by James Craig
‘And then . . .’
His monologue was interrupted by the sound of a mobile phone. Irritated, Simpson plucked at various pieces of paper before finding it buzzing on the desk. Checking the caller’s identity, without preamble she said, ‘Hold on one minute.’ Standing up, she raised a forefinger to Carlyle, indicating that she would not be long, before quickly stepping out of the room.
As the door closed behind her, Carlyle’s gaze fell on Simpson’s desk. Leaning forward, he couldn’t resist a quick peek. Over the years, he had become quite adept at reading things upside down from a short distance. Next to what were clearly the reports of the Groves case, which he could easily read when he got back to Charing Cross if he felt the need, was a fancy-looking invitation card. The black script was a bit small, but he could make it out without having to leave his seat:
Christian Holyrod, Mayor of London, and Claudio Orb, Ambassador of Chile to the Court of St James’s, invite you to a reception at City Hall organised by the Anglo-Chilean Defence Technologies Association. The event will celebrate our two great countries’ long history of co-operation and support, as well as England’s long-standing association with Chilean naval hero Agustín Arturo Prat Chacón.
More Chileans. What were the odds of some connection? He was wondering who Agustín Arturo Prat Chacón was, when he heard the commander re-enter the room.
Simpson smiled thinly as she sat down behind her desk. ‘So, where were we?’ she asked, folding her arms and sitting back.
‘Sandra Groves,’ said Carlyle amiably. ‘After I had been assaulted, we restrained her and her boyfriend . . .’
A minute or so into his continuing monologue, Simpson held up her hand. She had heard enough. Carlyle could argue for England, indeed the irritating little sod could argue for a World Select XI, and she knew that he would not be so stupid as to be caught out on something like this. She could never hope to get so lucky. ‘All right, Inspector,’ she said wearily, ‘I get the drift. I’m sure, if it ever gets that far, that the Police Federation will make mincemeat out of this complaint. But next time, please try to show a tiny bit more restraint.’
‘Restraint is my middle name,’ Carlyle said genially.
‘Yes, well . . .’ Even Simpson had to repress a grin at his chutzpah. ‘Well done on that Mills thing, by the way.’
‘Thank you,’ Carlyle said.
‘Nice and neat,’ she said, resisting the temptation to add ‘for once’.
‘It looks that way,’ Carlyle agreed, ‘but there are still one or two loose ends.’
‘Like what?’ Simpson groaned. How could this irritating little man turn even the most straightforward domestic homicide of the year into a problem?
‘Mrs Mills, the victim, had made some enemies.’
‘Including her husband.’
‘Maybe.’
‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’ Simpson huffed. ‘You know as well as I do, that in domestic cases like these, killing yourself is usually a fairly clear admission of guilt. Take the win, Inspector, and move on.’
‘I will.’ Standing up, he decided not to push his luck any further.
‘Good,’ said Simpson stiffly, gathering up the papers on her desk. ‘You know the way out.’
SEVENTEEN
A solitary young man sat at a table on the pavement outside Café La Marquise on the Edgware Road. Holding a small cube of sugar to the surface of his strong, syrupy Turkish coffee, he watched it turn brown before letting it drop it into the demitasse. Picking up his teaspoon, he began carefully stirring his coffee, eyeing the small band of anti-war protestors as he did so.
What a rabble, he thought. There were maybe seventy people taking part, at the very most, with almost as many police in attendance. All they were doing was holding up the traffic and preventing normal, law-abiding people from going about their business as they made their way slowly down the middle of the road, heading towards Hyde Park and a rally at Speakers’ Corner. All the usual banners that he’d become familiar with recently were there: Socialist Worker, Stop the War Coalition, Students for Justice, etc., etc., carried by sallow, ill-looking people you would cross the road to avoid; all in all, nothing more than a bunch of pathetic, disorganised, ego-crazed losers.
He took a sip of his coffee and let the sweetness soften his mood. Towards the back of the crowd, he saw the banner he had been waiting for, and the three women underneath it, two of them holding the poles and one handing out leaflets while trying to start the occasional chant that invariably petered out almost as quickly as it began:
‘What do we want?
