Time of Death (21 page)

‘Why would they do that?’

She ignored his question. ‘I knew something was wrong, so I went over to see if I could help. I gave him a shake and then checked for a pulse . . . but there was nothing.’ She paused
and a tear appeared at the corner of her right eye.

Give it a rest, Carlyle thought uncharitably. All you did was sell the poor sod the odd juice.

‘Did he do drugs?’

She looked at him blankly in a way that Carlyle read as:
Yes, of course he did, you idiot!
‘No.’

‘Are you sure?’

She shook her head. ‘I never saw Felix touch anything illegal.’

I’d need some serious drugs if I had to play the bloody bongo drums all day, Carlyle mused. ‘Okay, was he ill?’

‘No, no, he was very healthy.’

‘What else did he do?’ Carlyle asked. ‘Apart from play for the tourists here?’

‘He loved his music. He often worked with kids doing drumming workshops.’

‘Here?’

‘No, in Hackney. He also had his own band. They’re called Toompea. They play alternative folk rock.’

‘Uhuh.’ Carlyle was switching off; this dead guy was getting less interesting by the second.

Kylie looked at him expectantly, obviously waiting for another question, but his mind had gone blank.

‘John?’ He was saved by Susan Phillips, who had appeared from somewhere.

He held up a hand to signal to the pathologist that he would come over in a minute. ‘Thank you for that,’ he said to the girl. ‘Give Sergeant Prentice here your details, and we
will be in touch.’

‘What happened to him?’ Kylie asked.

‘That’s what we need to find out. If you can think of anything else that might be relevant, let us know straight away.’ Turning away from the girl before she could start crying
again, he stepped over to the pathologist and smiled. ‘Nice to see you, Susan.’

‘You, too, John. You’ve got an interesting one here.’

Based ten minutes up the road, at Holborn police station, Susan Phillips had been a staff pathologist with the Met for more than fifteen years. Slim and blonde, with a healthy glow and a cheery
smile, she brought a smidgen of much-needed glamour to The Job. More to the point, she was quick, no-nonsense and dependable – just what Carlyle liked in a colleague. They had worked together
many times before and he was always pleased to see her at a crime scene.

‘What can you tell me?’ Carlyle asked.

‘Not a lot,’ Phillips grinned, pushing a pair of oversized sunglasses back up her nose.

‘Foul play?’ he asked casually.

‘No signs of it that I can see, first off.’

‘Heart attack, then? The girl says he just kind of keeled over.’

‘Maybe,’ she shrugged. ‘He’s still young, but it can happen. I’m sorry, but I can’t speculate at this stage. It’s not immediately apparent what killed
him. We’re going to take him away now. I’ll get him on to the slab and let you know what I find out.’

‘Okay,’ Carlyle nodded. ‘Thanks for coming.’

‘No problem,’ Phillips said. ‘Let’s speak later.’

The body was carefully loaded into the ambulance by a couple of paramedics. Carlyle watched as it slowly edged its way into the traffic on Bow Street before heading away from the piazza.

‘What shall we do with the bongos?’ Prentice asked.

Carlyle looked at the pair of forlorn-looking drums standing on the cobbles alongside Felix’s other bits and pieces. ‘Take them back to the station with the rest of the guy’s
stuff. They’re evidence.’

‘Okay,’ said Prentice, happy to be getting back to his desk.

As Prentice trudged off, Carlyle glanced back across the police tape. With the show over, the crowd had largely dispersed, heading off in search of other diversions. It was hard work being a
tourist, Carlyle thought.

Finally, there were only a handful of people still standing by the tape. One man caught Carlyle’s eye and grinned. ‘Well, fuck me!’ the inspector mumbled under his breath.
Instinctively, he felt for his handcuffs, cursing when he remembered that – not for the first time – he had left them at the station or at home or God knows where. He looked around for
some support, moral or otherwise. In the distance, he could see Prentice already on the far side of the piazza, heading back to the station with a bongo drum under each arm. Everyone else had
left.

Taking a deep breath, Carlyle stepped towards the tape.

‘Inspector.’ Michael Hagger doffed an imaginary cap and let the grin spread even wider across his face.

