James Craig - Never Apologise, Never Explain

Bemused by the lack of voicemail, Carlyle ended the call. That’s not a good start, he thought, wondering what she might be up to. This kind of person was just so unreliable. Returning the phone to a prominent position by the television, he went off to make himself a cup of green tea.

In the kitchen he filled the kettle. While he was waiting for it to boil, his gaze settled on an oversized cream envelope propped up against the bread bin. It was addressed to John Carlyle Esq. He picked it up. On the back was a crest he didn’t recognise. Helen must have left it there, he decided, picking it up and weighing it in his hand. It felt weighty. It also felt expensive.

He opened it carefully, pulling out an invitation, a piece of thick card, with a silver border and black inlaid script, requesting his attendance at a reception to be held at Number 10 Downing Street for something called the Union of Social Givers. Where had that come from? Carlyle frowned. The kettle came to the boil. Placing the invite back in the envelope, he dropped a teabag into a mug and added water, counting to ten before removing the bag. Dropping it into the sink, he remembered his conversation with Rosanna Snowdon in Patisserie Valerie on Marylebone High Street. It seemed a long time ago now. Rosanna must have come through with her promise to get him invited to the Prime Minister’s residence. He felt a frisson of embarrassment as he considered this last small act of kindness from a woman whose help he had never properly repaid and now never would.

Blowing on his tea, he took a cautious sip. It was still too hot. Should they go to the reception? It wasn’t really his thing but, then again, he would only ever get the one chance. He smiled at the thought of walking past the police guards and through that black door. And, despite her liberal sensibilities, Helen might like it. He would let her decide.

Looking down at the traffic crawling round the square, Matias Gori stood on the roof of the Chilean Embassy. With one foot resting on the low parapet at the edge of the roof, he sucked greedily on a well-deserved cigarette. He felt a gentle breeze on his face and shivered. It was getting colder. Not for the first time, he cursed the type of country that made you stand outside for a smoke.

‘I thought I’d find you here.’

Gori turned to find Claudio Orb stepping carefully towards him.

‘Cold, isn’t it?’ the Ambassador smiled.

‘Yes,’ said Gori, taking a final drag of his Marlboro before flicking it over the side of the building. He caught Orb’s eye and shrugged. ‘This is the only place you are allowed to smoke these days.’

‘And a good place for a quiet word.’

‘If you want.’ Gori stared at his immaculate John Lobb shoes. What could the old fool want with him? To him, Orb was spineless, merely a straw in the wind. How could a man like this represent his country? For sure, he would have nothing interesting to say.

Orb stood by the parapet and gestured towards the city below. ‘I really won’t miss all this.’

‘Neither will I,’ Gori replied, ‘when the time comes.’

‘My time has already come.’

‘You’re going home?’

Orb nodded. ‘I’ve decided that it is finally time for me to retire. My wife wants to see more of our grandchildren.’

‘Is that a good enough reason?’ Gori sniffed.

‘Yes,’ Orb ignored the younger man’s bad humour, ‘I think it is. Anyway, I’ve had enough. The Ministry of Foreign Affairs is already lining up my replacement, so there is no need for me to delay my decision.’

Gori nodded and lit another cigarette. ‘I’m hoping to go back soon myself.’

‘Oh?’ said Orb casually. ‘Is your work here done?’

Gori smirked. ‘My work is never done. That’s just the way it is.’

Orb looked up, to the skies, and listened to the sound of an airliner somewhere above the clouds. ‘And what work would that be?’

‘You know what they say…’

‘No, Matias.’ Orb’s smile faded. ‘I don’t.’

Gori waved his cigarette in the air, as if he was writing on a blackboard. ‘Never apologise, never explain, Mr Ambassador. Never apologise, never explain.’

‘That wouldn’t work for a diplomat.’

‘I’m not a diplomat,’ the younger man said sharply.

‘What are you, Matias?’

‘I’m a…’ Gori’s face broke into a broad smile, ‘warrior.’

Orb looked at his colleague. ‘How many more women were you thinking of killing?’

Gori let his gaze fall on a line of red tail-lights stretching all the way towards the Edgware Road, the city’s most famous Arab neighbourhood. Gori spent a lot of time there. It reminded him of good times. He would head over there, to the Green Valley, his favourite Lebanese restaurant, for supper tonight.

‘Well?’ Orb asked quietly.

Gori turned and took a step closer to the old man, so that they were now only a couple of feet apart. Maybe the Ambassador wasn’t as stupid as he had thought. Not that it mattered. ‘Who told you?’ he asked finally. ‘Was it the policeman?’

‘No, I don’t think he knows quite what is going on here,’ Orb replied. ‘But he put me on the right track.’

‘Maybe he knows, maybe he doesn’t. Does it really matter?’ Gori dropped his second cigarette on to the asphalt, and stubbed it out vigorously with his shoe. ‘Are you going to tell him?’

‘I don’t think that would be very helpful.’

So why are we having this conversation? Gori wondered. ‘And, anyway, even if he did find out, there’s nothing he could do about it.’

‘That is not the point, Matias.’

‘Oh? And what is the point, then, Excellency?’

Orb threw his shoulders back and put on his most authoritative voice. ‘This has to stop,’ he said. ‘It has to stop now.’

‘It never stops,’ Gori pouted.

‘This isn’t Iraq, Matias, or back home, circa 1973. You can’t fight a dirty war here.’

Gori moved half a step backwards and took a good look at the old man in front of him. He estimated that he had the advantage of maybe three or four inches and at least as many kilos, not to mention more than thirty years. There was no guard rail, and no security cameras on the roof. A quick push and Orb would go straight over the edge. Easy, quick and clean. No one would ever know what had happened. He poked the cigarette butt with the toe of his shoe; he should remember to pick that up before he left the roof, otherwise there was no evidence to say that he had ever been there.

In the square below, there was the squeal of brakes, a clash of metal and someone angrily honking their horn. Gori looked down and saw a taxi driver get out of his cab and start shouting at a cyclist sitting in the road next to his mangled bike. After some extended finger-pointing, the driver gave the cyclist a sharp kick and stalked back to his taxi. Gori laughed and the spell was broken. He looked back at Orb. The old man would never know how close to death he had come in that moment.

Ultimately, however, killing the Ambassador wasn’t necessary. Also, it would have been counter-productive, creating too much of a fuss. Orb would doubtless still have some allies, even if they were stuck in an office in Santiago. Not like the women. They had no connections; no influence. No one would ever bother about them, apart from maybe the dumb policeman.

And what about him?

Killing the policeman might be nice, but that wasn’t really necessary either. He would go away soon enough. Matias had seen plenty like him in his time — not enough brains, not enough stamina, not enough balls — and more than enough to know that Carlyle was not a threat.

He stepped back towards Orb and smiled. ‘We are just doing what is necessary.’

‘Surely, Matias,’ Orb said sadly, ‘that is not for you to decide.’ He straightened up and put a gentle hand on his young colleague’s shoulder. ‘I would counsel caution. People like this are no threat to you. For all its faults, this is a civilised country; a good friend of Chile. Relations are good. These people cannot spoil that relationship. They are allowed to make their protests, but they won’t change anything. That is what democracy is all about. All you are doing is making a relatively harmless situation dangerous. London isn’t Baghdad; murder here is an event. Human life means something. The police will investigate thoroughly. You will be found out. And, all the while, all you are doing is creating potential martyrs, boosting the very cause you are trying to defeat.’