by James Craig
‘Quite,’ Carlyle agreed. ‘Maybe I should sue her myself.’
Phillips laughed. ‘Maybe you should. I’m sure your Federation rep would be only too happy to help.’
‘No question about it.’
There were voices in the background. Phillips told someone, ‘Don’t worry, I’m coming,’ and there was a pause while she listened to a reply. ‘John,’ she said, coming back on the line, ‘I need to get on now. But don’t worry. Trust me, there’s no risk. Doubtless there’ll be lots of messing about for the next few hours, but everything should be back to normal by tomorrow morning. If I were you, I’d just take the rest of the afternoon off.’
‘Good idea!’ Carlyle was pleased that his fears had been allayed. ‘Thanks for the tip. Good to speak to you, Susan. See you soon.’
‘You too, John. Take care.’
The line went dead and Carlyle stood for a moment glancing up and down the street. Nothing much had changed: still the same WPC on one side of the tape and a small group of onlookers on the other. Then he saw a camera crew making its way towards them from the direction of St Martin’s Lane. ‘That’s my cue to leave,’ he said to himself and set off in the opposite direction, heading towards the piazza where Dennis Felix had drummed his last.
Reaching King Street, he checked the clock on his mobile. He just about had time for a quick workout at Jubilee Hall gym and still get home in time to meet Alice when she got back from school. That was the kind of metrosexual multi-tasking that would impress Helen more than his making it over to Padding-ton for lunch. At least, he hoped so. Bringing the handset to his ear, he let a smile cross his lips as he prepared to give her the good news.
TWENTY-EIGHT
The weather had turned cold. It was grey and damp. Three hours earlier, when Carlyle had left the flat, clear blue skies offered the hint of a pleasant summer day. Now it seemed a facsimile of February in June. Cursing himself for ignoring the weather forecast and leaving his raincoat at home, he cast his gaze to the heavens and hoped that the surrounding trees would offer him some protection from the imminent rain.
Despite his discomfort, this was the right kind of weather for a funeral. Carlyle had long ago decided that getting buried on a beautiful summer’s day would just be the final insult – the universe taking the piss. Dark, dank and introspective – that was how he wanted the proceedings when his own time came.
Waiting for the deluge, he forced himself to lighten up. With luck, his time would be a while in coming yet. For Agatha and Henry Mills, however, their time had already come. In their respective wills, the pair had stipulated that they be buried together in the Pettigrew family mausoleum at Lavender Hill Cemetery in North London. Carlyle had picked up a leaflet at the main gate. Pulling it from his pocket, he found his present location on the small map.
The Pettigrew family had a vestibule mausoleum on a plot near the centre of the cemetery. It looked like a small granite house (or a very big children’s playhouse). Walking around it, Carlyle could still hear music coming from the non-conformist chapel by the main gate. The idea struck him that this was the kind of place that he himself would want to be buried in – above ground, with some fresh air, a little sunlight and a good view.
Walking around the plot for a second time, Carlyle now realised that the door to the mausoleum had been unlocked in anticipation of the two new arrivals. Glancing around to make sure he wasn’t being watched, he gave it a gentle push and, ducking his head, stepped inside. Illuminated by the light from a small round window at the back was a narrow aisle, long enough for each casket to be slid sideways into one of the three crypts on each side. One side was already full, the other empty. Each crypt had a small wooden plaque listing a name, and the deceased’s dates of birth and death. Crouching down even further, Carlyle read the names of Tomas and Sylvie Pettigrew, Agatha’s parents, who had been buried there in the 1970s, along with one Walter Henry, who died on 4 August 1956 – presumably one of her grandparents. On the empty side, he read the freshly added names of Agatha née Pettigrew and Henry Mills. At the back, in faded script, was a plaque below the space that had been reserved for William Pettigrew, the missing priest. No date of death had been added.
Since there was no remaining family, there was no one to suggest that the circumstances of her departure from this life might have caused Agatha to change her mind about being buried beside her husband and suspected killer. Carlyle was pleased about that; he was more convinced than ever that Henry Mills had not killed his wife. That theory of course, was not playing well back at the station. Simpson was pressing him for his final report, so that the case could be formally declared closed and another tick placed in the ‘win’ box. The report, however, had yet to be completed. Simpson’s patience was wearing thin and the inspector knew that he would not be able to stall her for much longer.
