‘No, absolutely not.’
Holyrod started on his fresh drink. ‘I spent more than a decade in the service of Queen and country, stuck in many of those same hell-holes of which you have personal experience . . .’
‘Yes.’
‘. . . and I am still completely committed to public service, but not at the expense of keeping my family in penury.’
‘Of course not.’ His companion gave the Mayor a comforting pat on the shoulder. Presumably the £500,000 you are due to collect for closing our deal will help in that regard, he thought.
‘After all,’ Holyrod explained, ‘I don’t have the kind of family wealth behind me that you have.’
‘That is a very fair point.’ The other man stared into his glass of mineral water. ‘I am very fortunate.’
A deeper wave of warmth from the Scotch eased through the Mayor’s body and he realised that it was time to move the conversation on. ‘What does the Ambassador think of all this?’
‘Orb?’ The man made a face. ‘He is a bystander, nothing more than a passive observer. He has spent his whole life watching other people act, while making sure that he does nothing to get in the way. It is amazing that anyone can spend so long doing so little. At least that means he is nothing to worry about.’
‘And the policeman?’
The man placed his glass on the tray of a passing waiter and pulled out a packet of cigarettes. ‘Who?’
The Mayor thought about mentioning that this was a no-smoking building, but thought better of it. He hoped there weren’t any smoke-detectors nearby. ‘Carlyle,’ he said, ‘Inspector John Carlyle. That policeman who spoke with the Ambassador at the reception.’
The man lit his cigarette and inhaled deeply. ‘Surely you don’t have to worry about a mere policeman?’ He looked around for somewhere to deposit the ash from his cigarette. Finding nothing suitable, he flicked it on to the floor.
Aghast, Holyrod looked around, hoping that no one had seen. A waitress caught his eye and started heading towards them, but he glared at her and she hurriedly turned away. ‘I have come across him before,’ he said, ‘and he is a professional nuisance.’
‘Okay.’ The man shrugged. ‘I hear you, Mr Mayor. I can take care of him.’
‘No, no, no,’ Holyrod said hastily. ‘You can’t do that.’
The man looked at him with an air of faint amusement.
‘Let me assure you,’ the Mayor continued, ‘you shouldn’t try to interfere with the workings of our police here. That would be very . . . unprofessional. It would jeopardise everything.’
An irritated look swept across the man’s face. ‘As you wish.’
‘These kinds of problems can be dealt with in other ways.’
The man made a small bow. ‘As you wish,’ he repeated, in an almost mocking tone.
The Mayor felt a ripple of unease spread through his stomach. Maybe he should go easy on the Scotch. ‘My country, my rules.’
‘Of course.’
Holyrod emptied his glass. ‘Things are still at a delicate stage. We need to stay under the radar.’
‘You have my word.’
TWENTY-SIX
Squat and brooding on the south bank of the Thames, St Thomas’s Hospital offered fine views of the Palace of Westminster. From the third floor, Carlyle looked out over the river towards the Parliament building. Darkness had fallen and lights shone brightly from almost every window. Doubtless the place was full of Members of Parliament fiddling their expenses, shagging their interns and preparing for their extended summer holidays, he thought. No wonder the country was run so poorly – the only apparent qualifications needed for the job of MP were ego and avarice.
For her part, Sandra Groves would not be contemplating this view for a while. Lying in a bed by the window in a room she shared with two other patients, she was drugged up to the eyeballs and fast asleep. Moved out of intensive care a few hours earlier, she was still in a very weak state. In addition to a smashed leg and a broken hip, she had suffered a couple of cracked ribs and a fractured wrist. Although she was out of immediate danger, the doctors were still worried about the concussion she had suffered, as well as the internal bleeding.
Standing in the corridor outside, Carlyle gazed at the sleeping woman. She certainly looked a mess, with tubes coming out of her nose and her left arm, as well as bandages on her head.
Sitting by her bedside, in front of an array of machines, Carlyle recognised Stuart Joyce, the boyfriend who had been involved in the confrontation on the number 55 bus. Holding the girl’s hand, Joyce had his back to Carlyle as the inspector now entered the room. A couple of the other patients, hoping that he had perhaps come to visit them, tried to catch the inspector’s eye as he stepped inside, but he studiously ignored them.
When he reached the end of the bed, the boy finally looked up. Carlyle was surprised to see him flinch.
‘You!’ Joyce hissed, eyeing the panic button by the bed. He half-rose out of his seat. ‘What are you doing here?’
Carlyle, aware of the Ward Sister hovering nearby, ready to throw him out at the first sign of any trouble, held up a hand. ‘A couple of quick things before we go any further,’ he said, quietly but firmly, staring the boy down. ‘First – I didn’t run your girlfriend over.’
The boy looked at him suspiciously but returned to his seat.
‘On the one hand,’ Carlyle explained, ‘I don’t drive. On the other hand, I have a perfectly good alibi, which the officers investigating the case have checked out.’ He knew this was true because of the ear-bashing he’d received from his wife, complaining about the disruption his ‘colleagues’ had caused to her working day. Helen had been very disgruntled indeed at having to help the police with their enquiries. Carlyle had been left in no doubt that he would need to provide a full explanation of exactly what the hell was going on, once he got home.
‘So,’ he continued, as soothingly as he could manage, ‘you have nothing to worry about from me.’
Still the boy said nothing. Behind him, a machine bleeped. Carlyle gave the machine a professional stare. As he was the wrong kind of professional, he didn’t know if the bleeping was anything important or not. If it was, a crack team of medical professionals would presumably come roaring in and take some action. The machine bleeped for a final time and then fell silent. The woman in the bed hadn’t stopped breathing, so Carlyle assumed that things were okay. He returned his attention to the boyfriend. However, with his train of thought interrupted, he struggled to recall the second thing he wanted to say. For a moment, his mind went blank, then he pulled it back. ‘Point number two,’ he said, eyeing Joyce carefully, ‘I’m here to help, if I can. I’m certainly not here to cause you any more trouble.’
‘Like on the bus?’ the boy whined.
Carlyle felt a twinge of embarrassment. ‘What happened on the bus has been and gone. This,’ he nodded at Sandra Groves, ‘is much more serious.’
The boy shrugged. ‘I told the other policemen all that I know.’
‘Which is basically nothing.’ Carlyle had read the preliminary report. Groves had been knocked down on Moreland Street, near City University, by a stolen Peugeot which had later been abandoned up past King’s Cross station. A taxi had almost collided with the Peugeot, but the cabbie had not witnessed Groves being run down, nor had he been able to provide any kind of meaningful description of the Peugeot’s driver. There were no other witnesses. The only available CCTV showed the car accelerating towards Groves, suggesting that it wasn’t an accident but, again, it didn’t get a clear view of the driver. The Peugeot had been taken to a nearby police depot and given the once-over by a team of technicians. They recovered traces of the injured woman’s blood on the grille. Inside the car were various sets of fingerprints – none of which had shown a match on the national database.