Sink or Swim

Book 17: Inspector Carlyle

by James Craig

Genres: Hard-Boiled; Police Procedurals

Synopsis

Coward?
Or scapegoat?

When a terror attack in Westminster leaves a colleague dead, Commander John Carlyle is accused by the media of fleeing the scene. For a man with more than his fair share of enemies, the fight to save his good name - and his career - might just prove to be a battle too far for him.

Praise for James Craig:

'A cracking read' BBC Radio 4

'Fast paced and very easy to get quickly lost in' Lovereading.com

'Craig writes like an angel' Crimefictionlover.com

Release date: February 2, 2023

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 90000

Sample

The name of the painting was The Rich Man Being Led to Hell. Jack Cinnamon knew the feeling. He might not be rich, but he was certainly well travelled along the road to perdition.

Tonight’s party provided a pretty good proxy for the abyss. The basement space at the National Gallery was uncomfortably full, hot and noisy. Chugging on a small bottle of Perrier, Cinnamon scanned the congregation of liggers and poseurs. At times like this, his decision, taken under firm medical advice, to give up alcohol was a source of deep pain.

A hand landed on his shoulder. Cinnamon looked round to find himself face to face with one of his most important clients, certainly one of the most lucrative. He took a beat, came up with a smile and pushed back his shoulders. ‘Mr Hedwall.’

‘I was hoping I’d bump into you tonight.’ Pushing seventy, Knut Hedwall looked tanned and trim. Dressed in his usual uniform, a black Boss suit with a crisp white shirt, open at the neck, this was one rich man who had no intention of being led to Hell any time soon.

‘Well, here I am.’

‘You’ve been avoiding me.’

Breaking off eye contact, Cinnamon mumbled something about the excessive demands of his current workload.

‘I don’t pay you to work for other people,’ the billionaire said gruffly. ‘What’ve you come up with?’

‘Things are progressing pretty slowly.’ Cinnamon tried not to sound too apologetic: clients like Hedwall had no time for any show of contrition or weakness. ‘That’s pretty normal. My investigations need to proceed at their own pace. I have to see where things lead.’

Hedwall was deeply unimpressed. ‘I thought you were supposed to be the best at this sort of thing.’

‘I am,’ Cinnamon insisted. ‘Not least because I don’t rush things.’

‘Time is not on our side.’

‘We’re talking about the English legal system here,’ Cinnamon reminded him. ‘Things can get dragged out forever.’

‘Fucking divorce tourism,’ Hedwall griped. ‘It’s a scandal.’ It was a familiar refrain. London had built its reputation as the divorce capital of the world on the basis that its judges were willing to hear cases in which the warring parties had only a tenuous connection to the city, while also being sympathetic to the claims of rich wives facing relative penury. ‘I mean, how many days a year am I even here?’

‘Your wife says she’s made it her home.’

Hedwall looked suitably disgusted. ‘Ex-wife.’

Not yet. Cinnamon didn’t contradict his client but he knew that the divorce had yet to be confirmed. Bettina Hedwall was – sensibly ‒ holding out for her settlement before signing on the dotted line and allowing her husband to marry his new girlfriend. The still-hanging-on-by-her-fingernails Mrs Hedwall had holed up in their Chelsea property, a £30 million mansion, which had lain empty for most of the near-fifty-year marriage. ‘Her lawyers are still prepping for the next hearing.’

‘I made a very generous offer,’ Hedwall spat, ‘more than generous.’

‘It’s not about the money. She wants her day in court. We see it all the time.’

Hedwall wasn’t listening. Like a lot of wealthy people, he seemed capable of hearing only the words that came from his own mouth. ‘I’ve disclosed all my assets. Complete transparency. They’ve seen everything.’

Liar, liar. That was another thing about the super-rich – they considered reality as something for the little people. Cinnamon couldn’t have cared less, as long as the client’s dissembling didn’t put his fee at risk. ‘They’re still trying to get access to the Jersey accounts.’

‘Let them. They’ll find nothing.’

