by James Craig
In the square below, there was the squeal of brakes, a clash of metal and someone angrily honking their horn. Gori looked down and saw a taxi driver get out of his cab and start shouting at a cyclist sitting in the road next to his mangled bike. After some extended finger-pointing, the driver gave the cyclist a sharp kick and stalked back to his taxi. Gori laughed and the spell was broken. He looked back at Orb. The old man would never know how close to death he had come in that moment.
Ultimately, however, killing the Ambassador wasn’t necessary. Also, it would have been counter-productive, creating too much of a fuss. Orb would doubtless still have some allies, even if they were stuck in an office in Santiago. Not like the women. They had no connections; no influence. No one would ever bother about them, apart from maybe the dumb policeman.
And what about him?
Killing the policeman might be nice, but that wasn’t really necessary either. He would go away soon enough. Matias had seen plenty like him in his time – not enough brains, not enough stamina, not enough balls – and more than enough to know that Carlyle was not a threat.
He stepped back towards Orb and smiled. ‘We are just doing what is necessary.’
‘Surely, Matias,’ Orb said sadly, ‘that is not for you to decide.’ He straightened up and put a gentle hand on his young colleague’s shoulder. ‘I would counsel caution. People like this are no threat to you. For all its faults, this is a civilised country; a good friend of Chile. Relations are good. These people cannot spoil that relationship. They are allowed to make their protests, but they won’t change anything. That is what democracy is all about. All you are doing is making a relatively harmless situation dangerous. London isn’t Baghdad; murder here is an event. Human life means something. The police will investigate thoroughly. You will be found out. And, all the while, all you are doing is creating potential martyrs, boosting the very cause you are trying to defeat.’
‘I understand what you are saying,’ Gori conceded. He paused, knowing that he should leave it there, but unable to resist a final barb, he smiled maliciously and said: ‘But you have spent your whole life sitting on the fence, Excellency – you must have a very sore ass. It is good that you are retiring, because Chile needs stronger men than you for the battles ahead.’
Orb smiled weakly and removed his hand from Gori’s shoulder. ‘Maybe you are right, Matias. You have a point there. Certainly everyone’s time comes to an end.’ He took half a step backwards, away from the edge of the roof. ‘One thing, however, is guaranteed.’
‘Oh? What’s that?’
‘We will both be going home very soon.’ Placing his hand in the small of Gori’s back, Orb gave a firm push. Overcoming his initial surprise, the military attaché tried to keep his footing, but the parapet was in the way, causing him to fall forwards instead. Grunting, Orb pushed harder and Gori disappeared over the side of the building. For a second or two or three, Orb stood there, breathing heavily, listening to the sound of his beating heart. Then, without looking down, he walked away.
THIRTY-SIX
Staring into space, Gideon Spanner sat on the concrete floor, knees pulled up to his chest, his back resting against the metal wall. In his hand was the clipping he’d taken from yesterday’s newspaper, reporting the deaths of another four British soldiers in Afghanistan, blown to bits by a roadside bomb while out on patrol. Gideon had known two of the dead well, they had spent three months on active service together before Gideon upped and left, and ended up working for Dominic Silver. Lee McCormack and Giles Smith were just boys like himself – they didn’t want to stay on the front line, but they didn’t want to come home either. They were soldiers who wanted to fight, but to fight for something they could understand.
As things turned out, the soldiers were merely the latest casualties in a campaign aimed at making Helmand Province secure for local elections to take place. In the end, only 110 people had felt safe enough to vote – 110 fucking people, Gideon thought. His mates had died for 110 votes. Funny kind of democracy, that.
How many such comrades did he know now? Fifteen? Sixteen? Something like that. Why had it not been him? he often wondered. Sometimes it made his eyes tear up, and his throat constrict until he couldn’t breathe. Tonight he felt his heart beating strongly in his chest and a pain throbbing in his temples. His finger tickled the trigger of his Sig Sauer P226. All he had to do was flip the safety-catch and he would be good to go. One in the brain and it would all be over. Three seconds – one, two, three . . .
