The Circus Page 11

  I can assure you: Standard Operating Gibberish as used by a policeman.

  Finally, Zoe Mosman looked up. ‘So, what can you tell us about who did this?’

  Trying not to appear too impatient, Carlyle held up a restraining hand. ‘I will come to where we are currently in the investigation in just a moment. And I will share with you as much information as I can. First, however, let me just make a few . . . personal remarks which, I trust, will go no further than this room.’ He looked over at Boduka who gave his assent. ‘As you know, I myself was at your home last night when the . . . incident happened.’ He paused, his gaze moving along the line of faces opposite. ‘I sat with Horatio while the explosives officers sought to deal with . . .’

  Zoe Mosman let out a loud sob. For a horrible moment, it looked like she was going to convulse into hysterics, but her husband whispered something in her ear and she managed to regain control.

  The inspector cleared his throat. ‘I would just like to say,’ he continued, ‘that Horatio showed great courage and determination in dealing with what was obviously a very difficult and frightening situation.’

  The parents looked at him blankly. Feeling like a complete idiot, Carlyle let his gaze drift towards the trees outside, swaying in the wind. ‘Personally and on behalf of the Police Service, I would like to express our deepest sympathy at your loss and reassure you that we will be seeking to catch those responsible as quickly as possible.’ Letting out a deep breath, he then sat back in his chair.

  For a moment there was silence. Finally Melvin Boduka spoke up. ‘Thank you, Inspector. On behalf of Mr and Mrs Mosman, I would like in turn to express the family’s gratitude for your efforts at their house.’ At this point, Carlyle glanced at Zoe Mosman, whose expression seemed to be suggesting a rather different train of thought. ‘And, of course, we will provide you with all help and assistance possible, regarding your investigation.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Carlyle said quietly.

  The lawyer pulled a silver-plated Waterman Carene from his inside jacket pocket and scribbled something on the pad sitting on the desk in front of him. ‘I am sure you have a lot of questions,’ he said. ‘How can we assist you at this time?’

  The inspector had been waiting for this moment. Sitting up in his chair, he addressed himself directly to the lawyer. ‘What I would like to do,’ he said gently, ‘is to speak to both Mr and Mrs Mosman – but separately.’

  Frowning, the lawyer looked over towards his clients. Ivor Mosman gave an Up to you kind of shrug. Zoe Mosman continued staring into space. Boduka turned back to Carlyle. ‘I presume that you are happy for me to be present in these . . . meetings?’

  ‘Of course,’ Carlyle replied. ‘Maybe we could start with Mr Mosman.’ He smiled at one of the assistants. ‘And maybe I could get another coffee? And could you make it really hot this time?’

  Glancing at the expensive-looking watch on his wrist, Melvin Boduka paced the corridor while they waited for a second meeting room to be cleared. ‘How long do you think all this will take?’

  ‘Not too long.’ Carlyle took a sip of his second macchiato. If anything, it was more insipid and even cooler than the first. A pang of intense frustration stabbed through his chest. Why couldn’t these people understand what the word ‘hot’ meant?

  ‘You do know,’ the lawyer lowered his voice as one of his colleagues slipped past, ‘that the family are considering legal action against the MPS.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For missing the bomb,’ Boduka replied. ‘What do you think?’

  How the hell did he know about that? Carlyle wondered. ‘What do you mean?’

  Boduka waved an admonishing finger in the policeman’s direction. ‘Come, come, Inspector, don’t try and play me.’

  ‘That’s not my style.’ The inspector seriously doubted that Ivor and Zoe Mosman would really want to sue the Met while it was still trying to find their son’s killer. Then again, stranger things had happened. If they did sue, Carlyle himself would be appearing in the dock. He made a mental note to contact his Union Rep, just in case the Met tried to hang him out to dry.

  ‘As you well know, the device around Horatio’s neck was a fake,’ the lawyer persisted.

  Saying nothing, Carlyle eyed the lawyer carefully. Clearly, old Melvin here was sharper than he looked. Equally, however, someone must have given him a copy of the preliminary report. The very thought filled the inspector with something approaching despair. If the report had indeed been leaked, then it would almost certainly appear on the internet and in the newspapers before the end of the day. That would inevitably make his job a lot harder.

