James Craig - Never Apologise, Never Explain

The inspector stepped back outside. As expected, the rain had started coming down quite heavily, and he ran for the cover of a large pine tree that stood about twenty yards from the mausoleum. From there, he watched a large, sleek, midnight-blue Volvo hearse containing both coffins heading slowly towards him. It was followed by what he thought was a surprisingly large number of mourners, who were making their way up the gentle slope on foot. A minute or so later, the hearse stopped in front of the mausoleum. As if on cue, the rain eased off to almost nothing. Four undertakers jumped out smartly and readied themselves, before waiting for the group of mourners — maybe thirty strong — to take their places, before opening the back of the Volvo and removing the first coffin.

At that moment, without warning, Justin Timberlake blared out across the cemetery. Eyes turned and mouths muttered; this might have been a non-conformist ceremony but a blast of ‘LoveStoned’ was clearly taking things a bit too far. Mortified at the disturbance he was causing, the inspector tried to pull the phone out of his pocket and shut it up. ‘Bloody Alice!’ he muttered as he jogged behind the tree, hoping that out of sight would be out of mind. It wasn’t the first time his daughter had changed the ringtone on his phone without him knowing it; he would kill the little so-and-so when he got home. In his panic, he hit the ‘receive’, rather than the ‘end’ button. His relief at Justin’s departure from the scene was offset by the unpleasant realisation that someone was still on the line.

Feeling completely put upon by the technology, Carlyle moved further away from the disapproving mourners, in the hope that his continuing breach of funeral etiquette would be less intrusive. He lifted the handset to his ear. ‘Hello?’ he half-whispered.

‘Inspector Carlyle? This is Fiona Singleton from Fulham.’ The words came out quickly, as if she was trying to get them out before he could stop her.

Shit, Carlyle thought.

‘I’ve been trying to get hold of you for a few days now,’ Singleton continued. ‘I left you a couple of messages at Agar Street..’

‘Ah, yes,’ Carlyle said keeping his voice low and his eyes on the coffins, which were now being carried inside the mausoleum. ‘Apologies for that. We’ve been having a few problems at Charing Cross.’

‘Yes,’ said Singleton sympathetically, ‘the anthrax thing. It must have caused quite a scare.’

‘Not really,’ Carlyle replied. Singleton’s tone caused him to relax a bit; at least she wasn’t giving him a hard time for not returning her call. ‘It was probably all a rather OTT, to be honest.’ Phillips was right; it had all been a twenty-four-hour wonder. No one had been discovered with any symptoms and even Dave Prentice had been given a clean bill of health. The station had returned to normal the next day.

‘Anyway,’ said Singleton, ‘you know why I’m ringing?’

‘Yes,’ Carlyle said, looking back down the slope. The rain had stopped, for the moment at least. Agatha and Henry Mills had been laid to rest and the mourners were already beginning to drift away. If he was going to get anything useful from this trip, he had to get going. ‘Look,’ he said hastily, ‘I’m at a funeral right now. Can I call you back in an hour or so?’

‘I suppose,’ Singleton sighed, resigning herself to being fobbed off yet again.

‘Okay, thanks.’ Carlyle ended the call and walked back round the tree towards the mausoleum. The funeral directors were standing patiently by their hearse, waiting for the last of the mourners to begin making their way back to the front gate. They watched Carlyle amble by, saying nothing.

The inspector stopped a couple of yards beyond their Volvo, watching the scattered groups of people heading down the road. What was he looking for here? Someone who looked as if she might be a member of Daughters of Dismas? Someone who looked Chilean? Someone who might know Sandra Groves? Distracted by the phone call from Singleton, his mind seemed unable to focus on the matter in hand. Thoughts of Rosanna Snowdon began monopolising his brain. It struck him that there had been nothing more of substance in the newspapers about her death. He was surprised that the stalker hadn’t been arrested yet. Not for the first time, he wondered if he should feel guilty about his failure to help Rosanna at the time, but once again concluded that there wasn’t much he could have done anyway. As his minded wandered, he also wondered what he was going to say to Fiona Singleton, and what he was going to have for lunch — but not necessarily in that order.

Trying to snap out of his funk, Carlyle set his gaze on a pair of women — perhaps a mother and daughter — walking thirty yards further down the road. He had just resolved to talk to them when he became aware of someone arriving by his shoulder. He turned to face a tanned, handsome man wearing an expensive-looking raincoat, which he wore over a classic black suit, with a white shirt and a black tie. The overall effect was of someone who had just stepped out of an Armani advert. The man was holding out his hand, so Carlyle shook it.

‘Matias Gori.’

You’ve shaved off the beard, Carlyle thought. ‘Inspector John Carlyle.’

‘Yes,’ Gori smiled, ‘I know.’

That’s enough of a preamble, you smug git, Carlyle thought. ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked abruptly.

Gori lowered his eyes, but retained the smile. ‘The Ambassador told me you wanted to speak to me. He also wished the Embassy to pay our respects to the Mills family.’ He gestured to a large wreath propped up against the entrance to the mausoleum. Attached to the front of it was a message in Spanish — con mas sentido pesame — which Carlyle didn’t understand, but he got the drift. Carlyle recalled the funeral notice — No flowers. Please send any donations to the Catholic Aid Foundation — but said nothing. His gaze fell to the military attache’s beautifully polished shoes.

‘How did you know that I would be here?’

‘I didn’t,’ Gori shrugged. ‘But here you are, so I can kill two birds with the one stone, as the saying goes.’

Carlyle let Gori place a gentle hand on his back and steer him down the access road. The rain was still holding off but he knew it would soon start pouring again. After a few moments, the Volvo rolled up behind them and they stepped off the tarmac and on to the grass to let it pass. As they waited, Gori opened his raincoat and pulled out a packet of Marlboros from an inside pocket. He offered one to Carlyle.

‘No, thanks.’ The inspector shook his head.

Gori took a cigarette and stuck it between his teeth. As he fumbled in another pocket for his lighter, Carlyle noticed a pin, like a small golden dagger, attached to his jacket lapel. Gori lit his cigarette and inhaled deeply, holding in the smoke for a few seconds before exhaling it past Carlyle’s head. Noticing Carlyle staring at the dagger emblem, he casually but quickly closed up his raincoat, before stepping back on to the tarmac.

Carlyle waited patiently while Gori took another drag on his cigarette.

‘So why are you here?’ the military attache asked finally.

‘Simply to pay my respects,’ Carlyle said evenly.

Gori gave him a quizzical look. ‘Do you attend the funerals of all your victims?’

‘They’re not my victims.’ Carlyle smiled politely, to show that he wasn’t put out at being questioned. ‘And, no, I don’t always go to the funerals, not at all.’

‘But in this case, yes.’

‘Well, Agatha Mills was a remarkable woman.’

Gori removed the cigarette from his mouth and looked at it carefully. ‘So they tell me.’

Carlyle waited for Gori to expand on this comment. When it was clear that nothing else would be forthcoming, he changed tack: ‘I thought that you were supposed to be in Santiago.’