‘All right. Thank you, Inspector.’ Her pathetic gratitude in the face of his sloth made him cringe.
‘How’s Laurie doing?’ he asked feebly.
‘We’re doing OK.’ She struggled to fight back a sob. ‘One day at a time and all that.’
‘Yes.’ Embarrassed, he shifted his weight from foot to foot as he stared at the carpet. ‘Look, I’ve got to go.’
‘Of course.’
‘I’ll be in touch.’
‘Thank you.’
‘No problem.’ Ending the call, he immediately pulled up another number.
‘Are you stalking me, Inspector?’ Alison Roche sounded groggy.
‘Sorry, were you asleep?’
‘Like you care,’ she grumbled. ‘What time is it?’
‘Not that late.’
‘All things are relative. What do you want?’
‘The Chelsea massacre. Did you come across a company called Tallow Business Services?’
For a moment, he listened to silence on the line.
‘Alison?’
‘How do you know about that?’ she asked, all sleepiness disappearing from her voice in an instant.
Once the final credits of the movie had rolled, Nicky Lezard followed the inspector down to the lobby to placate the irate Sebastian Gregori. They found him in the bar, sitting behind the rope in the otherwise empty VIP area, nursing a large glass of white wine. Carlyle noted the half-empty bottle of Chablis in a bucket by the side of the table and smiled.
Starfish.
The free booze seemed to have somewhat taken the edge off the German’s irritation. He shook the manager’s hand and politely listened as he parroted McDonald’s explanation of a carbon-monoxide scare on the second floor.
‘This would never happen in Germany,’ was his only observation when the tale was concluded.
‘No.’ Lezard glanced at the inspector, who remained inscrutable. ‘Well, I can only apologize. We will, of course, waive your bill for the duration of your stay.’
Gregori gave a satisfied nod. ‘What about the audit?’
‘What?’ Nicky asked, flustered.
‘The audit trail for the safe.’ Gregori looked at the inspector. ‘Was it opened while I was out of the room?’
‘Er . . .’
The inspector placed a calming hand on Nicky’s shoulder as he returned Gregori’s stare with interest. ‘I’m afraid that the particular model of safe that the hotel uses does not have this facility.’ It was a lie, but he had taken the precaution of getting McDonald to wipe all the incriminating data while waiting for Lezard’s movie to finish.
Gregori started to say something but thought better of it. A waitress appeared with a bowl of roasted macadamia nuts. Placing them on the table, she smiled at Carlyle. ‘Would you like a drink, sir?’
‘No. I’ve got to get going. Thanks for your help, Mr Lezard.’
‘My pleasure,’ said Nicky archly.
The inspector watched Gregori as he took a handful of nuts. ‘I will keep you posted on the other matter.’ No longer interested in their conversation, the German simply nodded and looked away.
TWENTY
Sammy Baldwin-Lee, founder and part-owner of the Racetrack, the West End’s premier entertainment complex, clasped his mojito to his breast and looked out over the balcony, surveying his domain. The dance floor wasn’t as full as he would like, but then again, tonight’s main attraction, DJ Oscar 451, wasn’t due to take the stage for another couple of hours at least. Initially, Sammy had baulked at the cost of bringing Oscar over from Ibiza to play three mid-week sets in London. That was until his Marketing Manager, a rather louche woman called Wendy, had produced a set of spreadsheets showing that punters paid a minimum of £80 to get into one of Oscar’s gigs and the average spend at the bar was almost £125 a head.
‘You’ll be able to clear six figures, easy,’ Wendy had told him at their weekly finance meeting, ‘maybe seven. He’s the new David Guetta.’
Sammy didn’t have the first clue who the old David Guetta was, but he kept his mouth shut. He was a major nightclub-owner, after all, and he should know such things. He watched Wendy scratching at the sleeves of her cardigan. Maybe she’s on heroin, he thought. You never see her arms.
‘It’s a no-brainer, Sammy.’
‘When someone tells me something’s a no-brainer,’ he grumbled, ‘I usually run a mile in the opposite direction.’ She started to protest. ‘But in this case, let’s do it.’
‘Yay.’ Wendy made a feeble attempt at punching the air.
‘Just make sure there are punitive penalties in the contract if he doesn’t turn up.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Wendy chuckled, ‘I’ve already spoken to his manager. And Oscar’s a consummate professional; one of the hardest working men in showbiz, according to Heat magazine.’
‘Good for him.’ Sammy raised his eyes to the heavens. Instead of a nightclub, he should have opened an old folks’ care home, just as his mother had advised him. It would have been a lot less hassle and much better cash flow. ‘Make sure we have the penalty clauses in the contract anyway.’
That had been three months ago. Now, on the second night of Oscar’s mini-residency, Sammy had to admit that it was a case of so far, so good. The tickets had been sold, at £87.50 (plus a £6.50 ‘industry standard’ booking fee) and the first night’s bar takings had been even better than Wendy had forecast. By all accounts, Mr 451 had put in a storming performance, not that Sammy had been around to see it. He would never admit it, but the music gave him a terrible headache. He could stand it for a maximum of an hour a night, tops, and even then, only when the volume was kept to a reasonable level. Once the party really got started, he took himself off to another part of the complex or just headed back to his Shaftesbury Avenue crash pad. A creature of routine, he liked to be in bed with a cup of organic tea and a nice juicy crime novel on his Kindle well before midnight.
If all three nights went well, the Racetrack might almost break even for the week. It would be the first time since the refurb that this had happened – a milestone worthy of celebration, had it not arrived six months later than forecast. That, and the fact that there would be no Oscar 451 next week. On the back of last night’s efforts, Sammy had already enquired about the DJ’s availability, only to be offered some dates more than a year away. Despairing, he had sent Wendy off to try and rustle up some alternative names.
‘There must be more than one guy who is the next . . .’
‘David Guetta,’ she reminded him.
A lightbulb went off over Sammy’s head and he waved his arms around excitedly. ‘Couldn’t we get the real David . . . thingy?’
Wendy shook her head. ‘Never in a million years. Even if you could get a slot in his diary, which you couldn’t, we could never afford him.’
‘But he’s just a DJ,’ said Sammy, miffed.
‘Sammy, DJs are the new rock stars. It’s not like your day. Look how much we’re paying Oscar.’
‘We could charge more.’
‘We’re hitting the ceiling on ticket prices already.’
‘Not just tickets, I’m talking about booze. Once they’re inside, these kids will pay anything.’
‘We’re already asking almost a tenner for a bottle of lager. This is the most expansive venue in Town.’
‘OK, OK.’ Dismayed at being lectured on the financial facts of life by a marketing girl, he sought to bring the conversation to a swift end. ‘Just see who you can get.’
Taking a sip of his mojito, Sammy settled back into his seat as the numbers kept whirring through his head. However many times he did the calculation, he always came back to the same conclusion: you’re sinking.
From the outset, the Racetrack had always been marketed as a long-term investment. At least that was what Sammy had told his backers. The problem was, the investors’ idea of ‘long-term’ was eighteen months, two years max. On current projections, they were on course to get their money back in about two decades, if you factored in a significant, steady improvement in trading from this point. Not that clubs lasted that long – certainly not Sammy’s clubs. Waving at the hovering waitress for another drink, he turned to his guest. ‘You know, I’ve invested almost fifty million pounds restoring this place to its former glory.’