Never Apologise, Never Explain

by James Craig

  ‘I will pass the message on,’ Helen said coolly. She picked up some papers that were lying on the floor. ‘They were targeting a company called LAHC.’

  ‘Which stands for?’

  Helen quickly scanned the text. ‘I don’t know. It was reportedly using men and equipment, paid for by British money, as so-called private security guards. Some of those guards are accused of human rights violations.’

  ‘I get accused of human rights violations,’ Carlyle snorted, ‘on a fairly regular basis.’

  ‘Not including murder,’ Helen said bluntly. ‘This isn’t a laughing matter.’

  ‘I was just—’ Before he could finish his sentence, she dropped the sheaf of papers into his lap, restoring the television’s sound just as her programme resumed.

  If anything, the stripper’s bikini seemed to have shrunk during the commercial break. Her nipples, meanwhile, seemed to have grown massively. Through great force of will, Carlyle managed to tear his eyes away from the screen and scan the documents that Helen had handed him. Much of the material was in Spanish, but one thing he could read was a Daughters of Dismas press release entitled Time To Act Against Iraq Mercenaries. Keeping one eye on the stripper’s tits, Carlyle scanned the text. Mercenary recruitment agencies are sending former soldiers to Iraq . . . human rights abuses . . . unauthorised use of Army weaponry . . . assault . . . murder. He read on: American private security companies who recruit guards at the request of the US government to send into armed conflict zones, to protect strategic installations and military convoys, tend to subcontract to South American firms like LAHC Consulting. The owner of LAHC is Gomez Gori, a retired admiral of the Chilean navy who played a leading role in overthrowing the democratically elected Chilean government in 1973.

  Gomez Gori? Well, well, well. At that very moment, however, Tizzy McDee stepped into a shower. Her bikini became transparent and he completely lost his train of thought.

  It took him several minutes to return to his reading. The only other item in English was a newspaper cutting from a year earlier:

  IRAQ: CHILEAN MERCENARIES IN THE LINE OF FIRE

  by Daniel Franklin

  SANTIAGO, 9 March (CNW) The 150 former members of the Chilean military who are working as private security personnel in Iraq are potential targets of the resistance there, as indicated by the gruesome murders of three security contractors a week ago.

  The former Chilean commandos are reported to work for the US Central Intelligence Agency (CIA). They are hired by private military firms that are benefiting from the lucrative contracts for the stabilisation and reconstruction of Iraq financed by the United States at an average monthly cost of four billion dollars.

  Last November, a discreet ad was placed in the Chilean newspaper El Mercurio inviting ex-commandos who could speak English, to sign up to provide security services abroad at the tempting pay of 18,000 dollars for just six months’ work.

  The ad, placed by LAHC, awakened the interest of at least 400 Marines and ‘Black Berets’ – the Chilean army’s special operations forces who retired early in the past few years.

  The recruitment effort in Chile included a pre-selection of 400 men, who then participated in military exercises in San Bernardo, south of Santiago. That annoyed the Defence Ministry, which ordered an investigation into possible violations of Chile’s law on weapons control.

  LAHC finally selected 150 men who underwent training in the United States, after which they were sent to Kuwait, and from there to Iraq.

  American media outlets have reported that the United States has hired retired members of the Chilean army who served under former dictator Augusto Pinochet (1973–90), as well as former henchmen of South Africa’s apartheid regime to serve as soldiers of fortune in Iraq.

  The private military industry is growing around the world, fed by local wars that are providing employment opportunities for former military personnel who found themselves out of a job, especially in Eastern Europe, when the Cold War came to an end. The 150 Chileans now in Iraq also form part of those displaced from active duty by a plan for the modernisation of the armed forces. Current army chiefs have carried out a discreet but effective purge, forcing into retirement officers and non-commissioned officers who played a role in the dictatorship’s repression, in which some 3,000 people were killed or ‘disappeared’.

  At the top of the story was a photograph of three soldiers, standing in front of a battered jeep. They looked as if they were somewhere in a desert, but the location wasn’t specified. Each was smiling while brandishing an automatic weapon that looked like something out of a Terminator movie.