‘Fine.’ Cinnamon paused. He liked to parcel out the information he passed on in small, profitable portions. Knut Hedwall had retained him on a monthly basis and there was no need to offer up too much too soon. Then again, too little information might get him sacked. Trying to get the balance right, he added, ‘Ellen’s also got me back going through the Panama Papers.’ The Panama Papers held financial secrets leaked from a law firm in the tax haven. Ellen was Ellen Lawson at Bluebottle & Snape, Bettina Hedwall’s lawyer. It was Ellen whom Cinnamon had to thank for getting his snout in the Hedwall trough in the first place. Bluebottle & Snape had hired him – on behalf of Bettina ‒ to track down the family assets. Knut had responded by hiring him to keep them hidden.

He was playing for both teams at the same time, getting paid twice to do the same job.

Double bubble.

Lovely.

‘Can’t you just tell her there’s nothing in there?’

It took Cinnamon a second to remember they were talking about the Jersey accounts. ‘Is there nothing in there?’

A look of displeasure clouded Hedwall’s face. ‘What kind of a question is that? Why are we even having this conversation?’

‘I have to make it appear that I’ve looked carefully, if you see what I mean.’

‘I thought you would’ve been able to move more quickly.’

‘I have to be careful. I’m treading a fine line here, working for both sides.’

Hedwall’s eyes narrowed. ‘You’re not working for both sides, Jack.’ He pressed a bony index finger against his hireling’s clavicle. ‘You’re working for me. Never forget that.’

‘I won’t,’ Cinnamon promised.

‘What are you pair plotting?’ Kelly Sobrinho bounced over, Peroni in hand, clearly intoxicated, resplendent in a vintage Like a Virgin T-shirt and ripped jeans.

Cinnamon felt a twitch in his groin.

‘Ah, Kelly, the woman of the hour.’ Hedwall pointed at the massive screen erected on the far wall. Live pictures allowed the guests to watch the arrival of Sobrinho’s latest installation in Trafalgar Square, a hundred yards away. The project was part of the mayor’s latest tourist drive, an attempt to convince the outside world that London was still worth visiting, despite Brexit and the terrible weather. ‘Britain’s greatest living artist.’

Sobrinho sucked on her beer bottle. ‘Tracey Emin might have something to say about that.’

‘Who?’ Hedwall laughed. ‘No one else could have done something like this, no one. It’s …’ he struggled for words ‘… monumental. Incredible. Simply an unbelievable achievement. Congratulations on making it happen.’

‘Finally, finally, finally.’ She stepped in front of Hedwall and placed her palm on the lapel of his jacket, as if inviting him to smell her perfume.

Droit du seigneur, Cinnamon thought. Knut Hedwall had spent more than $20 million collecting Kelly Sobrinho’s work over the last few years. Without his patronage, the young artist would have gone straight from Central Saint Martins to a gig delivering takeaways. Almost singlehandedly, the Scandinavian patron had turned her into the next Damien Hirst. When Jack Cinnamon had first met Kelly Sobrinho, she’d been living in a squat in Ealing. Now she had a penthouse overlooking Green Park and travelled the world, first class, from show to show, overseeing exhibitions and installations from Montevideo to Macau. Then there were the visiting professorships in LA, Brisbane and Oman. And the marketing deals with high-street stores and global fashion brands. According to the latest edition of The Times Rich List, the former struggling artist now had a net wealth heading towards £50 million. When it had been published, Sobrinho had complained bitterly that the estimate was too low.

‘What does it matter?’ Cinnamon had asked, amused and jealous in equal measure.

‘It’s wrong,’ Sobrinho spluttered.

‘Well, give them the right number.’

‘Why would I do that?’ She looked at him like he was an idiot. ‘It’s none of their business.’

Cinnamon shied away from the argument. Her brattishness could be wearisome but he wasn’t prepared to ditch their friendship. Rich friends were hard to find, and no one else could give him access to the same kind of top-level network of potential clients. Indeed, it was Kelly Sobrinho who had introduced him to Knut Hedwall, at another party like this one, six months or so ago. With calculated indiscretion, Cinnamon had let slip that he was working for Ellen Lawson and Team Bettina.

