‘Since he’s got elected to City Hall, he really has achieved a lot.’
‘Like what?’
‘Well, he’s successfully positioned himself as the number two politician in the country. He’s also built up his portfolio of non-executive directorships.’
‘Is that allowed?’
‘Of course it is. It’s vitally important that politicians keep in touch with the real world and see how business works. After all, that’s how wealth gets created.’
I’ve often wondered about that, Carlyle said to himself.
‘And,’ Rosanna grinned, ‘if they’re earning good money outside, it makes it less necessary for them to have to fiddle their expenses.’
‘Good point,’ Carlyle laughed. ‘What kind of directorships does Holyrod have?’
‘Quite a range, I think. There’s a media company, agribusiness, aerospace . . .’
‘Interesting. Make sure you give Christian and Edgar my kind regards next time you see them.’
Rosanna put a gentle hand on his forearm. ‘Inspector, don’t take this the wrong way, but I think that if either of them ever see you or hear of you ever again, it will be way too soon.’
Recalling his previous run in with the politicians – an earlier case – Carlyle bowed modestly. ‘I wouldn’t have it any other way. I guess that means an invite to Downing Street is a non-starter.’
‘Not necessarily,’ she said.
‘Oh?’
‘I could probably swing something. It would have to be for one of Edgar’s wife’s charity events, some time when he was out of the country.’
Carlyle tried to look affronted. ‘It wouldn’t be the same, then.’
She shook her head. ‘I think you just like causing trouble, Inspector.’ The smile vanished from her face. ‘Anyway, I must be going. Thank you for our talk.’
‘I will do what I can to help with your stalker,’ Carlyle promised. ‘Let me speak to Singleton and we’ll take it from there. Next time you see your guy, call me straight away.’
‘He’s not my guy,’ she shot back.
He held up his hands in a conciliatory manner. ‘You know what I mean. Just call me.’
‘I’ll do that.’
‘The one thing that would be useful for me to have would be a surname. Maybe he’s in care or has a medical history. Maybe he’s not taking his medication. Maybe he just needs help.’
‘Mmm . . .’ She didn’t sound too convinced. After all, this was supposed to be about her needs, not those of the man who was stalking her.
‘Any further thoughts on that, or any other developments, let me know.’ He pushed his chair away from the table and stood up, wiping some crumbs from his trousers as he did so. ‘But don’t approach him directly. Keep your distance and don’t take any risks.’
‘Yes, sir!’ She gave him a mock salute and he was pleased to see a little of the old sparkle return to her eyes. Standing up, she hoisted the bag over her shoulder and dropped the sunglasses back on to her nose. Then she leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Thank you for this. I am very grateful. Just knowing that you are on the case is a big help.’
On the case? Carlyle felt himself redden slightly. ‘It will b-be fine,’ he stammered as she turned for the door. ‘Let’s speak soon.’
TWELVE
A night in the cells had failed to encourage Henry Mills to change his story. He remained adamant that he had been soundly asleep while his wife was being brained in the kitchen of their flat. Neither disappointed nor particularly surprised by this answer, Carlyle formally charged him with murder and went back upstairs to sort out the paperwork. In a couple of hours, the Mills case would be off his desk and it would become someone else’s problem.
He was waiting for his computer to start up when Joe Szyszkowski came by with a blue A4-sized folder under his arm.
‘What have you got?’ Carlyle asked, without preamble.
Joe perched on the edge of the desk, opened the file and flipped through some sheets of paper. ‘It looks like he was telling the truth about the Chilean thing.’
‘Yeah?’ said Carlyle, looking at the somersaulting hourglass on his computer screen, not really caring any more.
‘Agatha Mills had a brother,’ Joe continued, ignoring his boss’s off-hand mood, ‘called William Pettigrew. They had a Chilean father and an English mother.’
‘Pettigrew? Doesn’t sound very Chilean to me.’
‘There’s a Scottish great-grandfather or great-great-grandfather in there somewhere,’ Joe explained. ‘There’s a strong Celtic influence, apparently. A whole bunch of Scottish farmers went over in the 1840s and 1850s. And the Chilean navy was formed by a Scot, Lord Cochrane, when they were fighting for independence from the Spaniards.’
‘Interesting,’ said Carlyle, impressed.
‘Wikipedia is a great thing.’ Joe shrugged. ‘We’ve always been tight with the Chileans, apparently. They’ve even had people fighting in Iraq.’
‘Jesus!’ Carlyle shook his head. ‘What’s it to them?’
‘Dunno. Anyway, William became a Catholic priest in Valparaíso, a coastal town north of Santiago. He disappeared during the 1973 military coup, when the army overthrew the government.’
‘That’s what usually happens in a military coup,’ Carlyle deadpanned.
Joe did not rise to the bait. ‘The family,’ he continued, ‘were eventually told that William Pettigrew was dead, but no body has ever been found.’
‘Again, not that uncommon.’
‘Agatha Mills, however, spent the last thirty-five years going back and forth between London and Chile, trying to find out what precisely happened to her brother and who killed him. She never lost hope of bringing her brother’s killers to justice.’
Carlyle sighed. ‘Good luck on that one.’
‘Well,’ said Joe, ‘you have to give the old girl some credit. She kept at it for decades, despite a history of threats from military types.’
‘Death threats?’ Carlyle perked up slightly.
‘Yeah . . . at least, according to some of the press reports. Mainly low-level stuff, like having her laptop nicked or her car tyres slashed. But I read one story about her getting an envelope in the post with a couple of bullets in it.’
‘The press are hardly reliable,’ Carlyle snorted. ‘I’m not going to start chasing my tail on the basis of a few clippings.’
‘No,’ Joe said, ‘but still.’
The inspector grunted.
‘You were the one who told me to check it out.’
‘Okay,’ Carlyle sniffed, ‘so she pissed off some Chileans pining for the good old days under that general.’ He groped for the name. ‘Maggie Thatcher’s mate.’
‘Pinochet.’
‘Yeah, right,’ Carlyle nodded, ‘General Pinochet.’
‘I think he was arrested in London a few years ago,’ Joe said, ‘while enjoying our Great British hospitality.’
Carlyle raised an eyebrow. ‘And?’
‘And nothing. Storm in a teacup and then he went home.’
‘Got away with it all,’ Carlyle mused.
‘I suppose so.’
‘They always do.’
‘To the victors the spoils.’
‘Yes, indeed, Joseph.’ Carlyle spent a moment contemplating life’s endless unfairness. ‘Isn’t he dead now?’
‘Pinochet?’ Joe made a face. ‘No idea.’
‘Either way,’ Carlyle mused, maybe just a little more interested now, ‘it’s all a long, long time ago. Why would anyone – apart from Agatha Mills, the loyal sister – still care about all this stuff now?’
‘Because Chile has got a new President,’ said Joe. ‘A socialist – and a woman.’
‘Interesting combination,’ said Carlyle, still not seeing the relevance.
‘She was a torture victim herself,’ Joe explained. ‘She ordered a fresh investigation into cases like William Pettigrew’s.’
‘Okay . . .’
‘The Pettigrew case review was completed last year. It concluded that he was almost certainly tortured and then shot dead aboard a navy ship called,’ he flicked through the papers again, ‘the White Lady.’
‘What did they do to him?’
‘The usual stuff, I suppose,’ said Joe. ‘Electric shocks to the gonads, that sort of thing.’