was walking up Marylebone High Street. Still burdened by thoughts of what it must be like to be wrongly banged up for thirty years, he didn’t pause to think about the
purpose of his rendezvous with the alluring BBC journalist. Arriving at Patisserie Valerie, he found the place surprisingly empty for a weekday breakfast time. Deciding that he deserved a treat,
Carlyle took a moment to inspect the cakes and pastries on offer, so that they could help lift his mood. Having paid for a large pain au raisin and a double macchiato, he repaired to a table
by the window and set about cutting his pastry into quarters while contemplating a couple of minutes of undiluted pleasure before the hackette arrived. He had already earmarked a feature on the
return of 1980s ska band The Specials for reading while munching. The lyric ‘You’ve done too much, much too young’ was bouncing happily around his brain. He smiled to himself,
cheered by how much of the song he could still remember. Before he could reopen his newspaper, however, Rosanna Snowdon appeared from nowhere, gliding across his line of vision and pulling out the
chair opposite.
Placing a glass of steaming peppermint tea carefully on the table in front of her, she sat down. ‘Good morning, Inspector,’ she began, shifting a large pair of sunglasses to the top
of her head. ‘Thank you for coming.’
Carlyle made a humble gesture. ‘No problem.’ Instinctively, he looked her up and down. As always, Rosanna was well turned out, looking sternly sexy in a rather sombre but expensive
grey trouser suit and a pearl-coloured blouse which had just enough buttons undone to arouse one’s interest. Looking tired and a little jumpy, she seemed to have lost quite a bit of weight
since he’d seen her last, which was all to the good. On the other hand, even the inspector could see that her roots needed retouching, which was not so good. Overall, Carlyle thought,
you’re not looking great, but it’s nothing that a couple of weeks in the Caribbean or The Priory, England’s health farm to the stars, wouldn’t put right.
She looked at his plate. ‘Don’t let me stop you.’
Carlyle smiled. ‘If you insist.’ He took a large bite out of one quarter of his Danish and washed it down with some coffee. For the next few minutes, they sat in amiable silence
while he scoffed the rest of his pastry and she sipped demurely at her tea.
She waited until he had popped the last morsel into his mouth and was wiping his lips with a napkin before speaking again. ‘I have a slight problem.’
Still chewing, he opened his eyes wide and waited.
‘There’s a man . . .’
More silent chewing.
Rosanna let out a large sigh and cut to the chase. ‘I’m being stalked.’ She took another sip of her tea and sat back in the chair, clasping her hands together as if preparing
to launch into prayer.
‘Isn’t that normal?’ He tried to present what he hoped was a cheeky grin.
She looked at him uncomprehendingly.
He kept digging. ‘Aren’t celebrities like you supposed to attract stalkers – the price of fame and all that?’
She gave him a hurt look that suggested his juvenile attempt at humour had overstepped the mark.
‘Sorry.’ He held up a hand, indicating a willingness to take her problem seriously. ‘What’s been going on? Give me the background.’
‘He’s a guy called Simon. I don’t know his surname. I guess he’s in his late thirties or early forties. He started hanging around outside my apartment building about two
months ago. He’s standing there when I leave the flat. Sometimes he even follows me to work.’
Carlyle reflexively glanced out of the window.
‘Not today,’ she continued. ‘Not every day. Maybe once or twice a week. And there have been a couple of times when I’ve seen him hanging around in the evening,
too.’
‘Has he physically or verbally threatened you?’ Carlyle asked in his best official tone.
Her brow furrowed. ‘No, he’s
purpose of his rendezvous with the alluring BBC journalist. Arriving at Patisserie Valerie, he found the place surprisingly empty for a weekday breakfast time. Deciding that he deserved a treat,
Carlyle took a moment to inspect the cakes and pastries on offer, so that they could help lift his mood. Having paid for a large pain au raisin and a double macchiato, he repaired to a table
by the window and set about cutting his pastry into quarters while contemplating a couple of minutes of undiluted pleasure before the hackette arrived. He had already earmarked a feature on the
return of 1980s ska band The Specials for reading while munching. The lyric ‘You’ve done too much, much too young’ was bouncing happily around his brain. He smiled to himself,
cheered by how much of the song he could still remember. Before he could reopen his newspaper, however, Rosanna Snowdon appeared from nowhere, gliding across his line of vision and pulling out the
chair opposite.
Placing a glass of steaming peppermint tea carefully on the table in front of her, she sat down. ‘Good morning, Inspector,’ she began, shifting a large pair of sunglasses to the top
of her head. ‘Thank you for coming.’
Carlyle made a humble gesture. ‘No problem.’ Instinctively, he looked her up and down. As always, Rosanna was well turned out, looking sternly sexy in a rather sombre but expensive
grey trouser suit and a pearl-coloured blouse which had just enough buttons undone to arouse one’s interest. Looking tired and a little jumpy, she seemed to have lost quite a bit of weight
since he’d seen her last, which was all to the good. On the other hand, even the inspector could see that her roots needed retouching, which was not so good. Overall, Carlyle thought,
you’re not looking great, but it’s nothing that a couple of weeks in the Caribbean or The Priory, England’s health farm to the stars, wouldn’t put right.
She looked at his plate. ‘Don’t let me stop you.’
Carlyle smiled. ‘If you insist.’ He took a large bite out of one quarter of his Danish and washed it down with some coffee. For the next few minutes, they sat in amiable silence
while he scoffed the rest of his pastry and she sipped demurely at her tea.
She waited until he had popped the last morsel into his mouth and was wiping his lips with a napkin before speaking again. ‘I have a slight problem.’
Still chewing, he opened his eyes wide and waited.
‘There’s a man . . .’
More silent chewing.
Rosanna let out a large sigh and cut to the chase. ‘I’m being stalked.’ She took another sip of her tea and sat back in the chair, clasping her hands together as if preparing
to launch into prayer.
‘Isn’t that normal?’ He tried to present what he hoped was a cheeky grin.
She looked at him uncomprehendingly.
He kept digging. ‘Aren’t celebrities like you supposed to attract stalkers – the price of fame and all that?’
She gave him a hurt look that suggested his juvenile attempt at humour had overstepped the mark.
‘Sorry.’ He held up a hand, indicating a willingness to take her problem seriously. ‘What’s been going on? Give me the background.’
‘He’s a guy called Simon. I don’t know his surname. I guess he’s in his late thirties or early forties. He started hanging around outside my apartment building about two
months ago. He’s standing there when I leave the flat. Sometimes he even follows me to work.’
Carlyle reflexively glanced out of the window.
‘Not today,’ she continued. ‘Not every day. Maybe once or twice a week. And there have been a couple of times when I’ve seen him hanging around in the evening,
too.’
‘Has he physically or verbally threatened you?’ Carlyle asked in his best official tone.
Her brow furrowed. ‘No, he’s
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