Simpson looked surprised. ‘That was very diplomatic — by your standards.’
‘The way I see it, my own enquiries are proceeding quite nicely.’
‘Oh, are they?’ Simpson arched an eyebrow.
‘And I don’t need to tread on his toes to get a result.’ The inspector filled her in on the materials recovered from Gemma Millington’s flat — omitting mention of the photo of Ms Millington in a pink wig — and outlined his planned next steps.
‘Fine,’ said Simpson, refilling her glass from the bottle on the table.
‘So, I was wondering if I might be able to take WPC Hall off the shift rota for the next few days?’
Simpson eyed him quizzically. ‘I thought that you already had. The desk isn’t too pleased about it.’
‘Sorry.’ The inspector tried his best to sound apologetic. ‘But she’s doing a good job.’
‘She’s pretty, too, I hear.’
‘Which is why,’ he smiled, ‘she is in good hands with two tired, old married men like me and Joe.’
‘Let’s see how it goes over the next few days. Now, seeing as you are here, you can tell me something useful.’
Uh oh.
‘How is the Mosman case going?’
Good bloody question, he thought, gulping down a sizeable slug of whiskey.
‘You know the case — the one that I said should be your top priority?’
Yes, yes, yes. ‘I’m going to speak to Mrs Mosman again tomorrow,’ he said evenly, glossing over the fact that he had done nothing of note regarding her since they had last spoken.
‘Good.’
‘And,’ he added, belatedly remembering why he had come here in the first place, ‘I want to hold a presser about Hannah Gillespie.’
‘Why?’
‘The media have started running with the story. In particular, a journalist called Bernie Gilmore.’
The Commander eyed him suspiciously. ‘I know Gilmore. I never return his calls.’
‘Me neither.’
‘Mm.’
‘The parents have got to him. He’s already put something online. The girl has been missing for days now, and some of her known associates give us cause for concern. We need to get on the front foot regarding this. We’ve played it by the book so far, but you know as well as I do that, until the kid turns up safe and sound, we will always be accused of not doing enough.’
‘Fine. Organize a presser. But you’ll have to handle it without me.’ Simpson’s days of mugging for the cameras were over. Until not so long ago, she would have run a mile to get in front of a microphone. Now she couldn’t keep far enough away. ‘Just keep it short and sweet.’
‘Sure.’
‘Do you think the girl is still okay?’
‘Hopefully — but I’ve no idea, really. If nothing else, we’ll be covering our own backs.’ Everyone knew that covering one’s back was always a good reason for action. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Laura reappear at the door and begin making her way towards their table. Carlyle drained his glass and gave his boss a big smile. ‘Lots to be getting on with,’ he said cheerily, and stood up. He could feel the effects of the alcohol as he swayed slightly on his feet. ‘I’ll keep you posted. Thanks for the drink.’
‘My pleasure,’ Simpson replied tartly.
He nodded at Laura. ‘Nice to meet you.’
‘You too, Inspector,’ she said. ‘It’s always fun to meet some of Carole’s more interesting colleagues.’
Curiously disconcerted by his uncharacteristic show of politeness, Simpson watched her underling head for the door.
Placing her iPhone and Marlboros on the table, Laura reached for the bottle of Sauvignon Blanc. ‘Seems like a nice guy.’
‘Mm,’ Simpson replied. ‘He has his moments.’
Walking in Memphis. .’ Hoping to clear his head, Carlyle inhaled deeply as he walked down the Edgware Road, heading towards Marble Arch where he could get a bus home to Covent Garden. Passing a kebab shop, he felt a sharp pang of hunger just as one of his phones started vibrating in his pocket.
‘Carlyle,’ he announced.
‘Inspector, it’s Snowdon here.’
Shit. Another job he hadn’t done. If it wasn’t for the drink, he would have had the wit to leave his phone unanswered. Grimacing, he cleared his throat. ‘Good evening, sir. How are you?’
‘I was just wondering if you had managed to speak to your colleagues in Fulham yet?’ Even with all the background noise, Carlyle could detect that the old man sounded drunker than he was himself. Looking up in the nick of time, he narrowly avoided walking into a lamppost.
‘I haven’t been able to get hold of them yet, but I’m hoping to go down there tomorrow.’
‘I see.’
‘Don’t worry, I hadn’t forgotten,’ he lied. ‘And thank you for setting up the meeting with Mr. .’
‘Highman.’
‘Yes, thank you. That was very useful.’
‘Harris is a good chap.’
‘Indeed.’ His attention was distracted by a takeaway called Hell’s Pizza located, appropriately enough, on the corner of Church Street. His stomach rumbled insistently. ‘Look, my apologies but I have to go. I will give you a call with an update tomorrow.’
‘Very good,’ Sir Michael said wearily.
Ending the call, the inspector switched off his phone and headed straight towards his culinary salvation.
Sitting back in his chair, Harris Highman contemplated his gloomy, cluttered office. This was the nearest thing he’d had to a home for more than thirty years. Thirty years! Not for the first time, he reflected that he had spent almost half a lifetime sitting in one little room. Now that retirement was looming, he was at a loss as to what to do about it. Where had the time gone? It was such a banal lament.
Through the window, he could make out the London Eye, lit up now as it carried its last tourists of the evening. A cleaner stuck her head round the door but Highman waved her away with a flick of his hand. Loosening his tie, he took a sip of his lemon and ginger tea before scanning the list of names on the sheet of paper resting on his lap.
‘Mm.’ Reaching across his desk, he put down his Book of the Dead souvenir mug and picked up a copy of UK in Germany, the glossy bi-annual newsletter published by the British Embassy in Berlin. The centre spread was given over to an interview with the Ambassador, Michael Murphy, which had been conducted by Zoe Mosman six months earlier. In it they had discussed works from the Government Art Collection which were then on display in the Embassy on Wilhelmstrasse and also in the Ambassador’s residence. Highman tut-tutted. ‘Iconic works by some of the greatest sculptors working in Britain today, indeed!’ he scoffed. Anish Kapoor and Tony Cragg were definitely not to his taste.
On the next page was a series of a dozen or so photographs from a reception held to celebrate the CAG. Zoe Mosman appeared in three of these: one with the Ambassador and his boyfriend; another with two other women, one of whom was the ubiquitous Yulissa Vasconzuelo, the Prime Minister’s floozy, who seemed to attend every party known to man; and the third with a dark, unsmiling man with cold eyes who looked decidedly unhappy about having his picture taken. Dropping the newsletter on to his desk, Highman checked the list of guests attending the event for the tenth time. ‘Well, well,’ he mumbled to himself. There could be no doubt: he had the name. He even had the photo to prove it. ‘What a very interesting development.’
Harris felt a delicious shiver of self-satisfaction slip through him. He had acquired knowledge. And knowledge — as Sir Francis Bacon had pointed out — is power.
But what was he going to do with it?
His first inclination was to call Zoe Mosman and confront her with what he had discovered. However, he quickly discounted that idea. Under the circumstances, that was not the best approach. Not when he had other options. Flicking through the Rolodex standing on his desk, he found the card that the policeman had handed him when they had met in Wardour Street. Picking up the phone, it took him three attempts to dial the number properly, only for it to immediately go to voicemail. Sighing, he waited for the beep.