Time of Death (34 page)

‘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.

L
eaving 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.

C
hristian 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.

Tearing the report into small pieces, he assembled the bits into a small pile on his desk, contemplating them with satisfaction as he took a first sip of his Scotch. Returning the tumbler to the
desk, he scooped up his handiwork, carefully placing the rubbish in a locked bin marked
CONFIDENTIAL SHREDDING ONLY
.

After a little more whisky, the Mayor felt his cheeks begin to flush and a gentle warmth filled his belly. With a satisfied sigh, he lifted a second sheet of paper from his desk. This was an
email from the Company Secretary at Pierrepoint Aerospace, confirming that the final signed contract from the Chilean defence contractor LAHC Consulting had been received. As a result, Pierrepoint
had effectively subcontracted large parts of its contract to manage British military bases in Afghanistan to the South Americans, at a fraction of the rate that it was charging the Ministry of
Defence. The effect on the company’s earnings would be considerable. So too would be the effect on his year-end bonus. As he contemplated his windfall, it dawned on Holyrod that this must
have been one of the last things poor Matias Gori had attended to before his unfortunate death. The Mayor lifted his glass to absent friends. ‘Jolly good show,’ he grinned. ‘Well
done indeed.’

‘W
ould you like a drink, Inspector?’

‘Why not?’ Carlyle settled into his soft leather armchair and smiled. ‘I’ll have a whisky, thank you.’ Watching Claudio Orb shuffle off to get their drinks, the
inspector gazed out across Heathrow’s new Terminal 5. This was the first time he had ever set foot in an Executive Lounge. On the few times he’d ever travelled through the airport on
holiday, Carlyle had been stuck with the unwashed masses milling round the fast-food restaurants and duty-free shops on the main concourse. It didn’t make for a happy experience. This, on the
other hand, was really quiet and pleasant. Peace and quiet were what you paid for; that and the free booze. Carlyle turned away from the window and contemplated the scattering of rich-looking types
casually getting blasted while, at the same time, taking a last few hits on their crackberrys before take-off. ‘How the other half live,’ he said quietly to himself. The other half a
per cent, more like.

‘There you are.’ Orb handed him a tumbler half-f of indeterminate Scotch and kept a tall glass half-filled with a red liquid for himself. ‘Just a cranberry juice for
me,’ he grinned, sinking slowly into the chair opposite. ‘It’s a long flight. Cheers!’

Carlyle raised his glass slightly. ‘Cheers.’ He took a sip. Smooth. And, again, better than he was used to.

Orb placed his glass on the low table between them. ‘So, I take it that you have come to see me quietly off the premises?’

‘No, not really,’ Carlyle replied. ‘I just wanted to see you before you left to say thank you for all your help with my investigation.’

‘Come now, Inspector,’ Orb grinned, ‘I do not get the impression that you are the type of man to come all the way to the airport just to fulfil a minor social
pleasantry.’

Carlyle took another mouthful of Scotch, letting it sit under his tongue before it slipped down his throat. ‘Well, maybe I’m not just here to say thank you. I hoped you might be able
to clear up a few things for me – some loose ends.’

Orb raised an eyebrow. ‘There are loose ends?’

‘Not officially. My case – the murder of Agatha Mills – is closed.’

‘Good.’

‘The final verdict was that her husband did it.’

‘I see.’

‘But . . .’

The Ambassador smiled. ‘But you do not think this was a simple case of a man killing his wife?’

Carlyle shrugged. ‘Things are often more complicated than they might seem.’

‘Inspector, I am – I
was
a diplomat – I know that things are
always
more complicated than they seem. Or, if not, then we make them so.’ Orb chuckled.
‘What do
you
think happened here?’

‘I think that Matias Gori killed Agatha Mills,’ Carlyle said softly, ‘along with another woman, Sandra Groves and probably a third, Monica Hartson.’

Orb looked at the inspector, giving nothing away. ‘Why?’

‘Because they wanted to have him arrested and tried for war crimes. They think he murdered a whole family in Iraq.’

A soothing female voice with a perfect Home Counties accent came over the tannoy: ‘
Passengers are now invited to begin boarding BA flight 93 to Toronto and Santiago
.’

Placing his juice on the table, Orb shifted in his seat.

‘I assume that you knew about all this,’ Carlyle continued, ‘because those women wrote to you, asking for action to be taken against Gori.’

‘You should never assume, Inspector, said Orb, holding his gaze. ‘Assumptions can be misleading – dangerous even.’

‘Only if they’re wrong.’ Carlyle shrugged. ‘My job is all about making assumptions. The facts either fit them or they don’t. If they don’t, I make some new
ones.’

