‘Poor dears,’ Carlyle scoffed. SUV owners were not high on his sympathy list. In fact, they weren’t on that list at all.
‘We’ll get ’em soon enough,’ Singleton grinned. ‘Anyway, where do you now want to start?’
Carlyle looked down at the small cup that had previously contained his double espresso. It was already empty, he noted sadly. ‘Simon Lovell,’ he said. ‘Have you actually seen him?’
‘A couple of times.’ From behind her own outsized cup, Singleton made a face. ‘If anything, he seems even weirder than the last time round.’
‘If his original confession to the Snowdon killing was ruled inadmissible,’ Carlyle said, ‘the new DNA evidence must be strong?’
‘I don’t know about that. There’s still a lot of pressure to get a result on this one, coming from the media and the family.’
‘I thought that Rosanna’s parents were dealing with it quite well.’ Under the circumstances.
‘Oh, they are,’ Singleton agreed. ‘Very dignified, indeed, but you know what it’s like. The father still has some political clout, and Rosanna was herself a bit of a celebrity.’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ Carlyle sighed. ‘Who’s Lovell’s lawyer these days?’
‘He’s acquired a few, as you could imagine, but the main one’s still a woman called Abigail Slater.’
Carlyle shook his head. ‘Never heard of her.’
‘Ambulance-chasing bitch. She’ll have made a real killing on Legal Aid by now, but she’s only going through the motions, if you ask me. It’s a high-profile case and she likes that kind of attention — wants all the publicity she can get.’
‘Lawyers,’ Carlyle groaned. He didn’t like them any more than anyone else did.
‘Slater will string this thing out for as long as she can, but she’s only delaying the inevitable. You can tell the parents that they’ll probably get a result this time.’
‘Probably?’
Singleton thought about it for a moment. ‘Almost certainly.’
‘That’s not the same as saying he did it,’ Carlyle grumped.
Singleton’s eyes narrowed. ‘Whose side are you on?’
‘I’m not on anyone’s side,’ Carlyle replied, rather too sharply. ‘The Job is not about taking sides. I want this case closed — for Rosanna and for her parents, of course.’
‘But?’
‘But it comes down to reasonable doubt. Unless I’m missing something here, we still don’t actually know that he did it.’
‘The DNA?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Well,’ Singleton sniffed, ‘I think that he probably did it.’
Carlyle gave her an enquiring look. ‘Fair enough, but is that good enough? You don’t know. No one does.’
‘No,’ she said, reasonableness personified, ‘but you can’t say for sure that he didn’t do it either, can you?’
The inspector felt a bubble of frustration growing in his chest. The ability of people to believe what they wanted to believe — what it suited them to believe — annoyed the hell out of him. ‘If this is bullshit, we’re just going to end up making ourselves look stupid again.’
‘I honestly don’t think it is bullshit,’ Singleton said stubbornly. ‘Look at all the other crazy theories knocking about — Russian hitmen, angry viewers, and all that crap. Dear old Mr Lovell was always the only credible suspect. It wasn’t like we had to beat the crap out of him to get his original confession either.’
Carlyle nodded. The sergeant had a point.
‘Anyway, you’re not the one who’s had this case sitting on your desk for the last couple of years.’ Singleton was then distracted as her mobile began vibrating across the cafe table. ‘Shit.’ Putting down her cup, she grabbed the phone and answered it. ‘I’m coming,’ she said quickly, before whoever was on the other end of the call had time to say anything. ‘I’m just round the corner. I’ll be there in two minutes.’ Ending the call, she said, ‘Sorry, but I’m really under the cosh today.’
‘No worries.’ Carlyle held up a hand. ‘It was good to have a catch-up.’
‘This might be of more use.’ Rooting around in her shoulder bag, Singleton pulled out an A4 manila envelope stuffed with papers. ‘These are copies of some of the stuff we found in Rosanna’s flat. They might be of interest — and if nothing else, the parents might want to have them. But make sure these get properly looked after. After all, the case has still to be concluded.’
‘Of course,’ said Carlyle, accepting the envelope from her. He was grateful for her thoughtfulness, because Singleton needn’t have bothered. She was putting herself out here and he was genuinely grateful. ‘Thanks.’
‘No problem.’ Hoisting the bag over her shoulder, she got to her feet. ‘You can return the favour one day.’
‘It’ll be my pleasure,’ Carlyle smiled.
As she disappeared out of the door, his gaze fell on the largely untouched mocha. What a waste of an expensive cup of coffee. With an unhappy sigh, he ripped open the envelope and pulled out a stack of papers more than an inch thick. ‘That’s a lot of reading,’ he mumbled to himself. Top of the pile was a selection of stories printed off from the BBC website. The inspector was just about to start reading when his phone vibrated in the breast pocket of his jacket. Looking at the screen, he saw that he had already accumulated four missed calls.
Bloody phones. How the hell did that happen?
Tutting, he answered it. ‘Yeah?’
‘Boss, it’s Joe.’ His sergeant’s voice sounded strained. ‘Where the hell are you?’
Filled with light, the flat was spartan but not depressing; 550 square feet on the top floor of a converted Victorian mansion block in Tufnell Park, divided into a bedroom, bathroom and tiny kitchen/living room. Hands resting on hips, Carlyle stood behind the breakfast bar, trying to stay out of the way of the technicians as they went about their business.
Inside, he wanted to cry.
‘It looks like she put up a hell of a fight.’ Joe Szyszkowski appeared from the landing, looking ashen-faced.
The inspector nodded. He couldn’t bear to go and view the body. All he could think about was that, in all likelihood, he himself was responsible for her death.
‘What about the neighbours?’
Joe shook his head. ‘Nothing.’
‘For fuck’s sake!’ Carlyle threw up his hands in despair. ‘Someone must have seen something!’ The general public were never of any help when you needed it, always in your face when you didn’t.
Joe dropped his gaze to the floor. ‘Her father. .’
Carlyle grimaced. ‘Yes?’
‘He’s waiting downstairs.’
* * *
For a man who must have been somewhere in his late fifties, Mervyn Hall was in good shape. Stocky but without any signs of middle-age spread, he looked like he could step back into the boxing ring at a moment’s notice. It had taken Carlyle a good ten minutes to persuade Maude’s father that they should stay away from Maude’s flat and leave the crime scene to Forensics. He felt sick to his stomach telling the man that he couldn’t see his daughter, but it was for the best. The poor bastard would have to formally identify the body soon enough. For now, they sat in uncomfortable silence in an empty cafe on Brecknock Road, a block away from the flat, both lost in their respective thoughts. Meanwhile the rest of the city continued about its business as usual, untroubled by the violence that had turned their world on its head.
Shit happens.
Life goes on.
No one really gives a fuck.
After an eternity of staring into his greasy black coffee, Hall looked up, clearing his throat. ‘So what happens now?’
Carlyle finished his espresso. It was disgusting. What he really wanted, he decided, was a large glass of Jameson’s, or maybe more. His gaze lingered on Willy’s Saloon Bar, the Irish pub across the road, before returning to Hall. ‘Now,’ he sighed, ‘we have to find out who did this.’
Leaning across the table, Hall placed a hand on the inspector’s forearm. ‘Make sure you do. And then, let me know.’