  Carlyle studied the photo carefully. None of these men was Matias Gori, but each of them was wearing what looked like a small badge. It was impossible to make it out clearly, but the motif could include a dagger, the same or similar to the one on the pin Matias had worn at the cemetery.

  ‘I told you!’ Helen punched the air in triumph.

  ‘What?’

  ‘He’s off.’ She pointed at the screen.

  Carlyle turned back to the television. Fireworks were going off and Luke Osgood, dressed in a T-shirt and shorts, was walking across a swaying bridge and out of his jungle camp, after having been voted off the show.

  ‘I told you he wouldn’t win,’ Helen grinned, giving him a gentle poke with her foot. ‘Why don’t you go and make me a cup of tea?’

  When he returned a few minutes later with a cup of peppermint tea, the celebrity nonsense had ended, giving way to the late-evening news bulletin. Carlyle half-watched the end of a story about an earthquake in the Philippines or somewhere, and was just on his way to bed when an image of Rosanna Snowdon appeared on the screen.

  He plonked himself back on the sofa, next to his wife as the newsreader solemnly delivered the commentary: ‘Simon Lovell, the man accused of murdering television presenter Rosanna Snowdon, was freed today after a preliminary hearing at which the judge ruled that his confession had been obtained under duress.’

  The programme then cut to a clip of one of Lovell’s lawyers, a hard-looking woman called Abigail Slater: ‘My client is delighted by the decision made at today’s hearing. The police have no evidence putting Mr Lovell at the scene of the alleged crime on the night in question, other than a forced confession which would never stand up at a full trial. All Mr Lovell wants to do now is to resume a normal, quiet life.’

  ‘Fat chance,’ Carlyle muttered.

  ‘Where does that leave the investigation into Rosanna’s death?’ Helen asked.

  ‘Nowhere, as far as I know,’ Carlyle sighed. ‘They don’t have anything else. Lovell was their only suspect.’

  ‘So why did they pick on that poor guy?’

  ‘They didn’t pick on him,’ Carlyle said testily, for some reason feeling the need to play Devil’s Advocate. ‘He confessed. What else were they supposed to do?’

  ‘Do you think he did it?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘Will they find the killer?’

  Carlyle finally found the strength to push himself off the sofa and head in the direction of his bed. ‘I wouldn’t bet on it,’ he yawned.

  ‘That poor woman,’ Helen said. ‘She deserved better.’

  ‘Yes,’ Carlyle agreed. ‘She did.’

  THIRTY-TWO

  ‘Your dead friend is here.’

  Carlyle had been lingering over lunch at Il Buffone when he took a call from Dave Prentice who had returned to his normal location behind the front desk at Charing Cross police station.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Prentice laughed, ‘it looks like he’s settling in for a nice long rest. Assuming he doesn’t shit himself, I’ll leave him in peace.’

  ‘Thanks, Dave. I’ll be about ten minutes.’ The inspector returned to the story he had been reading from that morning’s paper, entitled sex swap police scandal. It was about public funding for the National Trans Police Association, which helped officers with ‘gender identity issues’. Carlyle had never heard of it. Some ren
t-a-quote MP, whom he had never heard of either, complained: ‘I don’t care if a police officer is gay, straight, trans-gender or whatever. I just want them to catch criminals.’ Good luck with that, Carlyle chuckled to himself as he handed the paper back to Marcello and paid for his lunch.

  Outside, it was a beautiful afternoon and he took his time sauntering back to work. Approaching Jubilee Hall, he felt a stab of guilt; it had been almost a week since he’d visited the gym, which wasn’t good enough at his age. On Dennis Felix’s old pitch, he passed a busker playing a dire rendition of Abba’s ‘Fernando’, to a dozen or so bored-looking tourists. He wondered briefly what had happened to the poor sod and his anthrax-infested bongos. In the nearby snack van, a boy was handing over an ice cream to an expectant child. Of Kylie – the only person on the planet who had appeared upset at Dennis’s demise – there was no sign. It’s that kind of place, Carlyle thought. People come, people go.

