London Calling Read online

  ‘Thank God!’ Carlyle sighed. ‘So far, so good.’ He knew that the media blackout could only last for so long.

  ‘I couldn’t sell the story even if I wanted to,’ Dominic teased.

  ‘OK, you’re right. I’m sorry. I could have been more forthcoming. I should have mentioned it at the time.’

  ‘Apology accepted.’

  ‘So … what have you got?’ Carlyle asked.

  ‘Where are you now?’ Silver asked.

  Carlyle explained his location.

  ‘Meet me in St James’s Square in twenty minutes. You can bring us some lunch.’

  ‘It will be my pleasure.’

  ‘Yes, it will,’ Dom said cheerily. ‘I’ll have a tuna sandwich and a pomegranate juice. Maybe a banana, as well.’

  TWENTY-NINE

  Trafalgar Square, London, March 1990

  The woman was clearly in shock. She stood less than ten feet away, staring at him or, rather, through him, oblivious to the background roar of the crowd. Still gripping her Socialist Worker ‘Break the Tory Poll Tax’ placard, she was caught in a small sliver of no-man’s land between her fellow protesters and a group of police in riot gear, who were holding small, round shields in one hand and batons in the other. Blood dribbled out of the corner of her mouth, dripped off her chin and splashed on to the road. This being a very English type of riot, both sides politely ignored her. Feeling like a voyeur, Sergeant John Carlyle looked away.

  He was on duty, but out of uniform. Over a Combat Rock sweatshirt, he wore a red body-warmer which had PRESS spelt out on the back in black marker pen. An expensive Nikon SLR camera hanging from his neck added to the effect. Working out of Paddington Green police station, Carlyle had been assigned to Counter Terrorism duties for two years now. He had turned up today at the anti-Poll Tax rally in Trafalgar Square to see if some of his charges – a ragbag collection of domestic terrorists, otherwise scumbags who had hitched their wagon to the Animal Liberation movement and the Class War anarchist group – had decided to join in the fun.

  Looking out for thirty or so ‘names’ in the midst of this crowd, perhaps as much as one hundred thousand strong, wasn’t the most sophisticated form of surveillance ever undertaken by the Metropolitan Police. But, despite the likelihood that it was wild-goose chase, Carlyle had been curious to see how the day would develop. Everyone knew that not enough overtime had been put on the table to cope with this one, and with too few police available to be deployed, serious trouble was always on the cards.

  And so it proved. By the time he had arrived, just before 6 p.m., the rally was well on the way to becoming one of the worst riots seen in the city for a century. Cars had been overturned and set alight; local shops and restaurants had their windows smashed and were forced to close; nearby tube stations were shut; and many streets had been cordoned off. People were milling around with nowhere to go and, since many had been drinking all day, violence was inevitable. The atmosphere was tense.

  Standing on a traffic island in the middle of Duncannon Street, Carlyle watched a half-brick come flying through the evening sky, catching one unfortunate constable on the back of the head. Been there, son, thought Carlyle, done that. He watched the dazed officer being helped into the back of the ambulance by his clearly agitated colleagues, already knowing what would come next. Once the ambulance was on its way, the sergeant in charge gave the nod, and police on either side of him waded into the motley collection of demonstrators, with batons flying.

  Carlyle saw men, women and even a couple of children go down under a hail of kicks and blows. Some were so close he could almost reach out and touch them as they fell. For maybe five minutes he just stood there watching, feeling a strange sense of detachment. He was finally woken from his daydream by seeing the woman with the smashed face. Picking his way through the mêlée, he headed away from the trouble, walking north towards Charing Cross Road.

  From outside the National Portrait Gallery, he then watched a group of mounted riot police try to clear the corner of Trafalgar Square immediately in front of the South African High Commission. A group of about thirty youths was trying to fight back with wooden sticks pulled from placards, or metal poles extracted from nearby scaffolding. Further down the road, a building was now on fire. Having seen enough, Carlyle turned to leave, just as he felt a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Having fun?’ Grinning from ear to ear, Dominic Silver seemed rather overdressed for the occasion. In a crisp white shirt, open at the neck, and an expensive-looking jacket, he appeared as though he was on his way to an important dinner party. In fact, he probably was.

