James Craig - Never Apologise, Never Explain

He made a snap judgement. ‘Leave them where they are for the moment. We’ll need to talk to them. But I’ll make sure you can get them moved as soon as possible.’

‘Okay.’ She turned and swiftly left the room.

After she had gone, Carlyle stepped away from the murder scene and took the lid off Joyce’s coffee. He sipped it carefully. It was at best lukewarm now, but it was strong and it tasted good. He certainly wasn’t going to throw it away. ‘Waste not, want not,’ he said to no one in particular. ‘After all, this is going to be a long night.’

In the end, Carlyle spent almost four hours hanging around the hospital corridor before he was able to go home. It had taken a couple of hours for his new pals, Nick Chan and Greg Brown, to show up, and another hour before they were ready to talk to him. As far as Carlyle was concerned, that was fine. On this occasion, he would have to be professional courtesy and co-operation personified. For a start, he knew that he had a bit of explaining to do. Chan and Brown could really drop him in it if they wanted to. He could appeal to their goodwill but Carlyle knew that was not a good idea. Otherwise, all he could do was share his thoughts on a possible connection with the Agatha Mills killing and see if that might spark their imaginations.

‘Sounds like a load of rubbish to me,’ Brown snorted, after he had talked them through it.

Carlyle looked to Chan.

Chan shook his head. ‘“Rubbish” is the polite way of putting it.’

Recognising the reasonableness of their reaction, Carlyle gave a shrug. ‘The late Mr Joyce here sent a text to someone before I went off to the cafe, to check if Mills was part of the same group as his girlfriend. Did he get a reply?’

‘Let me see.’ Brown wandered off.

Chan watched him go and turned to Carlyle. ‘The gun is an Israeli semi-automatic, the Jericho 941, about fifteen years old. Not very common in this country.’

‘Not very common at all,’ Carlyle agreed.

Brown reappeared. ‘No texts for Mr Joyce this evening, but we can try and track down the recipient of the message he sent.’

‘Good.’ Chan turned away from his colleague to face Carlyle. ‘Inspector,’ he said, ‘you can go home now. We’ll be in touch.’

‘Fine,’ said Carlyle as he headed towards the main lifts. ‘You know where to find me.’

Carefully balancing a fragile but expensive-looking cup and saucer on his knee, Carlyle sat quietly waiting for Claudio Orb to take a sip of his own tea. High on the wall to Carlyle’s left was a large photograph of a Chanel-clad woman who presumably was the current Chilean President. From behind the Ambassador, light flooded in through the French windows opening on to a small balcony which looked over the busy square just outside.

He had arrived almost on a whim. When Henry Mills had walked out in front of that van, his case had apparently solved itself. It could be easily put to bed, and no one would give it another thought. Sandra Groves was Chan’s problem. Carlyle could put his feet up for a while and wait for the next pile of shit to come along. Being a restless soul, however, he knew that he wouldn’t be able to leave it alone. The sense that there was more to this than met the eye was lodged in his brain. It was a feeling that he’d experienced many times before. He hated the idea of being taken for a ride — whether it was due to professional pride or personal vanity — and he wasn’t minded to let things drop just yet.

Turning up at the Embassy, he had been cheered that his arrival had been greeted with neither surprise nor dismay. After passing through the most rudimentary of security checks, he had been sent up, on his own, to the Ambassador’s office, where a very pretty, very young-looking secretary told him that Orb would see him in a couple of minutes. Barely ninety seconds later, he was sitting in front of the Ambassador’s desk, while his host weighed up the relative merits of Fortnum’s Smoky Earl Grey or their Piccadilly Blend. Having decided on the latter, Orb surprised Carlyle by getting up and scooting out of his office to go and make the tea himself. By the time he came back, Carlyle’s opinion of Chile and Chileans couldn’t have been higher.

After a tentative sip, Orb returned his cup to its saucer in the middle of his otherwise uncluttered desk, and looked up at Carlyle. ‘It’s a pleasure to see you again, Inspector,’ he smiled. ‘Tell me, how is your investigation going?’

Carlyle made a vague gesture with one hand, while keeping a firm grasp of his saucer with the other. ‘These things always need to run their course.’

‘Indeed they do.’ Orb clasped his hands together over the desk as if in prayer. ‘And what, if I may ask, happened to the husband?’

Having had enough of the balancing act, Carlyle reached down and placed his cup and saucer on the carpet beside his chair. ‘He walked in front of a van,’ he said, sitting back up.

‘An accident?’

‘Suicide.’

‘Oh?’ Orb looked nonplussed. ‘But he was your main suspect?’

‘Yes.’

‘So is that it?’ Orb asked. ‘Is the case now closed?’

Carlyle shifted in his seat. ‘Maybe.’

‘Maybe?’ Orb repeated. ‘Don’t be coy, Inspector, you must be here for more than a cup of tea, very nice though it is.’

Carlyle grinned. ‘Maybe.’

‘So…’ The Ambassador’s smile faded slightly, indicating that, although his welcome was genuine, neither his time nor his patience were infinite. ‘How can I help you?’

‘That gentleman I saw you standing with at City Hall… at the reception when we were first introduced?’

Orb reflected on it for a moment. ‘You mean the Mayor, Mr Holyrod?’

‘No. The other man. About your height, in his thirties, had a beard — good-looking guy, with a nice tan.’

‘Ah, yes,’ Orb said. ‘Matias Gori.’

‘Who is he?’

‘He works here at the Embassy, as one of our military attaches. Does he have anything to do with this?’

Carlyle ignored the question. ‘I’ve always wondered,’ he mused. ‘What does a military attache actually do?’

‘I know what you mean.’ Orb picked up his cup and again sipped his tea, content to wait a little longer for the policeman to get to the point. ‘I’m only the Ambassador, Inspector, so much of it is a mystery to me too. I think most people would probably assume that “military attache” is just a polite way of saying someone is a spy. But it is usually more mundane than that.’

‘Not everyone can be James Bond, I suppose.’

‘No, especially nowadays. You can find out about most things you want to know about on the Internet, assuming that you can be bothered to spend some time searching. It’s an amazing invention — my grandchildren simply have no concept of how we could have ever lived without it.’

‘No,’ Carlyle agreed. ‘So where does that leave a military attache these days? Are spies now basically redundant?’

‘More or less,’ Orb said, ‘as far as I can see. Certainly for a small country like Chile they are not particularly important. Our military attaches do a bit of marketing for our defence companies, and a bit of research to keep the folks back home up to speed on the latest developments in important markets like Britain.’

‘Has Gori been here long?’

Orb drained his cup and shrugged. ‘I don’t really know. He was already here when I arrived.’ He did the sums in his head. ‘So… I suppose that means he’s been here for at least three years.’

‘Where was he before he came to London?’

‘We all move around, Inspector,’ Orb told him. ‘Gori has had various postings in the US, Spain, Iraq-’