  ‘But you were so busy focusing on the collar bomb,’ Boduka continued, ‘that nobody bothered to check for a secondary device which, it seems, had been hidden in the bottom of the sofa.’ The lawyer’s face crumpled into a conventional picture of disappointment and concern. ‘Which was rather remiss of you, don’t you think?’

  ‘As far as I could see,’ Carlyle replied grimly, ‘every effort was made to save that young man.’

  It sounded lame and he knew it.

  The lawyer allowed himself a small smile. ‘So all proper operating procedures were followed?’

  ‘That is not what I am here to discuss,’ the inspector said firmly.

  Boduka arched a sceptical eyebrow.

  ‘You know that’s not my area,’ Carlyle insisted. ‘You need to talk to the Met’s Legal Department.’

  ‘As you wish.’

  ‘My job,’ Carlyle reminded him, ‘is to catch the people responsible for this outrageous act. And I am sure that must be the primary, if not the only, concern of the boy’s parents, as well. So why don’t you go and fetch your client and then we can get on with it?’

  Ivor Mosman sipped from a glass of carbonated water. ‘Zoe and I had gone to the National Theatre to see South Pacific,’ he explained, staring into his drink. ‘Horatio was left in the house alone, but he was old enough . . . there had never been any problems before.’ He looked up at the inspector, who was sitting expectantly, with his arms crossed. This time it was Carlyle who had his back to the window, so that he wouldn’t be distracted by the view. ‘We had our phones switched off in the theatre, so we didn’t know what was going on until we came out.’ He shook his head. ‘It took us about half an hour to get home – and then we weren’t allowed near the house.’

  Carlyle nodded.

  ‘No one could tell us anything. When the explosion came . . .’

  ‘It was a very difficult situation.’ The crime scene had been left in the hands of a local detective inspector who had been none too happy when Carlyle was subsequently catapulted into the role of lead investigator. Carlyle hadn’t been too happy about that either, but there you go.

  ‘Yes,’ Mosman said uncertainly.

  They were clearly not getting very far. The inspector glanced over at Boduka, who was again fiddling with his pen. He turned his attention back to the victim’s father. ‘What I really need from you now,’ he said gently, ‘is any idea as to why this happened.’

  Boduka dropped his Waterman Carene on the table. ‘We had plenty of time to discuss this before you arrived,’ he said, with more than a hint of irritation. ‘Neither Mr or Mrs Mosman have any idea why anyone should want to do such a terrible thing.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Carlyle patiently, ‘but this was clearly a premeditated attack on Horatio and, by extension, on the family as a whole. There was nothing random about what happened on Wellington Road. It took time, effort and knowledge, not least the knowledge that Horatio would be alone in the house. Someone went to a lot of effort here. They must have been really pissed off about something. Really pissed off. I’m not looking for a justification for what happened, just an explanation. You must have some thoughts – and I need to hear them.’

  That was his pitch. Sitting back, he folded his arms and waited for a response.

  TWENTY-ONE

  After the best part of an hour getting nothing o
ut of Horatio Mosman’s father, Carlyle could feel his sugar levels dropping and his temper fraying. Ivor Mosman was unable to offer up anything of use; worse, he didn’t seem to think that the inspector should be talking to him at all. Carlyle never ceased to be irritated by people’s ability to somehow imagine that he could do his job by ESP. He might be many things, but he wasn’t psychic; he needed something to go on.

  Now it was Zoe Mosman’s turn. Girding his loins, the inspector gazed across the table at the grieving mother. ‘So what is it that you do, Mrs Mosman?’

  There was a pause as she gave a quick glance towards the lawyer, who nodded his approval. Then her lips twitched and a mumble emerged.

  Her voice was so quiet that Carlyle could hardly hear her. ‘Sorry?’

  She cleared her throat. ‘I’m an art historian.’

  Carlyle studied her carefully. Finally, he thought, someone says something interesting. Casually scratching his head, he tried to show no reaction to what he’d just heard. ‘An academic?’

