Time of Death (3 page)

‘The telegram from Her Majesty.’

‘Oh?’ Carlyle realised he shouldn’t have gone there.

‘Someone has got to ask her for it.’

The grumpy old sod was making the inspector feel like the world’s biggest optimist. Taking a deep breath, he made a determined effort to remain cheery. ‘At least they don’t
charge you for the privilege,’ he said, wondering if they did.

‘And you’ve got to prove your age.’

‘Give Helen a copy of your bloody birth certificate then,’ Carlyle snapped, his patience gone. ‘She’ll send it off to the powers-that-be, when the time comes.’

‘She’ll be dead by then.’

‘Who?’ said Carlyle, unsure whether to be concerned. ‘Helen?’

‘No,’ said Harry, ‘the Queen. She’s older than me, you know.’

Carlyle felt irritated and relieved at the same time. ‘Whatever. Anyway, you’ll be fine.’

‘Come on, Inspector,’ said Harry, a slight tinge of anger appearing in his voice, ‘don’t try and kid me. I’ve had a decent innings and I don’t need to drag it
out. “Quit while you’re ahead”, my old dad always used to say, and he was right. I don’t want to leave it too late and turn into a vegetable in some horrible care home. Or
be left forgotten and starving on a trolley in a hospital corridor. I’ve no family and it should be my choice. Assisted suicide, they call it. It’s all the rage these days. They had a
guy die on the telly the other night.’

Carlyle grunted. He knew about the programme that Harry was referring to. The thought of it made his squeamishness flare up like an ulcer and also depressed the hell out of him. When Helen had
insisted on watching it, he’d gone off to bed with a book. Even now, he shivered at the ghoulishness of it all. ‘The bloke on the telly had some incurable disease. And he spent three
grand to go to Switzerland to have it done in some Alpine clinic.’ He looked directly at Harry. ‘Then there’s another seven grand, at least, to come home again and get buried. Do
you have ten grand?’

‘No.’

‘Well, you can’t bloody die, then,’ Carlyle grinned, ‘can you?’

‘There are other ways,’ Harry said evenly. ‘You don’t have to go to Switzerland. Didn’t some copper in Wales walk up a mountain with a bottle of Scotch and freeze
to death?’

Carlyle remembered it well, as it had been the talk of the station for days. ‘Yeah, I should imagine Wales is a good place for that. They have plenty of mountains.’

Out of the glare, came merciful relief in the form of an angel. A pretty blonde girl in a very short skirt turned off Drury Lane and began sauntering down the other side of Macklin Street,
talking into her mobile phone as she did so. Her toned legs were very long and tanned and she had a portfolio stuck under one arm. He guessed she was looking for the model agency a block away on
Parker Street. Like Keats once said:
a thing of beauty is a joy forever
. It was the best cure for depression he knew.

Harry caught him staring and smirked. ‘Too young for me.’

Carlyle said nothing as the girl did a U-turn and disappeared back down Drury Lane.

‘Too young for you too.’

‘Harry . . .’

‘I read about it in the paper,’ said Harry, returning to his theme, all thoughts of playing chicken with the traffic abandoned.

‘Huh?’

‘The policeman who walked up a mountain to kill himself.’

‘Oh, yeah.’ If Keats was alive today, a thing of beauty would be a joy for about ten seconds, Carlyle thought sourly.

‘He had a complicated love-life, or something.’

‘It must have been bloody complicated.’ Carlyle reached inside his jacket for his wallet. ‘For him to want to top himself.’ He groaned when he realised how little cash he
was carrying, barely enough to pay the bill. ‘Anyway, I really have to go.’

‘You didn’t know him, did you?’

‘No, funnily enough, he’s one of the one hundred and forty thousand police officers in this country that I don’t know personally.’ As if by magic, Marcello appeared to
clear away their cups. Carlyle handed him a tenner, signalled that he didn’t need any change, and stood up.

‘According to the papers, he had serious women trouble.’ Harry struggled out of his chair.

‘Don’t we all?’ Carlyle grinned, delighted to have finally got the conversation on to something other than death.

‘Nah,’ Harry said absent-mindedly. ‘He wasn’t henpecked like you. His problem was that he was shagging too many of them – way too many of them. Couldn’t keep
it in his trousers.’

