Never Apologise, Never Explain

by James Craig

  ‘What do you think about all that?’ Carlyle probed.

  ‘About what?’ Gori resumed his leisurely pace back towards the front gate.

  ‘About what happened to her brother?’

  ‘Her brother!’ Gori snorted. ‘Isn’t that the whole point, Inspector? No one knows what happened to him.’

  ‘But there will be a trial?’ Carlyle replied almost casually.

  ‘Perhaps.’ Gori did a little quickstep dance on the tarmac, gesticulating with his hands in front of his face. ‘But, after all this time, how can anyone hope to get to the truth?’

  ‘So you think it’s a waste of time?’

  Realising that he was giving too much away, Gori quickly got his body language back under control. ‘It’s nothing to do with me, Inspector. The legal process will take its course.’

  ‘But you must have a view?’

  Gori sighed theatrically. ‘For what it’s worth, I think that one should always look forwards, rather than back.’

  How very convenient, Carlyle thought. ‘Were you involved in what happened back then?’

  ‘In 1973?’ Gori frowned. ‘I was barely two years old.’

  ‘But your family?’ Carlyle persisted.

  ‘Not really.’

  Not really? It was a yes or no question, Carlyle thought angrily.

  ‘No more so than anyone else,’ Gori added. ‘Anyway, as I said, we are the kind of people who look to the future, Inspector. We do not wallow in the vagaries of the barely remembered past.’

  They reached the front gate. It was starting to rain again, and Carlyle faced a long walk down Cedar Road in search of a bus stop. Gori pulled something out of his pocket and aimed it at the gleaming grey Mercedes sports car parked on a double yellow line across the road. The car beeped noisily as the doors unlocked. ‘I would offer you a lift, Inspector,’ he said, glancing at the leaden skies, ‘but I’m going the opposite way.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ replied Carlyle through gritted teeth as he felt a fat raindrop land directly on the crown of his head. He forced what he hoped was something approaching a nonchalant grin onto his face. ‘One last thing, though?’

  ‘Yes?’ said Gori, stepping quickly over towards his car.

  ‘Do you know a woman called Sandra Groves?’

  In one fluid movement, Gori pulled open the car door and slid inside. He looked past Carlyle as if wishing for the heavens to open up completely. An increasingly rapid procession of raindrops bounced off the windshield and he licked his lips. ‘No,’ he said finally. ‘Should I?’

  ‘No,’ said Carlyle, getting ready to beat a hasty retreat to the gatehouse. ‘Thank you for your time. And give the Ambassador my regards.’

  But Gori had already slammed the car door shut and put the car into gear. As Carlyle watched the Mercedes pull away, the rain became heavier. Within seconds, he was soaked to the skin. Giving up the search for shelter, he began slowly walking down the road.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Sitting in her office on the twelfth floor of the ugly 1960s office block that was invariably described as ‘Britain’s most intimidating police station’, Commander Carole Simpson held her head in her hands as she fought back the urge to burst into tears. Things were not going according to plan. Without doubt, this was turning into the worst day of her life.

  In the basement below, one of her assistants was giving a small group of select journalists a guided tour of the station’s special cells for terrorist suspects, which had just been refurbished at a cost of half a million pounds. With brown paper lining the walls – to ensure that suspects would not come into contact with anything that they could later claim contaminated them – and facilities for watching films and listening to music, this project had been Simpson’s baby. She had managed it well, and today was supposed to see her reward for getting the work finished on time and (more or less) on budget, as well as her putting up with all the moaning from anti-Terror officers that these new arrangements were too luxurious for some of Britain’s most wanted criminals.

  Never shy when it came to personal publicity, Simpson had been looking forward for several weeks to another all-too-fleeting moment in the media spotlight. The Commander had come to understand that she had to work hard for her ‘share of voice’ in the media, and no opportunity to promote the personal Simpson brand could be passed up. Building a profile was essential if she was to keep climbing up the Met hierarchy. All through her career, she had seen journalists as allies.

  Not any more.

