‘That was me releasing the safety on my Browning.’ Gideon Spanner, Dominic Silver’s lieutenant, stepped out from behind his target to get a better view of the trio lined up on the sofa.
Where the hell did you come from? Carlyle wondered. Not that I bloody care! With his heart thumping in his chest, he had to resist the urge to let out a hysterical laugh.
‘I don’t want to blow your head off,’ Gideon murmured quietly in Miller’s ear, ‘because apart from anything else, it would make a terrible mess, and I think you’ve caused these good people more than enough trouble for one night, don’t you?’
Miller’s mouth opened slightly but no sound came out.
‘So drop the gun, please,’ Gideon instructed, ‘and that’s one less problem for us to worry about.’
Miller did as instructed and the Glock hit the carpet with the gentlest of thuds. Intrigued, Silvio appeared from under the table to give it a sniff, before nonchalantly wandering back into the hall.
‘Good. Now kick it towards the inspector over there.’ Again, Miller obliged, carefully side-footing the pistol towards the sofa.
Carlyle, whose bemusement had rapidly turned to relief, made no effort to pick it up. He glanced at the Snowdons, who seemed to be taking it all in their stride.
‘Who are you?’ Miller demanded. It was less a question, more of a wail.
‘Never you mind,’ said Gideon sharply, giving him a prod on the back of the neck with the gun. ‘On your knees, hands behind your head.’ As Miller slowly lowered his bulky frame, Gideon glanced at the inspector. ‘Cuffs?’
Carlyle made a face. ‘Sorry, no.’ He had left them in the station — or maybe at home. A look of weary resignation passed over Gideon’s face.
‘There’s some washing-line cord in the kitchen, under the sink,’ Veronica Snowdon volunteered cheerily. ‘I’ll go and get it.’ She got to her feet. ‘And I’ll need to make sure that Silvio hasn’t done his business on the floor again.’
‘Get me some paracetamol while you’re at it, please,’ Sir Michael mumbled.
‘Yes, dear.’ As she headed for the door, Carlyle was mildly surprised that she didn’t offer to make everyone a cup of tea, on top of everything else. Stepping round both Miller and Spanner, she disappeared towards the rear of the house. Belatedly getting to his feet, the inspector gave Gideon a nod.
‘Thanks for your help on this.’
‘No problem.’ Gideon sounded detached bordering on uninterested.
‘Dom asked you to keep an eye on me?’
The merest of nods. ‘I’ve been on it for the last couple of days.’
‘I didn’t realize.’
Gideon shot him a look that said That was the idea. After a few moments, Veronica Snowdon returned from the kitchen and handed Gideon a length of green and white plastic cable. Sticking the Browning into the belt of his jeans, Gideon pulled Miller’s hands behind his back and expertly tied them together.
‘Nice to see that the old Army training still comes in handy,’ Carlyle observed.
Retrieving his Browning, Gideon said nothing.
‘Here you are, Michael.’ Moving over to the sofa, Veronica handed her husband a couple of tablets and a glass of water.
‘Thank you,’ Sir Michael grunted, dropping the tablets into his mouth and emptying the contents of the glass. ‘So,’ he said, turning to Carlyle, ‘explain to me, just who is this man?’
Where to begin? The inspector gestured towards the Bladnoch. ‘Mind if I have a drink first?’
‘Of course, Inspector,’ Veronica trilled. ‘How remiss of us. Please, help yourself.’
‘Thank you.’ He glanced at Gideon, who shook his head.
‘I’ll have one,’ Miller croaked, but Carlyle ignored him. Reaching for the bottle, he realized that his hand was shaking, badly. Pouring himself an extremely large measure, he drank deeply. Then, after refilling the glass almost to the brim, he turned to face the Snowdons and explained to them how Trevor Miller had killed their daughter.
Gideon patiently waited for him to finish before speaking up himself. ‘I need to leave,’ he said quietly.
Carlyle took another gulp of whisky. ‘Yes.’
‘And you need to get your story right.’
‘Of course.’
Gideon eyed him doubtfully. ‘Meaning I was never here.’
‘No.’ Carlyle stared at his almost empty glass. The Bladnoch was working a treat; his hands had almost stopped shaking and a warm glow had enveloped his insides. Under the circumstances, he had no embarrassment about reaching for the bottle for another refill.
‘You’re as bent as I am,’ Miller scoffed. ‘I’ll tell them what really happened.’
‘You’ll tell them nothing.’
Turning, Carlyle was surprised to see that Veronica Snowdon had picked up the Glock and was now pointing it at Miller’s chest. He shot Gideon a quizzical glance and both of them took a step away from the kneeling man.
Veronica’s eyes narrowed. With the gun in her hand, she suddenly looked thirty years younger. ‘Did you really kill my daughter?’
A nasty grin spread across Miller’s sweaty face. ‘Shit happens, love.’
‘You complete and utter bastard!’ she screamed, squeezing the trigger.
FORTY
Slowly letting out a breath, Carlyle contemplated the tableau in front of him. If anything, the look on Trevor Miller’s face was one of disappointment. Gideon Spanner remained inscrutable. Still holding the gun at arm’s length, Veronica Snowdon sobbed gently, her head bowed.
Struggling to his feet, Sir Michael put a comforting arm around his wife’s shoulders. ‘Come on, darling,’ he whispered, carefully taking the gun from her trembling hand. ‘This is not the way to do things. You can’t just shoot a man standing in your living room, like that. Even if, well. .’ His voice trailed away as he composed himself. ‘We’ve got what we wanted. Now that he’s finally been caught, we have to let the courts do their job.’ Planting a tender kiss on the crown of her head, he lowered her gently on to the sofa, before turning to Carlyle. ‘We can manage to overlook that little moment, Inspector, don’t you think?’
If it was me, I’d have just shot the bastard. Keeping his thoughts to himself, Carlyle nodded.
‘Good,’ the old man smiled. ‘Thank you. Now, I think I need that drink. A large one, too.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Carlyle took another glass and half-filled it with whisky. ‘Good job the safety was still on.’
‘Indeed,’ Sir Michael agreed. ‘The Glock is an outstanding weapon, altogether a fantastic piece of craftsmanship. And it has multiple independent safety mechanisms in order to prevent accidental discharge.’
Carlyle turned back to face his host, holding a glass in each hand.
‘I was in the Household Cavalry before I joined the Civil Service,’ Sir Michael explained. ‘And then, after that, I was in the Territorial Army for more than twenty years. As a result, I know my weaponry quite well.’
‘Mm.’
‘You have to pull the trigger properly or it won’t fire.’ The old man slowly brought the barrel of the Glock up to Trevor Miller’s chest. ‘Like this, in fact.’ Squeezing off three rounds, he watched impassively as Miller keeled forward.
For a moment, there was silence. No one looked at each other as they all contemplated the body at their feet. Carlyle fleetingly wondered if he should check Miller for a pulse, but he knew it would be pointless. The man was dead. Taking another mouthful of whisky, his thoughts turned to what would happen next. Despite his alcohol intake, he felt reasonably alert; as long as he kept his account of Miller’s death simple and broadly accurate, Forensics would join the dots and there should be no problem with Commander Simpson, or with the Met’s internal investigators.
‘As they say in America,’ Sir Michael said airily, ‘you have to keep your Glock cocked. Otherwise you won’t be able to shoot it.’ Sidestepping the advancing puddle of blood spreading across the carpet, he carefully placed the pistol on the dining-room table before accepting his drink from the inspector.