Never Apologise, Never Explain (25 page)

‘Fine,’ said Carlyle as he headed towards the main lifts. ‘You know where to find me.’

TWENTY-SEVEN

Carefully balancing a fragile but expensive-looking cup and saucer on his knee, Carlyle sat quietly waiting for Claudio Orb to take a sip of his own tea. High on the wall to Carlyle’s left was a large photograph of a Chanel-clad woman who presumably was the current Chilean President. From behind the Ambassador, light flooded in through the French windows opening on to a small balcony which looked over the busy square just outside.

He had arrived almost on a whim. When Henry Mills had walked out in front of that van, his case had apparently solved itself. It could be easily put to bed, and no one would give it another thought. Sandra Groves was Chan’s problem. Carlyle could put his feet up for a while and wait for the next pile of shit to come along. Being a restless soul, however, he knew that he wouldn’t be able to leave it alone. The sense that there was more to this than met the eye was lodged in his brain. It was a feeling that he’d experienced many times before. He hated the idea of being taken for a ride – whether it was due to professional pride or personal vanity – and he wasn’t minded to let things drop just yet.

Turning up at the Embassy, he had been cheered that his arrival had been greeted with neither surprise nor dismay. After passing through the most rudimentary of security checks, he had been sent up, on his own, to the Ambassador’s office, where a very pretty, very young-looking secretary told him that Orb would see him in a couple of minutes. Barely ninety seconds later, he was sitting in front of the Ambassador’s desk, while his host weighed up the relative merits of Fortnum’s Smoky Earl Grey or their Piccadilly Blend. Having decided on the latter, Orb surprised Carlyle by getting up and scooting out of his office to go and make the tea himself. By the time he came back, Carlyle’s opinion of Chile and Chileans couldn’t have been higher.

After a tentative sip, Orb returned his cup to its saucer in the middle of his otherwise uncluttered desk, and looked up at Carlyle. ‘It’s a pleasure to see you again, Inspector,’ he smiled. ‘Tell me, how is your investigation going?’

Carlyle made a vague gesture with one hand, while keeping a firm grasp of his saucer with the other. ‘These things always need to run their course.’

‘Indeed they do.’ Orb clasped his hands together over the desk as if in prayer. ‘And what, if I may ask, happened to the husband?’

Having had enough of the balancing act, Carlyle reached down and placed his cup and saucer on the carpet beside his chair. ‘He walked in front of a van,’ he said, sitting back up.

‘An accident?’

‘Suicide.’

‘Oh?’ Orb looked nonplussed. ‘But he was your main suspect?’

‘Yes.’

‘So is that it?’ Orb asked. ‘Is the case now closed?’

Carlyle shifted in his seat. ‘Maybe.’

‘Maybe?’ Orb repeated. ‘Don’t be coy, Inspector, you must be here for more than a cup of tea, very nice though it is.’

Carlyle grinned. ‘Maybe.’

‘So . . .’ The Ambassador’s smile faded slightly, indicating that, although his welcome was genuine, neither his time nor his patience were infinite. ‘How can I help you?’

‘That gentleman I saw you standing with at City Hall . . . at the reception when we were first introduced?’

Orb reflected on it for a moment. ‘You mean the Mayor, Mr Holyrod?’

‘No. The other man. About your height, in his thirties, had a beard – good-looking guy, with a nice tan.’

‘Ah, yes,’ Orb said. ‘Matias Gori.’

‘Who is he?’

‘He works here at the Embassy, as one of our military attachés. Does he have anything to do with this?’

Carlyle ignored the question. ‘I’ve always wondered,’ he mused. ‘What does a military attaché actually do?’

‘I know what you mean.’ Orb picked up his cup and again sipped his tea, content to wait a little longer for the policeman to get to the point. ‘I’m only the Ambassador, Inspector, so much of it is a mystery to me too. I think most people would probably assume that “military attaché” is just a polite way of saying someone is a spy. But it is usually more mundane than that.’

‘Not everyone can be James Bond, I suppose.’

‘No, especially nowadays. You can find out about most things you want to know about on the Internet, assuming that you can be bothered to spend some time searching. It’s an amazing invention – my grandchildren simply have no concept of how we could have ever lived without it.’

‘No,’ Carlyle agreed. ‘So where does that leave a military attaché these days? Are spies now basically redundant?’

‘More or less,’ Orb said, ‘as far as I can see. Certainly for a small country like Chile they are not particularly important. Our military attachés do a bit of marketing for our defence companies, and a bit of research to keep the folks back home up to speed on the latest developments in important markets like Britain.’

‘Has Gori been here long?’

Orb drained his cup and shrugged. ‘I don’t really know. He was already here when I arrived.’ He did the sums in his head. ‘So . . . I suppose that means he’s been here for at least three years.’

‘Where was he before he came to London?’

‘We all move around, Inspector,’ Orb told him. ‘Gori has had various postings in the US, Spain, Iraq—’

‘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 old-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 . . .’