‘It’s an approach, I suppose.’

‘Did you know about the accusations against Gori?’

‘Lots of people write to the Embassy, Inspector. The Ambassador gets to read hardly any of this correspondence. If any of those ladies ever wrote to me, I am sure that I did not see it.
For that I apologise.’

‘Sir.’ Carlyle pushed himself to the edge of his seat and leaned forward. ‘I am not here in any official capacity. I am certainly not looking to cause you any trouble. Nothing
that we say will go any further.’

Orb stared into his drink.

‘I just want to know what happened.’

‘Why?’ Orb asked. ‘We both know that this . . . mess has been dealt with. It’s over now.’

Good question. The inspector sipped his whisky. ‘Agatha Mills spent forty years fighting on behalf of her brother. She, and the others, fought for what they believed in.’

The Ambassador smiled. ‘And you think they deserve answers?’

‘I suppose so,’ Carlyle mumbled into his glass.

‘Then I fear that you will be disappointed,’ Orb sighed. ‘You see, I made some enquiries of my own. It seems that there are a number of cases relating to the 1973 coup that are
in the process of being dropped. The Pettigrew case is one of them. There will therefore be no trial.’

Finishing his drink, Carlyle thought about the empty space in the family mausoleum in North London that would never be filled. ‘That is a shame.’

‘That is life, Inspector.’

‘Yes, I suppose it is. But the Pettigrew trial was not what was concerning Gori.’

‘That was the other thing I checked,’ Orb said. ‘Matias has never been cited in any of the various investigations, either concluded or ongoing, into the Ishaqi massacre in
Iraq.’ Carlyle made to say something, but the Ambassador held up a hand. ‘He didn’t even get a mention. Whatever these ladies, or indeed Matias himself, might have thought, no one
else was paying any attention.’

‘Maybe they should have done.’

Orb raised an eyebrow. ‘For a policeman, that sounds a little
limp
, if you don’t mind me saying so.’

Carlyle sucked down a little more of the Scotch. ‘Not at all.’

‘
This is a second call for BA flight 93 to Toronto and Santiago.
’

The Ambassador pulled a boarding card from his jacket pocket and started playing with it. ‘We both know,’ he said quietly, ‘that there was something wrong with Matias. The
wiring in his brain wasn’t quite right. He was the kind of man who would have been very much at home in the Chile of 1973.’ He looked at Carlyle. ‘In the London of today, he did
not fit in so well.’

‘So he
did
kill those women?’

Orb stood up. ‘Really,’ he said, ‘I don’t know. I assume so, but I don’t know.’

The inspector placed his empty glass on a nearby table and got to his feet. ‘What about his death?’ he asked.

Orb picked up a small tan leather case from beside his chair and weighed it in his hand. ‘That was a surprise, for Matias to step off the roof like that.’ He gazed up at the monitor
above his head telling him to go to Gate 72. ‘Maybe he was overcome with remorse.’

Carlyle laughed. ‘Maybe.’

Orb extended a hand. ‘Remorse can be a good thing.’

Carlyle shook his hand. ‘Indeed it can. I hope you have a safe journey home, sir, and good luck with your retirement.’

‘Thank you, Inspector. My wife has plenty of plans to keep me busy, so I’m not sure that I’ll even notice being retired!’

‘I know the feeling,’ Carlyle said. ‘My wife doesn’t like to see me idle either.’

‘Good luck to both of us, then.’ Orb smiled as he turned away, heading for the terminal and his departure gate.

Watching him go, Carlyle looked up the time on the screen listing upcoming departures. The day was ebbing away; by the time he managed to get back into the city, the working day would be over.
Settling back into his seat, he thought that he might just enjoy his luxurious surroundings here for a little while longer.

H
e had just finished his second whisky – a sixteen-year-old Lagavulin – and was contemplating a third, when his private phone rang. That’ll be Helen, he
thought. I shouldn’t have made that quip about her keeping me busy. Answering, he tried to assume his most sober voice. ‘Yes?’

The voice on the other end of the line wasn’t his wife’s, but was immediately recognisable all the same. Not bothering with any pleasantries, Dominic Silver got straight to the
point.

‘I’ve found the boy.’

C
arlyle looked along the empty road and wondered quite how he had ended up here. Behind him was a two-storey, steel-framed warehouse on the edge of an industrial estate near
the M25. Standing under an orange street light, he looked up at the seemingly deserted offices on the first floor. Ferociously tired, he hopped from foot to foot to try and keep himself alert while
he waited.