Sins of the Fathers (18 page)

‘Well . . .’ That had been the plan. Now, however, Carlyle didn’t really want his mother to muscle in on their time together. ‘What do you think about it?’

Alice shrugged. ‘Shit happens.’

Her father’s daughter
, Carlyle thought happily. ‘Yes,’ he laughed, ‘it does.’

‘After all,’ she grinned, turning away from him, ‘we’re all going to die, right?’

‘I suppose we are,’ Carlyle agreed. But she had already gone, disappearing down a concealed stairwell, leaving him talking to himself.

The gym in Jubilee Hall, a converted warehouse on the south side of Covent Garden’s Piazza, was largely empty. Looking up at the TV screens on the far wall, Carlyle stepped onto a Life Fitness cross-trainer and fiddled around with his iPod. Skipping through a succession of randomly selected tracks, he found something from the Prodigy that would get his blood pumping. Turning down the volume to something that he hoped wouldn’t leave him deaf, he smiled as ‘Invaders Must Die’ began pumping through the headphones and he stomped down on the machine in search of a rhythm and the endorphin rush that would surely follow.

Up on one of the screens, between CBBC and Sky Sports News, BBC 24-hour news was reporting on the Collingwood story from outside of Brixton Prison. Maybe he didn’t go to the Scrubs after all, Carlyle thought. An earnest-looking reporter was struggling to keep her earpiece in place as the producer cut to pictures of the prison van leaving Charing Cross police station earlier in the morning.

‘Good luck, sunshine,’ Carlyle grunted as he upped the tempo.

Just under an hour later, suitably exercised, he was finishing off a berry smoothie in the gym’s café when his phone started ringing.

‘Where have you been?’ Umar demanded.

Finishing his drink, Carlyle ignored the question. ‘I’m just on my way to see Iris Belekhsan and Abigail Slater.’

‘Want me to come along?’

Carlyle thought about it for a moment. Umar might act as a guarantee of good behaviour if Slater wound him up; on the other hand, it wasn’t the best use of their meagre resources. ‘Nah,’ he said finally. ‘You press on chasing down the husband’s known acquaintances and we can compare notes later.’

‘Fine.’ Umar didn’t sound too thrilled about it. Doubtless he had been looking forward to another Carlyle–Slater ding dong. ‘By the way,’ he added, ‘Simpson’s looking for you.’

‘The Commander’s always looking for me,’ said Carlyle chirpily. ‘I’ll catch up with her later.’ Ending the call, he skipped out into the Covent Garden crowds with the happy demeanour of a man already well satisfied with his day’s work.

Stiff, Smithers & Mongolsson had state-of-the-art offices in a brand spanking new glass and steel tower block that had sprung up on Holborn Viaduct, near the Old Bailey. Abigail Slater’s firm had taken the entire third and fourth floors of a development that had been 70 per cent built and zero per cent let as the financial crisis kicked in. The construction firm responsible for it had gone bust and it had taken almost six years before a new owner was found and the construction work was completed. The end result was that SS&M picked up 20,000 square feet free for six years, with a bargain rent for the next twelve. Despite the deals on offer, the place was still more than half-empty. Such were the vagaries of the London property market.

After being made to go through airport-style security on the ground floor, Carlyle was escorted to a lift and sent up to the SS&M reception where a dour-looking middle-aged woman handed him a pre-printed ID badge. ‘I’ve informed Ms Slater’s office that you are here,’ the receptionist said, already turning her attention to another visitor who was creeping towards her desk. ‘Please take a seat.’

Stuffing the badge into his pocket, Carlyle did as instructed. Planting himself on a sofa, he turned his attention to the large plasma screen on the wall behind the receptionist’s head. Sky News was playing. The sound was muted but he watched the now seemingly ubiquitous figure of Simon Collingwood being escorted into Horseferry Road Magistrate’s Court for another hearing. Cameras flashed and TV crews pushed each other out of the way in search of the best shot. Patient, unhurried, handcuffed, Collingwood took it all in his stride, expressionlessly posing for pictures until one of the security guards finally bundled him through the front door.

Carlyle shook his head. ‘What a bloody circus.’ In the background, he caught a glimpse of Simpson and Savage. The Commander was hurrying up the steps of the courtroom. Letting her go on ahead, Sergeant Savage hesitated – hoping, no doubt, to be invited to say a few words to the cameras. Carlyle smiled to himself. Back in the day, Carole Simpson had been a major media tart. Then her career hit a brick wall and she had no use for journalists any more. Savage, it seemed, still wanted his fifteen minutes – or should that be fifteen seconds? – of fame.