  Now she was shark chum.

  That morning, just before 6 a.m., she had been rudely awakened by a couple of burly, unshaven men hammering on the front door of her Highgate home. Always a light sleeper, Simpson jumped out of bed, cursing her husband, who was happily snoring away. Pulling back the curtains, she opened the window and stuck her head out.

  ‘Bugger off,’ she shouted, ‘or I’ll call the police.’

  ‘We are the police, madam,’ one of the men had smirked up at her; his tone all the more galling given that he had to know exactly who she was.

  She hadn’t realised it at the time, but the officers had a camera crew and a couple of newspaper journalists in tow. The first copy was already being filed, the first pictures transmitted down the wires, as Simpson went downstairs and sheepishly opened the front door. She was in the process of being done up like a kipper.

  Forty-five minutes later, she was again standing on the doorstep, nursing a mug of black coffee, as she watched her husband, now in handcuffs, being bundled into the back of a black Range Rover by one of the officers. The other was busy loading cardboard boxes full of documents into the car boot. Earlier she had watched in disbelief as Joshua was informed of his rights and told he was being arrested on suspicion of conspiracy to defraud.

  ‘Get me the lawyer,’ was the only thing he had said to her, before they led him out of the house.

  Now, more than six hours later, the enormity of the mess she was in was becoming painfully clear. The front page of the evening paper’s website had a picture of Carole and Joshua posing on their wedding day – where on earth had they got that from? – under a headline that screamed TOP COP’S HUSBAND ARRESTED FOR £650M PONZI SCAM. Joshua was dubbed ‘the British Bernie Madoff’, after the disgraced American financier who had been given 150 years in prison for masterminding a £30 billion fraud that had wiped out thousands of investors.

  Simpson finished reading the story and winced. The way the piece read, she herself had to be either a knowing accomplice or a complete fool for not noticing what was going on right under her nose. She placed her palms flat on the desk and tried some deep breathing. Next to her right hand lay a single sheet of A4 with a statement typed on it, running to just a couple of paragraphs. It hadn’t yet been picked up on by the denizens of the worldwide web, but the Met had at least managed to put out a press release stating that the commander herself was in no way suspected of any wrongdoing and that she would continue to perform her duties.

  Simpson thought about that for a moment. How had they managed to come to such a definitive conclusion about her so quickly? Simpson didn’t want to think about it. Both she and Joshua must have been under long-term surveillance in the run-up to his arrest. The buggers would have gone through everything – bank statements, phone records, emails – with a fine-tooth comb.

  With a trembling hand, she picked up the statement and read it again. As messages of support went, it was as much as she could hope for right now. In the longer term, she knew that her career was over. So far today there had been precisely zero messages of support from any of the higher-ups. The only call had come from Human Resources, offering her some ‘compassionate leave’. Simpson snorted at the thought. What kind of mug did they take her for? Once they got her out the door it would be hard, maybe even impossible, to get back in. The leave would drift into (very) early retirement or, worse, a posting to some hopeless Community Liaison job in some shitty part of the capital.

  Drumming her
fingers on the desk, the Commander tried to force herself to think. The family lawyer, a former Government prosecutor called John Lucas who charged an astonishing £800 an hour, was currently meeting with Joshua at Kentish Town police station (at least they hadn’t brought him here, to Paddington!). Once that was over, Simpson would need to speak to Lucas in order to get a full debriefing. In the meantime she could only wait.

  At no time did it cross her mind that Joshua might be innocent. Now it was all about the process. In her head Simpson could hear the gears of the system grinding into action. For the first time in her life, she was on the wrong side of the law. She felt chilled and helpless.

  Slowly, the shock gave way to frustration and anger at her husband. As she had feared, Joshua had been laid low by a toxic mixture of his greed and his hubris. It was that letter, she thought, that bloody letter: Farewell, you suckers! Full of arrogance and spite, it had been good for a couple of amusing diary stories in the Financial Times, but ultimately served only to annoy some very important investors, the kind of people who could bring you down. Carole felt the tears begin to well up again. If Joshua really thought he could close his business down and get out without anyone realising that there was a huge black hole, he must have been crazy. Then again, he must have been crazy to create the black hole in the first place.

