa and took the remote from his viewing companion – a young-looking guy with a crew cut and a Madonna T-shirt which harked back to the singer’s Like a Virgin period. His host reluctantly gestured towards a nearby armchair. ‘Take a seat.’
‘It’s OK.’ Carlyle positioned himself in front of the TV and shoved his hands in his pockets. ‘This will only take a minute, then you can get back to your film.’
Letting the remote drop from his fingers, Nicky let out an unhappy cluck. His companion considered Carlyle for a moment then slithered off the sofa and swanned out of the room.
‘Ma-artin,’ Nicky shouted after him, ‘get me a Coke, will you? Sugar-free.’ When he got no response, he turned his attention back to the policeman standing on his carpet. ‘You really have ruined the mood, you know.’
‘Sorry,’ Carlyle fibbed. ‘We just need to sort something out.’
Nicky arched an eyebrow. ‘We?’
Carlyle nodded.
‘What’s all this “we” business? Just because you had Alex Miles doing your bidding for you, it doesn’t mean you can come running upstairs now that he’s gone. From what I hear, you always were too demanding, Inspector.’
‘I am the hotel’s best friend,’ Carlyle countered, ‘and you know it. All the crap I spare you and your guests on a regular basis-’
‘All right, all right.’ Recovering the remote, Nicky looked at it longingly – keen, no doubt, to get back to the lovely Jennifer Aniston. ‘What is it this time?’
Carlyle kept his explanation short and to the point, omitting any mention of his own wrongdoing.
Trying to work up a sense of outrage, Nicky shook his head. ‘So you went rummaging about in one of our guests’ rooms, eh?’
‘The man is mistaken,’ Carlyle replied blithely. ‘No one went into his room.’
Shifting in his seat, Nicky released a large fart to let the inspector know what he thought of the story he was fabricating, an amused grin dancing across his lips as he watched Carlyle move away in a futile attempt to escape the smell. ‘But?’
‘But this gentleman is involved in something else I am dealing with at the moment, so I need to make this little problem go away.’
Grunting, Nicky tried to repeat his gas trick, failing miserably. ‘What’s this guy called again?’
‘Gregori.’
‘Gregory?’ His gaze drifted off into the middle distance. ‘I knew a boy called Greg once.’
‘Gregori’s the surname. With an i on the end.’
Martin reappeared, minus the drink and Nicky shooed him away again, saying, ‘All I wanted was a bloody Coke.’
‘Houseboys,’ Carlyle opined, ‘they just don’t make ’em like they used to.’
Nicky turned his nose up at the plod’s feeble attempt at humour. ‘This Gregori with an i. Why’s he so important that you had to go snooping around his room?’
‘That doesn’t matter.’
‘Well, maybe you could at least share some details regarding your proposed plan of action?’
Nicky insisted on watching his Jennifer Aniston laughathon through to the bitter end before doing the inspector’s bidding. With twenty minutes to kill, Carlyle went in search of Rosalind McDonald. He was still looking for her when his mobile started vibrating in his pocket. Assuming it was Helen, he hit Receive and held it to his ear.
‘Hi, sweetheart.’
‘Inspector? It’s Naomi Taylor.’
‘Ah, yes, sorry. I thought you were someone else.’
‘Is this a bad time?’ Her voice sounded even more fragile than he remembered.
Gritting his teeth, Carlyle glanced at his watch. Of course it’s a bad time. ‘No, no, not at all. What can I do for you?’
‘I just wondered how things were going?’
‘Ah.’
‘My lawyer wants me to sue the Police Service for what they did to Marvin but I wanted to see what you were able to find out first.’
Carlyle thrust his free hand into the pocket of his jacket. The crayon-covered invoice that Laurie had handed him was still there. Since leaving the Taylor household, he had done precisely nothing. ‘I’m still following up a couple of things.’ It was a lame response, but she was too polite to call him on it.
‘So I should tell the lawyer to hold off?’
‘Tell them to give us another couple of days.’ Us. A nice touch. Pleased with his own verbal dexterity, he smiled. ‘We should know where we stand by then.’ Neck-deep in a sea of shit, most likely.