Hedwall’s eyes had narrowed. ‘And what exactly is it you do, Mr Cinnamon?’

‘I’m a fixer. I provide a range of services for Ellen’s clients. And others.’ Go on, have a nibble.

Hedwall nibbled. ‘What precisely do you do for Ms Lawson?’

‘I’m an investigator.’ Cinnamon gave a reassuring smile, the kind that worked well on prospective employers. ‘I find things others can’t find ‒ assets that people try to hide.’

‘In that case, I can save you a lot of trouble. I have nothing to hide. I am completely transparent.’ Hedwall mentioned the Mayfair-based bullshit monkeys he was paying £1,400 an hour to fuck over the mother of his children. ‘My lawyers have provided details of everything. Absolutely everything.’

Yeah, right. ‘Then you’ve got nothing to worry about.’

‘I never waste time worrying,’ Hedwall confirmed. ‘But, all the same, maybe we should have a further conversation.’ Over breakfast at the Wolseley the following morning, they had shaken hands on a deal. Hedwall would pay a low five-figure monthly retainer in return for Cinnamon feeding false information to Team Bettina and spying on the opposition camp.

Waiting for the bill to arrive, Cinnamon enquired about his relationship with Kelly Sobrinho.

‘I’m not fucking her.’ Hedwall tapped the side of his skull. ‘She’s a good-looking woman but totally crazy.’ He shook his head, adopted a rueful smile, as if the decision was his and his alone. ‘Plus, I’ve got more than enough women problems right now.’

Cinnamon tried not to grimace. ‘I was thinking more about the art.’

Hedwall looked flummoxed. ‘What about it?’

‘Do you like it?’

The billionaire shrugged. ‘I can take it or leave it.’

‘But you’ve bought a lot of it,’ Cinnamon observed.

‘You’ve got to find a home for your money. It’s an investment. I’m building Kelly’s brand, creating a market. Establishing the value of her work.’

‘What if she goes out of fashion?’ Cinnamon wondered.

‘She won’t,’ Hedwall asserted. ‘Not if I keep buying.’

‘So it’s an investment, rather than for pleasure?’ Cinnamon wondered about money laundering. Hedwall had never fallen foul of the authorities but no one got as rich as he had as quickly as he had without cutting more than a few corners. A bit of research had thrown up a couple of online rumours linking Hedwall to a group of meth-dealing Hells Angels in Gothenburg. Instead of raising the biker connection, he asked, ‘D’you like Kelly’s work?’

‘Everything’s an investment,’ Hedwall grunted.

‘So it doesn’t really matter if you like something or not?’

The billionaire seemed irritated at being put on the spot. ‘I like to collect things, what can I say?’

The video link to the square outside went down. Static filled the screen. None of the guests in the basement gallery seemed to notice.

‘If I’d known how long it would take to get permission to bring the work here,’ Kelly Sobrinho burbled, ‘I don’t know if I’d even have started. London likes to think of itself as a global capital but their attitude to art,’ she rolled her eyes, ‘well, it’s just a joke. This is not a city that values creativity.’

Says the woman who’s worth fifty million. Cinnamon struggled to summon any sympathy for the travails of the not-so-struggling artist.

‘These things always take longer than planned,’ Hedwall observed.

‘I know, Knut, but the backlash has been terrible.’

‘I thought controversy was good for an artist,’ Cinnamon interjected.

‘We’ll see. I need to focus on my next project.’

‘The Year of Youth in Astana?’ Hedwall asked. ‘I read about it in the FT at the weekend.’

‘I’m off to Kazakhstan tomorrow,’ Sobrinho confirmed. ‘Air Astana’s a bit ropey but at least it’s direct. And they love my work over there.’

