‘We could do with some of that downstairs,’ Carlyle grinned.
‘Different world back then.’
‘Which you would know all about, I suppose,’ Carlyle teased, ‘having been what, about one year old at the time.’
‘I bet you remember it well, though,’ Joe said cheekily.
‘Fuck off!’ Carlyle laughed. ‘I’m not that old.’
‘You just look it.’
‘That’s a consequence of working with you, sunshine.’ He thought back to 1973 – what did he remember? Not a lot. Certainly not what had been going on in a small country on the other side of the world.
‘Anyway,’ Joe continued, ‘the investigating judge ordered the arrest of a couple of navy officers last year.’
‘Names?’
‘Dunno. But they are due to face trial for the murder of William Pettigrew in the autumn.’
‘After all this time?’
‘There are a couple of witnesses who say that they’re now prepared to testify.’
‘Okay, the family is finally going to have its day in court, so why bother bumping off Agatha Mills? It’s not like she was there as a witness,’ he looked at Joe, ‘was she?’
‘No, not as far as I know.’
‘So she can’t really testify. At least not to anything important.’
‘She has been one of the driving forces behind this case getting to court, though.’ Joe shrugged. ‘Maybe the people who did it are still out there. Maybe they want to stop her; maybe they want to intimidate the other witnesses. Could be various things.’
They. Whenever you were dealing with them, you knew you were in trouble.
‘Maybe.’ Carlyle leaned back in his chair, placing his hands on his head. ‘Maybe, maybe, maybe. An octogenarian fascist plot? It’s all very thin.’
‘I know.’
‘So ultimately where does this little history lesson get us? Mrs Mills née Pettigrew had an interesting backstory.’
Joe nodded.
‘A person or persons unknown, of a right-wing Chilean persuasion have a – what? Let’s say a possible-’
‘Theoretical,’ the sergeant interjected.
‘A theoretical motive for bumping her off. But do we have any evidence that anyone other than her old man was inside that flat of theirs the night she died?’
‘No,’ Joe replied.
‘Do we have anyone reporting the sight of any foreign-looking gents acting suspiciously? Maybe mumbling a few words of Spanish? Doing the goose-step and clasping a photo of El General to their bosom?’
‘No.’
‘Anything on the CCTV?’
‘No. The cameras at Ridgemount Mansions were there just for show,’ Joe informed him. ‘They aren’t actually hooked up to any recording equipment. That would have added too much to the service charge, apparently.’
‘What about cameras in the street itself? Thousands of bloody tourists walk along that street every day. Some of them must get mugged. And someone must film it.’
Joe shrugged. ‘No one’s looked at those, as far as I know. Do you want us to get on it?’
Carlyle thought about it for a moment then said, ‘Nah. It would take too long. Got anything else?’
‘No.’ Joe stuck the documents back in the folder and placed it carefully on Carlyle’s desk.
‘Right, then,’ said Carlyle, ‘let’s remember rule number one of this job. In the first instance, always stick with the blindingly obvious.’ Sitting up straight, he turned towards his desk, getting ready to do battle with the Met’s appalling IT system.
It was time to type up his report.
‘Henry Mills has been charged. Justice will now take its course. In the meantime, my little Sancho Panza, we move on to the next thing.’
A look of bemusement passed across Joe’s face. ‘Eh?’
In the event, Carlyle managed only a couple of paragraphs of the report before he got bored and turned his attention to the latest football gossip on the BBC’s web pages. After that, he decided that the paperwork could wait for twenty-four hours, whereas the gym could not. Intending to come in early to get it done, he promised himself that the necessary documentation would be on Commander Carole Simpson’s desk before lunchtime.
On his way out of the station, he spied the colleague in charge of the Jake Hagger investigation. Detective Inspector Oliver Cutler was a twelve-year veteran on the Force who had been stationed at Charing Cross since the beginning of the year. Jacket on, heading towards the lift with a determined stride, he looked as if he was also leaving for the night. Carlyle quickened his step and caught up with him. ‘Cutler!’
Cutler half-turned, but didn’t stop walking. ‘Yes?’
‘Carlyle.’
‘I know.’
Carlyle finally caught up with his man. Cutler pressed the lift button, saying nothing further.
‘It’s about Jake Hagger.’
‘What’s it to you, then?’ Cutler asked defensively, keeping his eyes on the lift doors.
Carlyle had never really given Cutler the once-over before. A small bloke, he looked tired and distracted: a man who in the short term was being kept from the pint of London Pride that was waiting for him on the bar round the corner in the Sherlock Holmes pub and in the long term was winding down towards the earliest possible retirement on the best possible pension. Not the kind of guy you’d want if you needed to get a result, Carlyle thought sourly.
Cutler pushed the button again, hoping that the lift would save him from this conversation.
‘I know the mother,’ Carlyle said.
A knowing look washed over Cutler’s face. ‘Giving her one, then?’
‘The father claimed he was going to sell the kid,’ Carlyle said evenly, ignoring the jibe.
Cutler shrugged. ‘Empty words.’
Carlyle took a position by the lift doors. ‘I don’t think so. Hagger wouldn’t have kept Jake for this long. He couldn’t look after a kid for ten minutes.’
‘Maybe they left the country.’
‘Neither of them had a passport.’
‘It can still be done.’
‘Hagger’s just a local scumbag, not an international jet-setting scumbag. Camden High Street is about as far as he usually travels.’
Cutler scratched his nose absent-mindedly. ‘Well, if he did sell him, then it’s game over. I doubt it though – I don’t suppose that he knows many couples who are desperate to adopt.’
‘No.’
‘Then some pervert will probably already have had their fun with the poor little bastard,’ Cutler said without any obvious feeling. ‘In that case, the most likely scenario is that the body’s lying at the bottom of the West Reservoir.’
Carlyle nodded. More than once over the years he had fished bits of victims out of the decommissioned reservoir. A couple of miles away, in Stoke Newington, the reservoir was now used as a water sports centre. Carlyle had never seen its attraction; apart from anything else, the ‘tranquil’ setting attracted criminals and weirdos of various persuasions. It was widely assumed that there would be plenty more bodies and body parts discovered if the place was ever drained.
‘There are so many of these cases,’ Cutler continued, ‘that people don’t care any more. And even if they did, the public – as you know only too well – is no fucking use whatsoever. No one ever pays any attention to what’s going on around them.’
‘So, case closed?’ Carlyle asked.
Cutler gazed at a spot beyond Carlyle’s left shoulder. ‘No, but it’s as good as – unless you have anything for me?’
‘No, but I told Sam Laidlaw that I’d ask around. If anything comes up, I’ll let you know.’
‘I knew it,’ Cutler smiled. Finally, the lift arrived and he stepped inside. ‘Give her one for me.’ Rocking back on his heels, the inspector waited for the doors to close. Then, letting out a deep breath, he headed for the stairs.
THIRTEEN
Handcuffed, but still wearing his own clothes, Henry Mills moved into the courtyard in the middle of Charing Cross police station, flanked by two security guards. Behind him came two other prisoners, a nineteen-year-old glue-sniffing mugger and a fifty-two-year-old petty thief. The trio were being transported across London to Wormwood Scrubs, the Victorian prison, where they would await their respective trials at Her Majesty’s Pleasure.