  Silver took Carlyle by the arm and began walking him briskly in the direction of William IV Street and Covent Garden. ‘It’s quite a show,’ he said, excitement evident in his tone. ‘I hear they’re trashing Stringfellow’s.’

  ‘So I guess we’re not going to take in a lap dance, then,’ Carlyle deadpanned, allowing himself to fall in step with his mate. ‘What are you doing here anyway?’

  ‘I just need a quick favour.’

  Two minutes later, they were standing in Chandos Place, at the back of Charing Cross Police Station. The entire street had been cordoned off. Behind the tape, ten or twelve police vans were parked haphazardly, occupied by a mixture of bored-looking policemen and policewomen, annoyed at missing out on the real action, and some arrested-looking demonstrators whose disappointment looked even greater. Standing on the corner of Bedfordbury, along with a few gawkers and people searching for their friends, Dominic outlined the situation. ‘Two of my guys are inside there,’ he said, pointing to a van parked twenty feet away.

  Carlyle sighed. He knew where this was going.

  ‘They’re holding,’ Dom continued. ‘Quite a lot, as it happens.’

  ‘That was clever,’ Carlyle scowled. ‘What the hell am I supposed to do about it?’

  Dom put on a pained expression. ‘C’mon, John, they haven’t been processed yet. It’ll last forever to deal with this lot, so it’ll take nothing for you to sort this out for me.’

  ‘Easy for you to say,’ Carlyle huffed.

  ‘Surely you can have a quiet word with one of your colleagues, and then the problem is solved?’ He gestured at the scene in front of them. ‘It won’t make any difference to all this. Your arrest figures today are going to be extremely good, regardless.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake,’ Carlyle glared at him, struggling to keep his voice down. ‘Do you only hire these types if they are terminally stupid? What the fuck were they doing here, anyway?’

  Dom spread his arms wide and laughed nervously. ‘Mea culpa, mate, mea culpa. I know it’s a big ask. A very big ask. I’ll owe you big time.’

  ‘Fucking hell, Dominic.’

  ‘I’ll get you anything you want,’ he said, hopping from foot to foot. ‘Anything.’

  Carlyle gritted his teeth. ‘Don’t start that again. How many times …? I don’t fucking want anything. If I take stuff from you, that’s only going to get me into more trouble.’

  ‘I understand, of course, I do.’ Dominic stepped closer. ‘Anyway, it doesn’t have to be like that,’ he said, with a slight desperation in his voice that Carlyle had never heard before. ‘You know how it works. I’ve helped you before. I have contacts. I can get information. I can help you again.’

  Carlyle started pawing the ground with his right boot. He knew that the smart thing here to do would be to just walk away.

  ‘C’mon,’ Dom pleaded, ‘this will be a great investment in your future career.’

  Carlyle rubbed his neck, not even wanting to think about it. He looked at Dom. ‘What are their names?’

  ‘Pearson and Manners. Nice middle-class boys, both.’ He gestured at the chaos around them. ‘Fit right in with this mob.’

  ‘Fucking idiots.’ Pushing his hand into the back pocket of his jeans, he pulled out his Police ID and ducked under the tape. ‘Wait here.’

  THIRTY

  Fifteen minutes after speaking to Dominic Silver o
n the phone, Carlyle headed into St James’s Square carrying a small see-through plastic bag containing lunch for them both. Before entering the garden in the middle, he stopped by the simple memorial erected to Yvonne Fletcher to pay his respects. A round plaque told him what he already knew: twenty-five-year-old WPC Fletcher had been shot in the Square on 17 April 1984. She had been on crowd control, looking after a small demonstration outside the Libyan People’s Bureau. Twenty-five years later, her killer had yet to be brought to justice. Carlyle hadn’t worked with her personally, but he knew that she had been well respected as a decent, friendly copper, and also a good colleague.

  Carlyle stood there for a minute as the cars rushed past and people went about their business. His thoughts were the same as always. How unlucky was it to have died on what should have been a routine shift in the heart of London? A year after the shooting, Carlyle had stood to attention in the same square while Prime Minister Thatcher had unveiled Fletcher’s memorial. In her speech, Thatcher had signed off with a quote from Abraham Lincoln: ‘Let us have faith that right makes might; and in that faith let us, to the end, dare to do our duty as we understand it.’ We’ll dare to do our duty, Carlyle often told himself in the years afterwards, if only we’re allowed to by the politicians.

