Harry leaned forward. ‘How much do you know about Chinese politics?’
‘About as much as you know about morals,’ was Carlyle’s instant response.
‘That’s hardly fair,’ Harry protested.
‘OK, I apologize. Give me the short version. And keep it simple.’
‘Well, to start with, Mr Li Hang’s real name is Ren Qi.’
‘Hold on . . .’ Carlyle grabbed a Post-it note and a black biro that had been leaking out on his desk. ‘Spell it.’
Harry obliged, going on to give the inspector the helicopter view of Ren’s role at the centre of the current spate of Politburo infighting.
Carlyle gestured at the magazine peeking out of the top of the box. ‘All very interesting, Mr Economist, but what does any of this have to do with the price of beans?’
‘Because,’ Harry said excitedly, ‘the word is that Ren is building himself a little business empire over here. He wants to make London one of his primary bolt holes.’
None the wiser, Carlyle stuck out his lower lip and nodded.
‘A bit like a Chinese Abramovich,’ Harry explained, offering up the Russian tycoon as a point of reference.
‘What?’ Carlyle frowned. ‘He’s gonna buy Chelsea?’
‘You know what I mean, you berk. He needs an escape route. That’s what London is these days, or hadn’t you noticed? This place isn’t really for the likes of you and me, it’s just a refuge for the rich. Ren certainly has the cash to play in this market. He might be more of a politician than a businessman but in places like China the line is very blurred indeed.’
‘I suppose.’
‘They say all political careers end in failure,’ Harry continued, ‘but whereas over here that might mean retiring to the country with wife number three and a collection of directorships, there it can mean a bullet in the back of the head. Ren is just being prudent.’
‘He wasn’t prudent enough to avoid getting caught up in a nightclub brawl with a hooker on each arm,’ Carlyle observed.
‘He was just a bit unlucky, according to Sammy.’
‘So you know Sammy then?’ Carlyle was hardly surprised.
‘Yeah, ’course I do. He’s tried to get me to invest in the Racetrack a couple of times.’
Carlyle raised an eyebrow. ‘Business is that good?’
‘Sure. Pretty girls never go out of fashion.’
The inspector glanced at the lipstick on the computer screen. ‘Even poor old Sonia.’
‘She does fine. That guy who complained, Yates, he was just a total dick. Thanks for sorting that out, by the way.’
‘It was nothing.’ Carlyle shrugged it off.
‘No, seriously. Consider the heads-up on Ren a bit of quid pro quo.’
A bit of quid pro quo? Those educated pimps; you had to laugh.
‘He has a son over here – got him into Eton, God knows how. Must have pulled a lot of strings. The kid’s turned into a bit of a rascal by all accounts. The wife spends a lot of time in London too. There are rumours she’s playing away with a Brit.’
‘Doubt that bothers him too much,’ Carlyle interjected, ‘given his preference for your girls.’
‘You know what such men are like, Inspector.’
Not really.
‘They want to have their cake and eat it.’
‘I’m sure. By the way, the other girl, the one who isn’t Sonia. What happened to her?’
‘Morag? The silly cow’s gone home.’
‘To Scotland?’
‘No, no.’ Harry shook his head. ‘Studio flat in Putney.’ She claims it was a stomach bug, but that half bottle of vodka she downed before arriving at the Racetrack was doubtless a factor. I think a return to the land of the midges beckons for that young lady. She’s just not cut out for this.’
‘Make sure she’s looked after properly,’ Carlyle said, but it was less a command, more of a plea.
Harry made a face. ‘I’ll do what I can, but I’m not social services.’
‘Fair enough.’ Carlyle scratched behind his ear. ‘By the way, who was the Chinese woman – the one who came to pick Ren up this morning? She seemed quite something.’
‘No idea,’ Harry said. ‘Whenever I’ve met Ren, he’s always been on his own.’ Just then, Umar appeared with a coffee in each hand. Placing one on his own desk, he handed the other to Harry.
‘Thanks, pal.’
A look of dismay fell across the inspector’s face. ‘Where’s mine?’
‘Didn’t know you wanted one,’ Umar grinned as he sat down.
Not wishing to intrude on a domestic dispute, Harry got to his feet. ‘I’d better be going.’ He offered his free hand and the inspector gave it a firm shake.
‘Thanks for coming in,’ Carlyle said mechanically. ‘Let me know if you come across this guy . . .’ he glanced down at the Post-it ‘. . . Ren, again.’
‘Will do.’
Umar gave Harry a wave as he headed for the stairs. ‘Nice bloke.’
‘For a pimp,’ Carlyle grumped, still put out that he hadn’t been offered a coffee.
‘By the way,’ Umar said airily, ‘Commander Simpson wants to see you.’
‘Great,’ the inspector complained. ‘It’s not like I haven’t got enough to do without schlepping over to her office.’
‘She’s not at Paddington Green,’ Umar corrected him. ‘She’s got a fitting.’
‘A fitting?’
‘That’s what she said.’ The sergeant mentioned an address just off Regent Street. ‘Wants to see you there. Said she’d be there for the next hour or so. You’d better get your skates on.’
TWENTY-THREE
Stepping off the street and into Nixon de Brunner’s Bespoke Headwear Emporium was like stepping back in time. Assistants dressed like Edwardian servants scuttled about under dim lighting, fetching boxes from wall-to-ceiling shelves at the behest of invisible customers. Catching the attention of one of them, a flustered-looking woman with a red face, Carlyle asked for the Commander and was directed to the fitting rooms on the second floor.
Climbing the stairs, he found Carole Simpson in a tiny room at the end of a long, dusty corridor. Standing in front of a full-length mirror, she was adjusting her headpiece, a black number that looked a bit like a bowler hat that had been squashed into an oblong, with a white flower sticking out of the top. To Carlyle’s untrained eye, it looked like something left over from the French Revolution.
‘What the hell’s that? It looks like-’
‘It’s a Napoleon-style bicorn hat with a black and white feathered plume.’ The flustered assistant appeared at his shoulder. ‘We’ve been making them using the same craft skills for more than two hundred years.’ She turned her attention to his boss. ‘How does it look, Commander?’
‘I think we’re there,’ Simpson smiled. ‘It feels fine.’
‘Not too tight?’ the woman enquired anxiously.
‘No, just right.’ Removing the hat, Simpson handed it to the assistant. ‘If you could put it in a box for me, I’ll be down in a minute.’
‘Of course.’ The woman took the hat and hurried away.
‘Thank you.’ Listening to her stomp down the stairs, the Commander turned to her charge. ‘Why do you have to be so snide about everything?’
‘Me?’ Carlyle lifted a hand to his breast, signalling the wound he had suffered. ‘What did I do? I didn’t say anything.’
‘It’s just a bloody hat,’ Simpson snapped back. ‘Couldn’t you say something nice for once? Or, better still, just keep your mouth shut?’
‘What’s it for?’
‘Ceremonial.’
‘Aha.’ None the wiser, Carlyle waited for her to explain.
‘The Met needs a relatively senior officer to take part in Trooping the Colour, in order to help secure the event. One of the Assistant Deputy Commissioners was going to do it but she fell off her horse a couple of weeks ago at a point-to-point meeting and broke her back. So it looks like I’ve got the nod.’
‘I didn’t know you rode,’ Carlyle replied.
Simpson gave him a cold stare. ‘There’s a lot you don’t know.’
‘How very true. For example, I didn’t know that we had to provide someone to dress up in a funny hat and ponce around on a horse behind Her Maj.’