While Margaretha Zelle prattled away silently, Carlyle quickly ran through a potted history of the Duncan Brown case and its connection to Operation Redhead, omitting the bit about Miller turning up at his block of flats to give him a shoeing.
‘It’s amazing what people get wound up about,’ was Dom’s only response.
‘Yeah. But at the end of the day, we are talking about murder,’ Carlyle reminded him.
‘Of a bloody journalist,’ Dom sniffed. ‘Mitigating circumstances personified.’
‘Journalists have rights too,’ the inspector said primly.
On the TV, Ms Zelle pulled a handkerchief from the sleeve of her jacket and wiped away a tear. Dom waved an exasperated arm at the sobbing celeb. ‘This shows what a fucked-up society we are. In other places, when journalists get killed it’s because they are trying to uncover some big story, trying to shine a spotlight on some social injustice, or whatever. A newspaper editor in Mexico was decapitated last week for trying to write about the drugs war.’
‘Mm.’ Where did that come from? Carlyle wondered. And aren’t you with the other side in that particular war? But their successful long-standing relationship was built on an understanding, among other things, that life was full of ironies.
‘Over here, on the other hand,’ Dom complained, ‘journalists are just lobotomized morons. Everything’s just about who’s fucking whom or promoting whatever shit show is on the telly on Saturday night.’
‘That’s just the way of the world.’ Leaning forward in his chair, Carlyle held up a hand. He didn’t have time for his mate going off on one about the shortcomings of contemporary British society. In small doses, Dom’s drug-dealer-as-sociologist shtick was interesting enough — but there was a time and a place. ‘Do you remember Charlie Ross?’
Dom thought about it for a moment. ‘Sergeant Charlie Ross?’
‘The self-same,’ Carlyle nodded.
‘Rucking at Orgreave Colliery.’
‘Amongst other places.’
‘Hard bastard.’
‘I reckon he’s somewhere in his eighties now, but still looking good. He came to see me this morning. Said he could offer me Miller’s head on a plate.’
‘What’s he got to do with Trevor?’
‘They run a private security and investigations firm together, called Wickford Associates.’
‘So why would good old Charlie want to fuck over his business partner?’
‘That,’ Carlyle smiled, ‘is what I need some help in working out.’
A horn blared in the distance and the sounds of a passing argument came up from the street below. Lost in thought, Dom stared out of the window at the grey Soho sky, as a plane whined overhead on its approach to Heathrow. All the reassuring sounds of the city.
Carlyle checked his BlackBerry. He was slightly disgruntled to find that no one had sent him a message since he’d last looked.
‘You should leave it alone,’ Dom said finally. ‘Let the Redhead guy. .’
‘Meyer?’ Carlyle put the BlackBerry away and looked up.
‘Yeah. Let Meyer deal with it. Don’t own other people’s problems. Don’t be ruled by your ego.’
‘What?’
Getting to his feet, Dom began pacing backwards and forwards in front of the window. ‘You’ve been obsessed by Miller all through your career.’
‘No, I haven’t.’
‘Yes, you have — ever since that bloody Shoesmith woman sued him for sexual assault.’
Carlyle was surprised that Dom remembered her name but he kept his mouth shut.
‘I told you at the time, you should have just said you saw nothing.’
‘Look the other way, you mean?’
‘Ye-es. And it’s exactly the same now as it was back then. Trevor Miller is not your problem, so leave him alone.’
‘Fuck that,’ said Carlyle angrily.
‘Be careful, Johnny boy. Remember — you’re getting old. These days, I’m not sure I’d be able to offer you alternative employment.’
‘Hah!’ Carlyle laughed. It had been a running gag down the years that Dom had a place for Carlyle in his organization, should the inspector ever leave the Force. They both knew though, that it was something that would never happen.