‘They love your work everywhere, sweetie.’ Jenny Coney, Sobrinho’s girlfriend, appeared at Hedwall’s shoulder, empty champagne flute in hand. Planting a kiss on her paramour’s cheek, she announced to the two men, ‘The bouncy castle’s getting another outing.’

‘It’s called BugHouse,’ Sobrinho replied, clearly narked by her partner’s put-down. ‘It’s not a bouncy castle.’

‘Right.’ Coney smirked.

‘It’s an inflatable with padded walls, invoking the aesthetic of a lunatic asylum.’ Sobrinho slipped effortlessly into marketing mode for her patron’s benefit. ‘It invites people to investigate their own psychic wellbeing, or lack thereof.’

‘You should speak to my HR people,’ Hedwall suggested. ‘We could put one in our head office.’

‘Great idea.’ Sobrinho finished her beer. ‘It’ll do wonders for your wellness agenda.’

‘People jump up and down and take selfies,’ Coney translated.

‘Selfies are banned,’ Sobrinho insisted. ‘They’re bad karma.’

‘That didn’t stop people in New York,’ Coney countered.

‘They didn’t have anywhere near enough security,’ Sobrinho complained. ‘This time, BugHouse’ll be protected properly. The British Council has contributed more than a hundred K towards transport and security. We’re gonna be part of the Year of Youth show in Kazakhstan. It will be totally different, a real celebration of artistic freedom.’

Coney tried unsuccessfully to attract the attention of a passing waiter. ‘The authorities will shoot anyone bouncing up and down.’

Cinnamon couldn’t resist asking, ‘Wouldn’t that risk deflating the castle … erm, I mean the installation?’

‘BugHouse,’ Sobrinho reminded him sharply.

‘It’s insured for three point two million dollars,’ Coney explained. ‘And, anyway, we have two spares.’

‘One day,’ Sobrinho predicted, ‘every city’s gonna have a BugHouse. Under licence, of course.’

‘But no selfies allowed.’ Coney scanned the room, searching for someone who could bring her another drink. ‘God, this party is boooring. Whose idea was it to have it here?’

Sobrinho gripped the beer bottle tightly, looking like she wanted to glass her partner with it. ‘It was yours, Jen, if I remember rightly.’

The women had been together for about a year. The way Sobrinho told it, it was a case of amour fou, consummated by a week of debauchery at the Ca Na Xica in Sant Miquel de Balansat. From the outset, the relationship had teetered on the brink of chaos and violence. Cinnamon was extremely surprised it had lasted this long. Convinced it would end badly, his only concern was not to be around when things finally imploded.

‘It was cheap,’ Coney replied. ‘Amy got us a good deal.’ Amy, Coney’s sister, was an administrator at the gallery. Coney waved a key fob in front of her girlfriend. ‘And she gave me her pass, so we can go downstairs for a bump.’ She patted the back pocket of her jeans. ‘I’ve got some good stuff. Really good stuff.’

‘We’re already in the basement,’ Cinnamon pointed out.

‘This place has four sub-basements.’ Coney gestured at the floor. ‘Immediately beneath us is the storage facility for paintings not on public display. Amy says they’re restoring a Rembrandt at the moment. Imagine snorting a big fat line off an Old Master. How cool is that?’

‘You’re joking, right?’ Knut Hedwall laughed nervously.

Coney arched an eyebrow. ‘I never joke when it comes to getting off my tits, Knutty boy.’

Clearly uncomfortable, the septuagenarian let his gaze slide across the room. ‘Isn’t that Sofie Minnen who’s just walked in?’

‘The plus-size model?’ Cinnamon turned round to check out the new arrival.

‘I like women of all shapes and sizes,’ the billionaire replied equably.

‘There’s nothing wrong with fat-fetishism,’ Sobrinho chipped in. ‘I did a photo essay about it for the Observer last year. Some of the people I met were very nice. For sure, there are far worse hobbies out there.’

Hedwall made his excuses and went off to schmooze the model.

Coney watched him go with a sneer. ‘Dirty old bastard.’