  ‘Yes,’ Mrs Mosman whispered.

  ‘All this information has been provided to you already,’ Boduka said sharply.

  But news to me, Carlyle thought, ignoring him. ‘So you know a thing or two about paintings?’

  She nodded. ‘I have some expertise.’

  Opening the file on the desk, the inspector flicked through a series of documents. Finding what he wanted, he held up a colour photocopy. ‘So, do you know what this is?’

  Mrs Mosman reached into her handbag, pulled out a pair of reading glasses and slipped them on. Squinting, she leaned forward and stared at the image. It was a copy of an oil painting. Under a grey sky with patches of blue, a woman in a red cape was buying vegetables in a street market while a man rode by on a horse. In the bottom right-hand corner, a dog hovered in the hope of getting something to eat.

  ‘Take your time,’ Carlyle said impatiently.

  ‘It looks like an eighteenth-century street scene,’ Zoe Mosman said finally. ‘Or something like that.’ She turned back to the inspector. ‘A London market maybe?’

  ‘But you don’t know what it’s called?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So it’s not famous.’

  ‘It depends what you mean by famous.’ She let out one of the weariest sighs he had ever heard in his life. ‘The point is, that this kind of thing is not my area of expertise.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No. My area of specialism is contemporary art; YBAs . . .’

  Carlyle looked at her blankly.

  ‘Young British Artists . . . Britart.’ She mentioned a number of names, none of which meant anything to the culturally illiterate inspector.

  Boduka drummed his fingers impatiently on the table. ‘What has this got to do with anything?’

  ‘A copy of this picture,’ Carlyle explained, ‘was pinned to Horatio’s shirt by the man who killed him.’ He omitted to add: ‘We managed to remove it for forensic investigation just before he was blown sky high.’

  A look of utter disgust spread across Zoe Mosman’s face – as if she was about to throw up on the table.

  ‘It looks like it was cut out of a book, or maybe a catalogue,’ the inspector went on, placing the photocopy back inside his file. ‘Presumably it has some relevance, at least as far as the bomber is concerned.’

  ‘This is news to us,’ the lawyer complained. ‘Why weren’t we told about it earlier?’

  ‘Mrs Mosman?’

  Head bowed, Zoe Mosman took a series of deep breaths as she waited for the nausea to pass. Both men waited patiently as she regained a measure of self-control.

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Take all the time you need,’ Carlyle mumbled.

  ‘Thank you. I’ll be fine.’ She removed her spectacles and put them into her bag. When she finally looked up, her eyes were damp. ‘I would have to check. We have comprehensive databases – so, if you let me have a copy, I can easily find out what that picture is for you.’

  ‘But you haven’t seen it before?’ Carlyle had a strong sense that she was holding out on him, and was now keen to see how far he could push this conversation.

  ‘No.’ She shook her head as fat, heavy tears started trickling down her cheeks. ‘I don’t think so.’

  Glaring at the inspector, the lawyer got to his feet. ‘That’s enough.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Jumping up, Mrs Mosman grabbed her bag and ran for the door.

  ‘It’s all right, Zoe.’ Shaking his head angrily, Boduka followed his client out of the room. Left alone, Carlyle allowed himself a thin smile. After a few moments, he pulled out his mobile and made a quick phone call. Once it was finished, he shoved the papers back into his plastic bag and headed out in search of something satisfying to eat.

  TWENTY-TWO

  ‘So what have we got?’

  Sitting in the canteen at Charing Cross police station, Joe Szyszkowski looked up from his notes. Although he was more than miffed about being dragged back to the station only to sit around for hours, waiting for his boss to turn up, he tried not to let it show. ‘Which one do you want to do first?’

  Carlyle finished his second Mars bar of the day, a king-sized one this time, and crumpled the wrapper in his fist. ‘The Mosman case,’ he took a slurp of black coffee, ‘obviously. That’s what the powers-that-be want us to focus on.’

  Sitting next to Joe, Maude Hall raised an eyebrow. ‘Commander Simpson?’ she asked.

  ‘Precisely,’ Carlyle said. He wasn’t entirely sure what the young WPC was doing here, but she was certainly easier on the eye than his sergeant.

