The Circus (38 page)

‘Sit,’ Miller commanded.

After a moment’s pause, Carlyle did as he was told, parking himself next to Lady Snowdon. By the sideboard, beneath Osmund Caine’s
Bathing Beach
, Sir Michael hovered next to the Bladnoch single malt. Ever the gracious host, the old man gestured towards the bottle. ‘Would you like a drink, Inspector?’

Despite his situation, Carlyle smiled. ‘Under the circumstances, why not?’

Miller frowned. ‘On duty? I think not.’

‘As you wish,’ the inspector sighed. His desire for a drink was acute but not acute enough to risk getting shot. ‘Why are you here, anyway?’

‘I thought that would be obvious,’ Miller snorted.

‘Trevor,’ Carlyle said gently, ‘nothing you do is ever obvious – at least not to normal people.’

There was a flash of rage in Miller’s face. His arms dropped to his sides and it looked like he was going to spring forward and pistol-whip the insolent cop. But the moment passed and he restricted himself to a threatening movement with the gun. ‘I’ve been keeping a close eye on you, and now it’s time to get this thing sorted.’

‘Good idea.’ Carlyle gestured to Veronica and Sir Michael. ‘So, when were you going to tell the Snowdons here that you murdered their daughter?’ To his right there was a whimper and for a second he was worried that Veronica Snowdon had collapsed. Then he felt her fingernails dig into his flesh, as she grabbed hold of his hand and held on for dear life.

Sir Michael took a half-step forward until a wave of the Glock warned him to come no further. ‘Is this true?’

It wasn’t clear who the question was directed at, but Carlyle decided to jump in. ‘Rosanna was investigating a case for her TV show: the murder of a private detective called Anton Fox. Fox worked for Trevor here, but when he started looking into police corruption someone stuck an axe in his head.’ He looked up at Miller. ‘Was that you, too?’

‘Anton was a complete berk,’ Miller grunted. ‘He never knew when to leave well alone. Neither did the girl, for that matter.’

That doesn’t sound like the Rosanna I knew, Carlyle thought. With the best will in the world, the girl had never been much of an investigative journalist. But now wasn’t really the time or the place to debate the point.

‘You bastard!’ Sir Michael shouted. Rushing at Miller, he was stopped in his tracks by a meaty fist which sent him to the floor, blood oozing from a gash above his right eyebrow.

‘Michael!’ Dropping Carlyle’s hand, Veronica Snowdon jumped up from the sofa and went to comfort her groaning husband.

Staying seated, Carlyle glared at Miller, who had retreated to the window, his Glock now pointing directly at the inspector’s head.

Miller ran his tongue across chapped lips. ‘He’s got a bit of bottle, for an old fella.’ His trigger finger was visibly shaking and the inspector sincerely hoped that the safety catch was still on. ‘Unlike
some
people here.’ He gestured at his ex-colleague with the gun. ‘You never did have any bottle, did you?’

He’s totally and utterly round the bend
. Carlyle knew that he would have to try and rush the crazy bastard. But what were his chances of doing any better than the old man?

Miller read his thoughts. ‘Want to give it a go?’

The inspector said nothing.

‘Up you get, dear.’ Veronica Snowdon helped her husband from the carpet. The bleeding seemed to have stopped, but Sir Michael still wore the glazed expression of someone who didn’t really know where he was. Shuffling sideways, the inspector made room for the two of them on the sofa.

‘Stay where you are,’ Miller barked.

Carlyle held up a hand. ‘Relax, Trevor. I’m not going anywhere.’ Out of the corner of his eye, he registered a flicker of movement in the hallway. Miller caught it too. Keeping the pistol trained on the inspector, he edged his way across the room. Reaching the doorway, he stuck his head tentatively into the hallway. It’s now or never, Carlyle thought, moving to the edge of his seat. He tried to catch Sir Michael’s eye, but the old man was still in a daze. The gap between himself and Miller was about eight feet, so he’d just have to hurl himself forward and hope for the best.

Stop thinking about it, you stupid bastard, and just do it!

Rocking forward, he had just transferred his weight to the balls of his feet when a shabby-looking grey cat sauntered into the room.

‘Silvio,’ Veronica gasped, ‘what are you doing here?’ The cat prowled along in front of the sofa, eyeing the three of them suspiciously.

‘Silvio?’ Carlyle enquired, happy enough for any distraction which gave him a little more time to play with.

‘Next door’s cat,’ Veronica Snowdon explained, as if this was a normal conversation. ‘He’s a bit of a ladies’ man but they don’t have the heart to give him the snip.’