Carlyle looked at the cheeky old codger.
Henpecked
? He thought about saying something, but let it go. Waving goodbye to Marcello, he stepped into the road. ‘I’ll see you soon.
Pop in on Helen and Alice – they’d love to see you. In the meantime, don’t cause any more trouble. That’s an order.’

‘Or I could get arrested?’

‘Yeah.’

The old man’s face lit up. ‘I could die in custody. Fall down some stairs.’

Carlyle laughed as he started down the road. ‘You never know, Harry. You never know.’

‘W
here the bloody hell have you been?’

Leaning back in his chair, Carlyle looked blankly at his sergeant.

‘I called you on the mobile,’ Joe complained, the exasperation clear in his voice.

Carlyle fished his phone out of the breast-pocket of his jacket. The screen said he had missed four calls. Four bloody calls. That was about par for the course with Carlyle and his mobile
phones. He looked up and tried to appear apologetic. ‘Sorry.’

Having just returned from a week’s holiday in Portugal, Sergeant Joseph Szyszkowski was tanned and, despite his current irritation with his boss, extremely relaxed. He looks like
he’s lost a bit of weight, Carlyle thought idly. And caught up on his sleep.

Lucky bugger.

Carlyle was glad to have his sergeant back. Joe was not your average copper. He was second-generation Polish and somewhat unworldly. But they had been working together for more than five years,
and he was one of the few people – the
very
few – on the Force with whom Carlyle enjoyed working and, more importantly, trusted.

‘Well, now that you’re here, we have to go.’ Joe casually dropped a piece of paper on Carlyle’s desk.

Carlyle picked up the sheet of paper but he didn’t read it, and didn’t move from his seat. ‘What’s this?’

‘Agatha Mills.’

‘Who’s she then?’

‘She,’ Joe grinned, ‘is the little old lady who was brained last night in her flat up by the British Museum.’

‘Nice place to live,’ Carlyle sniffed.

‘Not for her. Not any more. The husband called it in earlier.’

Carlyle glanced at the sheet of A4. ‘Serious?’

‘Dead.’

Carlyle felt a wave of indifference sweep over him. He held the paper up to the light, as if he was checking a twenty-pound note for its watermark. ‘And it’s come to us?
Shouldn’t it be for one of the geniuses at the Holborn station? They’re closer to the British Museum than we are.’

‘Well, it’s come to us.’ Joe was used to Carlyle’s initial lack of interest. His boss often took his time to get warmed up and become involved in a case. By the time he
did, the matter was often either solved or the inspector was off on a mission, with his sergeant in tow. Either way, Joe knew that he would buck up eventually.

Carlyle exhaled dramatically. ‘Okay then,’ he said, bouncing out of his chair with mock enthusiasm. ‘Let’s go and take a look.’

C
oming out of the police station, Carlyle sidestepped a couple of winos sitting on the pavement and took a left turn, heading north. After cutting down Henrietta Street, he led
Joe at a brisk pace through Covent Garden piazza and up Endell Street in the direction of Bloomsbury. A little more than five minutes later, they arrived at Ridgemount Mansions, a solid, six-storey
apartment block facing the British Museum on Great Russell Street.

Agatha Mills had lived – and died – in flat number 8, on the first floor. After being buzzed into the building, Carlyle nodded to a couple of uniforms who were canvassing the
neighbours, before ignoring a rickety-looking lift and climbing the stairs. He reached the front door of the flat just as a couple of forensic technicians, laden down with bags and the tools of
their trade, came struggling out. Carlyle recognised one of them, but couldn’t remember his name.

‘The body’s in the kitchen,’ the techie explained. ‘Bassett’s in there too.’ Sylvester Bassett was a pathologist working out of the Charing Cross station so
Carlyle knew him reasonably well. They had worked together three or four times during the last year.

‘Thanks.’ Stepping past the technicians and into the flat, Carlyle sniffed the air. There was the usual mix of cooking and people smells. There was no obvious scent of death, but
that was not unusual. Death, in his experience, kept itself to itself.

The front door opened on to a hallway that ran the entire length of the apartment, leading to rooms on either side. Moving further inside, Carlyle noted a bathroom, a living room – where a
big-boned WPC he didn’t recognise was babysitting some older bloke, presumably the husband – and two bedrooms. At the far end of the hall, on the right, he came to the kitchen. His
first thought was that it was surprisingly large, easily twice the size of his own kitchen at home. There was a round dining table in the middle, surrounded by three chairs. Like the rest of the
place, it had a wooden floor and the white tiles on the walls helped make the place feel clean and bright.

