Time of Death

by James Craig

  ‘Iraq?’

  ‘Of course. We were strong supporters of the war on terror.’

  Carlyle sat up in his chair. ‘Can I talk to him?’

  ‘About your case?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, technically, he would be within his rights to decline to speak to the Metropolitan Police – diplomatic immunity and all that.’ Seeing that Carlyle was about to speak again, Orb held up his hand. ‘However, when I said the other day that I’m always happy to help the police with their enquiries, I meant it. If Señor Gori is happy to speak with you, then I would be happy to sanction such a conversation.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Orb made a gesture indicating that it was nothing. ‘But you understand that it has to be his decision.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Very good.’ Orb reached across his desk and pressed a button on the phone. ‘Claudia?’

  ‘Si, embajador?’ the secretary replied instantly.

  Orb looked at Carlyle. ‘In English, please.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Could you ask Matias Gori to come in here for a minute, please?’

  ‘I’m very sorry, sir. I don’t think Mr Gori is here at present.’

  Orb raised his eyebrows and a look of irritation clouded his face. ‘Do you know where he is?’

  ‘I will double-check with his assistant,’ the secretary replied, ‘but I’m fairly sure that he had a flight to Madrid this morning. He was going back to Santiago.’

  Orb sighed. ‘I see. Please check for me and let me know if that’s the case. And find out when he is due back in London.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Orb ended the call. ‘I’m sorry, Inspector,’ he said, pushing his chair away from the desk and getting to his feet. ‘It looks as if you are out of luck today.’

  Carlyle rose up and took a half-step towards the desk, hand outstretched. ‘Not a problem. Thank you for your help.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ smiled Orb, shaking his hand.

  Carlyle stood his ground, however, happy to push things a little further. ‘Maybe I could see Mr Gori when he gets back to London?’

  ‘Will the case still be open then?’

  ‘Perhaps, perhaps not. In the meantime, if he could call me from Santiago, that would be a help.’

  ‘I will see what I can do,’ Orb said, shuffling round the table and guiding Carlyle towards the door. ‘Now, sadly, I have a rather dull meeting to attend, so Claudia will show you out.’

  ‘Thank you again for your time.’

  ‘It’s nothing.’ Orb patted him on the shoulder. ‘Let me know how you get on. I find this kind of thing fascinating.’

  Back out on the street, watching the traffic snake erratically round Portman Square, Carlyle realised that the Embassy was little more than ten minutes’ walk from the Paddington offices of Avalon, the international medical aid charity where his wife worked as a senior administrative manager. Deciding to seize the moment, he headed up the Edgware Road and presented himself in front of a comatose-looking receptionist with a ring through her nose that made her look even uglier than she already was.

  After an extended discussion with Helen’s PA about whether Ms Kennedy would want to see her husband, nose-ring girl informed Carlyle that he should take a seat and his wife would be down in a minute. Almost twenty minutes later, she finally appeared, looking hassled and not particularly pleased to see him.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked suspiciously.

  ‘I was on business nearby,’ Carlyle said, raising himself out of the tatty faux-leather sofa. He set his jaw tight, determined to retain a cheery demeanour despite the grumpiness of his better half. ‘I thought we could grab some lunch.’

  ‘You could have called,’ she replied, hoisting an oversized sack-type bag bearing a logo he didn’t recognise on to her shoulder, before turning on her heel and heading for the revolving door leading to the street.

  ‘I guess that’s a “yes” then,’ Carlyle muttered sotto voce, as he followed at a safe distance.

  Once he had caught her up, they settled for a Mexican restaurant a brisk five-minute walk away, halfway between Paddington railway station and Hyde Park. The place was busy, but they had been here before and knew the service would be good. Confident that she could be in and out in forty-five minutes, Helen relaxed slightly. Once they had ordered a selection of quesadillas and enchiladas, she even managed a smile. ‘This is a nice surprise,’ she said, albeit belatedly, ‘particularly as you were home so late last night.’