This morning, however, Savage was to be disappointed. He was most definitely not the story. With Collingwood now inside, the attention of the Sky reporter turned to a group of young women who had gathered on the pavement. A few were carrying banners –
Go
,
Simon! Justice for Pippa! Rapists Must Die!!!
– to support the killer dad who was rapidly becoming a mini-celebrity in his own right.

The inspector picked up a copy of the
Daily Mirror
that had been left on a glass table along with the morning’s other papers. When he was a kid, the
Mirror
had been a proper newspaper, interested in ideas, concerned about social issues and events in the wider world. Now it was just another dumbed-down tabloid, touting the usual crap. Sad, but there you go. The front-page story was about the rash of super injunctions that had been sought by a mix of footballers, actors and businessmen, in order to try to prevent their bad behaviour from being made public. ‘Tossers,’ Carlyle mumbled to himself as he quickly flicked to the sports coverage at the back.

‘Inspector Carlyle?’

‘Yes.’ Carlyle discarded the newspaper and jumped to his feet. A young black guy, tall and good-looking, smiled at him. He was wearing a navy single-breasted suit with a grey shirt, open at the neck. His head was shaven and a pair of heavy-framed Yves Saint Laurent-style glasses were pushed high up on the bridge of his nose. But the thing that really caught Carlyle’s attention was the small diamond stud in his left ear. All in all, it was a very sharp look for a lawyer.

He stuck out a hand. ‘I’m Kieron Sterling, Abigail Slater’s associate.’

The inspector shook the young man’s hand.

‘Ms Slater is ready to see you now.’

About bloody time.

‘We apologize for the delay,’ Sterling cooed, with all the practised insincerity of his boss. ‘It has been a very busy morning.’

‘Let’s get on with it then,’ Carlyle sighed, gesturing for the youngster to lead the way.

Leaving the reception area, they walked in silence down a long, carpeted hallway with doors on either side. At the end of the hall, the associate took a left and opened a door to a large meeting room. Standing aside, he allowed the inspector to enter first. The room was dominated by a rectangular wooden table, with ten seats lined up on either side. In the event, there were only two people in the room, sitting on the far side of the table.

Carlyle pulled out a chair and sat down, giving Sterling time to scurry to the end of the table and plonk himself down with a notebook and pencil.

‘Apologies for the delay, Inspector.’ Scribbling furiously on a yellow A4 notepad, Abigail Slater did not look up. In an elegant navy jacket and a simple, pearl-coloured blouse, she was looking good. ‘I presume that Kieron explained the circumstances to you?’

Carlyle grunted noncommittally.

Wiping a strand of hair out of her eyes, Slater waved a gleaming silver fountain pen in the air. ‘Would you like something to drink?’

‘I am fine, thank you,’ said Carlyle stiffly. Reaching across the table, he offered his hand to the woman sitting next to Slater, who was equally well dressed in a simple black blazer and a grey silk knitted top. ‘John Carlyle.’

The woman looked at him for several seconds before taking his hand with the greatest reluctance.

‘Iris Belekhsan.’

Sitting back in his chair, the inspector took a moment or two to absorb Iris Belekhsan’s distinctive features, for there were many: abundant jet-black hair which curled around her long, pale neck; the pale alabaster cheeks, the large dark eyes, the straight nose, the moist, well-formed lips bearing no trace of make-up. This was one good-looking woman – far too good-looking to be a dentist, surely?

‘Inspector.’ Slater dropped her pen on the pad and gave him a mocking grin. She was not used to being overshadowed by her clients and didn’t much like it.

Ignoring her, Carlyle kept his gaze on Belekhsan. ‘My condolences,’ he said.

When she frowned, she was, if anything, even more beautiful. ‘What for?’

‘For the death of your husband,’ Carlyle said gently.

‘My soon to be ex-husband,’ Belekhsan corrected him.

‘I suppose,’ Carlyle smiled thinly, ‘at least you don’t have to worry about the divorce any more.’

Belekhsan was about to say something further when Slater put a hand on her shoulder. ‘Let’s just get the ground rules of this meeting sorted out, shall we?’

Sitting back in his chair, Carlyle folded his arms. ‘Go ahead.’

Slater nodded. ‘Good. Ms Belekhsan has voluntarily agreed to meet with you. She is not a suspect.’