Indeed, Simpson would be horrified to know that he was here rather than devoting his energies to the latest case she had dropped on his desk – a series of robberies targeting wealthy members of the audience at the Royal Opera House. Carlyle, like Simpson and everyone else, knew that it had to be an inside job, but interviewing dozens of highly strung staff, with only Joe Szyszkowski and a couple of Community Support officers to help him, was going to take him weeks. Anyway, Carlyle thought, if the victims could afford £350 for a ticket and another £200 or so for dinner in the Amphitheatre restaurant afterwards, it was hard to be too sympathetic to their plight.
The inspector stepped back outside. As expected, the rain had started coming down quite heavily, and he ran for the cover of a large pine tree that stood about twenty yards from the mausoleum. From there, he watched a large, sleek, midnight-blue Volvo hearse containing both coffins heading slowly towards him. It was followed by what he thought was a surprisingly large number of mourners, who were making their way up the gentle slope on foot. A minute or so later, the hearse stopped in front of the mausoleum. As if on cue, the rain eased off to almost nothing. Four undertakers jumped out smartly and readied themselves, before waiting for the group of mourners – maybe thirty strong – to take their places, before opening the back of the Volvo and removing the first coffin.
At that moment, without warning, Justin Timberlake blared out across the cemetery. Eyes turned and mouths muttered; this might have been a non-conformist ceremony but a blast of ‘LoveStoned’ was clearly taking things a bit too far. Mortified at the disturbance he was causing, the inspector tried to pull the phone out of his pocket and shut it up. ‘Bloody Alice!’ he muttered as he jogged behind the tree, hoping that out of sight would be out of mind. It wasn’t the first time his daughter had changed the ringtone on his phone without him knowing it; he would kill the little so-and-so when he got home. In his panic, he hit the ‘receive’, rather than the ‘end’ button. His relief at Justin’s departure from the scene was offset by the unpleasant realisation that someone was still on the line.
Feeling completely put upon by the technology, Carlyle moved further away from the disapproving mourners, in the hope that his continuing breach of funeral etiquette would be less intrusive. He lifted the handset to his ear. ‘Hello?’ he half-whispered.
‘Inspector Carlyle? This is Fiona Singleton from Fulham.’ The words came out quickly, as if she was trying to get them out before he could stop her.
Shit, Carlyle thought.
‘I’ve been trying to get hold of you for a few days now,’ Singleton continued. ‘I left you a couple of messages at Agar Street . . .’
‘Ah, yes,’ Carlyle said keeping his voice low and his eyes on the coffins, which were now being carried inside the mausoleum. ‘Apologies for that. We’ve been having a few problems at Charing Cross.’
‘Yes,’ said Singleton sympathetically, ‘the anthrax thing. It must have caused quite a scare.’
‘Not really,’ Carlyle replied. Singleton’s tone caused him to relax a bit; at least she wasn’t giving him a hard time for not returning her call. ‘It was probably all a rather OTT, to
be honest.’ Phillips was right; it had all been a twenty-four-hour wonder. No one had been discovered with any symptoms and even Dave Prentice had been given a clean bill of health. The station had returned to normal the next day.
‘Anyway,’ said Singleton, ‘you know why I’m ringing?’
‘Yes,’ Carlyle said, looking back down the slope. The rain had stopped, for the moment at least. Agatha and Henry Mills had been laid to rest and the mourners were already beginning to drift away. If he was going to get anything useful from this trip, he had to get going. ‘Look,’ he said hastily, ‘I’m at a funeral right now. Can I call you back in an hour or so?’
‘I suppose,’ Singleton sighed, resigning herself to being fobbed off yet again.
‘Okay, thanks.’ Carlyle ended the call and walked back round the tree towards the mausoleum. The funeral directors were standing patiently by their hearse, waiting for the last of the mourners to begin making their way back to the front gate. They watched Carlyle amble by, saying nothing.
The inspector stopped a couple of yards beyond their Volvo, watching the scattered groups of people heading down the road. What was he looking for here? Someone who looked as if she might be a member of Daughters of Dismas? Someone who looked Chilean? Someone who might know Sandra Groves? Distracted by the phone call from Singleton, his mind seemed unable to focus on the matter in hand. Thoughts of Rosanna Snowdon began monopolising his brain. It struck him that there had been nothing more of substance in the newspapers about her death. He was surprised that the stalker hadn’t been arrested yet. Not for the first time, he wondered if he should feel guilty about his failure to help Rosanna at the time, but once again concluded that there wasn’t much he could have done anyway. As his minded wandered, he also wondered what he was going to say to Fiona Singleton, and what he was going to have for lunch – but not necessarily in that order.
