times; the food was crap, but it would do.
Creeping into the kitchen, he found a pen in one of the drawers and scribbled a brief note on the back of one of the envelopes on top of the microwave: Sorry I was so late , back early tonight. Give me a call when you get up. X. Propping it up against the remaining bananas, he made his way out.
David Hogg yawned as he watched Boris, his bull-mastiff, race down the shingle of Brighton beach towards the sea. It was not yet 6 a.m. and there was no one else around, which was just the way Hogg liked it. Otherwise, Boris would have to stay on his leash. He was a good-natured animal, but the sight of 140 pounds of dog bearing down on them was enough to give most people the willies.
Covering his eyes against the bright light, Hogg gazed out towards the horizon. It was a beautiful morning, azure sky, bright sunshine but with a fresh, chill edge to the air. All the same, he’d rather be in bed. At the very least, he could do with some breakfast. Off to his right was the pier. If they headed that way, he could pop into Luigi’s café on Old Steine. Looking round, he struggled to pick out the dog against the glare. ‘Boris!’ There was no reply, save for the gentle crashing of the waves against the beach. Grumbling to himself, Hogg began walking towards the water. ‘ Boris! ’
Twenty yards from the water’s edge, Hogg finally caught sight of the dog. As he got closer, he heard a friendly yelp. Closer still, he saw that the dog was wagging his tail happily, standing over what looked like some kind of package that had been washed up on the beach. Pulling the leash out of his pocket, Hogg reached for the dog – who promptly ran off, in the opposite direction to which he wanted to go.
‘Boris!’ he shouted angrily. ‘Come back here!’ But the bull-mastiff had already raced away further down the beach.
‘Blasted dog!’ Annoyed, Hogg realized that he would have to wait for the animal to come back of his own volition. Meanwhile, he walked down to the water’s edge to inspect the package. Squinting against the sun, he was almost on top of it before he understood what he was looking at. ‘Bloody hell!’ Dropping the dog’s leash at his feet, Hogg fumbled in his pocket for his mobile. Ignoring the barking from down the beach, he quickly dialled 999.
It was way too early in the day to start on the green tea. After a terrible, weak mug of lukewarm coffee and a stale pastry in the all-night café under Charing Cross arches, Carlyle morosely made his way to the station. It was still barely 6.30 when he approached the front desk and he was insufficiently alert to acknowledge the man hovering at the corner of his vision.
‘Inspector Carlyle?’
Frowning, Carlyle turned to face a dapper man of similar height and age to himself, with a rapidly receding hairline and a pair of glasses that were too big for his face. He was well turned out for the early hour, in a pinstripe suit, with a white shirt and red tie. In his left hand was an oversized black leather briefcase.
Not waiting for a reply, the man extended his free hand. ‘Trevor Cole,’ he smiled. ‘Gotha Insurance. I’m here about the St James’s Diamonds incident.’
Stifling a groan, Carlyle shook the insurance agent’s hand. ‘Come with me,’ he said, gesturing towards the bowels of the building.
Parking the insurance assessor in interview room B3, the inspector went off in search of more coffee. After a few minutes, he returned with a couple of paper cups full of oily black liquid to find Cole happily ensconced behind a pile of paperwork three inches thick. On Carlyle’s side of the table he had placed a business card, giving an office address in EC4.
‘Sorry,’ said Carlyle, placing the cups carefully on the table, ‘there’s no milk, but at least it’s hot.’
‘That’s fine,’ Cole said politely. ‘Thank you.’ He peered into his cup but made no effort to pick it up. With a nod of his head, he gestured
Creeping into the kitchen, he found a pen in one of the drawers and scribbled a brief note on the back of one of the envelopes on top of the microwave: Sorry I was so late , back early tonight. Give me a call when you get up. X. Propping it up against the remaining bananas, he made his way out.
David Hogg yawned as he watched Boris, his bull-mastiff, race down the shingle of Brighton beach towards the sea. It was not yet 6 a.m. and there was no one else around, which was just the way Hogg liked it. Otherwise, Boris would have to stay on his leash. He was a good-natured animal, but the sight of 140 pounds of dog bearing down on them was enough to give most people the willies.
Covering his eyes against the bright light, Hogg gazed out towards the horizon. It was a beautiful morning, azure sky, bright sunshine but with a fresh, chill edge to the air. All the same, he’d rather be in bed. At the very least, he could do with some breakfast. Off to his right was the pier. If they headed that way, he could pop into Luigi’s café on Old Steine. Looking round, he struggled to pick out the dog against the glare. ‘Boris!’ There was no reply, save for the gentle crashing of the waves against the beach. Grumbling to himself, Hogg began walking towards the water. ‘ Boris! ’
Twenty yards from the water’s edge, Hogg finally caught sight of the dog. As he got closer, he heard a friendly yelp. Closer still, he saw that the dog was wagging his tail happily, standing over what looked like some kind of package that had been washed up on the beach. Pulling the leash out of his pocket, Hogg reached for the dog – who promptly ran off, in the opposite direction to which he wanted to go.
‘Boris!’ he shouted angrily. ‘Come back here!’ But the bull-mastiff had already raced away further down the beach.
‘Blasted dog!’ Annoyed, Hogg realized that he would have to wait for the animal to come back of his own volition. Meanwhile, he walked down to the water’s edge to inspect the package. Squinting against the sun, he was almost on top of it before he understood what he was looking at. ‘Bloody hell!’ Dropping the dog’s leash at his feet, Hogg fumbled in his pocket for his mobile. Ignoring the barking from down the beach, he quickly dialled 999.
It was way too early in the day to start on the green tea. After a terrible, weak mug of lukewarm coffee and a stale pastry in the all-night café under Charing Cross arches, Carlyle morosely made his way to the station. It was still barely 6.30 when he approached the front desk and he was insufficiently alert to acknowledge the man hovering at the corner of his vision.
‘Inspector Carlyle?’
Frowning, Carlyle turned to face a dapper man of similar height and age to himself, with a rapidly receding hairline and a pair of glasses that were too big for his face. He was well turned out for the early hour, in a pinstripe suit, with a white shirt and red tie. In his left hand was an oversized black leather briefcase.
Not waiting for a reply, the man extended his free hand. ‘Trevor Cole,’ he smiled. ‘Gotha Insurance. I’m here about the St James’s Diamonds incident.’
Stifling a groan, Carlyle shook the insurance agent’s hand. ‘Come with me,’ he said, gesturing towards the bowels of the building.
Parking the insurance assessor in interview room B3, the inspector went off in search of more coffee. After a few minutes, he returned with a couple of paper cups full of oily black liquid to find Cole happily ensconced behind a pile of paperwork three inches thick. On Carlyle’s side of the table he had placed a business card, giving an office address in EC4.
‘Sorry,’ said Carlyle, placing the cups carefully on the table, ‘there’s no milk, but at least it’s hot.’
‘That’s fine,’ Cole said politely. ‘Thank you.’ He peered into his cup but made no effort to pick it up. With a nod of his head, he gestured
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