  At least she didn’t say again, Carlyle thought as he nibbled on a tortilla chip. Concentrating on trying to stay in the happy zone, he didn’t really want to talk about his work, but he knew that wasn’t an option. Helen was not one of those women who could let her husband go off to work every day and not give a moment’s further thought to what he did or how he did it. She always kept track of what he was up to: his cases and, even more keenly, the endless cycle of the Met’s internal politics. In this regard, Carlyle knew that he was a very lucky chap. Now, more than ever, Helen was his main sounding-board and adviser. She was discreet, decisive and insightful, and he trusted her judgement completely.

  She looked at him expectantly, so Carlyle leaned across the table, keeping his voice low. He didn’t want the people at the next table – a couple of girls currently discussing different mobile-phone tariffs – tuning into their conversation. ‘It was quite a night . . .’ He smiled wanly, before going on to explain how Sandra Groves and Stuart Joyce had been executed while he was down the road munching an egg roll.

  He gave her the two-minute version, avoiding too many details that might put her off her lunch when it came. Even so, by the time he’d finished, Helen managed to look pale and angry at the same time. ‘Thank Christ you weren’t there!’ she hissed.

  But I was there, Carlyle thought. ‘What do you mean?’

  She picked a knife off the table and waved it in his general direction. ‘I mean, Inspector bloody Carlyle, that if you hadn’t gone off to get yourself something to eat, they’d have shot you as well.’

  They were just then interrupted by the arrival of the waitress with their food, which saved him from having to admit that he hadn’t thought of that.

  For a short while they ate in silence. After a couple of mouthfuls of enchilada, Helen seemed to have successfully overcome her shock at Carlyle’s near brush with death. ‘So why did that poor girl get shot?’ she asked.

  ‘Dunno,’ said Carlyle. ‘It’s not my case.’

  Helen daintily wiped the corners of her mouth with a napkin. ‘If it’s not your case,’ she said finally, ‘then why were you at the hospital?’

  ‘Well . . .’ Once again, Carlyle gave her the short version: a quick explanation about the Daughters of Dismas, and his idea about a possible connection between Agatha Mills and Sandra Groves. ‘The boyfriend said that they had some old-timers in their group; the kind of people who had been campaigning against all this sort of stuff for decades.’ He smiled meekly. ‘The kind of people who used to go to Greenham Common.’

  ‘There was nothing wrong with going to Greenham,’ Helen said tartly. ‘I did it myself, after all.’

  Carlyle sat back in his chair and held up a hand. ‘I know, I know.’

  ‘And if I’d come across you on the front line, I wouldn’t have fancied your chances.’

  Me neither, Carlyle thought.

  ‘I’m glad I had the spirit to do that,’ Helen continued. ‘I hope Alice has it about her too.’

  ‘Yes,’ Carlyle agreed readily.

  Helen watched him carefully, waiting to see if he could resist poking fun at her youthful idealism back in the day. When she was satisfied that he had, for once, managed to resist the temptation to tease her, she said: ‘What was the name of that group of women again?’

  ‘Daughters of Dismas.’

  ‘Never heard of it.’

  ‘No reason why you should have.’ Carlyle shrugged. ‘Dismas was some o
ld-time religious guy in the Bible. He hung out with Jesus – something like that. They’re just a bunch of religious loonies.’

  ‘But I know someone who will.’ Helen reached down under the table and pulled her bag on to her lap. After rummaging around for a few seconds, she found her mobile and started searching through the contacts list. The girls at the next table had moved on from talking about technology to discussing sex and were casually comparing STDs. Carlyle tried not to listen, watching Helen hit the call button as he began contemplating a plate of churros y chocolate.

  ‘Clara, it’s Helen. Hi! How are the boys? Good, yes, we’re all fine.’ She looked over at Carlyle and grinned. ‘Yes, he’s still a policeman. I know, I’m giving up hope of him ever getting a proper job.’

  Carlyle made a face and she stuck her tongue out at him.

  ‘Look, Clara, sorry to interrupt lunch, but I just wanted to check something quickly. Have you ever heard of an organisation called Daughters of Dismas – Dismas. They’re a kind of international church campaign against poverty. What I need to know is whether a woman called . . .’

  ‘Agatha Mills,’ Carlyle chipped in.

  ‘Whether a woman called Agatha Mills is a member. I think it’s quite urgent, that’s why I’ve rung. That’s very kind of you. Yes, on the mobile. Speak soon – bye!’

