James Craig - Never Apologise, Never Explain

Carlyle downed the last of the juice and screwed the cap back on the empty bottle. ‘Yes.’

‘She claims you assaulted her.’

‘So I hear.’ Knowing now what this was about, Carlyle relaxed a little.

‘And did you?’

‘No.’ Carlyle smiled at Brown, who stared grimly back at him. ‘Have you guys not seen the reports?’

‘She’s in hospital,’ said Brown.

‘As far as I’m aware,’ Carlyle said, as casually as he could manage, ‘she was fine when she left this station.’

Brown folded his arms and leaned against the wall. ‘She’s in intensive care.’

Carlyle squeezed the juice bottle tightly, saying nothing. The room was hot and stuffy, but now was not the time to get up and try to open a window. In the breast pocket of his jacket, his phone started vibrating. That would be Dominic, but now was not the time to answer it. In fact, now was not the time to do anything but sit very still and listen.

‘Someone tried to run her over last night,’ Brown continued.

‘So?’

‘So,’ Chan replied, trying and failing to keep a grin from his face, ‘she says that it was you.’

After a further twenty minutes, Chan and Brown departed. Carlyle had explained that firstly, he didn’t know how to drive, and secondly his wife could provide him with an alibi for the time when Sandra Groves was suffering a vehicular assault. The pair didn’t seem particularly concerned by what he had to say one way or another and, after mumbling the usual stuff about being back after making further enquiries, they left him sitting alone in the conference room, wondering what to do next.

The first thing he did was check his voicemail. As expected, it was Dominic Silver: John, it’s me. I thought you were definitely going to pick up? Anyway, don’t call me back. I’m busy this afternoon. I’ll try you again tonight.

It took Carlyle a moment to remember what he had called Dominic about in the first place, even though it was barely an hour ago. When he remembered, it didn’t seem so much of a priority any more. Standing up, he dropped his empty juice bottle into a bin in one corner of the room. Then he unfolded the newspaper and laid it out on the table. Reading the full headline, he grimaced:

With a sick feeling in his stomach, he read on:

Leading London television presenter Rosanna Snowdon was found dead at her flat in Fulham early this morning. She had fallen down some stairs and it is believed she suffered a broken neck, as well as arm and head injuries. The police have declined to comment, but at this stage, sources suggest that foul play has not been ruled out.

Under a picture of Reith Mansions, the block where Rosanna had lived, the rest of the article consisted of filler about her career-history and her personal life. Thinking back to their meeting, Carlyle reread the article. If she fell down the stairs, maybe it was an accident. But if the police hadn’t ruled out something more sinister then they must have some serious doubts.

There was no reference in the paper to the stalker that Rosanna had been worried about. Carlyle tried and failed to recall the guy’s name. Perhaps he was involved? Refolding the paper, he dropped it back on the table.

Should he have taken her concerns more seriously?

Could he have stopped this?

As usual, there were lots of questions and no answers.

‘John,’ he whispered to himself as he left the room, ‘this is really not looking like it’s going to be a great day.’

Under the circumstances, Carlyle decided that it would be sensible to make himself scarce, for a while at least. That meant switching off his work mobile and getting out of the station for the rest of the afternoon. Deciding to head for the one place where he knew that he wouldn’t be disturbed, he took the keys to the Mills flat from his desk and headed for the street. Once outside, he walked slowly up through Covent Garden to Ridgemount Mansions, taking care to avoid any more arguments with bus drivers, protestors or anyone else on his way there.

Stepping inside, however, he realised that coming back to the flat had been a bad idea. The place had not been aired for a fortnight. The heat was oppressive and the atmosphere was rank. Closing the front door behind him, Carlyle stepped quickly down the hallway, heading for the kitchen. Glancing round the room, he saw that nothing had been touched since the original investigation. A chair lay overturned beside the kitchen table and Agatha Mills’s dried blood was still caked on the floor. Carlyle wondered how long the place would stay like this. It could take months, if not years due to legal reasons for the flat to get sold and have someone else move in. It struck him that this place would be great for Helen and Alice and himself, but it was way out of their league — probably about a million quid out of their league. He wondered who actually owned it now — whether the Millses had left it to anyone in their wills, or whether it would just revert to the Government, to help pay down the National Debt. God knows, the public finances needed all the help they could get.

Moving over to the kitchen window, he flicked open the latch and stepped out on to the same fire escape where he had found Sylvester Bassett, the pathologist, having a smoke on the morning after Agatha Mills’s death. Sitting on the small landing just below the windowsill, Carlyle let his head rest against the metal handrail of the fire escape and closed his eyes. In the cool silence of the stairwell, he spent a minute or so running through the day’s events in his head. Reaching no particular conclusions, he dug into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out a list of the Chilean guests who had attended the Mayor’s reception at City Hall, a week earlier.

The list had arrived, as promised, from the Ambassador’s office the day after the actual event. A couple of days after that, Carlyle had stuck it in his jacket pocket and basically forgotten about it. Now, for want of anything better to do, he began scanning the rows of names and organisations, none of which meant anything to him. After a short while, his eyes glazed over. Putting the list back in his pocket, he just sat there, staring into the darkened windows of the empty flats opposite.

After a while, his thoughts turned to Rosanna Snowdon. She had asked for his help: had he let her down? He really had no idea. Had he got her killed? Surely not. The bastard who killed her was the bastard who killed her. He had long ago realised that he was not the kind of guy who tried on other people’s guilt for size.

He was spared any extended reflection by the phone vibrating in the breast pocket of his jacket. He frowned, convinced that he had switched it off, before realising that the one ringing was his private phone. Muttering to himself, he checked the incoming number — Dominic Silver.

‘Hello?’ he barked.

‘So you do actually know how to answer your phone,’ Dominic chuckled.

‘I thought you were supposed to be busy,’ Carlyle said, remembering the man’s last message.

‘I was… I am, but you sounded harassed.’

‘I am.’

‘That’s what I thought,’ said Dominic, exuding unreasonable reasonableness. ‘So how can I help?’

Carlyle took a moment to remember the problem in question. ‘Michael Hagger.’

‘Yes,’ Dominic said breezily, ‘what about him?’

‘He came to see me.’

‘Did he indeed?’ Dominic’s tone remained determinedly cheery, but Carlyle could now detect an underlying wariness. ‘Did he bring the boy?’

‘No, but he said that Jake was okay.’

‘That’s something, I suppose.’

‘Hagger also said that he would be returning him soon.’