James Craig - Time of Death

‘The bounty of creation should be shared by all. To do that we need social justice, underpinned by the Christian faith and the values of the Gospel.’

Carlyle failed to stifle a yawn.

‘Am I boring you?’ the boy asked sharply.

Of course you bloody are, Carlyle thought. ‘No, no,’ he mumbled, yawning again. ‘Sorry, it’s just that it has been a very long day.’

The boy looked at him doubtfully.

The next yawn the inspector managed to stifle – third time lucky. ‘The Church – the campaign against unfairness – do you do any work in Latin America?’

‘Of course. We campaign wherever there is injustice and poverty.’

‘Anything specifically in Chile?’

The boy eyed him. ‘Why?’

Just answer the fucking question . ‘Humour me.’

‘Maybe,’ Joyce said. ‘I’d have to check.’

‘That organisation Sandra mentioned – the Daughters of Something or other – is that what you use to achieve all this?’

‘Daughters of Dismas is one of the organisations that gets involved in the campaign, yes,’ Joyce replied. ‘But, obviously, it’s for women only, so I can’t really get involved that much.’

‘How many members does it have?’

‘Quite a few.’

I bet, Carlyle thought. ‘What does that mean? Dozens? Hundreds? Thousands?’

‘I wouldn’t know exactly.’

Probably less than ten, Carlyle thought dismissively. He ploughed on. ‘What type of people are members?’

‘There are all sorts, from young activists like Sandra, through to old-timers – women who remember Greenham Common, things like that.’

Old-timers, thought Carlyle. Helen would love that. His wife had been to Greenham, the Women’s Peace camp in Berkshire, several times in the early 1980s, protesting against American cruise missiles being based there. Carlyle hadn’t thought about that for a long time. It was from before they had got together; before he’d even joined the police force – which was just as well or they might have met under very different circumstances. CND – the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament – had been a big deal back then, in the days when the Russians were the number one enemy and no one had heard of Muslim fundamentalism. Now, it was all you heard. Carlyle wondered if CND was still going.

For all their time, effort and commitment, had those protestors ever achieved anything of note? Not as far as he could recall. The situation now was as bad as ever. The country was skint and yet the politicians were still spending billions on fantastically expensive weapons systems. Were they still pointed at the Russians? Who knew?

He wondered if he dared ask Helen about it. Looking back, she was as ambivalent as most middle-aged people were about their youthful idealism. Holding hands and singing songs – it all seemed so naïve now; just one of those things you did when you didn’t really understand the way the world worked. Still, the idea of people fighting the same battles almost thirty years on filled him with sadness. He looked at the boy directly. ‘Have you ever heard of a woman called Agatha Mills?’

Joyce shook his head. ‘I don’t think so, no.’

Carlyle considered him, unsure if he was telling the truth. Sandra Groves let out a low moan, then shifted in the bed and started snoring lightly. Joyce looked at her, until he was happy that she was still sleeping soundly. ‘I usually only tagged along with Sandra when she was on her own,’ he told Carlyle, ‘like that day on the bus. When she was with her “sisters”, she didn’t like me being there. The Daughters of Dismas is supposed to be a women-only organisation.’

‘Ah, yes,’ Carlyle mumbled to himself. ‘The sisterhood in action.’

Joyce gave him a funny look. ‘What?’

‘Nothing,’ he said hurriedly. ‘Where would I find a membership list?’

‘You wouldn’t,’ said Joyce. ‘We are law-abiding people. We don’t need to be harassed by the police.’

Harassment? Carlyle thought wearily. You don’t know you’re born, you middle-class muppet. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘if I wanted to find out if my Mrs Mills had been involved in Sandra’s group, how might I do that?’

Joyce told him: ‘If we checked and she was a member, she’d need to agree to let us share the information.’

‘She won’t be able to do that.’

‘Why not?’

‘She’s dead.’

Joyce looked confused. ‘Dead?’

‘She was murdered,’ sad Carlyle, without going into any of the details.

‘Um.’ Joyce looked a bit sick.

‘So,’ Carlyle continued, ‘I am wondering if there is any connection between Agatha Mills and Sandra here. Maybe the person who killed Agatha was the same person who tried to run Sandra over. If there is a connection, that is very important for our investigation. It will help us track him down.’

He didn’t add before he tries again , not wanting to wind the boy up any more.

Joyce sat and thought about it. As the colour began returning to his cheeks, he pulled a mobile out of the back pocket of his jeans and started a text message. ‘I’ll see what I can find out,’ he said, concentrating on his texting.

‘Thanks,’ said Carlyle limply. His stomach growled and he suddenly realised how hungry he felt. He remembered seeing a coffee shop on the ground floor as he came in. With luck, it would still be open. He waited for Joyce to send his message. ‘I’m going to buy a coffee and something to eat. Can I get you anything?’

The boy grunted. Carlyle took that as a yes – or maybe a no? – and wandered off.

He reached the ground floor to find the café shuttered. Inevitably, his stomach complained loudly. Carlyle issued a curse under his breath which got him a censorious look from an old woman shuffling by with the help of a walking frame. For a moment, he stood there unable to decide what to do next. Finally, he strode through the main doors and headed down Westminster Bridge Road, in search of some sustenance.

Agreasy spoon that catered for cab drivers and other servants of the twilight economy allowed the inspector to refuel with a fried-egg roll, a jam doughnut and a double espresso. Half an hour later, he strolled back into the hospital carrying a small latte for Joyce. After another couple of minutes waiting for the lift, he reached the third floor. Walking into Groves’s room, he saw Joyce slumped face-down over the bed. Stepping closer, he could see a small hole where the boy had been shot in the back of the head. The stench indicated that he’d voided his bowels, and a pool of urine had collected at his feet.

‘Jesus Christ Almighty,’ the inspector groaned, ‘what a fucking mess.’ With his legs turning to jelly, he had to force himself to step closer to the bed. Careful not to disturb anything, he made himself look at the pulverized face of Sandra Groves lying on a pillow stained black with blood. Shot several times in the face, she was, to all intents and purposes, no longer recognisable, no longer obviously human. Carlyle’s gaze followed the blood splatter, his eyes stopping on a clump of hair and skin that had stuck to the wall above the bed. He felt sick to his stomach.

‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbled, for his own benefit rather than anything else. Taking a couple of deep breaths, he swallowed the bile in his throat and waited for the risk of his meal regurgitating to subside. Quickly, he took in the rest of the scene. The machines that Groves was still hooked up to stood silently by her bed, their screens blank. The killer had been careful to switch them off, to stop the alarm going off when her vital organs stopped functioning. On the bed, by Joyce’s head, lay a small semi-automatic pistol. Carlyle took out his mobile phone and called the front desk at Charing Cross. This business wouldn’t fall to them, but if he didn’t get things started on the right foot, Carlyle knew that he could be in for an even longer night than the one he was already facing.