James Craig - Time of Death

For a moment they sat in comfortable silence. Then she asked: ‘Do you think there is any chance of finding Jake Hagger?’

Remember she’s a journalist , a little voice piped up in the inspector’s head. ‘Off the record?’

‘Of course.’

He thought about it for a moment. ‘I think that there is as near to no chance as makes no difference.’

‘I see.’

He glanced at his watch. It told him that he really should be getting back to the station and dealing with Henry Mills but, once again, for some reason the enthusiasm to do so just wasn’t there. For her part, Rosanna didn’t seem desperate to get off to work either. ‘So,’ he said finally, ‘how are your political chums? Spend a lot of time in Number Ten?’

Spotting a woman acquaintance walking up the street, Rosanna waved to her, before returning her gaze to Carlyle. ‘I have been to Downing Street twice, as it happens. It was nice, but not exactly life-changing. I know the Prime Minister’s Director of Communications extremely well – I’m sure I could get you an invite there if you wanted.’

I wonder what Simpson would make of that? Carlyle reflected. ‘Thanks. I’ll bear it in mind.’

Rosanna leaned slightly over the table towards him. ‘To be honest, I think that they’re not finding it as much fun as they thought it was going to be.’

The poor dears, Carlyle thought.

‘Edgar,’ she continued, ‘is finding it quite tough going. The poor chap is obsessed with the idea that he has been found out – as if you need to be a genius to be Prime Minister. Every time his poll ratings slip a bit further, he’s waiting for Christian to come through the door and steal his job.’

‘I would have thought the Mayor of London has enough on his plate as it is,’ Carlyle mused, keen to hear more.

‘Being the Mayor is not really a full-time job though, is it? Certainly not for a man of action like Christian. All you’ve really got any responsibility for is trying to stop the Tube drivers going on strike, which they do regardless, and implementing the congestion charge, which he wants to scrap anyway.’

‘So what does he do, then?’ Carlyle asked.

Rosanna gave him those big eyes. ‘To be fair, Christian Holyrod is amazing. The job itself just isn’t big enough for him. Apart from anything else, he needs his own foreign policy; he’s a soldier right down to his DNA and he needs to operate on the biggest stage.’

This all sounded like gibberish to the inspector. ‘I see.’

‘Since he’s got elected to City Hall, he really has achieved a lot.’

‘Like what?’

‘Well, he’s successfully positioned himself as the number two politician in the country. He’s also built up his portfolio of non-executive directorships.’

‘Is that allowed?’

‘Of course it is. It’s vitally important that politicians keep in touch with the real world and see how business works. After all, that’s how wealth gets created.’

I’ve often wondered about that, Carlyle said to himself.

‘And,’ Rosanna grinned, ‘if they’re earning good money outside, it makes it less necessary for them to have to fiddle their expenses.’

‘Good point,’ Carlyle laughed. ‘What kind of directorships does Holyrod have?’

‘Quite a range, I think. There’s a media company, agribusiness, aerospace . . .’

‘Interesting. Make sure you give Christian and Edgar my kind regards next time you see them.’

Rosanna put a gentle hand on his forearm. ‘Inspector, don’t take this the wrong way, but I think that if either of them ever see you or hear of you ever again, it will be way too soon.’

Recalling his previous run in with the politicians – an earlier case – Carlyle bowed modestly. ‘I wouldn’t have it any other way. I guess that means an invite to Downing Street is a non-starter.’

‘Not necessarily,’ she said.

‘Oh?’

‘I could probably swing something. It would have to be for one of Edgar’s wife’s charity events, some time when he was out of the country.’

Carlyle tried to look affronted. ‘It wouldn’t be the same, then.’

She shook her head. ‘I think you just like causing trouble, Inspector.’ The smile vanished from her face. ‘Anyway, I must be going. Thank you for our talk.’

‘I will do what I can to help with your stalker,’ Carlyle promised. ‘Let me speak to Singleton and we’ll take it from there. Next time you see your guy, call me straight away.’

‘He’s not my guy,’ she shot back.

He held up his hands in a conciliatory manner. ‘You know what I mean. Just call me.’

‘I’ll do that.’

‘The one thing that would be useful for me to have would be a surname. Maybe he’s in care or has a medical history. Maybe he’s not taking his medication. Maybe he just needs help.’

‘Mmm . . .’ She didn’t sound too convinced. After all, this was supposed to be about her needs, not those of the man who was stalking her.

‘Any further thoughts on that, or any other developments, let me know.’ He pushed his chair away from the table and stood up, wiping some crumbs from his trousers as he did so. ‘But don’t approach him directly. Keep your distance and don’t take any risks.’

‘Yes, sir!’ She gave him a mock salute and he was pleased to see a little of the old sparkle return to her eyes. Standing up, she hoisted the bag over her shoulder and dropped the sunglasses back on to her nose. Then she leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Thank you for this. I am very grateful. Just knowing that you are on the case is a big help.’

On the case? Carlyle felt himself redden slightly. ‘It will b-be fine,’ he stammered as she turned for the door. ‘Let’s speak soon.’

Anight in the cells had failed to encourage Henry Mills to change his story. He remained adamant that he had been soundly asleep while his wife was being brained in the kitchen of their flat. Neither disappointed nor particularly surprised by this answer, Carlyle formally charged him with murder and went back upstairs to sort out the paperwork. In a couple of hours, the Mills case would be off his desk and it would become someone else’s problem.

He was waiting for his computer to start up when Joe Szyszkowski came by with a blue A4-sized folder under his arm.

‘What have you got?’ Carlyle asked, without preamble.

Joe perched on the edge of the desk, opened the file and flipped through some sheets of paper. ‘It looks like he was telling the truth about the Chilean thing.’

‘Yeah?’ said Carlyle, looking at the somersaulting hourglass on his computer screen, not really caring any more.

‘Agatha Mills had a brother,’ Joe continued, ignoring his boss’s off-hand mood, ‘called William Pettigrew. They had a Chilean father and an English mother.’

‘Pettigrew? Doesn’t sound very Chilean to me.’

‘There’s a Scottish great-grandfather or great-great-grandfather in there somewhere,’ Joe explained. ‘There’s a strong Celtic influence, apparently. A whole bunch of Scottish farmers went over in the 1840s and 1850s. And the Chilean navy was formed by a Scot, Lord Cochrane, when they were fighting for independence from the Spaniards.’

‘Interesting,’ said Carlyle, impressed.

‘Wikipedia is a great thing.’ Joe shrugged. ‘We’ve always been tight with the Chileans, apparently. They’ve even had people fighting in Iraq.’

‘Jesus!’ Carlyle shook his head. ‘What’s it to them?’

‘Dunno. Anyway, William became a Catholic priest in Valparaíso, a coastal town north of Santiago. He disappeared during the 1973 military coup, when the army overthrew the government.’