‘Troops out!
‘When do we want it?
‘NOW!’
The conversations at the tables had stopped as the other patrons watched the protestors go by. Those British and their passions! To foreigners living in London, they were an endless source of amusement. Catching the eye of a gawping waiter, he ordered another coffee as the semi-organised shouting started up again.
Get a life, he thought. As far as he could see, the three women leading the chants were virtually the whole organisation, yet they were trying to cause him so much trouble. He felt the familiar fury rising up inside him. It was ridiculous that he should have to waste his time on them; ridiculous but necessary – for his own sake and that of his comrades.
He fingered the leaflet that another protestor had dropped on his table as he had passed by. More slogans, more platitudes, more hopeless posturing:
‘Justice for the victims of the Ishaqi massacre!’
Like the victims care any more, he thought.
‘STOP THE WAR!’
I was there; you weren’t.
‘END THE MERCENARY KILLINGS!’
The anger blossomed in his chest. You don’t know what you’re talking about.
Leaning down, he grabbed an anti-war flyer from the pavement, carefully folding it in half and then folding it in half again, before dropping it into his jacket pocket. The waiter arrived with his fresh coffee. Downing it in one, he pulled out his wallet and fished out a five-pound note, which he placed under his saucer. Sitting back in his chair, he let the demonstration go past, accompanied by the hooting of angry motorists and some pointing and laughter from a group of Arab customers enjoying their shisha pipes at the table beside him.
Pulling a cigarette from the packet of Royal Crown Blue sitting on the table, he lit it with a match and stuck it between his lips, inhaling deeply. Dropping the match in the ashtray, he rose from the table, before starting slowly along the road, heading in the same direction as the protestors.
By the time he reached the park, the speeches were in full swing. Standing under a nearby tree, he smoked another cigarette, keeping a careful eye on the women as he tried to tune out the ritual denunciations of America, Britain and every other tool of imperialism that they could lay their hands on.
Mercifully, the speeches ended before his packet of smokes was empty. He watched the women pack up their banner and say their goodbyes, before heading off in different directions. After a moment’s thought, he decided to follow the older one. Once he knew where she lived, it would be time to begin.
EIGHTEEN
Carlyle stood on the walkway that spiralled up the inside of the triangulated glass façade of City Hall, looking down into the foyer of the Greater London Assembly, while listening to the clink of glasses and the hum of polite conversation from below. He had been scanning the room for several minutes now, without being able to find any sign of Simpson or her husband. He had, however, seen the Mayor, Christian Holyrod, shoulder-to-shoulder with the man he assumed was the Chilean Ambassador, as they worked the room together.
The upper terrace had been closed off to the public for tonight’s event, so Carlyle found himself alone. As the Mayor stepped up on to a small raised platform to make some introductory remarks, Carlyle turned his back on the throng to take in the views over the river towards the Tower of London. For the next few minutes, he let his mind wander. An occasional
phrase drifted up from the floor below but the words were no more than the usual trite nothings that accompanied events like this. He ignored them, as he watched the boats go by on the Thames, and reflected on his previous dealings with the Mayor.
Christian Holyrod was a Boy’s Own story made flesh. That alone would have been enough for Carlyle to be deeply suspicious of the man, even before they crossed swords on what turned out to be one of the more unpleasant cases he had recently had to deal with.
Before turning his hand to politics, Major Holyrod had commanded the 2nd Battalion of the Duke of Wellington’s Regiment (motto: Virtutis Fortuna Comes – Fortune Favours the Brave), one of the first British battle groups to go into action in Helmand Province in south-west Afghanistan, as part of Britain’s latest unsuccessful foray into the world’s most inhospitable country. His subsequent journey from unsung hero to big-time politician began when an American documentary crew arrived to film the story of Operation Clockwork Orange, a mission to capture a terrorist commander who had been hiding out in a mud compound in the middle of nowhere. The mission was a fiasco. Holyrod’s boys were ambushed and a swift retreat followed, leaving the target happily ensconced in his mountain lair, but the firefights and general chaos that followed made for great television. Shaky hand-held pictures of the major shouting ‘Contact, contact, contact!’ while squeezing off rounds from his SA80-A2 assault rifle and trying to drag a wounded squaddie back to his truck were as entertaining as anything that Hollywood could come up with. They made all the main news bulletins back home in Britain even before the show had aired in the US. For almost two days, it was the number one most-viewed video on YouTube, with more than 45 million hits around the world.