  When the phone rang, it made her jump. She let it ring until it stopped. A few seconds later, her secretary, a temp who had started only the day before, nervously stuck her head round the door.

  ‘Commander? It’s the Mayor on the phone,’ the girl said, ploughing on in the face of her boss’s apparent catatonia. ‘He says he wants a word. It sounds quite important.’

  Without waiting for a reply, the girl disappeared. A couple of seconds later, the phone started ringing again. Simpson slowly picked up the receiver. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Carole?’

  Simpson forced herself to sit up straight in her chair. ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s Christian Holyrod.’

  She tried to think back to the last time they’d met. It was less than a fortnight ago at City Hall, at a reception followed by a fundraising dinner. Joshua had spent a ridiculous amount of money for their table. Holyrod had been very amiable to them that night, talking about his plans to move into national politics. He had even hinted – hinted heavily once he got stuck into the Scotch – about his plans for a long-awaited assault on Downing Street. He outlined his ‘medium-term campaign strategy’ for replacing Edgar Carlton as Prime Minister, but it was clearly becoming more short-term all the time. The party had been in government for a while now, and support was waning. Holyrod was not the only one with his eyes on the top job. Diehards like Joshua – rich supporters who could bankroll a leadership bid – were more courted than ever as rival factions prepared for battle.

  All that seemed a very long time ago now. ‘Yes, Mr Mayor?’ she sniffed. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘Look, Carole, I’m very sorry to hear about this . . . thing with Joshua.’ Holyrod sounded embarrassed and distracted; there were voices in the background, as if he was at a lunch. ‘I’m sure that it is just a misunderstanding – a malicious complaint.’

  ‘Let’s hope so.’

  ‘I’m sure it is,’ Holyrod said soothingly. ‘You know what it’s like these days. Everyone’s hypersensitive about the least suggestion of anything whiffy. We’re just copying the Americans in that, like we do in all things. Any over-zealous investigator out there is constantly looking for the next big scalp.’

  ‘That man in America got a hundred and fifty years,’ Simpson whispered, trying to choke back a sudden sob. ‘A hundred and fifty!’

  ‘Yes, well,’ the Mayor replied, ‘that won’t happen here. I know that Joshua is as straight as they come.’

  I wish I did, thought Simpson. ‘Thank you.’

  The noise in the background died away as Holyrod apparently sought out a quiet corner. ‘I invested some money with him myself,’ he mused.

  Past tense, Simpson noted.

  ‘He looked after me very nicely,’ the Mayor continued.

  So that’s what you’re worried about, Simpson thought; the idea that this could come back and bite you on the bum. ‘That’s good.’

  ‘Yes, I was bit surprised when he decided to call it a day, but there’s nothing wrong with quitting while you’re ahead. More people should do so, in fact.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Anyway, give him my best when you speak to him.’

  ‘I will. Thank you.’

  ‘And if there is anything I can do to help, let me know.’

  ‘I will.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘There was one other thing that I wanted to talk to you about,’ the Mayor said.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Mrs Agatha Mills.’

  Given the day’s events, Simpson took more than a moment to place the name.

  ‘The lady who lived near the British Museum,’ the Mayor prompted gently.

  ‘The woman bludgeoned to death by her husband?’

  ‘That’s the one,’ Holyrod said quickly. ‘Where are you with that business? Has the investigation been completed? Is the case closed?’

  Simpson didn’t care to admit that she didn’t know. She quickly focused on what she did know. ‘The husband clearly did it. Then he walked out in front of a car – or rather, a van if I remember rightly.’ As the words came out, she felt a chill. Joshua had to be under at least as much stress as Henry Mills had been. Could he react in a similar way? No, she reassured herself. Whatever else happened, he wasn’t the kind of man to try and kill himself. She was sure of that. Fairly sure, at least.