‘Stupid bloody animal,’ Miller huffed. Taking a step forward, he aimed a kick at Silvio’s ribs, but the cat was too quick for him and darted under the table.

‘Still quite nimble,’ Veronica mused, ‘for his age.’

Carlyle grinned at Miller. ‘Maybe you should shoot it.’

‘Fuck you.’

‘No, fuck
you
.’

There was an audible click. ‘What the—’ Miller froze as he felt some cold steel nuzzle the back of his neck.

‘That was me releasing the safety on my Browning.’ Gideon Spanner, Dominic Silver’s lieutenant, stepped out from behind his target to get a better view of the trio lined up on the sofa.

Where the hell did you come from? Carlyle wondered. Not that I bloody care! With his heart thumping in his chest, he had to resist the urge to let out a hysterical laugh.

‘I don’t want to blow your head off,’ Gideon murmured quietly in Miller’s ear, ‘because apart from anything else, it would make a terrible mess, and I think you’ve caused these good people more than enough trouble for one night, don’t you?’

Miller’s mouth opened slightly but no sound came out.

‘So drop the gun, please,’ Gideon instructed, ‘and that’s one less problem for us to worry about.’

Miller did as instructed and the Glock hit the carpet with the
gentlest of thuds. Intrigued, Silvio appeared from under the table to give it a sniff, before nonchalantly wandering back into the hall.

‘Good. Now kick it towards the inspector over there.’ Again, Miller obliged, carefully side-footing the pistol towards the sofa.

Carlyle, whose bemusement had rapidly turned to relief, made no effort to pick it up. He glanced at the Snowdons, who seemed to be taking it all in their stride.

‘Who are you?’ Miller demanded. It was less a question, more of a wail.

‘Never you mind,’ said Gideon sharply, giving him a prod on the back of the neck with the gun. ‘On your knees, hands behind your head.’ As Miller slowly lowered his bulky frame, Gideon glanced at the inspector. ‘Cuffs?’

Carlyle made a face. ‘Sorry, no.’ He had left them in the station – or maybe at home. A look of weary resignation passed over Gideon’s face.

‘There’s some washing-line cord in the kitchen, under the sink,’ Veronica Snowdon volunteered cheerily. ‘I’ll go and get it.’ She got to her feet. ‘And I’ll need to make sure that Silvio hasn’t done his business on the floor again.’

‘Get me some paracetamol while you’re at it, please,’ Sir Michael mumbled.

‘Yes, dear.’ As she headed for the door, Carlyle was mildly surprised that she didn’t offer to make everyone a cup of tea, on top of everything else. Stepping round both Miller and Spanner, she disappeared towards the rear of the house. Belatedly getting to his feet, the inspector gave Gideon a nod.

‘Thanks for your help on this.’

‘No problem.’ Gideon sounded detached bordering on uninterested.

‘Dom asked you to keep an eye on me?’

The merest of nods. ‘I’ve been on it for the last couple of days.’

‘I didn’t realize.’

Gideon shot him a look that said
That was the idea
. After a few moments, Veronica Snowdon returned from the kitchen and
handed Gideon a length of green and white plastic cable. Sticking the Browning into the belt of his jeans, Gideon pulled Miller’s hands behind his back and expertly tied them together.

‘Nice to see that the old Army training still comes in handy,’ Carlyle observed.

Retrieving his Browning, Gideon said nothing.

‘Here you are, Michael.’ Moving over to the sofa, Veronica handed her husband a couple of tablets and a glass of water.

‘Thank you,’ Sir Michael grunted, dropping the tablets into his mouth and emptying the contents of the glass. ‘So,’ he said, turning to Carlyle, ‘explain to me, just who is this man?’

Where to begin? The inspector gestured towards the Bladnoch. ‘Mind if I have a drink first?’

‘Of course, Inspector,’ Veronica trilled. ‘How remiss of us. Please, help yourself.’

‘Thank you.’ He glanced at Gideon, who shook his head.

‘I’ll have one,’ Miller croaked, but Carlyle ignored him. Reaching for the bottle, he realized that his hand was shaking, badly. Pouring himself an extremely large measure, he drank deeply. Then, after refilling the glass almost to the brim, he turned to face the Snowdons and explained to them how Trevor Miller had killed their daughter.

Gideon patiently waited for him to finish before speaking up himself. ‘I need to leave,’ he said quietly.

Carlyle took another gulp of whisky. ‘Yes.’

‘And you need to get your story right.’

‘Of course.’