Just short of six feet, Hagger was taller and heavier than Carlyle, not to mention at least fifteen years younger. They both knew that the policeman could not take him down, one on one.

More to the point, there was no sign of the child.

‘Michael, nice to see you.’

‘I hear you’ve been looking for me.’

‘Quite a few people have.’

‘Well, here I am.’

‘Yeah, but people are also looking for the boy. Where’s Jake?’

Hagger did a little half-step dance on the cobbles. ‘The kid’s okay.’

‘That’s good.’

Hagger sniggered. ‘You know that if you lay a finger on me now, well . . . that might change.’

‘Yes,’ said Carlyle, holding his hands up in supplication. ‘I do.’

Hagger put on an expression of mock hurt. ‘It’s a shame that a father isn’t allowed to have some quality time with his son these days.’

Carlyle bit his tongue.

‘It’s not like his mother – that useless bitch – is doing much of a job anyway.’

At least that’s something we can agree on, Carlyle reflected.

Hagger gave him a sly look. ‘I’m guessing that when you do get Jake back, Social Services will take over, anyway.’

When
. Carlyle liked the sound of that. On the other hand, Hagger talked shit most of the time; gibberish the rest. ‘Where is he, Michael?’

Hagger raised a fist, but only for emphasis. ‘He’s safe. And he’s well. I only need him for a few more days, and then you’ll get him back. In the meantime, tell your
people to back off.’

My people?
Carlyle wondered what he meant. Maybe Inspector Cutler was outperforming any expectations. ‘Okay.’

‘If Jake gets hurt,’ Hagger continued, sounding more agitated, ‘it will be your fault.’

‘No one wants Jake to get hurt,’ Carlyle said, as soothingly as he could manage.

‘Well, tell your chum Silver to behave himself, then.’

Silver? Carlyle frowned. ‘What’s he got to do with all this?’

Thrusting his hands into his trouser pockets, Hagger turned on his heel and began walking briskly away. ‘Just bloody tell him,’ he shouted over his shoulder.

Carlyle watched him go, while replaying in his head what had just been said. As Hagger disappeared round a corner, he reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out his private and untraceable (he
hoped) mobile, and called Dominic Silver’s number. Almost immediately, it went to voicemail. Gripping the handset tighter in frustration, he spat out a message:
Dominic, it’s me.
Call me back asap. I am waiting for your call, so I will definitely pick up.

For a few moments, he stared at his phone, willing it to ring, while wondering whether he had time to pop up to Il Buffone for lunch. But the phone didn’t ring and he decided, regretfully,
that he didn’t have time for a proper lunch. Plan B was a cheese sandwich and an orange juice, which he bought from a cheerful girl working in Kylie’s trailer to take back to the
station.

Five minutes later, aware of the rumbling in his stomach, Carlyle stepped out of the lift and headed towards his desk. As he approached, he wasn’t best pleased to find someone sitting in
his chair.

‘John Carlyle?’

‘Yes.’

The tall Asian-looking bloke lifted his spotless Nike trainers off Carlyle’s desk and planted them on the floor. ‘I’m Inspector Nick Chan.’ He nodded at another man
hovering nearby. ‘That is Sergeant Greg Brown.’

Both men wore a smug look that said
We know something you don’t
.

Chan and Brown? After a few seconds’ thought, Carlyle came to the conclusion that he didn’t know anything about this duo. That made it doubly certain that now was a good time for
caution.

‘What can I do for you gentlemen?’ Carlyle asked. He couldn’t wait any longer for some food, so he flopped into a nearby chair and began unwrapping his sandwich.

Chan took that as his cue to stand up. ‘Let’s go into one of the conference rooms.’

‘Fine.’ Carlyle took a large bite out of his sandwich and chewed it vigorously, getting back to his feet and following his two colleagues towards the row of empty rooms situated at
the rear of that floor.

C
onference room number seven was filled by a long rectangular table, surrounded by a dozen chairs. Carlyle quickly took a seat at the far end of the table, by the window.
Someone had left a copy of the
Mirror
on the table. The newspaper was folded in half and Carlyle could only see part of the front-page headline:
television presenter
. . . Resisting
the temptation to open it out, he polished off the last of his sandwich and took a long swig of juice.