Dom spread his hands wide. ‘Behind the carefully constructed exterior of a useless fat cunt, Trevor has always been quite a shrewd operator. Whatever he’s been up to, he’s made sure that he has contacts, and that his back is covered. Now he works for the bloody Prime Minister, for fuck’s sake!’
‘He’ll crash and burn in the end,’ said Carlyle grimly.
‘Exactly!’ Dom did a little jig of triumph. ‘So sit back and enjoy the fucking show. It’s like the old Japanese proverb. .’
Fuck me, Carlyle thought, here we go now with the bloody proverbs. On the TV, Zelle had finished her testimony. Her place in front of the Committee had been taken by a middle-aged suit he didn’t recognize. The clock in the bottom left-hand corner of the screen told him it was time to go.
‘If you sit by the side of the river long enough, you will see the body of your enemy floating past.’
‘Thanks for that.’ Carlyle stood up. ‘So will you help me or not?’
Dom laughed. ‘You’re not going to sit on the river bank?’
‘No.’
‘What a big fucking surprise,’ Dom cackled.
‘It’s been thirty years already.’
‘You never fucking grow up, do you?’
‘You going to help me?’
Dom held up his hands in surrender. ‘Don’t I always?’
‘Thanks.’
‘No promises — but I’ll see what I can do.’
THIRTY-FOUR
‘Boss, it’s me. What exactly do you want me to do on this Hannah Gillespie thing? I’m worried that it’s dragging on and we are just not getting anywhere. She’s still checking her voicemails, so that’s kind of okay, but she’s not responding to any of them. With the benefit of hindsight, people are gonna say there’s just not enough people on the case. At this rate, we’re not going to find her. And Simpson’ll go mad if we end up getting sued by the parents. Give me a call.’
‘What do you want me to do about it?’ Carlyle grumbled to himself. It was late and he simply didn’t have the energy to respond to Joe Szyszkowski’s voicemail, not least because he didn’t have any answer.
‘Dad, you’re on TV!’
‘What?’ Carlyle ambled out of the kitchen with a cup of green tea in his hand. By the time he’d flopped down on the sofa next to Helen, the news had moved on from his presser to a story about a new lion cub in the London Zoo.
‘Missed it,’ Alice grinned from her armchair. ‘You looked old.’
‘Thanks,’ Carlyle groaned.
‘And knackered,’ Helen added for good measure.
‘How kind of you to say so.’
Alice stood up. ‘I’m off to listen to some Clash.’ Bending over, she kissed her father on the forehead. ‘Maybe you should take a holiday.’
‘Maybe I should.’
‘Anyway, I hope you find that girl.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Will you find her?’ Helen asked him, once Alice had gone.
‘Sure,’ said Carlyle, blowing on his tea, ‘one way or another.’
Wearing nothing but a towel, Trevor Miller sat in a booth in the Treasures of Heaven sauna on the Euston Road waiting for ‘Melissa’ to come and give him his executive deep-tissue Swedish massage. Struggling to get into the right frame of mind, he looked up at the TV that hung from the ceiling above the bed. Rather than the usual porn, it was showing the local news. The cable feed must be down again, he thought sourly, picking up the remote control. He was just about to change channels when a shot of Charing Cross police station appeared, quickly followed by pictures of a press conference hosted by a familiar face.
‘That cunt Carlyle,’ he grunted to himself, watching as his one-time nemesis made an appeal for finding a missing teenager. At least it wasn’t about the Duncan Brown fiasco.
A shot of a plain-looking girl in her school uniform flashed up on the screen, along with a phone number. Then back to some closing shots of the presser. Suddenly a woman appeared on the platform and whispered something to the inspector. Recognizing her immediately, Miller’s eyes narrowed. ‘What was your name?’ he asked himself, thinking back to their brief meeting in the Balmoral Club at the end of his lunch with Simon Shelbourne. ‘Jenny — Jenny. . Southerton.’ He was pleased with himself for remembering. ‘Is that right? We’ll have to see.’