‘Gideon! Come over here, please.’
Slowly getting to his feet, he headed towards Dominic Silver.
‘Has he given you what you wanted, boss?’ Gideon asked.
‘Yes,’ Silver nodded.
‘And?’ Gideon idly fingered the safety on the Sig.
‘And now,’ Dominic said in a conversational tone, ‘it is time to get rid of him.’
‘Okay.’ Gideon stepped past Silver and stood in front of the man chained to the floor. There was nothing cocky about him now as he looked at his executioner with a mixture of resignation and pleading. Gideon finally flicked off the safety and stepped closer.
Hagger’s eyes grew wide with fright. ‘You can’t!’
Gideon listened to Silver’s receding footsteps and frowned. ‘Why not?’
‘It’s . . . murder,’ Hagger croaked.
‘Yes,’ Gideon nodded. ‘Yes, it is.’ He stepped closer, inhaling Hagger’s stench, breathing in deeply, feeling that little bit more alive. ‘But lots of good people, top blokes, get murdered all the time. So why not a useless little scumbag like you?’
‘But—’
Before Hagger could say any more, Gideon raised the Sig and put two .357 rounds into his chest, instantly ending the debate.
THIRTY-SEVEN
It was a damp, grey morning and cold for the time of year. Desperate for a cup of hot, strong coffee, Carlyle stared morosely into the gloom. Looking out across the tops of the trees in the middle of the square, he imagined himself losing his balance and tipping over into the abyss. In reality, he made sure that he was a good two feet from the edge of the building before he cautiously leaned over and peered down at the body impaled on the railings below. From almost 100 feet up, Matias Gori looked like a speared fish that had gasped its last. Moreover, it looked as if he would be stuck there for a while yet. The technicians had yet to decide how best to remove him without leaving his guts all over the pavement.
Arriving at the Embassy, Carlyle had not stopped on the pavement to study Gori close-up. Rather, after a short chat with the stressed-looking DCI in charge, he had headed straight up to the roof. He didn’t like it much up here either, but he felt that his fear of heights was less of a problem than his long-standing squeamishness around dead bodies.
Standing behind him, Joe Szyszkowski was, if anything, even more cautious than his boss. ‘So,’ Joe asked, staying well clear of the parapet, ‘did he jump or was he pushed?’
‘He didn’t seem the suicidal kind to me,’ said Carlyle gruffly. ‘I met him – I dunno, a few days ago. He seemed like the kind of arrogant bastard who thought he was on a mission from God or something; thought he could live for ever.’
‘It could have been an accident,’ Joe suggested. ‘Maybe he was pissed. What was he doing up here, anyway?’
‘The DCI in charge downstairs said this is a no-smoking building, and apparently he liked to come up here for a crafty fag.’
‘Did Forensics find anything?’ Joe asked, looking vacantly at the asphalt.
‘Just a cigarette butt – presumably Gori’s.’ Carlyle scanned the roof aimlessly. ‘It’s basically impossible to tell if he was up here on his own or not. There’s no CCTV.’
‘No chance of any witnesses?’
Carlyle shook his head. ‘The Embassy was nearly empty at that time of night. The security guard was doing his rounds, but he doesn’t come up here. Says he saw no one. None of the neighbouring buildings directly overlook this part of the roof.
’ He gestured at the Radisson Hotel, on the far side of the square, the only nearby building that was taller than the Embassy itself. ‘Even someone over there probably wouldn’t have seen anything, because it’s too far away.’
Making sure he still didn’t get too close to the edge, Carlyle gingerly leaned forward and took another quick glance down at the dead fish. ‘You’re not the first person to fall off a tall building recently, are you, matey?’ he said quietly to himself. Thinking back to Jerome Sullivan and Michael Hagger, he felt a sharp pang of guilt. Since Hagger had appeared in the piazza, Carlyle had done nothing to try and track down young Jake. As far as he knew, Cutler, the officer leading the search, hadn’t made any progress either. If there had been any hope, it had long since gone. The missing kid was doubtless beyond salvation now.
