Gideon gestured towards the body. ‘And what are you going to say about what happened here?’
‘In situations like these, I find that it’s always easiest to stick to the truth.’ Sir Michael took a large mouthful of whisky and gave an appreciative sigh. ‘At least some of the truth.’ From the sofa, Veronica eyed him with wifely pride.
In situations like these? Carlyle wondered just what exactly the old boy had got up to during his cavalry days.
The old man gestured at Miller with his glass. ‘He’s not the first man I’ve killed, you know. Anyway, I want people to know that I killed that bastard. I’m not ashamed of it, not in the slightest.’
‘Okay.’ Carlyle placed his now empty glass back on the sideboard. ‘We’ll go with the truth, then.’
‘Good.’
‘Just not the whole truth.’ The inspector gestured towards the kitchen. ‘Is there a back way out of here?’
‘So long as you don’t mind jumping a few fences,’ Sir Michael told him.
Gideon nodded. ‘No problem.’ Without another word, he turned and started off down the hallway.
‘I’ll wait five minutes, then call it in,’ Carlyle shouted after him. Turning to Veronica, he smiled. ‘If you don’t mind, I’ll just go and put the kettle on. It’s going to be a long night and I think we will all need some strong coffee.’
Standing under a sickly-looking tree, Commander Carole Simpson sucked down a latte as she watched a couple of uniforms struggle to control the rapidly growing press pack behind the police tape twenty yards along the road. ‘What am I going to tell that lot?’ she asked, looking round for somewhere to toss her empty cup.
‘Just tell them Miller was a total bastard who got what he deserved.’
‘Helpful as always, John.’ Unable to dispose of the cup satisfactorily, she stopped a passing WPC. ‘Get rid of this for me, will you, please?’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ the WPC nodded, grabbing the cup and heading on towards the tape.
Carlyle watched in amusement as, little more than three yards further down the road, the WPC simply tossed the cup into the gutter. ‘Kids today,’ he laughed. ‘I thought they were supposed to be into saving the environment.’
Simpson shook her head in disgust.
‘Why don’t you just tell them that a man in his fifties has been shot and killed,’ Carlyle suggested, trying to bring things back to the matter in hand, ‘and that the investigation is ongoing.’
‘That’s a bit bland, don’t you think?’
‘It’s all they’ll be expecting. Anyway, they probably already know more about what’s going on than you do.’
‘I suppose so,’ said Simpson gloomily.
‘Cheer up.’ The adrenalin from the stand-off with Miller was still running round Carlyle’s system. Mixed with the euphoria of Miller’s execution, the whisky, and two cups of Veronica Snowdon’s excellent Java Santos blend, it was enough to make him feel quite giddy.
‘Christ!’ Simpson’s face fell even further. ‘John Carlyle is telling me to cheer up. Things must be bad.’
‘This is going to clear up a lot of mess.’
‘Oh?’
‘For a start,’ Carlyle explained, ‘I expect that they’ll find that Miller’s Glock was used to kill Simon Shelbourne. We already know that he killed both Hall and Snowdon. And he was also involved in the deaths of both Duncan Brown and Anton Fox. That’s a lot of cases to clear off anyone’s plate.’
‘I suppose so.’ But Simpson seemed strangely unenthusiastic.
‘All in all, this is a major result.’
‘How do you feel yourself?’
‘Me? I’m buzzing.’
‘You must be pleased, having finally got your man.’
Carlyle looked back towards the Snowdons’ building and said savagely. ‘Fuck him, he got what he deserved. Shame it took so long.’
‘I spoke to Fulham, by the way. They’re not happy about developments regarding Rosanna Snowdon. In fact, they’re bloody furious.’
‘Tough shit,’ Carlyle growled. ‘They shouldn’t have been so keen to put that poor mug Simon Lovell in the frame.’
‘We’ve all been there,’ Simpson reminded him.
