‘You should be able to watch that on the internet in about five minutes,’ Sammy grinned. ‘Hey,’ he called to the girl with the phone, ‘make sure you get the branding in the background.’
The second man was sitting in the middle of the room on what could only be described as a throne. A flunky stood beside him with a flute of champagne while the man tapped repeatedly on the screen of his phone. Ren felt Morag wobble again and reflexively tightened his grip on her arm. However, she wriggled out of his grasp and staggered towards the King.
‘Oh my God. You’re . . .’ Unable to finish her sentence, the hapless girl sent a stream of projectile vomit straight into the man’s lap.
‘What the fuck?’ Before anyone had the chance to react, the man jumped up. Tossing his sick-covered phone to the flunky, he began frantically wiping at his clothes. ‘You stupid fucking bitch. What have you done?’ He raised his fist but Morag was so far gone that she was halfway to the floor before the punch was unleashed.
The sour smell rising from the throne sent people scurrying for the door.
‘Towels,’ Sammy squealed. ‘Someone get some towels and some hot water.’
‘Fuck that,’ the King screamed, ‘I need a whole new outfit – and a shower.’ Eyeing Ren for the first time, he bared his fangs. ‘What you doin’, man,’ he poked at the comatose Morag with the toe of his defiled Nikes, ‘bringin’ that in ’ere?’
Edging backwards, Ren looked for Sammy. But his host had now fled, along with most of his guests.
‘Well?’ The King grabbed the lapels of Ren’s jacket.
Not able to think of any kind of reply, Ren tried to pull himself away, stumbling on the slick floor as the man released his grip. Righting himself, he tried to make for the door, only to find his escape blocked off by the flunky. There was a groan as Morag disgorged the further contents of her stomach at their feet. Ren felt bemused. How could such a small creature have so much inside her? He felt a hand on his shoulder, spinning him round, followed by a succession of blows, which smashed the cartilage in his nose. As he went down for a second time, he tried to angle his fall away from the pool of vomit soaking into the carpet.
TWENTY-ONE
Playing with his BlackBerry, Carlyle stood patiently in line, waiting to be seen. He knew it was his turn when the old codger who was standing behind him gave him a quick poke in the ribs.
‘Hurry up, son,’ the man muttered. ‘Some of us haven’t got all day.’
Ignoring the old git, Carlyle nodded at the woman behind the counter.
Vicky Collingridge, manager of the Drury Lane pharmacy, gave him a cheery smile. ‘Good morning, Inspector. How’s the foot?’
Carlyle winced. ‘So-so.’ The truth was it had been less painful of late but he knew that the respite would only be temporary.
‘Are you wearing the support?’
‘Well, sometimes.’ In reality he found it too much of a hassle; he couldn’t get his shoe on with an athletic support under his sock.
‘You’ve got to stick with it.’
‘I’ll try.’
‘Anyway, what can I do for you this morning?’
‘I wondered if I could ask you about something.’ Conscious of the pensioner shuffling behind him, Carlyle moved further along the counter and lowered his voice. ‘In my professional capacity.’
‘Oh, I see.’ Vicky gestured towards the small storeroom at the back of the shop that doubled as her office. ‘Why don’t we go in there?’
‘I need my bloody prescription,’ the man huffed.
‘Don’t worry, Mr Halliwell, I’ll get Hayley to come over and sort it out for you.’
With Hayley despatched to deal with the grumpy Halliwell, Carlyle stood next to a pile of cardboard boxes, while Vicky perched on the edge of a tiny desk that looked as if it had been nicked from the infant school round the corner.
‘He’s a cheery old sod, isn’t he?’ Carlyle said about the pensioner.
‘Mr H? He’s OK, just a bit lonely. He lives on Stukeley Street, just above the tattoo parlour. He’s been in the neighbourhood for almost sixty years. His wife died a few years ago and he doesn’t get out that much these days.’
That could be me, soon enough, Carlyle thought morosely. He tried to push the idea from his mind. ‘Do you know the names of all your customers?’
‘Just a few of the regulars. How’s the family?’
‘All good, thanks.’ Reaching into his pocket, he produced the bottle of pills swiped from Sebastian Gregori’s hotel room. ‘I was wondering if you could tell me what these are.’
Vicky took the bottle and inspected the label. ‘Triazolam is a sleeping pill. Probably not the most common type that we would see prescribed these days, but fairly common.’
‘Could you abuse them?’ He realized it was a stupid question before it had even left his mouth.
‘Trust me,’ Vicky grinned, ‘you can abuse anything. With prescription drugs, you have to follow the instructions to the letter.’
‘Of course,’ Carlyle nodded.
‘Why do you ask?’ She took another look at the label. ‘Has Mr . . . Kortmann come a cropper?’
‘Come a cropper?’ Carlyle laughed.
‘You know what I mean.’ She handed him back the bottle. ‘Did you find the victim face down in his own . . .?’
‘That’s CSI Miami, not boring old Covent Garden.’ Carlyle put the bottle back into his pocket.
‘Come on, Inspector, it’s not that boring.’
‘No, I suppose not. But there is no victim.’ Not yet, anyway. ‘And all this is strictly between us.’
Vicky knitted her eyebrows. ‘Yes, of course.’
‘Just a few preliminary enquiries.’
‘So I won’t be reading about it in the papers then?’
Carlyle stood up straight. ‘I most certainly hope not.’
‘Is that it?’
‘That’s it. Very helpful.’
‘Glad to be of assistance.’ Vicky slipped off the desk and led him out of the room. ‘Give Helen and Alice my best.’
‘Will do.’
Heading back through the shop, Carlyle saw Mr Halliwell chatting away happily to Hayley, wilfully oblivious of the queue of people that was building up behind him. Heading behind the counter, Vicky opened up a second till and got back to work.
Approaching the police station, Carlyle was still pondering the significance – if any – of finding Kortmann’s sleeping pills in Sebastian Gregori’s hotel room. Waiting to cross the road, he saw a council worker steam-cleaning the pavement at the spot where the flattened rodent had previously come to rest. RIP, Mousey, Carlyle thought, your fifteen minutes of fame are over. From the other side of the street came the sound of a dozen cameras whirring into action. Looking up, he saw a well-built black guy hurrying down the front steps of the station, trying to ignore the snappers as he pushed his way into the back of a black Lexus which slowly pulled away from the kerb. A couple of the photographers made a half-hearted attempt to follow it down the road but most reckoned that they’d already got their shot. By the time the car had disappeared round the corner, the majority were sitting on the pavement, laptops out, emailing the best shots to their picture desks.
‘Whoever that guy is,’ Carlyle mumbled to himself, ‘he’ll be all over the internet before I manage to get my computer switched on.’
On his way to the third floor, he bumped into Sergeant Elmhirst on the stairs. ‘Who was that who just left?’ he asked, manoeuvring himself up a couple of steps so that she was not towering over him.
‘Dunno. It’s been a total circus downstairs this morning and I’ve been keeping well out of it.’ Wearing no make-up, with her hair pulled back into a ponytail, Amelia Elmhirst looked ridiculously pretty and it was a struggle not to gawp.