Behind him, Brown entered the room, followed by Chan, who closed the door and then removed his jacket, dropping it over the back of a chair. Both policemen remained standing. ‘Do you know
Sandra Groves?’ Chan asked.

Carlyle downed the last of the juice and screwed the cap back on the empty bottle. ‘Yes.’

‘She claims you assaulted her.’

‘So I hear.’ Knowing now what this was about, Carlyle relaxed a little.

‘And did you?’

‘No.’ Carlyle smiled at Brown, who stared grimly back at him. ‘Have you guys not seen the reports?’

‘She’s in hospital,’ said Brown.

‘As far as I’m aware,’ Carlyle said, as casually as he could manage, ‘she was fine when she left this station.’

Brown folded his arms and leaned against the wall. ‘She’s in intensive care.’

Carlyle squeezed the juice bottle tightly, saying nothing. The room was hot and stuffy, but now was not the time to get up and try to open a window. In the breast pocket of his jacket, his phone
started vibrating. That would be Dominic, but now was not the time to answer it. In fact, now was not the time to do anything but sit very still and listen.

‘Someone tried to run her over last night,’ Brown continued.

‘So?’

‘So,’ Chan replied, trying and failing to keep a grin from his face, ‘she says that it was you.’

A
fter a further twenty minutes, Chan and Brown departed. Carlyle had explained that firstly, he didn’t know how to drive, and secondly his wife could provide him with an
alibi for the time when Sandra Groves was suffering a vehicular assault. The pair didn’t seem particularly concerned by what he had to say one way or another and, after mumbling the usual
stuff about being back after making further enquiries, they left him sitting alone in the conference room, wondering what to do next.

The first thing he did was check his voicemail. As expected, it was Dominic Silver:
John, it’s me. I thought you were definitely going to pick up? Anyway, don’t call me back.
I’m busy this afternoon. I’ll try you again tonight.

It took Carlyle a moment to remember what he had called Dominic about in the first place, even though it was barely an hour ago. When he remembered, it didn’t seem so much of a priority
any more. Standing up, he dropped his empty juice bottle into a bin in one corner of the room. Then he unfolded the newspaper and laid it out on the table. Reading the full headline, he
grimaced:

W
ith a sick feeling in his stomach, he read on:

U
nder a picture of Reith Mansions, the block where Rosanna had lived, the rest of the article consisted of filler about her career-history and her personal life. Thinking back
to their meeting, Carlyle reread the article. If she fell down the stairs, maybe it was an accident. But if the police hadn’t ruled out something more sinister then they must have some
serious doubts.

There was no reference in the paper to the stalker that Rosanna had been worried about. Carlyle tried and failed to recall the guy’s name. Perhaps he was involved? Refolding the paper, he
dropped it back on the table.

Should he have taken her concerns more seriously?

Could he have stopped this?

As usual, there were lots of questions and no answers.

‘John,’ he whispered to himself as he left the room, ‘this is really not looking like it’s going to be a great day.’

U
nder the circumstances, Carlyle decided that it would be sensible to make himself scarce, for a while at least. That meant switching off his work mobile and getting out of the
station for the rest of the afternoon. Deciding to head for the one place where he knew that he wouldn’t be disturbed, he took the keys to the Mills flat from his desk and headed for the
street. Once outside, he walked slowly up through Covent Garden to Ridgemount Mansions, taking care to avoid any more arguments with bus drivers, protestors or anyone else on his way there.

Stepping inside, however, he realised that coming back to the flat had been a bad idea. The place had not been aired for a fortnight. The heat was oppressive and the atmosphere was rank. Closing
the front door behind him, Carlyle stepped quickly down the hallway, heading for the kitchen. Glancing round the room, he saw that nothing had been touched since the original investigation. A chair
lay overturned beside the kitchen table and Agatha Mills’s dried blood was still caked on the floor. Carlyle wondered how long the place would stay like this. It could take months, if not
years due to legal reasons for the flat to get sold and have someone else move in. It struck him that this place would be great for Helen and Alice and himself, but it was way out of their league
– probably about a million quid out of their league. He wondered who actually owned it now – whether the Millses had left it to anyone in their wills, or whether it would just revert to
the Government, to help pay down the National Debt. God knows, the public finances needed all the help they could get.