At this stage
, Carlyle thought,
she is very much a suspect
. Avoiding Slater’s gaze, he kept his mouth firmly shut.

‘As you know, she was out of the country when this terrible event happened, on holiday in Cyprus. When informed of it, she immediately returned to the United Kingdom to be with her daughter and to help you in any way that she could.’

Yeah, right.
‘Where is she now?’

‘Who?’

‘Rebecca.’

‘She’s with a friend,’ Belekhsan explained.

Carlyle made a show of looking confused. ‘Wouldn’t it be better to let her grandparents look after her?’

Belekhsan looked like she’d just swallowed a wasp. Happy Families.

‘Ms Belekhsan,’ Slater ploughed on, ‘was in the process of finalizing her divorce from Rebecca’s father, Julian Schaeffer.’ She fixed Carlyle with a cold stare. ‘And just to be clear, SS and M had negotiated a very fair settlement on Ms Belekhsan’s behalf, so there is no motive there.’

Getting into his stride, Carlyle decided to keep gently digging, like an archaeologist working away at the topsoil with a trowel. ‘I will want to see that agreement.’ Slater looked unhappy but consented. He turned back to face Belekhsan. ‘Why were you getting a divorce?’

Her face darkened, tipping her beauty into something altogether more scary.

‘The usual things,’ she answered.

Placing his elbows on the table, Carlyle leaned forward, pushing the lawyer to the edge of his vision. ‘Forgive me,’ he said quietly, ‘but I have never been divorced, so I don’t know what “the usual things” are. Could you be a bit more specific?’

‘We argued a lot.’ Irritated, Belekhsan picked at a broken nail. ‘Over money, sex, the child – as I said, the usual things.’ Looking up, she smiled maliciously at him. ‘Maybe you have a perfect marriage. Maybe these things are not usual for you and your wife.’

‘Did he have a girlfriend?’

Belekhsan rolled her eyes. ‘I would not know,’ she said haughtily.

‘But you have a boyfriend?’

Slater had her answer ready for that one. ‘Ms Belekhsan and Mr Schaeffer had been separated for more than a year when the shooting took place,’ she trilled. ‘Ms Belekhsan has been in a new relationship for approximately three months.’

‘Four,’ Belekhsan corrected her.

‘Four months,’ Slater continued. ‘The trip to Cyprus had been their first holiday together.’

‘And what did Mr Schaeffer make of that?’

‘I don’t know,’ Belekhsan shrugged. ‘Anyway, it was none of his business.’

‘You will need to let me have the boyfriend’s details,’ Carlyle responded. ‘We will be wanting to speak to him as well.’

Belekhsan looked mulish at this, but she kept her mouth shut.

‘It is just a matter of routine,’ Carlyle explained.

‘My client understands,’ Slater nodded. ‘She is a victim here too.’

Perhaps. Carlyle kept his gaze firmly on the wife. ‘Who would have got custody of Rebecca when the divorce was finalized?’

‘It would have been split.’ Belekhsan sounded irritated. With the question? Or with the fact of having to share the kid? Maybe both.

‘Isn’t that unusual?’ Carlyle enquired.

Pulling off a sliver of broken nail, Belekhsan flicked it on to the floor.

‘Usually the mother wins hands down in these situations,’ he went on.

Belekhsan looked at him blankly.

‘It was an amicable agreement,’ Slater interjected, ‘that sought to put the interests of the child first.’

‘I see,’ Carlyle said. In situations like this, the interests of the child usually went straight out of the window, but he was in an exercise-induced good mood and prepared to let the lawyer deliver her spiel.

‘It also took into account the fact that both parents were in full-time employment with demanding jobs,’ Slater continued. ‘All in all, everyone made a conscious effort to deal with this in a sensible and practical manner.’

Poor bloody kid, Carlyle thought. Throwing away the trowel, he reached for his spade. It was time to play the navvy, rather than the archaeologist. Belekhsan had turned her attention to another damaged nail. It struck him as surprising that such an elegant woman would be less than fastidious in the manicure department. ‘So,’ he said, his voice a model of idle curiosity, ‘you have no idea why someone might want to shoot Mr Schaeffer three times in the chest in the middle of a playground full of children?’

Iris Belekhsan gave him a look which suggested that she was considering the question for the first time. Ten, fifteen seconds passed before she managed to shake her head.

Carlyle smiled sympathetically. ‘Would you care to speculate?’