  When he got to the station, Walter Poonoosamy, aka ‘Dog’, was found in familiar pose, slumped in a corner of the waiting room, snoring loudly. Resplendent in a pair of tartan trousers and a newish-looking Prodigy T-shirt (the latter doubtless nicked from the local Oxfam shop on Drury Lane), he was cradling an almost empty vodka bottle in his arms, as if it was a baby. For once, he didn’t seem to smell too bad, although he was still some way short of fragrant. Keeping a reasonable distance, Carlyle prodded him awake. Slowly, Dog opened his eyes. Sitting up slightly, he stared at the inspector. A flicker of recognition crept across his face and then he closed his eyes again. The snoring resumed immediately, if anything, louder than it had been before.

  This time, Carlyle gave him a quick punch on the shoulder.

  ‘Ouch!’ Dog immediately sat bolt upright, rubbing his arm. ‘What did you do that for?’

  ‘Wakey, wakey.’ Carlyle waved a hand in front of the drunk’s face, making sure he had his full attention. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

  A kind of grin appeared on Dog’s face. ‘That would be nice.’

  Squatting down, Carlyle fished a couple of pound coins out of his pocket and held them up for Dog to inspect. More than enough for a cup of tea. Even better, enough for a can of Special Brew from the newsagents round the corner – if the owner was up for a little haggling. ‘Take a look at something for me first, and then I’ll give you the cash.’

  Dog gave a grunt of what Carlyle was happy to deem assent. The inspector quickly pulled a folded sheet of A4 paper from the inside pocket of his jacket. On it was printed a rather old and grainy picture of Matias Gori that Orb’s office had emailed him. It wasn’t great, but the key thing was that Gori still had his beard. ‘Was this the man you saw hanging out at the back of Ridgemount Mansions?’ he asked. ‘The guy who gave you the dodgy note?’

  Dog looked at the picture for a few seconds, eyes glazing over as he did his familiar impersonation of a man trying very hard to concentrate.

  ‘Was that the man who gave you the thousand-peso note?’

  Mock concentration gave way to genuine confusion on Dog’s face. ‘Huh?’

  ‘The man who gave you the money that didn’t work?’

  There was a vague flicker of recognition in Dog’s face. ‘Maybe.’

  Come on, Carlyle thought, frustration rising in his throat. Come on, you stupid bastard, think – just this once. He tried to hand the drunk the picture, but he wouldn’t take it. ‘Walter . . .’

  ‘Excuse me.’ The woman’s voice, timid and polite, came from somewhere behind him. ‘Are you Inspector Carlyle?’

  Carlyle didn’t look up. ‘In a minute,’ he replied rudely, still waving the picture at Dog.

  The voice came a step closer. ‘I was told that you wanted to see me.’ Less timid now in the face of his rudeness.

  ‘In a minute,’ I said.

  A hand appeared and took the picture from the inspector’s hand. ‘I know this man.’

  Trying to keep his annoyance in check, Carlyle stood up and found himself in front of a tired-looking redhead in her thirties. ‘Yes?’

  Looking at least a few kilos light of healthy, the woman was conservatively dressed in a white blouse and a navy knee-length skirt. She held out a hand and he shook it. ‘I’m Monica Hartson.’

  He looked back at her blankly.

  ‘Daughters of Dismas,’ she added. ‘I’m a friend of Agatha Mills and Sandra Groves.’

  ‘Ah.’

  She handed him back the picture. ‘One of the people trying to finally bring Matias Gori to justice.’

  ‘Mm.’ Carlyle held out the two quid and dropped it into Dog’s hand. ‘How did you get my name?’

  ‘After the episode on the bus,’ Hartson explained, ‘you are well known amongst the group.’

  Fame at last, Carlyle thought.

  ‘I got a message saying I should speak to you.’

  ‘Thanks for coming.’ Standing back, Carlyle watched the tramp struggle to his feet and shuffle towards the door. ‘Not bad for a dead man,’ he grinned.

  ‘What?’ Hartson eyed him quizzically.

  ‘Nothing,’ Carlyle said quickly. ‘Thanks for coming in. Let’s go and have a chat upstairs.’

  For once, the air conditioning was working. The fourth-floor meeting room was decidedly chilly, just the way he liked it. Declining a cup of coffee, Hartson pulled a small bottle of water from her shoulder bag and took a delicate sip.

