The Circus (18 page)

That was simply unacceptable. It could not be allowed to happen. Even Edgar himself could see that, surely?

‘It’s been in the diary for months,’ Claesens said.

‘I’ll let him know,’ Miller said, ‘but there may be some, er, scheduling issues.’

Claesens gave him an icy stare. ‘There had better not be.’

Carefully announcing his arrival, Sir Gavin O’Dowd gave a loud cough as he stepped through the soundproof doors of the Cabinet Room. Rising through the ranks to the role of Cabinet Secretary, Sir Gavin had seen a lot in his time. At the same time, he had managed to
not
see a whole lot more. A man of the world, O’Dowd prided himself on the fact that he had let little faze him over the years. Yet, in all his time in the Civil Service, he’d never come across a situation like this.

‘Prime Minister . . .’

Painted off-white, with floor-to-ceiling windows looking out on to Downing Street, the Cabinet Room was bathed in a traditional English 60-watt gloom. Edgar Carlton sat at his usual place, underneath the only painting on any of the walls, a copy of the portrait of Sir Robert Walpole by French portrait painter Jean-Baptiste van Loo. Dressed in a navy Ozwald Boateng single-breasted, two-button navy suit, with a cream shirt and a chocolate brown tie, he lounged in his mahogany chair. It was positioned facing the windows, at the centre of the boat-shaped table introduced by Harold ‘
You’ve never had it so good
’ Macmillan in the 1950s.

‘Yes?’ Less than pleased at the unexpected interruption, the PM glared up at Sir Gavin. Sitting next to him in the seat usually occupied by the Chancellor of the Exchequer, Edgar’s artist girlfriend Yulissa Vasconzuelo sat grinning wolfishly.

‘Your eleven o’clock,’ O’Dowd said, ‘with the Vice President of Afghanistan. The delegation has arrived a bit early.’

‘Bloody foreigners,’ Edgar snapped. ‘They have no sense of time. Can’t we buy him a Rolex out of the aid budget, or something?’

‘Hey!’ Yulissa smacked him playfully on the arm. ‘I’m a foreigner, you know.’ Her sleeveless Elie Tahari lace and leather dress crinkled provocatively. In search of divine inspiration, Sir Gavin lifted his gaze to the chandeliers.

‘Yes, well.’ Scratching his groin, Edgar looked at the civil servant. ‘Where are they?’

‘They’re waiting in the Terracotta Room.’ O’Dowd glanced optimistically at the door. ‘The meeting is scheduled to take place in the White Drawing Room.’

‘And where is the bloody Foreign Secretary?’

‘Stuck in traffic, I believe.’

Edgar sighed in exasperation. ‘Well, serve them some tea, and tell them we’ll be along in a short while. In the meantime, they’ll have to bloody well wait.’

Giggling, Yulissa kept her gaze on the Cabinet Secretary as her hand disappeared under the table.

Was it his imagination, Sir Gavin wondered, or did the PM actually stiffen?

‘I’ve got some important business to attend to here,’ Edgar spluttered as he shifted in his chair. ‘Miss Vasconzuelo is looking at making some additional gifts to the nation from her hugely impressive . . . body of work.’

‘The nation?’

‘To the Government Art Collection, man.’

‘Ah, yes.’ Sir Gavin looked pleadingly at Sir Robert Walpole for some assistance. None was forthcoming.

‘So, maybe,’ Edgar continued, ‘you could leave us to it. Tell the Foreign Secretary, when he manages to get here, to start the proceedings. I will be along shortly.’

‘Of course,’ said Sir Gavin, quickly retreating out of the room.

Nodding to Sir Gavin on the grand staircase, Trevor Miller bounded across the entrance hall and burst into the Cabinet
Office with his usual aplomb – and stopped in his tracks. Slumped in his official chair, the only one in the room possessing arms, Edgar Carlton rolled his tongue across his lower lip. His eyes were half-closed and a glazed expression occupied his face. His gentle moans could have denoted pain; or they could have equally denoted pleasure.

Miller’s trained eye noted the PM’s dishevelled appareil, as well as signs of movement under the table.

‘Excuse me?’

Still, the Prime Minister didn’t seem to realize that he was there.

‘Shall I come back in five minutes?’

‘No need,’ replied a muffled voice from under the table. ‘We’re done here.’

With a final grunt, Edgar shook himself awake. Slowly his eyes began to regain focus. Miller discreetly averted his gaze while his boss rearranged himself, making no comment when Yulissa Vasconzuelo appeared from under the table.