  ‘Okay.’ Joe took a deep breath. ‘The bomb was made of ANFO.’

  ‘Mm.’ The inspector tried to feign some kind of interest. In truth, he always found the technical stuff rather boring. At the end of the day, a bomb was just a fucking bomb. It either blew up or it didn’t.

  ‘That’s ammonium nitrate and fuel oil.’

  ‘Good to know.’

  ‘A fertiliser bomb,’ Hall elaborated.

  ‘Commonly used in mining,’ Joe continued. ‘But also handy for DIY bombers.’

  Carlyle looked at both of them in turn. ‘So there was nothing particularly sexy, unusual or exotic involved?’

  Blank looks all round.

  ‘Nothing,’ he added, ‘that makes this bomb a one-off and leads us straight to an address where we can arrest the crazed loon that did this.’

  ‘No,’ Joe admitted.

  ‘Okay.’ The inspector smiled. ‘So we leave that exciting stuff to the techies and the Bomb Squad. What else?’

  Hall handed each of them a sheet of paper. ‘I’ve gone through the transcripts of the interviews with Horatio Mosman’s siblings, and also with Marc Harrington’s wife and daughter.’

  ‘Harrington?’

  ‘The neighbour who was shot dead.’

  ‘Of course, of course,’ Carlyle mumbled. ‘Good.’ His mood improved by the sugar rush, he was beginning to think he could get to like this girl. God knows, he could do with an extra pair of hands.

  ‘Anything interesting come out of the interviews?’ Joe asked.

  ‘Not really. According to Madeleine Harrington – the daughter – Horatio was a bit of a geek and’ – she let out a small chuckle – ‘a, quote “chronic self-abuser” unquote. That’s about it.’

  ‘A normal teenager then,’ Joe grinned.

  ‘Speak for yourself,’ Carlyle chided him. ‘Anyway, let’s not worry about that now. I want us to focus on Horatio’s parents.’

  ‘I thought you were already speaking to them.’

  ‘I was, Joseph. And, so far, no one has told me much of any use whatsoever.’

  ‘Those poor people,’ Hall said sympathetically. ‘They must be in a terrible place right now.’

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ said Carlyle cheerily, ‘so I want you to get right in there along with them. I want to know about their secrets – especially the mother.’

  ‘Okay,’ said the WPC, clearly unconvinced that s
he could deliver.

  ‘Why the mother?’ Joe asked.

  ‘I have a feeling,’ Carlyle said vaguely.

  The sergeant frowned. ‘You don’t normally have feelings.’

  ‘Very true,’ Carlyle conceded. ‘But for once, I feel I need to trust my gut instinct – my intuition, call it what you will.’

  ‘Are you ill?’ Joe asked sarcastically.

  ‘Not at all.’ The inspector waved the idea away. ‘Maybe it’s just a new me.’

  ‘Bollocks,’ Joe snorted. He knew perfectly well that his boss was not the kind of copper to go along with any new age nonsense. The inspector dealt in facts – and facts alone.

  ‘Okay, okay.’ Reverting to the matter in hand, Carlyle pulled the plastic bag on to his lap. After a few moments of rooting around amongst the papers inside, he came up with the photocopy that he had shown to Zoe Mosman. ‘This was the picture that was pinned to Horatio’s shirt.’ He handed it to Hall. ‘Find out what it is, and where it lives. And find out what its connection is to Mrs Mosman, who happens to be an art historian.’

  ‘Cool,’ Hall said. ‘I can do that.’

  ‘If you have any problems, go and talk to Economic and Specialist Crime. I can give you a couple of names of people there who will help.’ Carlyle rubbed his hands together in glee: he could smell progress. With a bit of luck, they would have this sorted out in double-quick time. He could then get Simpson off his back, and everyone would be happy.

  Everyone except perhaps Joe.

  ‘Could be a red herring,’ his sergeant said.

  ‘What?’

  Joe gestured to the picture in Hall’s hand. ‘Someone clearly wants you to focus on the picture, and therefore look at the mother,’ he suggested. ‘It’s not very subtle, is it?’