Holyrod became an instant celebrity. Within a fortnight, he was offered his own radio talk show, signed up to do a newspaper column, acquired an agent and had received more than a hundred offers of marriage.
Initially, the Ministry of Defence was more than happy to let a stream of journalists beat a path to his door, given their desperation for any kind of ‘good news’ out of a story that had been a complete disaster from day one. For his part, Holyrod quite enjoyed the attention, using this platform to argue that the MoD had seriously underestimated the task in hand, i.e. fighting the enemy. The tone of his interviews became more and more downbeat as he contemplated ‘the big picture’. After telling a very nice girl from the Sunday Express that ‘the whole thing’s gone to rats’, he was hauled back to London ‘for discussions’. His return to the front line was then cut short when he was caught on camera berating the Foreign Secretary, who was in the middle of a four-hour tour of the troops, about the lack of support from politicians back home for ‘his boys’.
Of course, the media had lapped it all up. Opinion polls suggested that Holyrod’s approval ratings were in the high eighties. No politician could live with him. The major’s window of opportunity had arrived. Now he had to decide what to do with it. It was at this point that the leader of the Opposition, Edgar Carlton MP, persuaded his old Cambridge University pal (and brother-in-law, for Christian had married Edgar’s sister, Sophia, some eight years earlier) to run for election as Mayor of London.
So it came to pass that Holyrod resigned from the Army, swapping his fatigues for a selection of very sharp Richard James suits. After six months campaigning under the party slogan Change that keeps changing he won a landslide victory, thus providing a template for Edgar Carlton’s first national government, which duly followed less than two years later.
It was during Edgar’s victorious General Election campaign that Carlyle had first come across both men. It was a nasty case, involving the deaths of several of their friends. With their stellar careers to protect, Carlton and Holyrod did not want the reason for the killings to be made public. All too predictably, the Metropolitan Police was no match for their united front. Although the case itself was nominally solved, the truth – or rather, the underlying facts of the case – never saw the light of day.
Having seen off this particular threat, the two men seemed to have cemented their political relationship. But the alliance was beginning to show signs of wear and tear. In Westminster village, Christian Holyrod was quickly identified as Edgar Carlton’s obvious successor and, therefore, his de facto rival.
Turning all this over in his head, Carlyle felt the familiar stab of anger and frustration that came when he thought about cases with too many loose ends. He remained deeply unhappy about what had happened, and still fretted over whether he could have dealt with it better. Above all, he still felt irritated at his inability to close the case properly, lay all the facts on the table and let all the principals take responsibility for their actions. As the investigation had reached its conclusion, Carlyle had attempted to pressure Holyrod into at least acknowledging what had taken place. But the Mayor was not going to be browbeaten by a lowly policeman, and he stood his ground.
A lowly policeman.
That was what rankled as much as anything. Being treated like the hired help. A gamma male who had stumbled into an alpha world.
One of the little people.
Well, now their paths had crossed again. Maybe belatedly there would be a chance to settle the score.
Frowning, the inspector leaned over the railing and looked down at the small crowd. Holyrod was speaking from notes written on pieces of card: ‘Britain and Chile are two countries sharing a belief in fairness, democracy and freedom . . .’ He paused, waiting for the smattering of polite applause which duly followed.
Carlyle yawned and glanced at his watch.
This evening, however, Holyrod chose to keep his remarks mercifully brief. After barely two minutes, he signed off with a reference to ‘our long-standing political, social and military links with Chile’, and invited his guests back to London to attend a conference called TEMPO, which was taking place in September. Acknowledging the further applause, he handed the microphone over to the Ambassador.