  By the time he entered the garden, Dominic Silver was waiting for him on a bench under a tree. The day was warm, but there was a pleasant breeze, and Dom had managed to commandeer the best of the available shade. The park was quite busy, with office workers spread out on the grass to enjoy the sun. Without introduction, Carlyle handed over the plastic bag. Dom rooted about in it for a few seconds, taking what he wanted before handing it back. Together, they sat eating in happy silence for ten minutes or so. When they’d finished, Carlyle gathered up all the rubbish and dropped it in a nearby bin.

  ‘Thank you for lunch,’ said Dom, as Carlyle returned to the bench.

  ‘No problem.’

  ‘It’s a great day to be sitting here in the square,’ Dom said, wiping some crumbs off his Neil Young ‘Like a Hurricane’ T-shirt.

  ‘Sure,’ said Carlyle, letting the food settle in his stomach.

  ‘The world’s most expensive house used to be over there.’ Dom, the property guru, pointed a finger over his left shoulder. ‘Number eight went for more than a hundred million, once upon a time. The Russians have pissed on that amount many times over in the last few years, of course.’

  ‘You wanted to talk about the Russians?’ Carlyle was bemused.

  ‘No,’ Dom smiled, ‘I wanted to talk about Susy Ahl.’

  Carlyle made a face that said Be my guest. A pigeon was trying to stick its head into a discarded crisp packet on the grass. It wasn’t having much success and he knew how it felt. By now he was getting used to everyone else being at least one step ahead of him on this case. ‘And who, pray tell, is Susy Ahl?’

  ‘Susy Ahl,’ said Dom casually, ‘was Robert Ashton’s girlfriend, back in the day. She is the woman you need to speak to about the Merrion killings.’

  Carlyle turned to look at him, interest finally overriding his irritation at being shown up. ‘And how do you know this?’

  Dom waved a hand airily above his head. ‘I know lots of things.’

  ‘Come on,’ said Carlyle, getting a bit exasperated now, ‘this isn’t about lots of things.’

  Now he’d had some gentle fun, Dom’s expression became more serious. ‘Did you know that Eva went to Cambridge?’

  ‘No.’ Carlyle knew next to nothing about Eva Hollander, other than that she was Dom’s common-law wife.

  ‘Eva’s a very smart girl, got herself a first in History. Thought about doing a PhD, her subject being the cultural legacy of the Weimar Republic.’

  ‘But she hooked up with you instead,’ Carlyle quipped.

  ‘I didn’t meet her until later,’ Dom corrected him. ‘Instead of doing research, she got married. Her scumbag husband was actually a client of mine in the early nineties …’ He let those reminiscences trail off.

  With his famed empathy, Carlyle kept on digging. ‘Let me guess,’ he said. ‘You lost some money, but won the girl.’

  ‘Don’t be flippant, John.’ Dominic sat up and stared him straight in the eye. ‘I wouldn’t take the piss out of your family, would I?’

  ‘No, sorry.’ Carlyle tried to get the conversation back on track. ‘So Eva knows this woman?’ he asked.

  ‘She knows her sister. They shared a house together in Cambridge, for a year.’

  ‘Small world.’

  ‘It sure is. Six degrees of separation, and all that.’

  ‘How did you make the connection?’

  ‘It was Eva,’ said Dom, grinding the toes of his black Converse All Stars into the dirt. ‘I got Gideon to do some basic research, since he’s quite good on the old Google and the various other databases we use to keep an eye on our clients …’

  Other databases? But Carlyle didn’t enquire further.

  ‘… and when we pieced together what you were actually interested in,’ Dom shot Carlyle an amused look, ‘I spoke to Eva about it. I knew that she’d been there around the same time, and she remembers the Ashton kid topping himself. You know what teenagers are like, melodrama-wise. It was a big deal back then.’

  Carlyle sat back, prepared to be impressed. ‘So how did Eva connect Robert Ashton to the Merrion Club?’

  ‘The housemate’s sister.’

  ‘This …?’

  ‘Susy Ahl. A-H-L.’