  She snapped out of her reverie. ‘The case is closed.’

  ‘Good,’ the Mayor said cheerily. ‘Would it be possible to see a copy of the final report?’

  ‘Well . . .’ The last thing Simpson needed right now was to be discovered playing fast and loose with official police files.

  ‘Discretion assured, of course.’

  She thought it through a little more. What the hell, it wasn’t as if the hole she was already in could get any deeper. Maybe some goodwill in the Mayor’s office could be helpful in the coming weeks. ‘Of course. I’ll get something sent over.’

  ‘Thank you,’ the Mayor replied. ‘And be sure to give my best to Joshua.’

  The line went dead before she could reply. Simpson carefully returned the handset to its cradle. Why was the Mayor so interested in the Mills case? And why hadn’t she yet seen a copy of the final report herself? Getting up from the desk, she stepped out of her office, surprising her secretary who was engrossed in a copy of some wretched celebrity magazine. Simpson raised her eyebrows at the headline – summer liposuction special – but didn’t comment. The secretary dropped the magazine into her bag and looked up expectantly.

  Simpson tried to summon up her usual authoritative tone. ‘Get me Inspector Carlyle on the phone.’

  THIRTY

  Looking like a drowned rat, Carlyle had gone straight home from the cemetery. After a hot shower, some fresh clothes and lunch at Il Buffone, he felt much better, both mentally and physically, but without any real desire to venture towards the station. Ordering a second double macchiato to prolong his stay in the café, he felt his phone start to vibrate. Seeing that the call was from his sergeant, he answered.

  ‘Have you seen the paper?’ Joe began excitedly, sounding like a naughty schoolboy in possession of his first porn mag.

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘The Standard.’

  ‘Hold on a second.’ Carlyle turned to Marcello, the only other person still in the café at this late time. ‘Have you got tonight’s paper yet?’

  ‘Certo.’ Wiping his hands on a tea towel, Marcello stepped into the small alcove behind the counter, which served as both kitchen and storeroom, before returning immediately with a folded copy of the newspaper.

  ‘Thanks.’ Carlyle scanned the headline and brought the phone back to his ear.


  ‘Spurs set for another good season?’

  ‘No, you idiot,’ Joe hissed. ‘The front page!’

  Carlyle flipped the paper over and felt his jaw drop to the floor. He stared at it all in disbelief for a couple of seconds: Simpson’s wedding picture, the glaring headline, the mundane yet lurid details of her husband’s arrest. ‘Fucking hell!’

  ‘Indeed,’ Joe giggled. ‘I spoke to a mate of mine in the Financial Crimes Unit, who says that Joshua Hunt, Mr Carole Simpson, is bang to rights.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘The guy hasn’t even tried to deny it. Have you ever met him?’

  ‘Nah.’ Carlyle thought about it for a moment. ‘At least, not as far as I remember.’

  ‘Well, it looks like he’s going down for a long time.’

  ‘Shit . . . what about Simpson herself?’

  ‘The Met has already put out a statement saying that it is nothing to do with her.’

  ‘But he’s her husband!’ Carlyle protested.

  ‘Other people’s marriages,’ Joe remarked philosophically. ‘Who knows what goes on behind closed doors. Maybe they were living separate lives.’

  Carlyle looked back down at the story in front of him. ‘In a six-million-pound North London mansion?’

  ‘It’s got to be big enough for the two of them to have their own living arrangements.’

  ‘They were happily married, as far as I know,’ the inspector mused.

  ‘Who knows what was going on?’ Joe continued. ‘Even if everything was all hunky-dory between them, how much would you expect her to know about his financial dealings?’

  ‘If she was anything like Helen,’ Carlyle sighed, ‘she would know everything.’

  Joe laughed. ‘That’s your marriage.’

  ‘Humph.’

  ‘Seriously, though,’ Joe added, ‘whatever else we think about Simpson, she isn’t flash and she works hard at her job – a proper job too. Maybe she didn’t know anything about what he was up to.’