‘I need to get going now.’ Yulissa kissed Edgar on the top of the head, though keeping her gaze firmly on his Head of Security. ‘I’ve got an art exhibition benefit at the ICA this lunchtime. Tiresome people but it has to be done. The food is terrible, as well.’

‘Sounds more fun than my lunch,’ Edgar said ruefully, still ignoring his staffer. ‘I’ve got to go and make nice to . . .’ he made a face as his mind went blank ‘. . . somebody or other.’

‘The Vice President of Afghanistan,’ Miller reminded him.

‘Yes, indeed.’ Edgar zipped himself up and gave his balls a hearty scratch for good measure. ‘Thank you, Trevor.’

‘Enjoy!’ Yulissa grinned as she skipped from the room.

‘What a girl!’ Edgar enthused as the door closed behind her.

Miller smiled but said nothing.

‘If only we could make her Minister for the Arts, or something.’

Miller pretended to give the idea some thought. His boss’s flights of fancy were becoming more frequent; as if the job was
eating into what little brain he possessed to start with. Or maybe it was too many blow jobs? ‘She’s a foreign national,’ he pointed out eventually. ‘I think that would be a problem.’

Edgar waved a hand dismissively. ‘Couldn’t we just give her a passport and stick her in the House of Lords or something?’

‘Perhaps.’ Miller had no idea. ‘Anyway, I thought that you might want an update on my breakfast with Simon Shelbourne and Sonia Claesens.’

‘Mm.’ Not wanting to hear about it at all, Edgar pushed himself out of the chair. ‘But the Afghan guy—’

Trevor stepped in front of the door to block his way. ‘You’ve kept him waiting twenty minutes already. Another five won’t make any difference.’

‘All right,’ Edgar said huffily. He began pacing in front of the fireplace.

Not mentioning Duncan Brown, Miller gave his boss a quick recap of the mess they were in. Even at the best of times, Edgar wasn’t a details man. ‘They are not happy about the way things are going,’ was his conclusion.

‘None of us are,’ Edgar grumbled.

‘Sonia Claesens, in particular, thinks that we should be doing something more.’

‘That woman . . .’ Edgar shook his head sadly.

‘They understand,’ Miller continued, ‘the need to progress carefully but I’m worried that she may turn out to be a loose cannon.’

Edgar gave him an exasperated look. ‘Trevor,’ he said, ‘you’re not telling me anything new here.’

‘Sonia says she’s going to the Harvest Food and Music Festival. Apparently she’s already spoken to your wife about it.’

At the mention of Anastasia, Edgar flinched.

Miller ploughed on. ‘Clearly, all the papers would love to get a picture of you and Sonia socialising.’

‘That bloody horse . . . I should never have ridden that bloody horse.’

‘As far as I know,’ Miller said gently, ‘George Canning isn’t going to be there, but that isn’t really the point. Getting photographed consorting with such a high-profile Zenger Media exec while the phone-hacking scandal is still in full swing would not appear good.’

Edgar raised an eyebrow. ‘And when did we suddenly become an expert in PR?’

Miller shrugged. ‘It’s not exactly rocket science, is it? Anyway, I’ve spoken to your Communications Director, and he agrees that it would be a very bad idea for you to be present.’

Edgar grimaced. ‘I’m sorry, but that is impossible. The festival is one of the highlights of my constituency year.’ A vague imitation of the same dreamy look that had taken flight once Yulissa Vasconzuelo left the room returned to his face. ‘Organic beefburgers, twenty-seven types of cheeses, over a hundred real ales . . .’

You wouldn’t know a real ale if you drowned in one, Miller reflected.

‘It is a truly unique British event,’ Edgar continued, sounding like he’d swallowed the advertising brochure. ‘Face-painting for the kids. Lots of celebs – people that I
do
want to get photographed with. Jeremy Clarkson’s going to be there. Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall. KT Tunstall, for God’s sake!’

‘The point remains,’ Miller said firmly, ‘that there will be dozens of photographers looking to get just one particular shot – the picture of you socializing with your chum, the media executive currently accused of breaking the law on an industrial scale.’

Edgar’s eyes narrowed. ‘Well, you’ll just have to make sure that you keep us apart then, won’t you?’ Stepping forward, he said more kindly, ‘I hear what you’re saying, Trevor, and I know that you are just trying to be prudent, but I have to go to that festival. I am sorry, but it is simply non-negotiable. There is no way that Anastasia and the kids are going to let me pass on this one. Anyway, if I was to spend my whole life running from
photographers I would never go anywhere. You’ll just have to sort it out somehow. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think . . . whoever it is has waited long enough. I’d better go and make my appearance.’

Carlyle pointed to a sign in the window that said
Strictly over 18s
.