  Carlyle toyed with his espresso but didn’t take a drink. ‘So,’ he said casually, ‘tell me your story.’

  She thought about that for a second, then looked at him, nonplussed. ‘Where do you want me to start?’

  ‘How do you know Matias Gori?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know him,’ she said carefully, ‘but I know about him.’

  Great, thought Carlyle, a pedant zealot, just what I need. ‘Okay, why are you interested in him?’

  Once again, she thought about where to start. Normally, Carlyle thought, that means they’re getting ready to lie to you. But in the case of Monica Hartson, he was sure she was just trying to be precise. ‘We have a campaign . . .’

  ‘The Daughters of Dismas?’

  ‘Yes. We have been campaigning against the use of mercenaries in places like Iraq.’ Rooting about in her bag, she pulled out a couple of flyers and pushed them across the table.

  Carlyle let them lie there. ‘Just tell me in your own words first.’

  ‘Well, we have this campaign . . . we are particularly focusing on mercenaries who were being funded by British taxpayers’ money.’

  ‘LA . . . something . . .’

  ‘LAHC, yes.’ She seemed to relax slightly, buoyed by the hope that the policeman might be at least a little informed. ‘The initials come from Luis Alberto Hurtado Cruchaga. Father Hurtardo was a Jesuit priest who was made a saint by the Pope a few years ago.’

  ‘So,’ Carlyle said, unable to resist teasing her gently, ‘these people have a religious background, like you?’

  ‘Not really,’ she said evenly, not rising to the bait. ‘LAHC has nothing to do with the Church, and it certainly has nothing to do with social reform. It is an American-registered company, but essentially owned and run by a group of rich Chileans with connections to the military. They take former commandoes and other special forces, and use British aid money to pay their wages.’

  ‘And that’s how you came across Gori?’

  ‘Yes. Gori is former Chilean Special Forces, from the thirteenth Commando Group, known as the Scorpions. His uncle is also the founder of LAHC. After the Scorpions, Matias became,’ she raised her fingers in the air to indicate quotation marks, ‘a “diplomat”. But he has very close ties to the mercenaries, some of whom he served with in the army.’

  She glanced at Carlyle, who signalled for her to go on. ‘He has even gone out on missions with them. One of these missions, to a town called Ishaqi, north of Baghdad, ended up with the massacre of more than fifty men, women and children. According to witness reports, Matias Gori killed as many as a dozen of t
hem himself. When we found out that he was working in London, we tried to get him arrested so that he could be tried either here or in Iraq or maybe at the War Crimes Tribunal at The Hague.’

  Carlyle took a sip of his espresso. ‘And?’

  Hartson looked angry. ‘Our lawyers say we need more evidence. That is why we tried to confront him directly.’

  Oh, oh, Carlyle thought, the Women’s Institute takes on Rambo. Excellent idea. ‘When was this?’

  ‘Earlier this month there was a demonstration. We marched to the Embassy and lodged a petition with the Ambassador, asking for Gori to be handed over to the police for questioning.’

  ‘And what did the Ambassador say?’

  ‘We’re still waiting for a reply.’

  ‘And now two of you are dead.’

  She looked at him blankly.

  Shit, Carlyle thought, too late to sugar-coat the pill now. ‘Agatha and Sandra were both murdered; didn’t you know?’

  The tears were already welling up in her eyes as she absorbed this shocking news. Carlyle made no attempt to comfort her, but gave her time to compose herself before he began running through a quick summary of the relevant events.

  By the time he had finished, Hartson had largely regained her calm. ‘I’ve been away for a while,’ she explained. ‘I only got back to London yesterday.’

  That may well have saved your life, Carlyle reflected.

  ‘Do you think,’ her voice quivered a little, ‘that Gori killed them?’

  ‘Maybe.’ Carlyle said. ‘I think so.’

  Monica looked at him carefully. ‘Can you prove it?’

  He smiled grimly. ‘That’s not the question.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said shakily. ‘What is?’

  ‘The question is – will I have to?’

  ‘I’m not sure I understand.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Will he come after me?’

  Yes. ‘Maybe.’

  She ran her hands through her hair and shivered. ‘Will I be safe?’

  Maybe. ‘Yes.’