James Craig - Then We Die

As husband and wife they didn’t do awkward silences. Holding his breath, Carlyle felt a tension such as he hadn’t experienced since their early courting days, those agonizing times when he worried that she might pack him in.

‘Poor Anita,’ she said finally.

Breathing out at last, Carlyle felt himself relax slightly. ‘I know,’ he murmured. ‘I know.’

‘Poor Anita,’ Helen repeated.

Poor Anita? She would have quite happily let one of her brothers beat me to a pulp . ‘She is being well looked after,’ he said.

‘And the kids?’

‘Yes, them too,’ Carlyle nodded solemnly, happy to give any reassurance now that they were over the worst of their conversation.

‘And,’ Helen jabbed a gentle finger into his chest, ‘I had your bloody mother on the phone, moaning that she went to the loo at the Ritz and came back to find that you’d done a runner.’

His mother! Carlyle suddenly realized that he’d forgotten all about her. ‘Oh fuck.’ He remembered the conversation they’d been having at the time, but decided not to get into that with Helen right at this moment. ‘I’ll give her a call. Did she see all the fuss?’

‘I don’t think so. Anyway, she didn’t mention it.’ Helen pushed herself away from him. ‘She said how she told you that she was divorcing your dad.’

‘Er. . yeah.’

Helen gave him one of her Why didn ’ t you tell me this? stares. ‘And?’

Carlyle shrugged. ‘Well, we didn’t really get into the details. She just dropped her little bombshell and then went off to the Ladies. Everything kicked off while she was still in there.’

‘You must have sensed something before.’

‘No.’ Carlyle shook his head. ‘Everything seemed pretty much normal to me. When she said she wanted to talk about my father, I assumed she was about to tell me that he had developed cancer or something.’

‘John. .’ They both knew how he paid minimal attention to wider family issues beyond the walls of their own flat.

‘Come on!+-’ Carlyle allowed himself the smallest of smiles. ‘How could I have suspected anything? They’ve been married for almost fifty years! What’s the point of getting a divorce now?’

Helen gave him a sly look, one that he interpreted as saying: Why not? You should never rule anything out . He felt his balls shrink up inside him. Message received and understood.

‘Maybe she’s found someone else.’

‘Mum? Nah.’ Carlyle felt funny just thinking about the possibility.

‘Maybe he ’ s found someone else.’

‘I got the impression that this is all her initiative,’ Carlyle said. ‘I can’t see either of them ever playing away from home. So, I suppose that she’s just decided she needs a change — or something.’

‘Well, anyway, you need to talk to her about it. And to your dad, as well.’

‘Yes, yes — in a minute.’

Helen unmuted the television. A reporter was standing on the north side of the Thames, with MI6’s lego-like headquarters clearly identifiable on the other side. He was saying, ‘ It is very unusual for MI6 to become involved in this type of investigation. Sources have told the BBC that this is because the man killed in the Ritz Hotel. . ’

One of the men , Carlyle thought sourly.

‘ . . is thought to have been a certain ,’ the reporter glanced down at his notes, ‘ . . Omid Jarragh Ajab. Now, Mr Ajab is believed to have been one of the founders of the military wing of the Hamas militant movement which had control of the Gaza Strip. One line of thinking is that he was visiting London in order to buy weapons for Hamas. If this information is correct. . ’

Not that you really have a clue whether it is true or not , Carlyle thought.

‘. . then the prime suspects in his assassination will inevitably include Israel’s secret service, Mossad. Which, of course, is where MI6 comes in .’

Carlyle had heard enough. He grabbed the remote from Helen and switched over to Sky Sports News.

‘Hey!’ Helen complained. ‘Don’t you want to hear more?’

‘No, I bloody don’t,’ Carlyle grumbled, taking solace in the latest football trivia. ‘I’ve heard more than enough already.’

‘I thought you were going to phone your parents,’ she reminded him.

‘I am,’ he lied.

‘It’s already late.’

‘I know. By the way, who is the best person at your place to talk to about Gaza?’

‘Fucking hell , John.’

‘What?’

‘I thought you said it was all over. There is no way that this can still be your case.’

‘No, no, of course not,’ he said quickly. ‘This is not even a police inquiry any more. It’s being handled by MI6.’ He recounted his meeting with Adam Hall, the youthful SIS guy, earlier in the day.

‘MI6?’ Helen snorted. ‘That’s great. That lot couldn’t find their way out of a paper bag.’

‘It doesn’t matter, anyway. If it is Mossad behind it, the guys who did this are probably safely back in Tel Aviv by now. The Israelis will tell anyone who complains to fuck right off while they smile smugly and do their usual “ We never confirm or deny anything ” routine.’

‘So why do you want to speak to someone at Avalon?’

‘You could say I’ve recently developed an interest in the subject.’

Helen let out the longest of sighs. ‘Well, our Gaza co-ordinator is a woman called Louisa Arbillot. She’s French and worked for Medecins Sans Frontieres for years. She joined us about nine months ago.’

‘Can you get her to give me a call?’

‘She’s over there at the moment,’ Helen said, the lack of enthusiasm in her voice obvious, ‘but I’ll see what I can do. It might have to wait until she gets back next week.’

‘Thanks.’

‘I’m going for a bath,’ Helen yawned. ‘Remember to call your mother. .’

A couple of Ibuprofen and a large glass of Jameson whiskey ensured that Carlyle slept soundly. By the time he reached the office the next day it was after eleven. Roche was sitting at Joe’s desk when he arrived, staring intently at the computer screen. Carlyle paused a moment to check her out. She was dressed in washed-out grey jeans, Gola trainers and a blue, long-sleeved T-shirt. Her hair was pulled back and she wasn’t wearing any make-up. As her fingers danced across the keyboard, he idly noticed that she wasn’t wearing any wedding or engagement ring.

‘How’s it going?’ he asked, flopping into his chair.

‘Not bad,’ Roche replied, not looking up. ‘Got some interesting stuff back from Phillips.’

Carlyle leaned back in his chair and yawned. ‘About the skeleton, you mean?’

‘No, that will still take a while. But she found a cartridge in the grave. Presumably the bullet that killed our victim.’ She swivelled in her seat to face Carlyle directly, a big grin on her face. ‘And she found the gun too.’

Carlyle sat up.

‘Presumably what happened was that the guy was shot and dumped in the shallow grave. The killer couldn’t keep the weapon about his person so he tossed it in too.’

‘Thank you, Sherlock Holmes.’

Carlyle saw her face darken and he quickly held up a hand. ‘Sorry, my sense of humour.’

She gave him a sharp look.

‘Not always to everyone’s taste,’ he admitted. ‘Anyway, what else do we have?’

‘The gun is a. .’ Roche looked back at the notes on the screen ‘. . Walther P38.’

‘Never heard of it,’ Carlyle said.

Roche squinted at the screen and read out: ‘ “It’s a nine-millimetre weapon that was developed as the service pistol of the Wehrmacht at the beginning of World War Two.’ She shrugged. ‘Dunno who the Wehrmacht are.’