  Clara? Carlyle couldn’t place her, but that was no great surprise. He only paid the vaguest attention to Helen’s network of friends, acquaintances, colleagues and contacts, which was far bigger than his own. ‘Who was that?’ he asked.

  ‘No one who would ever be prepared to talk to you,’ Helen said sweetly, scanning the menu. ‘Professionally speaking, of course.’

  ‘That doesn’t narrow it down much,’ Carlyle grinned. ‘Fancy a pudding?’

  ‘Just a green tea for me,’ she replied, ‘but if you’ve got your eye on the chocolate doughnuts, don’t let me stop you.’

  The waitress cleared the table. With some effort, Carlyle restricted himself to a double espresso. The drinks arrived within a few minutes and he was on his first sip when Helen’s mobile started vibrating on the table. She pressed it to her ear. ‘Clara? My goodness, that was quick. Yes, all right . . . interesting. Look, thanks a million for coming back to me so quickly. If I need anything else on this, can I give you a call? Lovely. Thanks again. Speak soon. Bye!’

  She ended the call and dropped the phone back into her bag.

  ‘Well?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, well, Inspector,’ she grinned, taking a sip of her tea. ‘You might be on to something after all. Not only was Agatha Mills a member of Daughters of Dismas, she even worked for them for a couple of years.’

  ‘Here, in London?’

  ‘In Chile.’

  Fuck, Carlyle thought, that is interesting.

  Taking another mouthful of tea, Helen hauled her bag on to her shoulder and stood up. ‘I’ve got to get back to work,’ she said, reaching over the table to plant a kiss on his forehead. ‘Try and get home early tonight.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘Good,’ she said, edging between the tables. ‘Thank you for lunch. You can pay, as I think I’ve earned it.’

  Having duly paid the bill, Carlyle took the tube back to Tottenham Court Road and walked down towards Charing Cross police station. Turning into William IV Street, he was surprised to see the road cordoned off, with a small crowd milling by the police tape. Stepping past the gawkers and ducking under the tape, he flashed his warrant card at a young-looking WPC that he didn’t recognise.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Carlyle asked.

  ‘I’m not sure, sir,’ said the flustered officer, ‘but everyone was ordered out of the building about an hour ago.’ She nodded in the direction of the Ship and Shovel on the corner. ‘Most of them have gone down the pub.’

  That figures, Carlyle thought. Feeling a hand on his shoulder, he turned around.

  ‘Hello, boss.’ Joe Szyszkowski returned the hand to his jacket pocket and rocked gently on his heels.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Carlyle repeated.

  ‘It’s Dennis Felix.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The bongo player in the piazza.’ Joe pulled him away from the WPC, so they were now standing in the middle of the empty road. ‘Apparently,’ he said in a stage whisper, ‘he’d contracted anthrax.’

  Carlyle scratched his head. ‘Jesus!’

  ‘Quite. They reckon that he must have caught it from the animal skins he used on his bongo drums.’

  ‘Unlucky,’ said Carlyle, trying to dredge up some information from the recesses of his brain about what anthrax was and how exactly you caught it. As far as he could recall, you inhaled spores, but what that might have to do with animal skins, he had no idea. Bloody hell! He suddenly wondered – could he have caught it too? As far as he could recall, he hadn’t actually touched the drums, but had got reasonably close to take a look. As casually as he could manage, he rubbed his throat and gave a little cough. Maybe he was feeling a bit under the weather today?

  ‘They’ve sent in a couple of guys wearing biohazard suits,’ Joe continued, oblivious to his boss’s personal medical concerns, ‘to collect the bongos from the evidence locker. The station was evacuated about half an hour ago.’

  ‘Jesus.’ Carlyle rubbed his throat more vigorously this time.

  ‘It’s caused quite a stir.’

  ‘I can imagine,’ Carlyle replied, worried about the little tickle he could now detect in his throat whenever he swallowed.

  ‘And Dave Prentice has been sent off to the hospital for a check-up.’

