Free The Circus by James Craig Page A

today.’ Leaning across the table, he gave her a kiss on the top of her head, then scooped up the plate containing the remaining quarters of his pastry. ‘Marcello,’ he asked, ‘can I have a bag to put these in, please?

THIRTEEN
    ‘I’m guessing that it wasn’t natural causes.’
    ‘London’s leading detective . . .’ Susan Phillips gave him a cheery wave with a latex-gloved hand.
    ‘So they say,’ Carlyle answered, pleased to see a friendly face at a crime scene for once. Phillips had been a staff pathologist with the Met for almost twenty years; she was a quick, no-nonsense operator and he enjoyed working with her. He gestured towards the pair of legs protruding from under the rubbish. ‘What happened?’
    ‘I don’t know yet. We’ve worked all the way from the front gate right here to the truck but haven’t picked up anything useful so far. I’m going to have to get in there.’
    Carlyle grimaced. ‘Rather you than me. The smell’s bad enough from here.’
    ‘Tell me about it.’ Phillips stepped away from the back of the refuse truck and wiped the sweat from her brow with the back of her left wrist. A couple of assistants hovered in the background, awaiting instruction. ‘At least I’m dressed for the occasion.’
    Yes you are, Carlyle thought. Slim and blonde, Phillips had a healthy glow that even her present surroundings could not diminish. In a pair of Converse All Stars, skinny jeans and a Nirvana T-shirt, she could easily have passed for early thirties rather than mid-to-late forties. All in all, she was rather glamorous . . . for the Met.
    Phillips caught him checking her out and grinned. ‘You like Nirvana, Inspector?’
    ‘Nah.’ He shook his head, embarrassed at being caught gawping for the second time this morning. ‘A bit after my time, really. Punk was more my thing – The Clash, Stiff Little Fingers . . .’
Shut up
, warned a voice inside his head,
you’re showing your age
. ‘. . . and The Jam.’
    ‘Mm.’ She gestured vaguely across the depot. ‘Not really punk, were they, The Jam?’
    ‘That’s Entertainment’ started playing in his head and he laughed to himself. ‘Not really, I suppose.’
    ‘More like Mod revivalists.’
    ‘Yeah.’
    ‘Anyway, Joe’s up in the office, running through the CCTV footage.’ From under the next truck along, a squirrel appeared and eyed them both inquisitively.
    ‘No nuts here, mate,’ Carlyle told him.
    ‘What?’
    Carlyle pointed towards the squirrel, but it was already gone.
    Phillips gave him a funny look. ‘Are you okay?’
    ‘Yeah, yeah.’ He couldn’t be bothered to explain.
    ‘How’s the family?’
    ‘Fine. You?’
    ‘The usual.’ Phillips shrugged. ‘I’ve been going out with a doctor for a few months.’
    ‘Uh-huh?’
    ‘Yeah.’ She stared off into the middle distance. ‘Nice guy. His ex-wife is a pain in the arse though.’
    ‘Mm.’ Carlyle had little sympathy. If you insisted on making your private life as complicated as possible, aggravation was inevitable.
    Picking up on his obvious lack of interest, Phillips abandoned the topic of her love-life. Stripping off her latex gloves, the pathologist pulled a BlackBerry from the back pocket of her jeans and started typing away on its keyboard with her thumbs.Looking up, she caught the quizzical look on the inspector’s face. ‘It’s a twenty-four-hour tweet,’ she explained. ‘The PR department thought it would be a good idea if we tweeted live from our crime scenes so as to provide the public with some insight into what we do.’
    ‘Sweet Jesus!’ Hands on hips, Carlyle raised his eyes to the heavens.
    ‘You should check it out,’ Phillips grinned. ‘You might learn something. The Twitter handle is @metpolice121 . We’ve got more than ten thousand followers.’
    ‘Good for you,’ replied the inspector grumpily.
    ‘
Arrived at scene
,’ said Phillips, reading aloud from the screen, ‘
body to be examined
.’
    ‘Very bloody insightful. Can