‘Dad!’ Shaking her head, Alice dug into her Creamy Banana flavour ice cream with banana ripple sauce. ‘Don’t be embarrassing.’

‘I’m a policeman,’ her father shrugged. ‘I can’t be seen to encourage law-breaking.’

‘What law?’

‘Well . . .’ the question had him stumped.

‘Hah!’ Alice waved an accusing spoon in his direction. ‘How can you be under-age in an ice-cream parlour?’

‘Good point.’ They were sitting at a table on the sunny side of Maiden Lane, outside
Sweet & Creamy
, the self-proclaimed ‘world’s first gay ice-cream bar’, complete with its own masseur offering massages and ice-cream facials.

Only in London.

Inside, Lady Gaga was singing about being on the Edge of Glory. Outside, however, it was just another glorified café. Helen had gone to a kundalini yoga class, leaving Carlyle to spend some quality time with his daughter. As Alice got older, they seemed to be spending less time together. He felt sad about that, but at the same time realized it was inevitable.

‘Anyway, Mum says that you are always breaking the rules.’

Carlyle played with his empty demitasse. ‘Well,’ he said cheerily, ‘first, you should never listen to your mother on things like that. And second, I
do not
break the rules . . . I just bend them occasionally.’

‘That’s not what Mum says.’

‘How would she know?’ Carlyle asked, his good humour beginning to crumble at the edges. He sat in silence for a few
moments, watching his daughter polish off the last of her ice cream. ‘Want anything else?’

‘No.’ Licking the spoon clean, she placed it in the bowl. ‘That was good.’

‘So,’ said Carlyle, ‘I was wondering . . .’

Alice shot him a look. ‘If you were going to ask me about Stuart, don’t.’

‘No, no, no,’ he lied. Stuart Bowers was Alice’s first boyfriend, and Carlyle was more than curious about what was going on.

‘I dumped him weeks ago,’ Alice explained.

‘Ah.’ Result! Carlyle started to grin then managed to check himself.

‘He was so immature, it was really annoying.’

‘That’s boys for you. If I were you, I’d think about ignoring them until you reach your thirties, at least.’

She made a face.

‘Ideally, it should be your
late
thirties.’ His mobile phone started vibrating in his pocket. Thinking it might be Helen, he pulled it out but there was no number on the screen. He brandished the handset at Alice. ‘Might be work.’

She gave him a smile. ‘Take it, Dad, I don’t mind.’

Carlyle hit the receive button. ‘Hello?’

‘Inspector . . .’

Damn!
He immediately recognized the precise tones of Sir Michael Snowdon and was conscious that he still hadn’t checked on the Rosanna investigation. His recent visit to the Snowdon residence – their stilted conversation over a glass of Bladnoch, until the unfolding Mosman fiasco offered a chance of escape – seemed like half a lifetime ago. So much had happened since that he had simply been overwhelmed by events.

‘I’m sorry,’ he stammered, ‘but I haven’t yet been able to speak to anyone at Fulham.’

‘Don’t worry, Inspector,’ Snowdon said amiably. ‘That wasn’t why I was ringing.’

‘No?’
Thank God for that
.

‘No, this is about the other thing.’

What other thing?

The older man continued, ‘There’s someone I think you should meet.’

Leaving Alice to enjoy the sunshine, Carlyle headed towards Soho. Less than twenty minutes later, he was sitting in the first-floor dining room of a private members’ club on Wardour Street. All the other tables were empty, the lunchtime rush being long over.

A waiter hovered in the background while Sir Michael Snowdon ordered a glass of La Grace de l’Hermitage 2007. ‘Are you sure that I can’t interest you in something to drink, Inspector?’

Carlyle held up a hand. ‘I’m fine, thank you.’

The former Permanent Secretary waited for the waiter to retreat before gesturing towards the third man at their table. ‘Apologies if I seem to be interfering in your investigation,’ Snowdon smiled.

‘Not at all.’

‘I am confident that you would have got round to speaking to Harris here soon enough . . .’

Having no idea where this was going, Carlyle nodded firmly.

‘. . . but I assumed that sooner might be better than later, as it were.’

Waiting for Sir Michael to finish his preamble, Harris Highman looked Carlyle up and down, as if reluctant to make up his mind about the policeman too quickly.

‘Thank you.’

Highman couldn’t quite manage a smile. ‘I’m glad to be of help in any way I can.’ He was a small, pale man of indeterminate age, wearing an old-fashioned, double-breasted grey wool suit with a white shirt and a navy tie. ‘When I saw the news about poor Horatio Mosman, I realized immediately.’