James Craig - Then We Die

‘Yes,’ Simpson sighed, ‘you just have to leave it for now. At least, you were able to tell her that Joe’s killer had been. . dealt with. Even if she doesn’t seem particularly grateful for that now, you have to hope that it will provide some succour in the future.’

‘Yes.’

‘Maybe things will change over time.’ She looked at him hesitantly. ‘There is one thing, though.’

‘What?’

‘The case on Joe’s murder isn’t going to be officially closed.’ She quickly held up a hand before he could begin his protest. ‘The bodies of the Israelis were repatriated yesterday. The Foreign Office is not going to further annoy Tel Aviv by publicly naming one of its people as being the man responsible for shooting a policeman on a London street.’

Carlyle made a noise of disgust.

‘It’s better than the other way round,’ Simpson went on, ‘with a situation where the case was closed and the killer was still running around flipping us the finger.’

‘Fair point,’ Carlyle reflected.

‘I’m told that Lieberman, Ryan Goya and Maude Kleinman will be buried in a military ceremony with full honours.’

‘Maude Kleinman?’

‘That was the name on the ID they presented for the woman you knew as Sylvia Swain.’

Carlyle shook his head. ‘All this cloak and dagger shit is just so wearisome.’

‘Did you speak to Ambrose Watson?’ Simpson asked, moving the conversation on.

‘Yeah. He told me that his various investigations are now closed, so I signed the necessary bits of paper.’

‘Ambrose is very fair.’

‘Yes.’

‘Did he ever mention a man called Dominic Silver?’

Carlyle looked her squarely in the eye. ‘No.’

‘Okay.’ Simpson paused, then went on: ‘You do understand just how terribly problematic your relationship with Mr Silver is, don’t you?’

‘I do not have a relationship with Silver,’ Carlyle said stiffly.

‘Don’t get all mealy-mouthed with me, John,’ Simpson shot back. ‘It just doesn’t suit you. What is he? A CI? I haven’t seen him on any list.’

Confidential informant? Carlyle thought. Hardly. The whole bloody world seems to know about me and Dom . ‘Dom is not a CI,’ he said evenly. ‘I wouldn’t describe him as an informant at all.’

Simpson grimaced in exasperation. ‘So what would you describe him as?’

‘I would describe him as a former colleague who is still keen to help the police whenever the opportunity presents itself.’

‘Oh? So you wouldn’t describe him as a drug dealer who gets you to do some of his dirty work for him?’

That ’ s a pretty fair summary of our relationship , Carlyle conceded. ‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘I wouldn’t.’

Sitting up in her chair, Simpson gave him a long, hard look.

A terrible thought suddenly hit him. ‘Are you suggesting I killed Hooper?’

‘No, no,’ she said irritably. ‘Of course not.’

‘Good.’

‘I don’t think even you could be that stupid.’

‘That’s good to know,’ he said humourlessly.

‘Look,’ she jabbed an angry finger at the space between them, ‘never forget how bloody lucky you were here. This whole thing became such a terrible nightmare that in the end no one wanted to touch it. Everything has been buried and any paperwork beyond the absolute bare minimum will be destroyed. Under a different set of circumstances, you could have been hauled over the coals. You could easily have got the sack — and ended up in jail.’

Carlyle held her gaze but said nothing.

‘If the Sam Hooper killing hadn’t got lost in this total mess — if he wasn’t just one body among so bloody many — the investigation into his death would doubtless have been a lot more detailed,’ she persisted.

‘Ambrose told me that Hooper was bent,’ Carlyle commented.

‘I still don’t think that is sufficient justification for someone executing him,’ Simpson said tartly.

‘No,’ Carlyle agreed.

‘It is a very, very serious crime indeed and I would expect anyone with information relating to his murder to come forward immediately, regardless of the status of the investigation.’

‘Absolutely.’

Simpson stared at him for several more moments. When Carlyle said nothing, she warned him, ‘If this comes back to haunt you, somewhere down the line, there’s nothing I can do to protect you. More to the point, there is nothing I would want to do to protect you.’

‘I will keep my eyes and ears open,’ Carlyle promised. ‘If I discover anything, I will let you know immediately.’

Simpson glared at him.

‘But,’ he went on, unable to resist the dig, ‘there are always grey areas. Things are never black and white, as you know from your own personal experience.’ The message was clear: I supported you when your husband was arrested and people wanted to believe that you were his accomplice, so get off my fucking back now .

For a heartbeat, it looked like Simpson was going to hurl her mug of coffee at him. Carlyle sat, unflinching, as he watched her slowly bring her anger under control.

‘I understand what you are saying, Inspector,’ she said finally.

Nodding, he got to his feet.

‘There’s one other thing. .’

‘Oh?’ Slowly, he sat back down again. A sly grin appeared on Simpson’s face, making him brace himself.

‘You’ve been put forward for a Commendation.’ Simpson dropped her gaze to the desk. ‘I assume it will be a formality. You should get written confirmation in the next couple of weeks.’

Carlyle waited for her to restore eye-contact, daring her not to laugh. ‘Are you joking?’ he asked, trying to recall her ever having done so in the past.

Keeping a straight face, Simpson said, ‘No. The citation will read: For bravery in attempting to apprehend armed criminals and showing unflinching courage in the line of duty . Or something like that. You know the kind of thing.’

‘Unflinching courage.’ Carlyle smiled. ‘I like that.’

‘It relates to the incident at the Ritz.’

Carlyle had already garnered a number of Commendations during the course of his career. Another one was of little interest. ‘Do I get a pay rise?’ he asked cheekily.

This time Simpson did laugh. ‘Don’t push your luck. And don’t think that this in any way invalidates what I’ve said. IIC could have buried you after this business here. Having decided not to do that, you’re being made something of a hero.’

‘To better put a lid on the whole bloody thing,’ Carlyle mused.

‘Yes, indeed,’ Simpson said, ‘and I suggest, for once, you just act bloody grateful and go along with it.’

‘I think I will,’ Carlyle told her.

One important thing that Carlyle had learned from his sessions with Dr Wolf was that the coffee in the doctor’s office was truly dreadful. To get round this problem, he quickly developed a routine whereby, on the way to each session, he would drop into the Starbucks next to Wolf’s office. This morning, he sat happily drinking the last of his Venti Latte, wondering if the doctor, head bowed, was contemplating their earlier exchange or had simply fallen asleep. Draining his cup, he reached forward and dropped it in the bin at the side of the shrink’s desk. The noise seemed to rouse Wolf from his slumber. He looked up at Carlyle, who smiled blandly.

‘I was wondering,’ said the psychiatrist, ‘if we could maybe spend some time talking about your parents. .’

Helen assumed her best smile as she handed a plate of snacks round the table. ‘It’s so nice to meet you.’