‘As far as I could see,’ Carlyle replied grimly, ‘every effort was made to save that young man.’
It sounded lame and he knew it.
The lawyer allowed himself a small smile. ‘So all proper operating procedures were followed?’
‘That is not what I am here to discuss,’ the inspector said firmly.
Boduka arched a sceptical eyebrow.
‘You know that’s not my area,’ Carlyle insisted. ‘You need to talk to the Met’s Legal Department.’
‘As you wish.’
‘My job,’ Carlyle reminded him, ‘is to catch the people responsible for this outrageous act. And I am sure that must be the primary, if not the only, concern of the boy’s parents, as well. So why don’t you go and fetch your client and then we can get on with it?’
Ivor Mosman sipped from a glass of carbonated water. ‘Zoe and I had gone to the National Theatre to see South Pacific,’ he explained, staring into his drink. ‘Horatio was left in the house alone, but he was old enough. . there had never been any problems before.’ He looked up at the inspector, who was sitting expectantly, with his arms crossed. This time it was Carlyle who had his back to the window, so that he wouldn’t be distracted by the view. ‘We had our phones switched off in the theatre, so we didn’t know what was going on until we came out.’ He shook his head. ‘It took us about half an hour to get home — and then we weren’t allowed near the house.’
Carlyle nodded.
‘No one could tell us anything. When the explosion came. .’
‘It was a very difficult situation.’ The crime scene had been left in the hands of a local detective inspector who had been none too happy when Carlyle was subsequently catapulted into the role of lead investigator. Carlyle hadn’t been too happy about that either, but there you go.
‘Yes,’ Mosman said uncertainly.
They were clearly not getting very far. The inspector glanced over at Boduka, who was again fiddling with his pen. He turned his attention back to the victim’s father. ‘What I really need from you now,’ he said gently, ‘is any idea as to why this happened.’
Boduka dropped his Waterman Carene on the table. ‘We had plenty of time to discuss this before you arrived,’ he said, with more than a hint of irritation. ‘Neither Mr or Mrs Mosman have any idea why anyone should want to do such a terrible thing.’
‘Okay,’ said Carlyle patiently, ‘but this was clearly a premeditated attack on Horatio and, by extension, on the family as a whole. There was nothing random about what happened on Wellington Road. It took time, effort and knowledge, not least the knowledge that Horatio would be alone in the house. Someone went to a lot of effort here. They must have been really pissed off about something. Really pissed off. I’m not looking for a justification for what happened, just an explanation. You must have some thoughts — and I need to hear them.’
That was his pitch. Sitting back, he folded his arms and waited for a response.
TWENTY-ONE
After the best part of an hour getting nothing out of Horatio Mosman’s father, Carlyle could feel his sugar levels dropping and his temper fraying. Ivor Mosman was unable to offer up anything of use; worse, he didn’t seem to think that the inspector should be talking to him at all. Carlyle never ceased to be irritated by people’s ability to somehow imagine that he could do his job by ESP. He might be many things, but he wasn’t psychic; he needed something to go on.
Now it was Zoe Mosman’s turn. Girding his loins, the inspector gazed across the table at the grieving mother. ‘So what is it that you do, Mrs Mosman?’
There was a pause as she gave a quick glance towards the lawyer, who nodded his approval. Then her lips twitched and a mumble emerged.
Her voice was so quiet that Carlyle could hardly hear her. ‘Sorry?’
She cleared her throat. ‘I’m an art historian.’
Carlyle studied her carefully. Finally, he thought, someone says something interesting. Casually scratching his head, he tried to show no reaction to what he’d just heard. ‘An academic?’
‘Yes,’ Mrs Mosman whispered.
‘All this information has been provided to you already,’ Boduka said sharply.
But news to me, Carlyle thought, ignoring him. ‘So you know a thing or two about paintings?’
She nodded. ‘I have some expertise.’
Opening the file on the desk, the inspector flicked through a series of documents. Finding what he wanted, he held up a colour photocopy. ‘So, do you know what this is?’
Mrs Mosman reached into her handbag, pulled out a pair of reading glasses and slipped them on. Squinting, she leaned forward and stared at the image. It was a copy of an oil painting. Under a grey sky with patches of blue, a woman in a red cape was buying vegetables in a street market while a man rode by on a horse. In the bottom right-hand corner, a dog hovered in the hope of getting something to eat.
‘Take your time,’ Carlyle said impatiently.
‘It looks like an eighteenth-century street scene,’ Zoe Mosman said finally. ‘Or something like that.’ She turned back to the inspector. ‘A London market maybe?’
‘But you don’t know what it’s called?’
‘No.’
‘So it’s not famous.’
‘It depends what you mean by famous.’ She let out one of the weariest sighs he had ever heard in his life. ‘The point is, that this kind of thing is not my area of expertise.’
‘No?’
‘No. My area of specialism is contemporary art; YBAs. .’
Carlyle looked at her blankly.
‘Young British Artists. . Britart.’ She mentioned a number of names, none of which meant anything to the culturally illiterate inspector.
Boduka drummed his fingers impatiently on the table. ‘What has this got to do with anything?’
‘A copy of this picture,’ Carlyle explained, ‘was pinned to Horatio’s shirt by the man who killed him.’ He omitted to add: ‘We managed to remove it for forensic investigation just before he was blown sky high.’
A look of utter disgust spread across Zoe Mosman’s face — as if she was about to throw up on the table.
‘It looks like it was cut out of a book, or maybe a catalogue,’ the inspector went on, placing the photocopy back inside his file. ‘Presumably it has some relevance, at least as far as the bomber is concerned.’
‘This is news to us,’ the lawyer complained. ‘Why weren’t we told about it earlier?’
‘Mrs Mosman?’
Head bowed, Zoe Mosman took a series of deep breaths as she waited for the nausea to pass. Both men waited patiently as she regained a measure of self-control.
‘Sorry.’
‘Take all the time you need,’ Carlyle mumbled.
‘Thank you. I’ll be fine.’ She removed her spectacles and put them into her bag. When she finally looked up, her eyes were damp. ‘I would have to check. We have comprehensive databases — so, if you let me have a copy, I can easily find out what that picture is for you.’
‘But you haven’t seen it before?’ Carlyle had a strong sense that she was holding out on him, and was now keen to see how far he could push this conversation.
‘No.’ She shook her head as fat, heavy tears started trickling down her cheeks. ‘I don’t think so.’
Glaring at the inspector, the lawyer got to his feet. ‘That’s enough.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Jumping up, Mrs Mosman grabbed her bag and ran for the door.
‘It’s all right, Zoe.’ Shaking his head angrily, Boduka followed his client out of the room. Left alone, Carlyle allowed himself a thin smile. After a few moments, he pulled out his mobile and made a quick phone call. Once it was finished, he shoved the papers back into his plastic bag and headed out in search of something satisfying to eat.
TWENTY-TWO
‘So what have we got?’