‘Keep your voice down,’ Sobrinho snapped. ‘Knut’s far and away my most important client. Why d’you have to be such a total bitch anyway?’

‘Because life’s more fun that way. And you like it.’ Coney turned to Cinnamon. ‘I really don’t know why you work for that guy, Jack.’

‘Like Kelly says, he pays the bills.’

‘But, like, what a sleazebag. He dumps his wife and now he’s looking to cheat on his girlfriend with a woman who advertises adult nappies.’

‘It’s a multi-billion-dollar market.’ Cinnamon pulled up Sofie Minnen’s blog on his phone and began reading aloud, ‘“Generous in body and spirit, sharing glamour, style and body positivity.”’

‘Body positivity’s a good thing,’ Sobrinho chipped in. ‘No one’s got the willpower to diet, these days, so it’s better that they just learn to love what they’ve got.’

Cinnamon watched Hedwall chatting to the model while blatantly staring down the front of her dress. ‘Knut certainly likes what she’s got.’

‘It’s good to see an old guy who still has such brio,’ Sobrinho burbled.

‘He’s just making a fool of himself,’ Coney huffed. ‘I mean, what’s the point of getting a divorce in your seventies?’

‘I dunno,’ Cinnamon admitted. ‘I gave up trying to work out clients’ motivation years ago. Who knows what the fuck goes on inside your head when you’re that rich?’

‘His kids must hate him,’ Sobrinho mused, ‘dumping their mother after all this time.’

‘They’ve pretty much taken his side,’ Cinnamon corrected her, ‘the money-grabbing little bastards.’

‘I suppose they’ve got their inheritance to think about,’ Coney reasoned. ‘But what about you, Jack?’

‘What about me?’

‘Don’t you feel just a little bit soiled, working for that crook?’

‘Not again.’ Sobrinho groaned. ‘Leave him alone.’

Coney ignored her. ‘Feeding the wife’s legal team disinformation is pretty low, even for you.’

‘It is.’ Cinnamon was quite happy to cop a guilty plea if it got him an invitation to the sub-basement to snort coke with the bickering lesbians.

‘I still don’t really understand what it is you’re doing,’ Sobrinho admitted.

‘The wife’s lawyers hired me to find Knut’s offshore bank accounts. Then he hired me to look in the wrong places.’ He gave a modest shrug. ‘Multi-tasking is one of my core skills.’

‘You’re such a bastard,’ Coney said admiringly.

‘Just making a living any way I can,’ Cinnamon grinned, ‘in the gig economy.’

‘A bastard poodle.’ Coney cackled. ‘Knutty’s poodle.’

‘I’m a freelancer. The way I see it, the man who has many masters has none.’

‘Right.’ Coney finally managed to grab a bottle of champagne from a passing waiter. The man started to protest but she simply handed him her empty glass and sent him on his way. ‘Face it, Jack, you’re just a superannuated rent-boy.’

‘We are all prostitutes,’ was Cinnamon’s glib reply.

‘At least some of us have hearts of gold.’ Coney took Sobrinho by the hand and began leading her through the crowd. ‘Time to get this party started for real.’

Cinnamon tailgated the duo through the crowd until he was intercepted by the lanky figure of Vladimir Provoust, Sobrinho’s agent. For the purposes of the Trafalgar Square event, Provoust had also taken on the title of exhibition director. At Provoust’s behest, Cinnamon had ‒ on a pro bono basis ‒ reached out to a few of his own contacts to help get the project approved.

‘Jack, my dear fellow, how nice to see you.’ Provoust’s way of acknowledging the favour was to ratchet up the bonhomie. ‘I didn’t know you were coming.’

‘You know me, Vlad. Never one to pass up a free drink.’ Cinnamon watched in dismay as the ladies disappeared through an exit.

‘Nice shoes, by the way.’

‘What?’

Looking down from almost six foot five, Provoust pointed at Cinnamon’s brogues with his wine glass. ‘Your shoes. Very nice.’

‘Oliver Sweeneys.’

