Time of Death (16 page)

Scribbling some notes on a pad, she instructed him to sit down with a curt wave of the hand. ‘How are you, Inspector?’ she said finally.

‘Fine.’ Carlyle sat upright in his chair, as if he was back in the Headmaster’s office at the Henry Compton secondary school, thirty years ago, waiting to take his punishment
for some minor indiscretion. Unwilling to engage in any fake pleasantries, he kept his response to the one word, and let his gaze wander. Nothing here seemed different from his last visit. Aside
from the basics, the office was empty, the desk spectacularly bare save for a photograph of a smug-looking middle-aged man gone to seed. Carlyle assumed that was Simpson’s husband.

The inspector was always on his guard with his boss. They were very different animals and both knew it. Five or six years younger than Carlyle, the commander could still realistically anticipate
moving further up the career ladder before her time was up. He had known Simpson for almost twelve years now, coming under her direction not long after his move to Charing Cross. She was, he had to
admit, a hell of an operator – she only ever looked upwards – and had taken to her management role like a duck to water. She could be charming too – if you were a man of a certain
age (i.e. between ten and fifteen years older than she was) and she wanted something from you.

Simpson rarely wanted anything from Inspector John Carlyle. The inspector knew that she was frustrated by what she saw as his refusal to play the game. Just as important, perhaps more so, was
his inability to hide his feelings towards her. Simpson left Carlyle cold. He hated the feeling that he had been co-opted on to her mission for personal glory. Somehow, the collective good always
seemed nicely aligned with the interests of the commander. Her approach to the job he found completely introverted, indeed almost demented. She was too busy climbing the greasy pole to worry about
anything else.

The way he saw it, she was either extremely selfish or she had the self-awareness of a goldfish. Either way, Carlyle eyed her with a mixture of extreme distrust and antipathy. However, with much
effort, he found that he could tolerate her well enough, as long as their paths did not cross too often. When they did, he felt as if his brain was overheating, and he was always too close to
speaking his mind.

Simpson looked down at the notes she had scribbled on her pad.

‘About this bus . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘There’s been a complaint.’ Simpson kept her voice firmly neutral.

‘Oh?’ He placed what he hoped was a butter-wouldn’t-melt look on his face and concentrated on trying to keep it there.

‘A woman called Sandra Groves says that you assaulted her,’ Simpson continued. ‘She says that there is video evidence.’

Sandra Groves? It suddenly dawned on Carlyle that she must be the religious loony from the bus; he had never checked the woman’s name. He grinned sheepishly and adopted the tone of a
casual observer with no axe to grind.

‘Well, what happened was . . .’

For the next few minutes, he talked the commander through the events of the previous week, throwing in as much detail as he could recall, relevant or not, without addressing Ms Groves’s
accusation either directly or indirectly. He did this safe in the knowledge that Joe Szyszkowski’s report backed him up 100 per cent. Moreover, Groves and her boyfriend not only had been
charged, but already had records for previous public-order offences, as well as a couple of outstanding parking tickets. The only thing that could have caused him any problem, the video, had since
been erased from the camera’s memory stick. Just to be on the safe side, the camera itself had accidentally been run over – several times – by the back wheel of a police Range
Rover in the garage of Charing Cross police station before being deposited in a rubbish bin on the Strand. Carlyle was confident that its remains were well on their way to some illegal
landfill-dump in India by now. The complaint might lead to a formal investigation, but he knew that he was in the clear.

‘And then . . .’

His monologue was interrupted by the sound of a mobile phone. Irritated, Simpson plucked at various pieces of paper before finding it buzzing on the desk. Checking the caller’s identity,
without preamble she said, ‘Hold on one minute.’ Standing up, she raised a forefinger to Carlyle, indicating that she would not be long, before quickly stepping out of the room.