‘Speak for yourself.’ Along the road, a TV crew had now arrived, their lights illuminating the entire street. Carlyle jerked a thumb towards the growing throng. ‘Your audience awaits.’
‘What about Charlie Ross?’ Simpson asked, clearly reluctant to move.
‘Good question. I’m sure our friend Charlie is in it up to his neck. When it comes to Wickford Associates, he would be the brains of the operation. Although when it comes to working with Trevor Miller — RIP — an amoeba could be the brains behind the operation.’ Carlyle stopped to chuckle at his own joke. ‘Charlie Ross will no doubt have covered his tracks well. And even if we ever managed to get him into court, he would play the frail-old-man card, even though he’s clearly as fit as a butcher’s dog.’
‘What about Sir Michael Snowdon? Won’t he do basically the same thing? Claim some kind of diminished responsibility?’
‘Maybe,’ Carlyle said, ‘maybe not.’ He thought about it for a moment or two. ‘But even if he did, why not?’
‘Isn’t that double standards?’
Carlyle grinned. ‘I’m a pragmatist. The old bugger deserves a medal for what he did. He brought down a cop killer and saved the public a fortune in the process.’
Simpson shot him a sideways glance. ‘And he did it all on his own, did he?’
‘I did my bit,’ said Carlyle defensively, ‘as far as I could.’
‘But you left it to a pensioner to rush an armed killer, grab his gun and shoot him dead?’ The mixture of amusement and cynicism in her voice was unmistakable.
‘Stranger things have happened.’ Carlyle looked his boss straight in the eye. ‘I didn’t shoot Trevor Miller. But I would tell you if I had.’
‘Okay,’ the Commander nodded. ‘I suppose I should just be grateful that Miller didn’t end up shooting himself three times.’
‘Are you taking the piss?’ A look of mock consternation flitted across the inspector’s face. ‘After the traumatic experience I’ve just had? Maybe I should call my Rep. After all, shouldn’t I be getting counselling or something?’
A broad grin spread across Simpson’s face. ‘You want counselling?’
‘No, no,’ said Carlyle quickly, ‘I’m in a happy place. I’ve got all the closure I need.’
‘Good for you.’
‘Hopefully the Snowdons feel a bit better too.’
‘Yes.’ Simpson pointed along the road towards the media scrum. ‘Whatever the law might think, Sir Michael will become a hero once the media get hold of him.’
An idea of how to gain further credit with Bernard Gilmore suddenly popped into Carlyle’s head, and he chuckled. ‘Think of how Bernie will write it up.’
‘I’d rather not,’ said Simpson tartly. ‘And I don’t want you leaking anything about this to him either.’
Carlyle looked down at his shoes. ‘Not my style.’
‘I’m not aware that you have a style,’ Simpson quipped, pulling out a BlackBerry from her jacket pocket and hitting a few keys. ‘And I don’t suppose you know anything about this?’ She handed him the machine. On its screen was a newspaper story headlined TOP COP’S THIRTY GRAND FREEBIE.
‘News to me,’ Carlyle mumbled, making a show of slowly scrolling down through the piece to read it carefully. ‘That seems a lot of money for a couple of days in a health farm.’
‘So you didn’t give Bernie this information?’
Carlyle looked her in the eye as he handed back the smartphone. ‘Nope.’
‘Glad to hear it.’
‘It would seem a bit of a risky thing for anyone to do, under the circumstances,’ Carlyle mused. ‘And anyway, being a whistleblower is a mug’s game.’
Putting the BlackBerry away, Simpson started heading towards the police tape and the press waiting beyond it. ‘Whoever the source was, let’s hope that such irresponsible behaviour doesn’t come back to haunt him.’
‘Or her,’ Carlyle added hastily.
Shaking her head, the Commander said nothing further as she stalked away.
While Carlyle watched his boss’s press conference from a safe distance, Joe Szyszkowski appeared at his shoulder.