His stomach rumbled. Feeling a bit light-headed, Carlyle turned away from the edge of the building. ‘Let’s go.’
Joe nodded and they headed back inside.
‘So where does this leave us?’ Joe wondered, standing at the top of the stairs that led up to the roof.
‘I think it leaves us in quite a good place,’ Carlyle said. ‘Gori’s murder is not ours to worry about.’
‘It’ll probably get written up as an accident,’ Joe sniffed.
‘Quite,’ Carlyle agreed. ‘And if he was our killer, then it’s case closed.’
‘What about Groves?’
‘She’s not our problem either,’ Carlyle said, yawning. ‘I outlined my thinking to Chan and his sidekick at the hospital, and they pissed all over it, so let them work it out for themselves.’ He thought about Monica Hartson – her Glasgow exile could come to a speedy end. Pulling out his mobile, he rang her number. Tapping his foot impatiently on the asphalt, he listened to the call this time go to voicemail. ‘For fuck’s sake!’ he hissed. How was it that some people were just incapable of answering a bloody phone? Ending the call without leaving a message, he dropped the handset back into his jacket pocket. ‘Did you write up the Mills report?’
Joe started down the stairs without looking up. ‘No.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ Carlyle grinned. ‘I’ll sort it out after we’ve had breakfast.’
At the mention of food, Joe perked up considerably. ‘Great.’
‘And then I’ll go and see Simpson.’
THIRTY-EIGHT
In conclusion, it appears that Mr Mills killed his wife for reasons unknown, and subsequently took his own life in a fit of remorse.
On that basis, we believe that no further investigation is required and that the case can be closed.
Carole Simpson reread the last sentence carefully. Try as she might, she couldn’t find any double-meaning or hidden aside. She looked up at Carlyle, who was sitting in front of the desk with his hands clasped in his lap, an expression of Zen-like calm on his face. If there’s been a worse impersonation of a choirboy in this office in the last decade then I wasn’t around to see it, the Commander thought sourly.
Raising her eyebrows, she let the report drop on to the desk. ‘And that’s it?’
Sitting up straight in his chair, the inspector looked his boss directly in the eye. ‘Yes, Commander,’ he said stiffly.
‘No Chilean hit men?’
Carlyle smiled. ‘That was only ever one theory.’
‘What about Sandra Groves and the . . .’ she waved a hand impatiently in the air ‘. . . the Hartson woman?’
Carlyle felt his smile waver. You had to give it to Simpson, she was no mug. ‘I haven’t really kept up with the Groves case,’ he said vaguely. ‘As for Hartson, that has been listed as a suicide. Her GP confirmed that she had been suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder.’
I know the feeling, Simpson thought grimly.
‘It seems that she had been unwell for some time—’
The Commander cut him off in mid-sentence. ‘So she threw herself under a Tube train?’
Carlyle shrugged. When he finally managed to get through to Hartson’s mobile, it had been answered by a brusque WPC. After establishing who he was, she unceremoniously declared that the phone’s owner had ‘topped herself in front of a Tube train’. There didn’t seem any reason to argue the point.
‘Just minutes after she’d had a meeting with your good self?’
‘It looks like it all ended up getting too much for the poor woman.’
‘You can have that effect on people,’ Simpson mumbled to herself.
‘What?’
‘Nothing.’ Despite her better judgement, Simpson persisted. ‘It’s all a bit of a coincidence, wouldn’t you say?’
‘The driver said she jumped,’ Carlyle said evenly. ‘No one who was on the platform at the time contradicted him.’
‘Mmm.’
‘And the CCTV was inconclusive.’
Well aware of her underling’s ability to be exceedingly economical with the actualité, the Commander eyed Carlyle warily. ‘But, Inspector, with your theories, didn’t you think that Ms Hartson was in some kind of danger?’
‘I was only guessing,’ he said, showing some fake modesty in the face of the Commander’s obvious bluff. ‘But the poor woman had seen some truly terrible things. Some of her experiences in Iraq were horrific.’
‘Yes, all right.’ Simpson didn’t want to hear the gory details.
‘She was clearly in an unhappy place.’