  Prentice? What about me? Telling himself not to be such a big girl’s blouse, Carlyle considered how he had been the one who had told Prentice to bring the damn bongos back to the station. He couldn’t have known that they were a bloody health hazard, but if Prentice got sick or, God forbid, died, Carlyle could easily see how it could end up being his fault. He felt his pulse quicken slightly. ‘It can’t be that serious, can it?’

  ‘Nah,’ Joe replied, looking slightly less than completely convinced. ‘You know what these things are like – panic, scare people shitless, then walk away. It’s the usual drill.’

  Let’s hope so, Carlyle thought.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Joe, ‘I think I’m going to call it a day. The missus is cooking a curry tonight. See you tomorrow.’

  ‘Okay, see you tomorrow.’ Carlyle watched Joe set off down the road and wondered what he himself should do next. He had reached no particular conclusion, when Joe stopped, turned and walked halfway back towards him.

  ‘I almost forgot,’ the sergeant shouted. ‘You had a call from a Fiona Singleton.’

  Carlyle made a face indicating that the name hadn’t registered.

  ‘She’s a sergeant at Fulham,’ Joe explained.

  Singleton, Carlyle now remembered, was the officer who had listened to Rosanna Snowdon’s complaint about her stalker, a loser called . . . Carlyle tried to recall the guy’s name from their meeting at Patisserie Valerie, but it was another detail that escaped him. Maybe anthrax made your memory go funny. ‘Did she say what it was about?’

  ‘No.’ Joe shook his head.

  At least she’s discreet, Carlyle thought. He held up a hand to Joe. ‘Okay, I’ll give her a call. Thanks. See you tomorrow.’

  ‘Sure, no problem.’ Joe turned and headed off again. This time he kept going. Carlyle watched him disappear round the corner, then took his official work mobile out of his jacket pocket, found the number he wanted and listened to it ring. He was almost resigned to leaving a voicemail, when a real live person finally responded at the other end.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Susan?’

  ‘Ah, John,’ the woman laughed. ‘Let me guess, you are standing on Agar Street, wondering what the hell is going on?’

  ‘Actually,’ he told her, ‘I’m just round the corner wondering what the hell is going on.’

  ‘Not a bad guess, huh?’

  ‘Susan Philli
ps – so much more than just your everyday pathologist.’

  ‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’

  ‘It most definitely is a compliment. What the hell is going on? My sergeant tells me it’s an anthrax scare. Should I be running to find the nearest hospital or the nearest priest?’

  ‘Neither really,’ Phillips sighed, all laughter draining from her voice now. ‘What’s happening down there is a complete overreaction. Poor Mr Felix did indeed die as a result of inhaling anthrax, almost certainly transferred from the skins on his drums.’

  ‘How did he manage that?’

  ‘He was a guy who liked to travel and I’m guessing that he got the skins in Africa. It’s fairly common for animals to ingest or inhale the spores while grazing. Diseased animals can spread anthrax to humans. Maybe he ate the flesh or, more likely, inhaled some spores while putting the skins on the drums himself.’

  ‘Poor sod,’ said Carlyle, with feeling.

  ‘He was very, very unlucky,’ Phillips agreed. ‘It’s not unheard of, but the risk to anyone else has got to be negligible.’

  ‘So what’s with the boys in the Noddy suits?’ Carlyle asked.

  ‘Good question,’ Phillips replied. ‘Someone should have come along and quietly removed the evidence. Then I could have run some further tests and we could have kept an eye on anyone we thought might have had even a tiny chance of catching anything. Going into the station like that was way over the top.’

  ‘Whose decision was it?’

  There was a pause on the other end of the line. ‘Who do you think?’

  ‘Simpson?’

  Phillips lowered her voice a notch. ‘Commander Carole Simpson, everyone’s favourite bureaucrat.’

  ‘But how did this problem reach all the way up to her?’

  ‘You know how these things work, John,’ Phillips said. ‘No one would make a decision, so it was kicked up the chain of command until it got to someone who couldn’t pass the buck any further and had to do something.’

  ‘Safety-first Simpson.’

  ‘This isn’t safety first,’ Phillips scoffed, ‘this is blind panic. She’s probably petrified of being sued by anyone who’s stepped inside Charing Cross in the last twenty-four hours.’