As the door closed behind her, Carlyle’s gaze fell on Simpson’s desk. Leaning forward, he couldn’t resist a quick peek. Over the years, he had become quite adept at reading
things upside down from a short distance. Next to what were clearly the reports of the Groves case, which he could easily read when he got back to Charing Cross if he felt the need, was a
fancy-looking invitation card. The black script was a bit small, but he could make it out without having to leave his seat:

M
ore Chileans. What were the odds of some connection? He was wondering who Agustín Arturo Prat Chacón was, when he heard the commander re-enter the room.

Simpson smiled thinly as she sat down behind her desk. ‘So, where were we?’ she asked, folding her arms and sitting back.

‘Sandra Groves,’ said Carlyle amiably. ‘After
I
had been assaulted, we restrained her and her boyfriend . . .’

A minute or so into his continuing monologue, Simpson held up her hand. She had heard enough. Carlyle could argue for England, indeed the irritating little sod could argue for a World Select XI,
and she knew that he would not be so stupid as to be caught out on something like this. She could never hope to get so lucky. ‘All right, Inspector,’ she said wearily, ‘I get the
drift. I’m sure, if it ever gets that far, that the Police Federation will make mincemeat out of this complaint. But next time, please try to show a tiny bit more restraint.’

‘Restraint is my middle name,’ Carlyle said genially.

‘Yes, well . . .’ Even Simpson had to repress a grin at his chutzpah. ‘Well done on that Mills thing, by the way.’

‘Thank you,’ Carlyle said.

‘Nice and neat,’ she said, resisting the temptation to add ‘
for once
’.

‘It looks that way,’ Carlyle agreed, ‘but there are still one or two loose ends.’

‘Like what?’ Simpson groaned. How could this irritating little man turn even the most straightforward domestic homicide of the year into a problem?

‘Mrs Mills, the victim, had made some enemies.’

‘Including her husband.’

‘Maybe.’

‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’ Simpson huffed. ‘You know as well as I do, that in domestic cases like these, killing yourself is usually a fairly clear admission of guilt.
Take the win, Inspector, and move on.’

‘I will.’ Standing up, he decided not to push his luck any further.

‘Good,’ said Simpson stiffly, gathering up the papers on her desk. ‘You know the way out.’

A
solitary young man sat at a table on the pavement outside Café La Marquise on the Edgware Road. Holding a small cube of sugar to the surface of his strong, syrupy
Turkish coffee, he watched it turn brown before letting it drop it into the demitasse. Picking up his teaspoon, he began carefully stirring his coffee, eyeing the small band of anti-war protestors
as he did so.

What a rabble, he thought. There were maybe seventy people taking part, at the very most, with almost as many police in attendance. All they were doing was holding up the traffic and preventing
normal, law-abiding people from going about their business as they made their way slowly down the middle of the road, heading towards Hyde Park and a rally at Speakers’ Corner. All the usual
banners that he’d become familiar with recently were there:
Socialist Worker
,
Stop the War Coalition
,
Students for Justice
, etc., etc., carried by sallow, ill-looking
people you would cross the road to avoid; all in all, nothing more than a bunch of pathetic, disorganised, ego-crazed losers.

He took a sip of his coffee and let the sweetness soften his mood. Towards the back of the crowd, he saw the banner he had been waiting for, and the three women underneath it, two of them
holding the poles and one handing out leaflets while trying to start the occasional chant that invariably petered out almost as quickly as it began:

‘
What do we want?

‘
Troops out!

‘
When do we want it?

‘
NOW!
’

The conversations at the tables had stopped as the other patrons watched the protestors go by. Those British and their passions! To foreigners living in London, they were an endless source of
amusement. Catching the eye of a gawping waiter, he ordered another coffee as the semi-organised shouting started up again.

Get a life, he thought. As far as he could see, the three women leading the chants were virtually the whole organisation, yet they were trying to cause him so much trouble. He felt the familiar
fury rising up inside him. It was ridiculous that he should have to waste his time on them; ridiculous but necessary – for his own sake and that of his comrades.

