James Craig - Never Apologise, Never Explain

The tramp grunted and looked down at the mess from which he had emerged. Tentatively, he began poking at one of the bags with his foot, in case there was some tasty morsel that he had missed. Taking this as his cue to leave, Carlyle eased his way past, heading for the bustle and the glare of the street beyond.

‘Excuse us, please?’

No sooner had the inspector emerged on to the street, than a couple of Chinese tourists thrust a street map in his face and asked him very politely — and in the kind of perfect English that no one in England had used for as long as he could remember — for directions to the British Museum. Resisting the temptation to send them in totally the wrong direction, he pointed at the massive building just across the road and forced himself to smile. With a cheery ‘Thank you’, the pair stepped off the pavement and almost walked straight into the path of an oversized tour bus. Once they had finally made it safely across the road, Carlyle watched them negotiate the pavement artists and the hot-dog sellers and safely reach the museum gates. Turning away, he decided to head for home.

He had barely gone twenty yards, however, when an idea popped into his head. Turning round, he retraced his steps back towards the alley. When he arrived, the tramp was still there, sitting serenely on a mound of rubbish sacks, as if surveying his kingdom. In his hand was an anonymous-looking bottle from which he carefully sipped a brownish liquid.

The tramp gave no indication of noticing the policeman’s return. Trying once again to ignore the smell, Carlyle stepped towards him. ‘Dog,’ he asked, when he thought he might finally have gained the tramp’s attention, ‘do you come here often?’

Walter didn’t even look up, but took his lips far enough from the bottle to mumble, ‘Sometimes.’

‘At night?’

Nodding, Dog stuck his lips back on the bottle and sucked out the remaining dregs.

‘Were you here a couple of weeks ago?’ Carlyle persisted.

Dog scratched himself behind his left ear, like a man trying to come to terms with the concept of time. Finding it too much though, he gave Carlyle a look of infinite weariness. ‘Dunno.’

‘The last few times you were here,’ Carlyle persisted, ‘did you see anyone else?’

Dog did another excellent impersonation of a man thinking for a long time. ‘No,’ he said finally.

Damn! Carlyle thought. ‘No one?’

Another pause.

‘Just the man with the beard.’

‘The man with the beard?’

Dog tossed the bottle over his shoulder and stood up. He looked at Carlyle. ‘You don’t have to repeat everything I say,’ he grumbled. Reaching into an inside pocket of his overcoat, he pulled out what looked like a slice of beef. Tilting his head back, he dropped the morsel into his mouth. Resisting the urge to gag, Carlyle waited for the man to chew his food, swallow and then let out a satisfied burp. He willed himself to show some patience. After all, he had caught Dog on one of his more lucid days — maybe coming back from the dead had helped sharpen up his thought processes — and knew that he should now be prepared to wait it out.

Finally, Dog wiped his hand on his belly. ‘Came down the stairs back there, just like you. I asked him for some money. He said somethin’ foreign.’

‘In Spanish?’ Carlyle asked.

‘Mebbe.’

‘What did he look like?’

‘Had a beard,’ said Dog, his eyes returning to the piles of rubbish; his mind doubtless wondering where he was most likely to find something else to drink.

‘Okay,’ said Carlyle, realising that the wino’s mind was beginning to wander and that he wasn’t going to get anything else from him right now. ‘Thanks.’ He fished a ten-pound note out of his trouser pocket and offered it to Dog. ‘Here, get yourself some Diamond White or something.’

Mention of the demon drink instantly got Dog’s attention, but he eyed the money suspiciously. ‘Will it work?’

‘I suppose so,’ said Carlyle, ‘if you drink enough of it.’

‘No,’ said Dog, still not accepting the banknote. ‘The money, will it work? They wouldn’t take the other one.’

‘Who wouldn’t?’ said Carlyle, instinctively asking the wrong question.

‘The bloke in the newsagent’s,’ Dog said, as if that was obvious. ‘He said my money was no good.’

‘What money?’

Dog started rooting around in his pockets. ‘The money the man with the beard gave me.’

Carlyle watched as Dog pulled out various crumpled pieces of paper from different pockets, looking at each one carefully, before slowly returning it to its original hiding place.

The fourth or fifth scrap that Dog extracted looked a bit like an old one-pound note. He waved it at Carlyle. ‘This.’

‘I tell you what,’ Carlyle said, still holding out the tenner. ‘I’ll swap with you. My one here will work.’

‘It better had,’ said Dog, pulling himself to his feet and exchanging the notes. After carefully considering both sides of the ten-pound note, he reached a decision and quickly shuffled out of the alley, in search of suitable refreshment.

When the wino had gone, Carlyle stood there examining the piece of paper Dog had given him. It was a worn, thousand-peso note in a colour he could only describe as aquamarine, with the legend Banco Central de Chile printed on both sides. On one side was a picture of a statue, on the other a Victorian-looking military gentleman, with a battleship behind him. After much squinting, Carlyle made out the man’s name: Agustin Arturo Prat Chacon.

Smiling, Carlyle thrust the note into his trouser pocket. He had no idea how much a thousand pesos was worth, but he knew this was evidence that could prove priceless for his investigation.

The Mayor took a cautious sip of his Auchentoshan 3 Wood, a malt whisky described by the advertising men as ‘best enjoyed on its own when in a ponderous and contemplative mood’. More to the point, it was 43 per cent alcohol. Christian Holyrod was not a man given to excessive contemplation but at the moment he definitely needed a drink — several drinks, in fact. Taking a second sip, he looked carefully at the man standing in front of him. ‘I don’t know what you are up to,’ he said quietly, ‘and I don’t want to know either. Just remember rule number one…’

The Mayor’s companion smiled weakly and half-pretended to be interested in what the harried politician was telling him. ‘And what is rule number one?’ he asked dutifully.

The Mayor leaned closer. ‘It’s simple: don’t get caught.’

‘Come, come now, Mr Mayor. What makes you think I am up to anything illicit?’

Holyrod, now enjoying the first flush of Auchentoshan-inspired warmth, said nothing.

‘We are both military men,’ his companion continued, ‘officer class.’

Not so you’d notice, Holyrod thought sourly. There are officers and there are officers.

‘We both know the importance of discretion,’ the other man went on, ‘and honour.’

We’ll see, the Mayor thought.

The man gazed into his glass of mineral water. ‘Do not worry,’ he said. ‘Everything will go as planned. We will support the TEMPO conference as arranged. And, even more importantly for your friends at Pierrepoint Aerospace, the contract will be signed before the opening gala dinner.’

Holyrod took another swig of Scotch. He had eaten nothing all day and the whisky was going straight to his head, leaving him feeling tired and irritable. ‘That is good to hear. What you have to remember is that the deal should have been signed by now. If it isn’t done by the time the conference starts, Pierrepoint will look to sue LAHC.’

The other man stiffened. ‘We both know that will not be necessary.’