James Craig - Never Apologise, Never Explain

This time, Carlyle gave him a quick punch on the shoulder.

‘Ouch!’ Dog immediately sat bolt upright, rubbing his arm. ‘What did you do that for?’

‘Wakey, wakey.’ Carlyle waved a hand in front of the drunk’s face, making sure he had his full attention. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

A kind of grin appeared on Dog’s face. ‘That would be nice.’

Squatting down, Carlyle fished a couple of pound coins out of his pocket and held them up for Dog to inspect. More than enough for a cup of tea. Even better, enough for a can of Special Brew from the newsagents round the corner — if the owner was up for a little haggling. ‘Take a look at something for me first, and then I’ll give you the cash.’

Dog gave a grunt of what Carlyle was happy to deem assent. The inspector quickly pulled a folded sheet of A4 paper from the inside pocket of his jacket. On it was printed a rather old and grainy picture of Matias Gori that Orb’s office had emailed him. It wasn’t great, but the key thing was that Gori still had his beard. ‘Was this the man you saw hanging out at the back of Ridgemount Mansions?’ he asked. ‘The guy who gave you the dodgy note?’

Dog looked at the picture for a few seconds, eyes glazing over as he did his familiar impersonation of a man trying very hard to concentrate.

‘Was that the man who gave you the thousand-peso note?’

Mock concentration gave way to genuine confusion on Dog’s face. ‘Huh?’

‘The man who gave you the money that didn’t work?’

There was a vague flicker of recognition in Dog’s face. ‘Maybe.’

Come on, Carlyle thought, frustration rising in his throat. Come on, you stupid bastard, think — just this once. He tried to hand the drunk the picture, but he wouldn’t take it. ‘Walter…’

‘Excuse me.’ The woman’s voice, timid and polite, came from somewhere behind him. ‘Are you Inspector Carlyle?’

Carlyle didn’t look up. ‘In a minute,’ he replied rudely, still waving the picture at Dog.

The voice came a step closer. ‘I was told that you wanted to see me.’ Less timid now in the face of his rudeness.

‘In a minute,’ I said.

A hand appeared and took the picture from the inspector’s hand. ‘I know this man.’

Trying to keep his annoyance in check, Carlyle stood up and found himself in front of a tired-looking redhead in her thirties. ‘Yes?’

Looking at least a few kilos light of healthy, the woman was conservatively dressed in a white blouse and a navy knee-length skirt. She held out a hand and he shook it. ‘I’m Monica Hartson.’

He looked back at her blankly.

‘Daughters of Dismas,’ she added. ‘I’m a friend of Agatha Mills and Sandra Groves.’

‘Ah.’

She handed him back the picture. ‘One of the people trying to finally bring Matias Gori to justice.’

‘Mm.’ Carlyle held out the two quid and dropped it into Dog’s hand. ‘How did you get my name?’

‘After the episode on the bus,’ Hartson explained, ‘you are well known amongst the group.’

Fame at last, Carlyle thought.

‘I got a message saying I should speak to you.’

‘Thanks for coming.’ Standing back, Carlyle watched the tramp struggle to his feet and shuffle towards the door. ‘Not bad for a dead man,’ he grinned.

‘What?’ Hartson eyed him quizzically.

‘Nothing,’ Carlyle said quickly. ‘Thanks for coming in. Let’s go and have a chat upstairs.’

For once, the air conditioning was working. The fourth-floor meeting room was decidedly chilly, just the way he liked it. Declining a cup of coffee, Hartson pulled a small bottle of water from her shoulder bag and took a delicate sip.

Carlyle toyed with his espresso but didn’t take a drink. ‘So,’ he said casually, ‘tell me your story.’

She thought about that for a second, then looked at him, nonplussed. ‘Where do you want me to start?’

‘How do you know Matias Gori?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know him,’ she said carefully, ‘but I know about him.’

Great, thought Carlyle, a pedant zealot, just what I need. ‘Okay, why are you interested in him?’

Once again, she thought about where to start. Normally, Carlyle thought, that means they’re getting ready to lie to you. But in the case of Monica Hartson, he was sure she was just trying to be precise. ‘We have a campaign…’

‘The Daughters of Dismas?’

‘Yes. We have been campaigning against the use of mercenaries in places like Iraq.’ Rooting about in her bag, she pulled out a couple of flyers and pushed them across the table.

Carlyle let them lie there. ‘Just tell me in your own words first.’

‘Well, we have this campaign… we are particularly focusing on mercenaries who were being funded by British taxpayers’ money.’

‘LA… something…’

‘LAHC, yes.’ She seemed to relax slightly, buoyed by the hope that the policeman might be at least a little informed. ‘The initials come from Luis Alberto Hurtado Cruchaga. Father Hurtardo was a Jesuit priest who was made a saint by the Pope a few years ago.’

‘So,’ Carlyle said, unable to resist teasing her gently, ‘these people have a religious background, like you?’

‘Not really,’ she said evenly, not rising to the bait. ‘LAHC has nothing to do with the Church, and it certainly has nothing to do with social reform. It is an American-registered company, but essentially owned and run by a group of rich Chileans with connections to the military. They take former commandoes and other special forces, and use British aid money to pay their wages.’

‘And that’s how you came across Gori?’

‘Yes. Gori is former Chilean Special Forces, from the thirteenth Commando Group, known as the Scorpions. His uncle is also the founder of LAHC. After the Scorpions, Matias became,’ she raised her fingers in the air to indicate quotation marks, ‘a “diplomat”. But he has very close ties to the mercenaries, some of whom he served with in the army.’

She glanced at Carlyle, who signalled for her to go on. ‘He has even gone out on missions with them. One of these missions, to a town called Ishaqi, north of Baghdad, ended up with the massacre of more than fifty men, women and children. According to witness reports, Matias Gori killed as many as a dozen of them himself. When we found out that he was working in London, we tried to get him arrested so that he could be tried either here or in Iraq or maybe at the War Crimes Tribunal at The Hague.’

Carlyle took a sip of his espresso. ‘And?’

Hartson looked angry. ‘Our lawyers say we need more evidence. That is why we tried to confront him directly.’

Oh, oh, Carlyle thought, the Women’s Institute takes on Rambo. Excellent idea. ‘When was this?’

‘Earlier this month there was a demonstration. We marched to the Embassy and lodged a petition with the Ambassador, asking for Gori to be handed over to the police for questioning.’

‘And what did the Ambassador say?’

‘We’re still waiting for a reply.’

‘And now two of you are dead.’

She looked at him blankly.

Shit, Carlyle thought, too late to sugar-coat the pill now. ‘Agatha and Sandra were both murdered; didn’t you know?’

The tears were already welling up in her eyes as she absorbed this shocking news. Carlyle made no attempt to comfort her, but gave her time to compose herself before he began running through a quick summary of the relevant events.

By the time he had finished, Hartson had largely regained her calm. ‘I’ve been away for a while,’ she explained. ‘I only got back to London yesterday.’

That may well have saved your life, Carlyle reflected.

‘Do you think,’ her voice quivered a little, ‘that Gori killed them?’