He fingered the leaflet that another protestor had dropped on his table as he had passed by. More slogans, more platitudes, more hopeless posturing:

‘
Justice for the victims of the Ishaqi massacre!
’

Like the victims care any more, he thought.

‘
STOP THE WAR!
’

I was there; you weren’t.

‘
END THE MERCENARY KILLINGS!
’

The anger blossomed in his chest.
You don’t know what you’re talking about
.

Leaning down, he grabbed an anti-war flyer from the pavement, carefully folding it in half and then folding it in half again, before dropping it into his jacket pocket. The waiter arrived with
his fresh coffee. Downing it in one, he pulled out his wallet and fished out a five-pound note, which he placed under his saucer. Sitting back in his chair, he let the demonstration go past,
accompanied by the hooting of angry motorists and some pointing and laughter from a group of Arab customers enjoying their shisha pipes at the table beside him.

Pulling a cigarette from the packet of Royal Crown Blue sitting on the table, he lit it with a match and stuck it between his lips, inhaling deeply. Dropping the match in the ashtray, he rose
from the table, before starting slowly along the road, heading in the same direction as the protestors.

By the time he reached the park, the speeches were in full swing. Standing under a nearby tree, he smoked another cigarette, keeping a careful eye on the women as he tried to tune out the ritual
denunciations of America, Britain and every other tool of imperialism that they could lay their hands on.

Mercifully, the speeches ended before his packet of smokes was empty. He watched the women pack up their banner and say their goodbyes, before heading off in different directions. After a
moment’s thought, he decided to follow the older one. Once he knew where she lived, it would be time to begin.

C
arlyle stood on the walkway that spiralled up the inside of the triangulated glass façade of City Hall, looking down into the foyer of the Greater London Assembly,
while listening to the clink of glasses and the hum of polite conversation from below. He had been scanning the room for several minutes now, without being able to find any sign of Simpson or her
husband. He had, however, seen the Mayor, Christian Holyrod, shoulder-to-shoulder with the man he assumed was the Chilean Ambassador, as they worked the room together.

The upper terrace had been closed off to the public for tonight’s event, so Carlyle found himself alone. As the Mayor stepped up on to a small raised platform to make some introductory
remarks, Carlyle turned his back on the throng to take in the views over the river towards the Tower of London. For the next few minutes, he let his mind wander. An occasional phrase drifted up
from the floor below but the words were no more than the usual trite nothings that accompanied events like this. He ignored them, as he watched the boats go by on the Thames, and reflected on his
previous dealings with the Mayor.

Christian Holyrod was a
Boy’s Own
story made flesh. That alone would have been enough for Carlyle to be deeply suspicious of the man, even before they crossed swords on what turned
out to be one of the more unpleasant cases he had recently had to deal with.

Before turning his hand to politics, Major Holyrod had commanded the 2nd Battalion of the Duke of Wellington’s Regiment (motto:
Virtutis Fortuna Comes
– Fortune Favours the
Brave), one of the first British battle groups to go into action in Helmand Province in south-west Afghanistan, as part of Britain’s latest unsuccessful foray into the world’s most
inhospitable country. His subsequent journey from unsung hero to big-time politician began when an American documentary crew arrived to film the story of Operation Clockwork Orange, a mission to
capture a terrorist commander who had been hiding out in a mud compound in the middle of nowhere. The mission was a fiasco. Holyrod’s boys were ambushed and a swift retreat followed, leaving
the target happily ensconced in his mountain lair, but the firefights and general chaos that followed made for great television. Shaky hand-held pictures of the major shouting ‘Contact,
contact, contact!’ while squeezing off rounds from his SA80-A2 assault rifle and trying to drag a wounded squaddie back to his truck were as entertaining as anything that Hollywood could come
up with. They made all the main news bulletins back home in Britain even before the show had aired in the US. For almost two days, it was the number one most-viewed video on YouTube, with more than
45 million hits around the world.