Gideon eyed him doubtfully. ‘Meaning I was never here.’

‘No.’ Carlyle stared at his almost empty glass. The Bladnoch was working a treat; his hands had almost stopped shaking and a warm glow had enveloped his insides. Under the circumstances, he had no embarrassment about reaching for the bottle for another refill.

‘You’re as bent as I am,’ Miller scoffed. ‘I’ll tell them what really happened.’

‘You’ll tell them nothing.’

Turning, Carlyle was surprised to see that Veronica Snowdon had picked up the Glock and was now pointing it at Miller’s chest. He shot Gideon a quizzical glance and both of them took a step away from the kneeling man.

Veronica’s eyes narrowed. With the gun in her hand, she suddenly looked thirty years younger. ‘Did you really kill my daughter?’

A nasty grin spread across Miller’s sweaty face. ‘Shit happens, love.’

‘You complete and utter bastard!’ she screamed, squeezing the trigger.

Slowly letting out a breath, Carlyle contemplated the tableau in front of him. If anything, the look on Trevor Miller’s face was one of disappointment. Gideon Spanner remained inscrutable. Still holding the gun at arm’s length, Veronica Snowdon sobbed gently, her head bowed.

Struggling to his feet, Sir Michael put a comforting arm around his wife’s shoulders. ‘Come on, darling,’ he whispered, carefully taking the gun from her trembling hand. ‘This is not the way to do things. You can’t just shoot a man standing in your living room, like that. Even if, well . . .’ His voice trailed away as he composed himself. ‘We’ve got what we wanted. Now that he’s finally been caught, we have to let the courts do their job.’ Planting a tender kiss on the crown of her head, he lowered her gently on to the sofa, before turning to Carlyle. ‘We can manage to overlook that little moment, Inspector, don’t you think?’

If it was me, I’d have just shot the bastard
. Keeping his thoughts to himself, Carlyle nodded.

‘Good,’ the old man smiled. ‘Thank you. Now, I think I need that drink. A large one, too.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Carlyle took another glass and half-filled it with whisky. ‘Good job the safety was still on.’

‘Indeed,’ Sir Michael agreed. ‘The Glock is an outstanding weapon, altogether a fantastic piece of craftsmanship. And it has multiple independent safety mechanisms in order to prevent accidental discharge.’

Carlyle turned back to face his host, holding a glass in each hand.

‘I was in the Household Cavalry before I joined the Civil Service,’ Sir Michael explained. ‘And then, after that, I was in the Territorial Army for more than twenty years. As a result, I know my weaponry quite well.’

‘Mm.’

‘You have to pull the trigger properly or it won’t fire.’ The old man slowly brought the barrel of the Glock up to Trevor Miller’s chest. ‘Like this, in fact.’ Squeezing off three rounds, he watched impassively as Miller keeled forward.

For a moment, there was silence. No one looked at each other as they all contemplated the body at their feet. Carlyle fleetingly wondered if he should check Miller for a pulse, but he knew it would be pointless. The man was dead. Taking another mouthful of whisky, his thoughts turned to what would happen next. Despite his alcohol intake, he felt reasonably alert; as long as he kept his account of Miller’s death simple and broadly accurate, Forensics would join the dots and there should be no problem with Commander Simpson, or with the Met’s internal investigators.

‘As they say in America,’ Sir Michael said airily, ‘you have to keep your Glock cocked. Otherwise you won’t be able to shoot it.’ Sidestepping the advancing puddle of blood spreading across the carpet, he carefully placed the pistol on the dining-room table before accepting his drink from the inspector.

Gideon gestured towards the body. ‘And what are you going to say about what happened here?’

‘In situations like these, I find that it’s always easiest to stick to the truth.’ Sir Michael took a large mouthful of whisky and gave an appreciative sigh. ‘At least some of the truth.’ From the sofa, Veronica eyed him with wifely pride.

In situations like these? Carlyle wondered just what exactly the old boy had got up to during his cavalry days.

The old man gestured at Miller with his glass. ‘He’s not the
first man I’ve killed, you know. Anyway, I want people to know that
I
killed that bastard. I’m not ashamed of it, not in the slightest.’

‘Okay.’ Carlyle placed his now empty glass back on the sideboard. ‘We’ll go with the truth, then.’

‘Good.’

‘Just not the whole truth.’ The inspector gestured towards the kitchen. ‘Is there a back way out of here?’

‘So long as you don’t mind jumping a few fences,’ Sir Michael told him.

Gideon nodded. ‘No problem.’ Without another word, he turned and started off down the hallway.