‘I’m sure it is,’ said Simpson without any enthusiasm as she buttoned herself up.
‘Dino is too kind,’ Holyrod said smoothly. ‘I have a lot of learning to do if I am to get up to speed with the business.’
‘Well,’ said Simpson, ‘good luck with that.’ Pulling her belt tight, she watched with some irritation as Dino struggled into his Ralph Lauren trench-coat. ‘I hope you enjoy the exhibition, Mr Mayor. The pieces on display really are quite incredible.’
‘I’m looking forward to it,’ Holyrod beamed, edging closer. ‘But there was something I was meaning to ask you about as well.’
Dino gave her a quizzical look.
Simpson’s heart sank. Not only had she been embarrassed by the antics of her insider-dealing husband, she had been embarrassed by the political company that he had kept. And now, with hindsight, she was even more embarrassed to admit that she had been a fellow traveller; a fellow traveller to the point where, arguably, she had overstepped the mark in disclosing to Holyrod details of an investigation in which he personally had been involved. As it happened, her indiscretion had not affected the outcome of the case; but it could have done and that thought still rankled. Still, she had learned an important lesson. Her dealings with politicians were, she had hoped, all long in the past. That was most definitely where she wanted to keep them.
Holyrod let his voice drop until it was barely audible over the background hubbub. ‘It concerns my favourite policeman.’
John bloody Carlyle. Simpson felt a sour twinge in her gut. The Commander’s relationship with her subordinate had improved immeasurably over recent years, but that did not preclude her from having an acute awareness of his somewhat severe shortcomings. The inspector was the kind of man who had a chip on both shoulders, along with the innate ability to piss off important people, especially the Mayor. On more than one occasion, Simpson had been caught in the middle when the pair had clashed. Whereas Carlyle seemed to revel in the conflict, she herself found it wearisome and futile.
‘There’s an issue in relation to-’
Simpson stopped him. ‘I am aware of the situation. Why don’t you call me in the morning?’
Holyrod was about to reply when an imperious figure appeared at his shoulder. At well over six feet, Abigail Slater towered over Simpson. She was wearing a Moschino twill blazer over a pearl blouse with the top three buttons undone, giving more than a glimpse of an ample décolletage. Dino’s mouth fell open. Resisting the urge to elbow her partner in the ribs, Simpson gave Holyrod a sly smile. ‘Is your wife not coming this evening?’ she asked maliciously.
Catching her tone, Dino closed his mouth and, taking her arm, began manoeuvring the Commander towards the exit. ‘We’re off to dinner,’ he said, injecting a note of false cheer into his voice.
‘I will call you in the morning,’ Holyrod said grimly as Simpson walked away.
‘What a bitch,’ Slater sneered, loudly enough for Simpson to hear.
‘Forget it,’ Holyrod snapped, pulling her in the opposite direction. ‘Let’s go and see the bloody exhibition.’
The squaddie drained his pint of Spitfire Ale and banged it down on the table. ‘They’re almost here.’
Not looking up from his bottle of Foster’s, Adrian Gasparino grunted noncommittally. He was freezing cold in his dress uniform and trying to ignore the dull ache from his crippled leg.
‘Aren’t you going to come out and watch it?’ Not waiting for an answer, the squaddie was already out of the door and into the crowd, a few hundred strong that lined the main street in Wootton Bassett, the small Wiltshire town through which dead soldiers were driven on their way to the John Radcliffe Hospital in Oxford.
Gasparino looked up at the television screen set high on the wall. One of the news channels was showing live images of the scene outside. Over the pictures, a newsreader’s voice said: ‘Since they began more than three years ago, there have been 149 repatriation ceremonies for 346 personnel. The rate has been increasing, with 34 ceremonies for 86 soldiers so far this year.’
A perky blonde presenter was running up and down the street interviewing anyone in a uniform. Everyone used the same words – ‘tragedy’ and ‘bravery’ – the excited chatter only stopping when the hearses finally hove into view. There were six bodies being repatriated today. One of them belonged to Spencer Spanner. Gasparino kept his eyes on the screen as they passed by outside. As the last one disappeared, he finished his beer and went back to the bar.
Fed up with waiting for his wife to make a comment, Carlyle picked up his new spectacles and waved them in front of his face.
‘What do you think?’
‘They make you look different,’ Helen smirked.
‘At least I haven’t lost them yet,’ Carlyle replied, miffed that she couldn’t come up with something more positive to say about his new look.
Reaching across the sofa, Helen took the frames from his hand. Placing them carefully on his face, she gave him an affectionate kiss on the lips. ‘They look good. With the grey hair, you are on the way to looking really quite distinguished.’
‘Getting old,’ Carlyle said sadly.
‘We’re all getting old,’ Helen retorted. ‘No need to get all gloomy about it.’ She gestured at the television. On the screen were pictures of Union Jack-draped coffins being unloaded from an RAF plane. ‘There’s a lot worse could happen to you. Those kids were only in their twenties. It seems like they’re coming home almost every day now.’
‘I know.’
The news report turned to a series of vox pops with people who had turned out to watch the bodies return home. ‘I’m here to pay my respects,’ said one woman, carrying a baby. ‘They’re all heroes.’
Carlyle shook his head. ‘What kind of person takes a young kid to something like that?’
Helen made a face. ‘It has clearly become a bit of a tradition. A day out for people.’
‘I’m sure it makes the poor buggers in the coffins feel a whole lot better,’ said Carlyle grumpily.
A stern-looking chap in uniform appeared on the screen under the title Lieutenant-General Sir Kelvin Frank. ‘There is a greater infatuation with the military,’ he announced, staring into the camera in a rather disconcerting fashion, ‘than at any other stage of recent history. Much of it is pretty mawkish – what you might call recreational grief . . . Diana . . . Graceland-type stuff. It’s just an extension of the vapid celebrity culture that is corroding our country and doesn’t do anyone any good.’
Carlyle gave a small cheer. ‘At last,’ he said, gesturing at the screen, ‘someone’s talking some bloody sense. Why do we let ourselves wallow in all this sentimentality? You tell ’em, General!’
‘Alice came back with something from school yesterday,’ Helen said. ‘They’re doing a sponsored walk for Help for Heroes and Veterans Aid.’
Carlyle looked at her uncomprehendingly.
‘They’re charities aimed at helping ex-servicemen get back into civilian life.’
‘Isn’t that the government’s job?’ Carlyle asked. Holding up his hand, he corrected himself immediately. ‘Sorry, that was a remarkably stupid thing to say. Good for Alice. How much is she looking to raise?’
‘A minimum of two hundred quid. She’s really up for it.’
‘Good for her,’ Carlyle repeated, quietly wondering how much he would have to stump up himself. ‘What does she think of it all?’
‘Dunno,’ Helen replied. ‘I think she buys into the basic idea that the soldiers are heroes, but doesn’t have much of an understanding – if any at all – about what they’re actually fighting for.’
‘Same as everyone else then,’ Carlyle quipped. ‘I’d better see if I can dig out an old Stranglers CD for her to listen to.’
Leaping off the sofa, he began singing the first verse of ‘No More Heroes’ in his best Jean-Jacques Burnel accent. Raising her eyes to the ceiling, Helen picked up the remote and raised the volume on the TV.