James Craig - Never Apologise, Never Explain

‘Thank you,’ the Mayor replied. ‘And be sure to give my best to Joshua.’

The line went dead before she could reply. Simpson carefully returned the handset to its cradle. Why was the Mayor so interested in the Mills case? And why hadn’t she yet seen a copy of the final report herself? Getting up from the desk, she stepped out of her office, surprising her secretary who was engrossed in a copy of some wretched celebrity magazine. Simpson raised her eyebrows at the headline — summer liposuction special — but didn’t comment. The secretary dropped the magazine into her bag and looked up expectantly.

Simpson tried to summon up her usual authoritative tone. ‘Get me Inspector Carlyle on the phone.’

Looking like a drowned rat, Carlyle had gone straight home from the cemetery. After a hot shower, some fresh clothes and lunch at Il Buffone, he felt much better, both mentally and physically, but without any real desire to venture towards the station. Ordering a second double macchiato to prolong his stay in the cafe, he felt his phone start to vibrate. Seeing that the call was from his sergeant, he answered.

‘Have you seen the paper?’ Joe began excitedly, sounding like a naughty schoolboy in possession of his first porn mag.

‘Which one?’

‘The Standard.’

‘Hold on a second.’ Carlyle turned to Marcello, the only other person still in the cafe at this late time. ‘Have you got tonight’s paper yet?’

‘ Certo.’ Wiping his hands on a tea towel, Marcello stepped into the small alcove behind the counter, which served as both kitchen and storeroom, before returning immediately with a folded copy of the newspaper.

‘Thanks.’ Carlyle scanned the headline and brought the phone back to his ear.

‘Spurs set for another good season?’

‘No, you idiot,’ Joe hissed. ‘The front page!’

Carlyle flipped the paper over and felt his jaw drop to the floor. He stared at it all in disbelief for a couple of seconds: Simpson’s wedding picture, the glaring headline, the mundane yet lurid details of her husband’s arrest. ‘Fucking hell!’

‘Indeed,’ Joe giggled. ‘I spoke to a mate of mine in the Financial Crimes Unit, who says that Joshua Hunt, Mr Carole Simpson, is bang to rights.’

‘Jesus.’

‘The guy hasn’t even tried to deny it. Have you ever met him?’

‘Nah.’ Carlyle thought about it for a moment. ‘At least, not as far as I remember.’

‘Well, it looks like he’s going down for a long time.’

‘Shit… what about Simpson herself?’

‘The Met has already put out a statement saying that it is nothing to do with her.’

‘But he’s her husband!’ Carlyle protested.

‘Other people’s marriages,’ Joe remarked philosophically. ‘Who knows what goes on behind closed doors. Maybe they were living separate lives.’

Carlyle looked back down at the story in front of him. ‘In a six-million-pound North London mansion?’

‘It’s got to be big enough for the two of them to have their own living arrangements.’

‘They were happily married, as far as I know,’ the inspector mused.

‘Who knows what was going on?’ Joe continued. ‘Even if everything was all hunky-dory between them, how much would you expect her to know about his financial dealings?’

‘If she was anything like Helen,’ Carlyle sighed, ‘she would know everything.’

Joe laughed. ‘That’s your marriage.’

‘Humph.’

‘Seriously, though,’ Joe added, ‘whatever else we think about Simpson, she isn’t flash and she works hard at her job — a proper job too. Maybe she didn’t know anything about what he was up to.’

Carlyle scanned the article again. ‘But all that cash…’

‘Just numbers on a piece of paper,’ Joe sniffed. ‘And, anyway, you hear about lots of people making shedloads of cash. They can’t all be crooks.’

‘I don’t know about that.’

‘Even if he is bent, maybe she isn’t — I could believe that.’

‘I suppose I could too,’ said Carlyle grudgingly. However much he disliked Simpson, ultimately, he didn’t think that she was bent.

‘Anyway,’ said Joe, ‘she’s still at work. And she wants to speak to you.’

‘Great.’ Carlyle’s heart sank. ‘What about?’

‘Agatha Mills. She wants to know why she hasn’t seen the final report into the woman’s murder.’

That’s because I haven’t written it, Carlyle thought. ‘Shit. What did you tell her?’

‘I haven’t told her anything,’ Joe said defensively. ‘I just took the message from her secretary.’

‘Okay.’ Carlyle thought about it for a moment. ‘Could you draft something for me, very factual, straight up and down, just the way she likes it?’

‘All right,’ said Joe, not sounding too happy about it.

‘Good. I’ll take a look at it in the morning. Thanks,’ said Carlyle, pleased at having managed to exercise his power of delegation for once. ‘See you, then.’

No sooner had he ended his call with Joe than the phone went again. This time it was Fiona Singleton from the Fulham station.

‘Have you seen the news?’ she asked, in a tone far more matter-of-fact than Joe’s burbling call.

‘Yes,’ Carlyle replied. ‘Amazing, isn’t it?’

‘Not that amazing really,’ Singleton replied. ‘Lovell has already confessed.’

‘Sorry?’ said Carlyle, confused.

‘Simon Lovell,’ Singleton explained, ‘the saddo who was stalking Rosanna Snowdon. We picked him up last night and he was quite happy to admit that he’d done it. It was going to be in the paper today, but we’ve held it over because of all this… other stuff. I thought you might have heard anyway, but I just wanted to give you a heads-up.’

‘Thanks.’ Carlyle thought about it for a moment. ‘Did he really kill her?’

‘Lovell? I suppose so.’ Singleton ran it through in her head one more time. ‘Snowdon was dropped off outside the flat by her boss. Lovell admits he was waiting for her. He looks like a bit of a gentle giant, but he could have easily thrown her down those stairs, no problem at all.’

Justifying the easy win, Carlyle thought. ‘She was drunk?’

Singleton grunted.

‘Maybe it was an accident?’ he suggested.

‘We don’t think so,’ she said firmly.

‘Is there any physical evidence?’

‘I don’t think so. It probably doesn’t matter now.’

‘Just make sure that this isn’t another lame-brain going down for an easy win,’ Carlyle said. ‘It’ll come back to haunt you, if it is.’

‘Not your problem,’ Singleton replied, sounding as if she was regretting having made the call.

‘What about the boyfriend?’ Carlyle asked, moving on.

‘The rugby player? He’s in New Zealand on a tour.’

‘Good alibi.’

‘Yes,’ Singleton agreed. ‘The colleague who spoke to him on the phone said he didn’t seem particularly grief-stricken.’

‘No?’ If I’d just lost a girlfriend like Rosanna Snowdon, Carlyle thought, grief-stricken wouldn’t be the half of it.

‘No,’ Singleton laughed. ‘It may have something to do with a story in the tabloids yesterday about him groping a couple of groupies in a nightclub while watching a dwarf-throwing competition.’

‘People deal with bereavement in different ways,’ Carlyle reflected. ‘Anyway, thanks for the call.’

‘No problem.’

Carlyle studied the Simpson story once again, without finding out anything new. When he had finished, he looked at the clock behind the counter which told him that it was already almost four. No one had entered the cafe in the last twenty minutes and now Marcello was making a show of getting ready to close up. It was time for the inspector to take the hint and let the man get home.