‘I’d offer to help,’ Carlyle said sincerely, ‘but I’m off tomorrow.’ Reaching the tunnel, he headed for an illuminated Exit sign.
‘Of course, of course,’ Simpson said, not particularly interested in his holiday plans either. ‘I hope you have a good time,’ she offered half-heartedly. ‘Come and see me when you get back.’
Ending the call, Carlyle pushed open a gate marked NO RE-ENTRY. Outside the ground, he counted a dozen or so police officers standing around, clearly unsure about what they should be doing. For some reason, two fire engines had turned up. A large group of journalists and TV crews were swarming around an ambulance that had just arrived at the kerb, shouting questions that no one would ever answer.
Feeling a gentle rain on his face, Carlyle lowered his head. ‘This bitch of a life,’ he mumbled to himself. ‘This fucking bitch of a life.’ Not knowing whether to laugh or cry, he thrust his hands deep into his pockets, moving away from the crowd at a brisk pace.