James Craig - Never Apologise, Never Explain

Gori contemplated his surroundings, 7,000 miles from home, and sighed. ‘I was, but it was just a flying visit, only three days.’

‘That’s a long way to go for such a short time.’

‘I know,’ Gori shrugged. ‘It’s a shame, but that’s part of the job.’

‘So, what is the job?’ Carlyle asked. ‘What is it that you do?’

Gori laughed. ‘The Ambassador told me that you two had discussed that.’ He stopped and wagged a friendly finger. ‘Don’t worry, Inspector, there’s nothing illegal or controversial involved, apart from maybe the odd unpaid parking ticket. And all embassies have those.’

‘Indeed.’

‘It’s all very dull really.’

Never trust a man who can’t — or won’t — explain what he does for a living, Carlyle reflected. ‘Did you know Agatha Mills?’ he asked.

‘No.’ Gori bit his lower lip. ‘Why?’

‘You know about her connection to Chile?’ the inspector asked.

‘As I understand it, she had a Chilean father.’

‘And a brother who was a priest there.’

Gori said nothing but there was a clear flicker of interest in his eyes as he waited to see if the annoying policeman would show his hand.

‘He died during the coup in 1973.’ Carlyle gestured towards the mausoleum. ‘His name was William Pettigrew. There’s a place waiting for him in there. They’re still looking for the body. Or they were.’

Gori’s eyes narrowed slightly. ‘Thanks to your conversations with the Ambassador, we know about the family’s long-standing links to our country.’

‘What do you think about all that?’ Carlyle probed.

‘About what?’ Gori resumed his leisurely pace back towards the front gate.

‘About what happened to her brother?’

‘Her brother!’ Gori snorted. ‘Isn’t that the whole point, Inspector? No one knows what happened to him.’

‘But there will be a trial?’ Carlyle replied almost casually.

‘Perhaps.’ Gori did a little quickstep dance on the tarmac, gesticulating with his hands in front of his face. ‘But, after all this time, how can anyone hope to get to the truth?’

‘So you think it’s a waste of time?’

Realising that he was giving too much away, Gori quickly got his body language back under control. ‘It’s nothing to do with me, Inspector. The legal process will take its course.’

‘But you must have a view?’

Gori sighed theatrically. ‘For what it’s worth, I think that one should always look forwards, rather than back.’

How very convenient, Carlyle thought. ‘Were you involved in what happened back then?’

‘In 1973?’ Gori frowned. ‘I was barely two years old.’

‘But your family?’ Carlyle persisted.

‘Not really.’

Not really? It was a yes or no question, Carlyle thought angrily.

‘No more so than anyone else,’ Gori added. ‘Anyway, as I said, we are the kind of people who look to the future, Inspector. We do not wallow in the vagaries of the barely remembered past.’

They reached the front gate. It was starting to rain again, and Carlyle faced a long walk down Cedar Road in search of a bus stop. Gori pulled something out of his pocket and aimed it at the gleaming grey Mercedes sports car parked on a double yellow line across the road. The car beeped noisily as the doors unlocked. ‘I would offer you a lift, Inspector,’ he said, glancing at the leaden skies, ‘but I’m going the opposite way.’

‘Don’t worry,’ replied Carlyle through gritted teeth as he felt a fat raindrop land directly on the crown of his head. He forced what he hoped was something approaching a nonchalant grin onto his face. ‘One last thing, though?’

‘Yes?’ said Gori, stepping quickly over towards his car.

‘Do you know a woman called Sandra Groves?’

In one fluid movement, Gori pulled open the car door and slid inside. He looked past Carlyle as if wishing for the heavens to open up completely. An increasingly rapid procession of raindrops bounced off the windshield and he licked his lips. ‘No,’ he said finally. ‘Should I?’

‘No,’ said Carlyle, getting ready to beat a hasty retreat to the gatehouse. ‘Thank you for your time. And give the Ambassador my regards.’

But Gori had already slammed the car door shut and put the car into gear. As Carlyle watched the Mercedes pull away, the rain became heavier. Within seconds, he was soaked to the skin. Giving up the search for shelter, he began slowly walking down the road.

Sitting in her office on the twelfth floor of the ugly 1960s office block that was invariably described as ‘Britain’s most intimidating police station’, Commander Carole Simpson held her head in her hands as she fought back the urge to burst into tears. Things were not going according to plan. Without doubt, this was turning into the worst day of her life.

In the basement below, one of her assistants was giving a small group of select journalists a guided tour of the station’s special cells for terrorist suspects, which had just been refurbished at a cost of half a million pounds. With brown paper lining the walls — to ensure that suspects would not come into contact with anything that they could later claim contaminated them — and facilities for watching films and listening to music, this project had been Simpson’s baby. She had managed it well, and today was supposed to see her reward for getting the work finished on time and (more or less) on budget, as well as her putting up with all the moaning from anti-Terror officers that these new arrangements were too luxurious for some of Britain’s most wanted criminals.

Never shy when it came to personal publicity, Simpson had been looking forward for several weeks to another all-too-fleeting moment in the media spotlight. The Commander had come to understand that she had to work hard for her ‘share of voice’ in the media, and no opportunity to promote the personal Simpson brand could be passed up. Building a profile was essential if she was to keep climbing up the Met hierarchy. All through her career, she had seen journalists as allies.

Not any more.

Now she was shark chum.

That morning, just before 6 a.m., she had been rudely awakened by a couple of burly, unshaven men hammering on the front door of her Highgate home. Always a light sleeper, Simpson jumped out of bed, cursing her husband, who was happily snoring away. Pulling back the curtains, she opened the window and stuck her head out.

‘Bugger off,’ she shouted, ‘or I’ll call the police.’

‘We are the police, madam,’ one of the men had smirked up at her; his tone all the more galling given that he had to know exactly who she was.

She hadn’t realised it at the time, but the officers had a camera crew and a couple of newspaper journalists in tow. The first copy was already being filed, the first pictures transmitted down the wires, as Simpson went downstairs and sheepishly opened the front door. She was in the process of being done up like a kipper.

Forty-five minutes later, she was again standing on the doorstep, nursing a mug of black coffee, as she watched her husband, now in handcuffs, being bundled into the back of a black Range Rover by one of the officers. The other was busy loading cardboard boxes full of documents into the car boot. Earlier she had watched in disbelief as Joshua was informed of his rights and told he was being arrested on suspicion of conspiracy to defraud.

‘Get me the lawyer,’ was the only thing he had said to her, before they led him out of the house.

Now, more than six hours later, the enormity of the mess she was in was becoming painfully clear. The front page of the evening paper’s website had a picture of Carole and Joshua posing on their wedding day — where on earth had they got that from? — under a headline that screamed TOP COP ’ S HUSBAND ARRESTED FOR?650 M PONZI SCAM. Joshua was dubbed ‘ the British Bernie Madoff ’, after the disgraced American financier who had been given 150 years in prison for masterminding a?30 billion fraud that had wiped out thousands of investors.