‘Hmm.’ Provoust nodded approvingly. ‘You can tell a lot about a man by his shoes.’

‘They’ve got a sale on at the moment. I’d get over there.’ Cinnamon tried to move towards the door, but the agent blocked his way.

‘I was hoping to bump into you. I’ve got another … thing I wondered if you might be able to help me with.’

‘It wouldn’t be another pro bono thing, would it?’ Cinnamon wasn’t about to make a habit of working for nothing. ‘That was a one-off, a favour for Kelly.’

‘You two go back a long way.’

‘Long enough,’ Cinnamon confirmed. ‘I knew her before her career took off.’

‘Yes, who’d have thought it? She’s a very lucky girl. And talented, of course.’

It was all down to luck, was Cinnamon’s take, at least as much as made no difference. ‘What’s the job?’ he asked.

‘Something you can do in your sleep.’ Provoust was distracted by the appearance of someone more important across the room. ‘I just need to go and have a quick word with Lord Schmelling.’ He edged away from Cinnamon. ‘Don’t run away. I’ll be back in a minute.’

‘No, of course not,’ Cinnamon lied. Once Provoust’s back was turned, he began fighting his way to the exit, where a concrete stairwell took him down to the first sub-basement. Along a short service corridor a set of double doors bore the legend ‘Clark Central Storage Facility – Restricted Access Only’.

‘This must be the place Jenny was talking about.’ Cinnamon licked his lips in anticipation of the delights to come. He yanked on a handle but the doors were locked. Through a porthole window he could see a row of workbenches, on which lay a number of paintings undergoing restoration. Behind the tables, lining the back wall, a series of rolling racks was used to store other works. Of his playmates, there was no sign.

‘Where have they gone?’ Irritated at the prospect of missing out on his share of the devil’s dandruff, he banged his palm on the glass, shouting, ‘Jen, it’s me. Let me in.’

When there was no response, he banged harder. ‘C’mon, don’t play hard to get.’

About to return reluctantly to the party, he caught a flash of movement between two of the racks. ‘What the fuck?’

Cinnamon watched Kelly Sobrinho walk unsteadily towards him. It looked like her T-shirt had been smeared with paint. In one hand, she held a champagne bottle by the neck – the bottle Coney had stolen from the waiter upstairs.

Releasing the lock, Sobrinho pulled open the door and stepped into the corridor. There was a gash above her eye and a bruise was developing on her cheek.

Cinnamon took a step backwards. Then another. ‘What the hell happened?’

Mumbling something incoherent, Sobrinho tossed him the bottle. Reflexively, he caught it. The glass was slick. Cinnamon stared at the dark blood on his palms and swallowed. A clump of what looked like hair was smeared across the label, along with some of Coney’s coke.

‘Get rid of it.’ Sobrinho walked past him, back along the corridor.

A voice in Cinnamon’s head said, Walk away. Fucking Vlad should be dealing with this mess. He dumped the bottle in a recycling bin by the door and followed her. ‘What about Jen?’

‘Don’t worry about her.’ Sobrinho stumbled up the stairs. ‘I’ve got the blow. Let’s get out of here.’

Having bundled her kids into nursery on the back of barely three hours’ sleep, Alison Roche was not in the mood for puzzles. The inspector arrived at the recently refurbished Charing Cross police station to be informed that a ‘situation’ was waiting for her in nearby Trafalgar Square. Her plan to sneak twenty minutes with a coffee and The Times in one of the third-floor pods before easing into the work day had gone straight out of the window.

Standing in the middle of the square, next to one of the fountains, Roche stared longingly at the Starbucks on Cockspur Street. What she needed above all else was a pliant PCSO to go and get her a coffee, and a cinnamon Danish for good measure. She turned slowly through 360 degrees in the hope of spying a community support officer. ‘You haven’t seen any plastics, have you?’

Sergeant Francesca Angelini looked at her boss blankly. ‘Sorry?’

‘Plastic policemen.’

The sergeant was none the wiser. The slan. . .