Trying to snap out of his funk, Carlyle set his gaze on a pair of women – perhaps a mother and daughter – walking thirty yards further down the road. He had just resolved to talk to them when he became aware of someone arriving by his shoulder. He turned to face a tanned, handsome man wearing an expensive-looking raincoat, which he wore over a classic black suit, with a white shirt and a black tie. The overall effect was of someone who had just stepped out of an Armani advert. The man was holding out his hand, so Carlyle shook it.
‘Matias Gori.’
You’ve shaved off the beard, Carlyle thought. ‘Inspector John Carlyle.’
‘Yes,’ Gori smiled, ‘I know.’
That’s enough of a preamble, you smug git, Carlyle thought. ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked abruptly.
Gori lowered his eyes, but retained the smile. ‘The Ambassador told me you wanted to speak to me. He also wished the Embassy to pay our respects to the Mills family.’ He gestured to a large wreath propped up against the entrance to the mausoleum. Attached to the front of it was a message in Spanish – con más sentido pésame – which Carlyle didn’t understand, but he got the drift. Carlyle recalled the funeral notice – No flowers. Please send any donations to the Catholic Aid Foundation – but said nothing. His gaze fell to the military attaché’s beautifully polished shoes.
‘How did you know that I would be here?’
‘I didn’t,’ Gori shrugged. ‘But here you are, so I can kill two birds with the one stone, as the saying goes.’
Carlyle let Gori place a gentle hand on his back and steer him down the access road. The rain was still holding off but he knew it would soon start pouring again. After a few moments, the Volvo rolled up behind them and they stepped off the tarmac and on to the grass to let it pass. As they waited, Gori opened his raincoat and pulled out a packet of Marlboros from an inside pocket. He offered one to Carlyle.
‘No, thanks.’ The inspector shook his head.
Gori took a cigarette and stuck it between his teeth. As he fumbled in another pocket for his lighter, Carlyle noticed a pin, like a small golden dagger, attached to his jacket lapel. Gori lit his cigarette and inhaled deeply, holding in the smoke for a few seconds before exhaling it past Carlyle’s head. Noticing Carlyle staring at the dagger emblem, he casually but quickly closed up his raincoat, before stepping back on to the tarmac.
Carlyle waited patiently while Gori took another drag on his cigarette.
‘So why are you here?’ the military attaché asked finally.
‘Simply to pay my respects,’ Carlyle said evenly.
Gori gave him a quizzical look. ‘Do you attend the funerals of all your victims?’
‘They’re not my victims.’ Carlyle smiled politely, to show that he wasn’t put out at being questioned. ‘And, no, I don’t always go to the funerals, not at all.’
‘But in this case, yes.’
‘Well, Agatha Mills was a remarkable woman.’
Gori removed the cigarette from his mouth and looked at it carefully. ‘So they tell me.’
Carlyle waited for Gori to expand on this comment. When it was clear that nothing else would be forthcoming, he changed tack: ‘I thought that you were supposed to be in Santiago.’
Gori contemplated his surroundings, 7,000 miles from home, and sighed. ‘I was, but it was just a flying visit, only three days.’
‘That’s a long way to go for such a short time.’
‘I know,’ Gori shrugged. ‘It’s a shame, but that’s part of the job.’
‘So, what is the job?’ Carlyle asked. ‘What is it that you do?’
Gori laughed. ‘The Ambassador told me that you two had discussed that.’ He stopped and wagged a friendly finger. ‘Don’t worry, Inspector, there’s nothing illegal or controversial involved, apart from maybe the odd unpaid parking ticket. And all embassies have those.’
‘Indeed.’
‘It’s all very dull really.’
Never trust a man who can’t – or won’t – explain what he does for a living, Carlyle reflected. ‘Did you know Agatha Mills?’ he asked.
‘No.’ Gori bit his lower lip. ‘Why?’
‘You know about her connection to Chile?’ the inspector asked.
‘As I understand it, she had a Chilean father.’
‘And a brother who was a priest there.’
Gori said nothing but there was a clear flicker of interest in his eyes as he waited to see if the annoying policeman would show his hand.
‘He died during the coup in 1973.’ Carlyle gestured towards the mausoleum. ‘His name was William Pettigrew. There’s a place waiting for him in there. They’re still looking for the body. Or they were.’
Gori’s eyes narrowed slightly. ‘Thanks to your conversations with the Ambassador, we know about the family’s long-standing links to our country.’
‘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.