‘Yes, all right.’ Simpson didn’t want to hear the gory details.
‘She was clearly in an unhappy place.’
‘Okay.’ The commander let out a long sigh. The inspector could stonewall all day if necessary and she had meetings to attend.
‘So we’re good?’ Placing his hands on the arms of the chair, Carlyle made to get to his feet.
Simpson looked pained. ‘I suppose so.’ She tapped the report with her right index finger and he could see that the nail had been bitten down almost to the quick. ‘But why did you feel the need to come here in person just to deliver this?’
‘Well . . .’ Carlyle cleared his throat, trying to get his tone of voice just right. ‘I wanted to apologise for the delay in getting it to you, and – and to make sure that you were happy with the final findings.’
Something approximating a smile inched across the commander’s face. ‘Thank you, John,’ she replied, ‘but an email would have been perfectly acceptable. I know how busy you are, so you didn’t have to take the time.’
‘I know,’ Carlyle replied, ‘but under the circumstances . . .’
She shot him a look.
‘. . . I felt,’ he continued, lifting his gaze to the ceiling, ‘that I should take the opportunity to come and say that, er, well . . .’ he swallowed ‘. . . I know that this must be a difficult time for you, but that the view of everyone at Charing Cross is that you are a good copper, a respected colleague, and that if we can be of any help, please let us know.’
Where the hell had that come from? After all these years, it looked like he had found a new way to put a foot in his mouth. Feeling himself blushing slightly, he concentrated on trying to shut up.
When he finally felt able to look Simpson in the face, she seemed as bemused at his little speech as he was himself. ‘Well, thank you, John.’ Her cheeks reddening, she cleared her throat. ‘Those are the first real words of support I’ve had since Joshua was arrested.’
He stared at a spot on the wall behind her head. ‘The boys at the station thought it was important for it to be said.’ Hopefully, ‘the boys’ wouldn’t find out about his spontaneous, self-appointed role as their spokesman.
‘And the sentiments are very much appreciated.’ She stood up and waited for him to follow suit. ‘And thank you for the report. It is good to know that the Mills case is closed.’
‘Yes.’
‘And how is the Royal Opera House investigation coming along?’
Carlyle’s brow furrowed. The backlog of uncompleted interviews with the Puccini-loving alleged robbery victims had not even been touched. ‘Slowly.’
‘Ah well,’ Simpson nodded as she moved round the desk. ‘These things invariably proceed at their own pace.’
‘Yes,’ Carlyle replied, rather disconcerted by his boss’s uncharacteristically laissez-faire attitude. Feeling a complete arse, he smiled awkwardly as he made swiftly for the door.
Leaving Simpson’s office, he walked a short way along the corridor to the nearest gents, in order to compose himself and try to work out what he’d just done. And why he’d done it. At best, he had always found the commander a deeply unappealing and flawed colleague. Now the selfish careerist had come a cropper, so where was the Schadenfreude? Being supportive was so far removed from his usual style that he wondered if he might not be coming down with something. Failing to find any instant answers, he splashed some water on his face and retraced his steps, before heading out into the bustle of the West London afternoon.
THIRTY-NINE
Christian Holyrod was momentarily distracted by the small passenger jet passing in front of the ground-to-ceiling windows of his office as it climbed away from City airport, on its way to some European destination. Once it had had disappeared from view, he returned his gaze to the three sheets of A4-sized paper laid out on the desk in front of him, and gave a low murmur of satisfaction. As if on cue, a butler appeared with a glass of Talisker on a silver salver. The man placed the drink on the table, gave a small nod, and disappeared without saying a word.
Once he had left, Holyrod picked up the sheet of paper to his left and scanned it while sniffing his Scotch. The summary of the police report into Agatha Mills’s death was short, to the point and, most importantly, came to exactly the conclusion the Mayor wanted to see. ‘Who would have thought it?’ Holyrod murmured to himself. ‘That idiot Carlyle gets something right for once.’ On second thoughts, it was doubtless down to his boss. About to ring Simpson and congratulate her on a job well done, he remembered her toxic husband and thought better of it. The whole fraud thing was a crying shame, it really was, but these things happened and when they did one had to keep one’s distance.
Tearing the report into small pieces, he assembled the bits into a small pile on his desk, contemplating them with satisfaction as he took a first sip of his Scotch. Returning the tumbler to the desk, he scooped up his handiwork, carefully placing the rubbish in a locked bin marked CONFIDENTIAL SHREDDING ONLY.
After a little more whisky, the Mayor felt his cheeks begin to flush and a gentle warmth filled his belly. With a satisfied sigh, he lifted a second sheet of paper from his desk. This was an email from the Company Secretary at Pierrepoint Aerospace, confirming that the final signed contract from the Chilean defence contractor LAHC Consulting had been received. As a result, Pierrepoint had effectively subcontracted large parts of its contract to manage British military bases in Afghanistan to the South Americans, at a fraction of the rate that it was charging the Ministry of Defence. The effect on the company’s earnings would be considerable. So too would be the effect on his year-end bonus. As he contemplated his windfall, it dawned on Holyrod that this must have been one of the last things poor Matias Gori had attended to before his unfortunate death. The Mayor lifted his glass to absent friends. ‘Jolly good show,’ he grinned. ‘Well done indeed.’
‘Would you like a drink, Inspector?’
‘Why not?’ Carlyle settled into his soft leather armchair and smiled. ‘I’ll have a whisky, thank you.’ Watching Claudio Orb shuffle off to get their drinks, the inspector gazed out across Heathrow’s new Terminal 5. This was the first time he had ever set foot in an Executive Lounge. On the few times he’d ever travelled through the airport on holiday, Carlyle had been stuck with the unwashed masses milling round the fast-food restaurants and duty-free shops on the main concourse. It didn’t make for a happy experience. This, on the other hand, was really quiet and pleasant. Peace and quiet were what you paid for; that and the free booze. Carlyle turned away from the window and contemplated the scattering of rich-looking types casually getting blasted while, at the same time, taking a last few hits on their crackberrys before take-off. ‘How the other half live,’ he said quietly to himself. The other half a per cent, more like.
‘There you are.’ Orb handed him a tumbler half-full of indeterminate Scotch and kept a tall glass half-filled with a red liquid for himself. ‘Just a cranberry juice for me,’ he grinned, sinking slowly into the chair opposite. ‘It’s a long flight. Cheers!’
Carlyle raised his glass slightly. ‘Cheers.’ He took a sip. Smooth. And, again, better than he was used to.
Orb placed his glass on the low table between them. ‘So, I take it that you have come to see me quietly off the premises?’
‘No, not really,’ Carlyle replied. ‘I just wanted to see you before you left to say thank you for all your help with my investigation.’
‘Come now, Inspector,’ Orb grinned, ‘I do not get the impression that you are the type of man to come all the way to the airport just to fulfil a minor social pleasantry.’
Carlyle took another mouthful of Scotch, letting it sit under his tongue before it slipped down his throat. ‘Well, maybe I’m not just here to say thank you. I hoped you might be able to clear up a few things for me – some loose ends.’