‘Okay.’ The commander let out a long sigh. The inspector could stonewall all day if necessary and she had meetings to attend.
‘So we’re good?’ Placing his hands on the arms of the chair, Carlyle made to get to his feet.
Simpson looked pained. ‘I suppose so.’ She tapped the report with her right index finger and he could see that the nail had been bitten down almost to the quick. ‘But why did you feel the need to come here in person just to deliver this?’
‘Well . . .’ Carlyle cleared his throat, trying to get his tone of voice just right. ‘I wanted to apologise for the delay in getting it to you, and – and to make sure that you were happy with the final findings.’
Something approximating a smile inched across the commander’s face. ‘Thank you, John,’ she replied, ‘but an email would have been perfectly acceptable. I know how busy you are, so you didn’t have to take the time.’
‘I know,’ Carlyle replied, ‘but under the circumstances . . .’
She shot him a look.
‘. . . I felt,’ he continued, lifting his gaze to the ceiling, ‘that I should take the opportunity to come and say that, er, well . . .’ he swallowed ‘. . . I know that this must be a difficult time for you, but that the view of everyone at Charing Cross is that you are a good copper, a respected colleague, and that if we can be of any help, please let us know.’
Where the hell had that come from? After all these years, it looked like he had found a new way to put a foot in his mouth. Feeling himself blushing slightly, he concentrated on trying to shut up.
When he finally felt able to look Simpson in the face, she seemed as bemused at his little speech as he was himself. ‘Well, thank you, John.’ Her cheeks reddening, she cleared her throat. ‘Those are the first real words of support I’ve had since Joshua was arrested.’
He stared at a spot on the wall behind her head. ‘The boys at the station thought it was important for it to be said.’ Hopefully, ‘the boys’ wouldn’t find out about his spontaneous, self-appointed role as their spokesman.
‘And the sentiments are very much appreciated.’ She stood up and waited for him to follow suit. ‘And thank you for the report. It is good to know that the Mills case is closed.’
‘Yes.’
‘And how is the Royal Opera House investigation coming along?’
Carlyle’s brow furrowed. The backlog of uncompleted interviews with the Puccini-loving alleged robbery victims had not even been touched. ‘Slowly.’
‘Ah well,’ Simpson nodded as she moved round the desk. ‘These things invariably proceed at their own pace.’
> ‘Yes,’ Carlyle replied, rather disconcerted by his boss’s uncharacteristically laissez-faire attitude. Feeling a complete arse, he smiled awkwardly as he made swiftly for the door.
Leaving Simpson’s office, he walked a short way along the corridor to the nearest gents, in order to compose himself and try to work out what he’d just done. And why he’d done it. At best, he had always found the commander a deeply unappealing and flawed colleague. Now the selfish careerist had come a cropper, so where was the Schadenfreude? Being supportive was so far removed from his usual style that he wondered if he might not be coming down with something. Failing to find any instant answers, he splashed some water on his face and retraced his steps, before heading out into the bustle of the West London afternoon.
THIRTY-NINE
Christian Holyrod was momentarily distracted by the small passenger jet passing in front of the ground-to-ceiling windows of his office as it climbed away from City airport, on its way to some European destination. Once it had had disappeared from view, he returned his gaze to the three sheets of A4-sized paper laid out on the desk in front of him, and gave a low murmur of satisfaction. As if on cue, a butler appeared with a glass of Talisker on a silver salver. The man placed the drink on the table, gave a small nod, and disappeared without saying a word.
Once he had left, Holyrod picked up the sheet of paper to his left and scanned it while sniffing his Scotch. The summary of the police report into Agatha Mills’s death was short, to the point and, most importantly, came to exactly the conclusion the Mayor wanted to see. ‘Who would have thought it?’ Holyrod murmured to himself. ‘That idiot Carlyle gets something right for once.’ On second thoughts, it was doubtless down to his boss. About to ring Simpson and congratulate her on a job well done, he remembered her toxic husband and thought better of it. The whole fraud thing was a crying shame, it really was, but these things happened and when they did one had to keep one’s distance.