The man in the kitchen had his back turned towards him, but Carlyle instantly recognised Sylvester Bassett from his mop of curly golden hair (from this distance, you couldn’t see the
grey), as much as his unfortunate dress sense which today meant a natty brown corduroy suit, pink socks and what looked like a pair of plum suede loafers. Carlyle could never understand why a
middle-aged man would spend so much time and effort just to look so fey. Bassett had his head poking out of the kitchen window, which gave on to a fire escape at the back of the building. He was
humming to himself and smoking a cigarette.

‘What have we got?’ Carlyle asked.

Startled, Bassett took a step backwards, banging his head on the window frame. Cursing, he rubbed his head with one hand, while stubbing his cigarette out with the other. Tossing the dog end out
of the window, he turned to Carlyle and gestured at the body. It lay face down, half under the table, with a pool of dried blood surrounding the head and shoulders. Agatha Mills was – or had
been – maybe 5 feet 1 or 2 inches tall, with grey hair. She was dressed in a blouse which had once been white, with a blue skirt that almost reached her ankles and a grey cardigan.
‘Smacked over the head with a blunt object,’ Bassett explained, ‘maybe a pot or a rolling pin.’ He glanced around the room. ‘Plenty of suitable things to choose from
in a kitchen.’

‘Have we found the murder weapon?’ Carlyle asked.

Bassett pulled a packet of Benson & Hedges cigarettes out of his jacket pocket and started fiddling with it. ‘Not yet.’

‘Who’s the guy in the living room?’

‘That’s the husband.’ Bassett flicked open the cigarette packet’s lid with his thumb, then closed it again. ‘Mr Henry Mills. He’s in a bit of a
state.’

‘I can imagine.’

‘Been drinking.’

‘That’s understandable,’ Carlyle said reasonably. ‘But is he our man?’

Bassett smiled. ‘You’re the detective, Inspector.’ He finally pulled another cigarette from the packet and pushed it between his lips.

Carlyle scanned the kitchen again. Apart from the corpse and the congealing blood, everything looked perfectly shipshape. ‘Just asking your opinion.’

Bassett was now fumbling with his lighter. ‘Looks likely,’ he conceded.

Law of averages, Carlyle reckoned. Start with the most likely explanation and work outwards. Fucked-up families were what he did, after all. He took another look round. It was a well kitted-out
kitchen with decent equipment: Miele and AEG machines rather than the buy-now, repair-later crap that most people usually bought. He clocked a fridge, washing machine, cooker, microwave and an
expensive-looking coffee-maker almost as big as Marcello’s Gaggia machine in Il Buffone, before his gaze paused at the dishwasher. A small orange light indicated that it was still switched
on. Giving the body a wide berth, he stepped across the room. The machine had been set for an intensive 65-degree wash, rather than an economy bio 45-degree one, and it had obviously completed one
cycle. Carefully, he brought the back of his hand close to the machine, staying just shy of touching it. The machine was lukewarm rather than hot, suggesting that it had last been in operation
several hours previously.

He turned to Bassett, who was puffing on his latest cigarette as if it was his first one for many months, and pointed at the dishwasher. ‘Has anyone looked inside this?’

Bassett thought about it for a second. ‘I don’t know. I don’t think so.’

Carlyle turned to Joe, who had appeared from elsewhere in the flat and was hovering in the doorway. ‘Make sure this has been checked for prints and then open it up.’

‘Okay.’ Joe went off to see if he could find any remaining forensic technicians.

‘And see how the canvass of the neighbours is going,’ Carlyle called after him.

‘Will do.’

‘Are you going to take her now?’ Carlyle asked Bassett.

‘Yes. I think we are more or less done here.’

‘The report?’

‘Shouldn’t take too long. If there are any surprises, I’ll give you a call straight away.’

‘Thanks.’

I
n the living room, the WPC was sitting on the sofa, staring into space. Henry Mills was standing by the large bay window, contemplating the crowds entering the British Museum.
A billboard in the courtyard advertised an exhibition devoted to
Babylon: Myth & Reality
. Helen had been trying to get him to go with her to see it, but Carlyle knew it was just another
one of those things they would never get round to doing. Not that this worried him; he could live without the Tower of Babel and the madness of King Nebuchadnezzar, so was happy to just let it
slide.