Being a diplomat rather than a politician, Claudio Orb’s remarks were even shorter and blander that those of Christian Holyrod. As the Ambassador stepped away from the microphone, to exactly the same applause as his host, Carlyle began making his way down towards the throng.
The free bar must have been closed before the speeches had started, because the place had pretty much cleared in the forty seconds or so that it took the inspector to descend the stairs. Passing the guests heading out, he made straight for the Mayor, who was still in discussion with the Ambassador and another man by the front of the stage.
Fixing a big smile on his face, Carlyle stepped up to Holyrod with his hand outstretched. ‘Mr Mayor,’ he said warmly, gratified to see that the former soldier had put on quite a few pounds. The extra weight didn’t suit him, for it looked as if he had gone in age from thirty-five to fifty-five in about twelve months. ‘How very nice to see you again.’
Holyrod broke off from his discussion and looked up. Recognising the policeman, he fought to keep a look of displeasure off his face. ‘Inspector . . .’ He shook Carlyle’s hand firmly, trying to step away from his guests at the same time. But Carlyle had deliberately boxed him in and he had no alternative but to remain at Orb’s side.
‘. . . Carlyle,’ he prompted. ‘Inspector John Carlyle, from Charing Cross police station.’
Holyrod scanned some interesting spot in the middle distance. ‘Yes, yes, of course.’
‘Nice speech,’ said Carlyle, looking at the Ambassador.
‘Thank you,’ Holyrod replied, even more concerned now lest he become Carlyle’s quarry.
Still grinning like an idiot, Carlyle returned his gaze to the Mayor. ‘I thought perhaps you could introduce us?’
‘Ah, yes,’ said Holyrod, looking unhappier by the second. ‘Mr Ambassador,’ he said stiffly, ‘this is Inspector John Carlyle of the Metropolitan Police.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Inspector.’ Claudio Orb extended a hand and flashed the smile of a man who had nothing to fear from London’s finest. He was a t
rim, dapper man in an elegant three-piece navy suit, white shirt and bright red tie. About 5 feet 8 inches, with a shock of white hair and bright blue eyes, he looked to be well into his seventies. I hope I age that well, Carlyle thought, knowing that it was extremely unlikely. He glanced at the much younger man standing next to Orb. At most in his late thirties, the guy looked fit and tanned. He had the most well-tended beard that Carlyle had ever seen. He made no attempt to introduce himself, so Carlyle, writing him off as some flunky, quickly returned his full attention to the Ambassador. ‘I was wondering if I could have a few minutes of your time, sir,’ he asked in his most deferential tone, ignoring the baleful glare coming from Holyrod.
‘Of course!’ Orb’s eyes twinkled with delight. Carlyle wondered if the Ambassador had had a few; maybe he was even a little drunk. ‘It would be my pleasure to help the police with their enquiries.’ He nodded to the others. ‘Excuse us, gentlemen.’ He took Carlyle’s elbow and began marching him back up the walkway, in the direction from which he had arrived. ‘Why don’t we step outside for a minute. I could do with some air.’
Out on the vast empty terrace, Carlyle felt the cool breeze from the river on his face and realised how stuffy it had been inside.
‘What a pleasant evening,’ Orb said, holding on to the rail and inhaling deeply. ‘It’s nice to enjoy some fresh air, is it not?’
‘Or as near to fresh as it gets in London,’ Carlyle replied.
‘Hah!’ The older man grinned. ‘You should try Santiago sometime.’ He looked the policeman up and down. ‘Have you ever been to Chile, Inspector?’
‘No.’
‘Ah, you should. It’s well worth a visit. I know I’m biased, but it’s a great country.’
‘Maybe one day.’ Carlyle shrugged.
‘So . . . what can I do for you?’ the Ambassador continued cheerily. ‘Ask and you shall receive, as they say. I’m already in your debt for saving me from your Mayor, if only for a short time.’