James Craig - Never Apologise, Never Explain

‘Hello?’

‘Susan?’

‘Ah, John,’ the woman laughed. ‘Let me guess, you are standing on Agar Street, wondering what the hell is going on?’

‘Actually,’ he told her, ‘I’m just round the corner wondering what the hell is going on.’

‘Not a bad guess, huh?’

‘Susan Phillips — so much more than just your everyday pathologist.’

‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’

‘It most definitely is a compliment. What the hell is going on? My sergeant tells me it’s an anthrax scare. Should I be running to find the nearest hospital or the nearest priest?’

‘Neither really,’ Phillips sighed, all laughter draining from her voice now. ‘What’s happening down there is a complete overreaction. Poor Mr Felix did indeed die as a result of inhaling anthrax, almost certainly transferred from the skins on his drums.’

‘How did he manage that?’

‘He was a guy who liked to travel and I’m guessing that he got the skins in Africa. It’s fairly common for animals to ingest or inhale the spores while grazing. Diseased animals can spread anthrax to humans. Maybe he ate the flesh or, more likely, inhaled some spores while putting the skins on the drums himself.’

‘Poor sod,’ said Carlyle, with feeling.

‘He was very, very unlucky,’ Phillips agreed. ‘It’s not unheard of, but the risk to anyone else has got to be negligible.’

‘So what’s with the boys in the Noddy suits?’ Carlyle asked.

‘Good question,’ Phillips replied. ‘Someone should have come along and quietly removed the evidence. Then I could have run some further tests and we could have kept an eye on anyone we thought might have had even a tiny chance of catching anything. Going into the station like that was way over the top.’

‘Whose decision was it?’

There was a pause on the other end of the line. ‘Who do you think?’

‘Simpson?’

Phillips lowered her voice a notch. ‘Commander Carole Simpson, everyone’s favourite bureaucrat.’

‘But how did this problem reach all the way up to her?’

‘You know how these things work, John,’ Phillips said. ‘No one would make a decision, so it was kicked up the chain of command until it got to someone who couldn’t pass the buck any further and had to do something.’

‘Safety-first Simpson.’

‘This isn’t safety first,’ Phillips scoffed, ‘this is blind panic. She’s probably petrified of being sued by anyone who’s stepped inside Charing Cross in the last twenty-four hours.’

‘Quite,’ Carlyle agreed. ‘Maybe I should sue her myself.’

Phillips laughed. ‘Maybe you should. I’m sure your Federation rep would be only too happy to help.’

‘No question about it.’

There were voices in the background. Phillips told someone, ‘Don’t worry, I’m coming,’ and there was a pause while she listened to a reply. ‘John,’ she said, coming back on the line, ‘I need to get on now. But don’t worry. Trust me, there’s no risk. Doubtless there’ll be lots of messing about for the next few hours, but everything should be back to normal by tomorrow morning. If I were you, I’d just take the rest of the afternoon off.’

‘Good idea!’ Carlyle was pleased that his fears had been allayed. ‘Thanks for the tip. Good to speak to you, Susan. See you soon.’

‘You too, John. Take care.’

The line went dead and Carlyle stood for a moment glancing up and down the street. Nothing much had changed: still the same WPC on one side of the tape and a small group of onlookers on the other. Then he saw a camera crew making its way towards them from the direction of St Martin’s Lane. ‘That’s my cue to leave,’ he said to himself and set off in the opposite direction, heading towards the piazza where Dennis Felix had drummed his last.

Reaching King Street, he checked the clock on his mobile. He just about had time for a quick workout at Jubilee Hall gym and still get home in time to meet Alice when she got back from school. That was the kind of metrosexual multi-tasking that would impress Helen more than his making it over to Padding-ton for lunch. At least, he hoped so. Bringing the handset to his ear, he let a smile cross his lips as he prepared to give her the good news.

The weather had turned cold. It was grey and damp. Three hours earlier, when Carlyle had left the flat, clear blue skies offered the hint of a pleasant summer day. Now it seemed a facsimile of February in June. Cursing himself for ignoring the weather forecast and leaving his raincoat at home, he cast his gaze to the heavens and hoped that the surrounding trees would offer him some protection from the imminent rain.

Despite his discomfort, this was the right kind of weather for a funeral. Carlyle had long ago decided that getting buried on a beautiful summer’s day would just be the final insult — the universe taking the piss. Dark, dank and introspective — that was how he wanted the proceedings when his own time came.

Waiting for the deluge, he forced himself to lighten up. With luck, his time would be a while in coming yet. For Agatha and Henry Mills, however, their time had already come. In their respective wills, the pair had stipulated that they be buried together in the Pettigrew family mausoleum at Lavender Hill Cemetery in North London. Carlyle had picked up a leaflet at the main gate. Pulling it from his pocket, he found his present location on the small map.

The Pettigrew family had a vestibule mausoleum on a plot near the centre of the cemetery. It looked like a small granite house (or a very big children’s playhouse). Walking around it, Carlyle could still hear music coming from the non-conformist chapel by the main gate. The idea struck him that this was the kind of place that he himself would want to be buried in — above ground, with some fresh air, a little sunlight and a good view.

Walking around the plot for a second time, Carlyle now realised that the door to the mausoleum had been unlocked in anticipation of the two new arrivals. Glancing around to make sure he wasn’t being watched, he gave it a gentle push and, ducking his head, stepped inside. Illuminated by the light from a small round window at the back was a narrow aisle, long enough for each casket to be slid sideways into one of the three crypts on each side. One side was already full, the other empty. Each crypt had a small wooden plaque listing a name, and the deceased’s dates of birth and death. Crouching down even further, Carlyle read the names of Tomas and Sylvie Pettigrew, Agatha’s parents, who had been buried there in the 1970s, along with one Walter Henry, who died on 4 August 1956 — presumably one of her grandparents. On the empty side, he read the freshly added names of Agatha nee Pettigrew and Henry Mills. At the back, in faded script, was a plaque below the space that had been reserved for William Pettigrew, the missing priest. No date of death had been added.

Since there was no remaining family, there was no one to suggest that the circumstances of her departure from this life might have caused Agatha to change her mind about being buried beside her husband and suspected killer. Carlyle was pleased about that; he was more convinced than ever that Henry Mills had not killed his wife. That theory of course, was not playing well back at the station. Simpson was pressing him for his final report, so that the case could be formally declared closed and another tick placed in the ‘win’ box. The report, however, had yet to be completed. Simpson’s patience was wearing thin and the inspector knew that he would not be able to stall her for much longer.

Indeed, Simpson would be horrified to know that he was here rather than devoting his energies to the latest case she had dropped on his desk — a series of robberies targeting wealthy members of the audience at the Royal Opera House. Carlyle, like Simpson and everyone else, knew that it had to be an inside job, but interviewing dozens of highly strung staff, with only Joe Szyszkowski and a couple of Community Support officers to help him, was going to take him weeks. Anyway, Carlyle thought, if the victims could afford?350 for a ticket and another?200 or so for dinner in the Amphitheatre restaurant afterwards, it was hard to be too sympathetic to their plight.