‘And then . . .’
His monologue was interrupted by the sound of a mobile phone. Irritated, Simpson plucked at various pieces of paper before finding it buzzing on the desk. Checking the caller’s identity, without preamble she said, ‘Hold on one minute.’ Standing up, she raised a forefinger to Carlyle, indicating that she would not be long, before quickly stepping out of the room.
As the door closed behind her, Carlyle’s gaze fell on Simpson’s desk. Leaning forward, he couldn’t resist a quick peek. Over the years, he had become quite adept at reading things upside down from a short distance. Next to what were clearly the reports of the Groves case, which he could easily read when he got back to Charing Cross if he felt the need, was a fancy-looking invitation card. The black script was a bit small, but he could make it out without having to leave his seat:
Christian Holyrod, Mayor of London, and Claudio Orb, Ambassador of Chile to the Court of St James’s, invite you to a reception at City Hall organised by the Anglo-Chilean Defence Technologies Association. The event will celebrate our two great countries’ long history of co-operation and support, as well as England’s long-standing association with Chilean naval hero Agustín Arturo Prat Chacón.
More Chileans. What were the odds of some connection? He was wondering who Agustín Arturo Prat Chacón was, when he heard the commander re-enter the room.
Simpson smiled thinly as she sat down behind her desk. ‘So, where were we?’ she asked, folding her arms and sitting back.
‘Sandra Groves,’ said Carlyle amiably. ‘After I had been assaulted, we restrained her and her boyfriend . . .’
A minute or so into his continuing monologue, Simpson held up her hand. She had heard enough. Carlyle could argue for England, indeed the irritating little sod could argue for a World Select XI, and she knew that he would not be so stupid as to be caught out on something like this. She could never hope to get so lucky. ‘All right, Inspector,’ she said wearily, ‘I get the drift. I’m sure, if it ever gets that far, that the Police Federation will make mincemeat out of this complaint. But next time, please try to show a tiny bit more restraint.’
‘Restraint is my middle name,’ Carlyle said genially.
‘Yes, well . . .’ Even Simpson had to repress a grin at his chutzpah. ‘Well done on that Mills thing, by the way.’
‘Thank you,’ Carlyle said.
‘Nice and neat,’ she said, resisting the temptation to add ‘for once’.
‘It looks that way,’ Carlyle agreed, ‘but there are still one or two loose ends.’
‘Like what?’ Simpson groaned. How could this irritating little man turn even the most straightforward domestic homicide of the year into a problem?
‘Mrs Mills, the victim, had made some enemies.’
‘Including her husband.’
‘Maybe.’
‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’ Simpson huffed. ‘You know as well as I do, that in domestic cases like these, killing yourself is usually a fairly clear admission of guilt. Take the win, Inspector, and move on.’
‘I will.’ Standing up, he decided not to push his luck any further.
‘Good,’ said Simpson stiffly, gathering up the papers on her desk. ‘You know the way out.’
SEVENTEEN
A solitary young man sat at a table on the pavement outside Café La Marquise on the Edgware Road. Holding a small cube of sugar to the surface of his strong, syrupy Turkish coffee, he watched it turn brown before letting it drop it into the demitasse. Picking up his teaspoon, he began carefully stirring his coffee, eyeing the small band of anti-war protestors as he did so.
What a rabble, he thought. There were maybe seventy people taking part, at the very most, with almost as many police in attendance. All they were doing was holding up the traffic and preventing normal, law-abiding people from going about their business as they made their way slowly down the middle of the road, heading towards Hyde Park and a rally at Speakers’ Corner. All the usual banners that he’d become familiar with recently were there: Socialist Worker, Stop the War Coalition, Students for Justice, etc., etc., carried by sallow, ill-looking people you would cross the road to avoid; all in all, nothing more than a bunch of pathetic, disorganised, ego-crazed losers.
He took a sip of his coffee and let the sweetness soften his mood. Towards the back of the crowd, he saw the banner he had been waiting for, and the three women underneath it, two of them holding the poles and one handing out leaflets while trying to start the occasional chant that invariably petered out almost as quickly as it began:
‘What do we want?
‘Troops out!
‘When do we want it?
‘NOW!’
The conversations at the tables had stopped as the other patrons watched the protestors go by. Those British and their passions! To foreigners living in London, they were an endless source of amusement. Catching the eye of a gawping waiter, he ordered another coffee as the semi-organised shouting started up again.
Get a life, he thought. As far as he could see, the three women leading the chants were virtually the whole organisation, yet they were trying to cause him so much trouble. He felt the familiar fury rising up inside him. It was ridiculous that he should have to waste his time on them; ridiculous but necessary – for his own sake and that of his comrades.
He fingered the leaflet that another protestor had dropped on his table as he had passed by. More slogans, more platitudes, more hopeless posturing:
‘Justice for the victims of the Ishaqi massacre!’
Like the victims care any more, he thought.
‘STOP THE WAR!’
I was there; you weren’t.
‘END THE MERCENARY KILLINGS!’
The anger blossomed in his chest. You don’t know what you’re talking about.
Leaning down, he grabbed an anti-war flyer from the pavement, carefully folding it in half and then folding it in half again, before dropping it into his jacket pocket. The waiter arrived with his fresh coffee. Downing it in one, he pulled out his wallet and fished out a five-pound note, which he placed under his saucer. Sitting back in his chair, he let the demonstration go past, accompanied by the hooting of angry motorists and some pointing and laughter from a group of Arab customers enjoying their shisha pipes at the table beside him.
Pulling a cigarette from the packet of Royal Crown Blue sitting on the table, he lit it with a match and stuck it between his lips, inhaling deeply. Dropping the match in the ashtray, he rose from the table, before starting slowly along the road, heading in the same direction as the protestors.
By the time he reached the park, the speeches were in full swing. Standing under a nearby tree, he smoked another cigarette, keeping a careful eye on the women as he tried to tune out the ritual denunciations of America, Britain and every other tool of imperialism that they could lay their hands on.