Never Apologise, Never Explain (27 page)

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.

In the basement below, one of her assistants was giving a small group of select journalists a guided tour of the station’s special cells for terrorist suspects, which had just been refurbished at a cost of half a million pounds. With brown paper lining the walls – to ensure that suspects would not come into contact with anything that they could later claim contaminated them – and facilities for watching films and listening to music, this project had been Simpson’s baby. She had managed it well, and today was supposed to see her reward for getting the work finished on time and (more or less) on budget, as well as her putting up with all the moaning from anti-Terror officers that these new arrangements were too luxurious for some of Britain’s most wanted criminals.

Never shy when it came to personal publicity, Simpson had been looking forward for several weeks to another all-too-fleeting moment in the media spotlight. The Commander had come to understand that she had to work hard for her ‘share of voice’ in the media, and no opportunity to promote the personal Simpson brand could be passed up. Building a profile was essential if she was to keep climbing up the Met hierarchy. All through her career, she had seen journalists as allies.

Not any more.

Now she was shark chum.

That morning, just before 6 a.m., she had been rudely awakened by a couple of burly, unshaven men hammering on the front door of her Highgate home. Always a light sleeper, Simpson jumped out of bed, cursing her husband, who was happily snoring away. Pulling back the curtains, she opened the window and stuck her head out.

‘Bugger off,’ she shouted, ‘or I’ll call the police.’

‘We
are
the police, madam,’ one of the men had smirked up at her; his tone all the more galling given that he had to know exactly who she was.