  ‘Ahl. OK, got it.’

  ‘She was Ashton’s girlfriend.’

  ‘OK,’ said Carlyle, genuinely interested now.

  ‘After the kid killed himself, Susy Ahl went off on one big time, apparently …’

  ‘As you would.’

  ‘As you would indeed. But she blamed the Carltons and the rest of their crew for driving him to it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘That,’ Dom said, ‘I don’t know. According to Eva, Ahl kicked up quite a fuss. But no one took her seriously, and she disappeared fairly soon afterwards. Eva graduated that summer, 1985, then she went travelling for a bit. After she got back, she married the moron-stroke-junkie tosspot who made her life hell for the best part of ten years. She was too busy trying to get the shithead clean to bother keeping in contact with all her old pals, so she lost touch with the housemate, too.’

  Carlyle idly wondered what role Dom had played in trying to get the ‘shithead’ off drugs, himself being a drug dealer and all. Again, he kept his mouth shut.

  ‘Then I came along, and we had the kids, and things just moved on. It’s been a busy couple of decades. Now, hey presto, it’s twenty-five years later and now we’re caught up in our own little episode of A Week in Westminster meets Crimewatch.’

  ‘Where do I find the sister, Eva’s old flat mate?’ Carlyle asked eagerly.

  ‘She’s in Canada.’

  ‘Fuck, you’re kidding?’

  ‘No, I’m not.’ Dom watched a look of exasperation cloud Carlyle’s face, and he smiled. He then dug into the back pocket of his Levis, pulled out a scrap of paper and handed it over. ‘Sarah, the sister, is living somewhere west of Calgary. She married a cowboy or something. They have even more kids than Eva and me, apparently.’

  ‘That’s good to know,’ Carlyle said gloomily.

  ‘Susy Ahl, on the other hand,’ Dom grinned, ‘is right here in London.’

  Carlyle stared at the address on the piece of paper and smiled. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Unless she’s done a runner in the last fourteen or fifteen hours. Eva tracked down Sarah through her mum. Happily for you, the dear old mum has been living in the same house in Winchester for the past forty years.’

  ‘Nice.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Dom stood up and gave his legs a stretch. ‘Thanks again for lunch.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ Carlyle smiled. ‘You’re a cheap date.’

  ‘Yes, I am.’ Dom scratched at Neil Young’s head, around the spot where his own left nippl
e should be. ‘By the way, one other bit of background info for you …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘… my man Gideon served under Christian Holyrod in Afghanistan, three years ago.’

  ‘What did he think of him?’

  ‘Gideon doesn’t talk that much, about anything. I think he probably has some kind of post-traumatic stress disorder. That or he’s just bored shitless at being home. Either way, I think he felt that Holyrod was basically fine.’

  ‘Insightful.’

  ‘It tells you something,’ Dom shrugged. ‘Guys like Gideon, they’re in it for the buzz, essentially. It’s like extreme sports with automatic weapons, and you can actually kill people. Can you imagine the rush that must provide?’

  ‘No.’ Carlyle had never even held a gun in his life, for which he was very grateful. He didn’t want to think about what it might feel like.

  ‘Well, you always did lack a certain imagination.’ Dom smiled. ‘Anyway, as regards your average squaddie, as long as the public-schoolboy officer class don’t spoil their fun too much, they put up with them. Holyrod was well enough liked, I think. Gideon could equally take him or leave him.’

  ‘Not exactly a ringing endorsement,’ Carlyle said.

  Dom fixed him with a firm stare. ‘At least he didn’t take out his Browning Hi-Power and put a 9 mm slug in Holyrod’s back halfway up some mountain somewhere.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So … Holyrod was a proper soldier, John. He’s not really a politician – not deep down in his DNA. He’s had experience of doing a proper job.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So, he’s probably someone you can do business with.’ He paused. ‘Or, at least, he’s more likely to be someone you can do business with than the rest of them are.’

  ‘I’ll bear it in mind,’ Carlyle said, and sat for a minute in silent contemplation. The pigeon made one last foray towards the crisp packet before giving up and wandering off in search of a handout from some tourist. For a second, he even felt a bit sorry for the bird, before quickly returning to his own problems. ‘What do you think this is all about, Dom?’