James Craig - Time of Death

‘That gentleman I saw you standing with at City Hall . . . at the reception when we were first introduced?’

Orb reflected on it for a moment. ‘You mean the Mayor, Mr Holyrod?’

‘No. The other man. About your height, in his thirties, had a beard – good-looking guy, with a nice tan.’

‘Ah, yes,’ Orb said. ‘Matias Gori.’

‘Who is he?’

‘He works here at the Embassy, as one of our military attachés. Does he have anything to do with this?’

Carlyle ignored the question. ‘I’ve always wondered,’ he mused. ‘What does a military attaché actually do?’

‘I know what you mean.’ Orb picked up his cup and again sipped his tea, content to wait a little longer for the policeman to get to the point. ‘I’m only the Ambassador, Inspector, so much of it is a mystery to me too. I think most people would probably assume that “military attaché” is just a polite way of saying someone is a spy. But it is usually more mundane than that.’

‘Not everyone can be James Bond, I suppose.’

‘No, especially nowadays. You can find out about most things you want to know about on the Internet, assuming that you can be bothered to spend some time searching. It’s an amazing invention – my grandchildren simply have no concept of how we could have ever lived without it.’

‘No,’ Carlyle agreed. ‘So where does that leave a military attaché these days? Are spies now basically redundant?’

‘More or less,’ Orb said, ‘as far as I can see. Certainly for a small country like Chile they are not particularly important. Our military attachés do a bit of marketing for our defence companies, and a bit of research to keep the folks back home up to speed on the latest developments in important markets like Britain.’

‘Has Gori been here long?’

Orb drained his cup and shrugged. ‘I don’t really know. He was already here when I arrived.’ He did the sums in his head. ‘So . . . I suppose that means he’s been here for at least three years.’

‘Where was he before he came to London?’

‘We all move around, Inspector,’ Orb told him. ‘Gori has had various postings in the US, Spain, Iraq-’

‘Iraq?’

‘Of course. We were strong supporters of the war on terror.’

Carlyle sat up in his chair. ‘Can I talk to him?’

‘About your case?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, technically, he would be within his rights to decline to speak to the Metropolitan Police – diplomatic immunity and all that.’ Seeing that Carlyle was about to speak again, Orb held up his hand. ‘However, when I said the other day that I’m always happy to help the police with their enquiries, I meant it. If Señor Gori is happy to speak with you, then I would be happy to sanction such a conversation.’

‘Thank you.’

Orb made a gesture indicating that it was nothing. ‘But you understand that it has to be his decision.’

‘Yes.’

‘Very good.’ Orb reached across his desk and pressed a button on the phone. ‘Claudia?’

‘ Si, embajador? ’ the secretary replied instantly.

Orb looked at Carlyle. ‘In English, please.’

‘Yes?’

‘Could you ask Matias Gori to come in here for a minute, please?’

‘I’m very sorry, sir. I don’t think Mr Gori is here at present.’

Orb raised his eyebrows and a look of irritation clouded his face. ‘Do you know where he is?’

‘I will double-check with his assistant,’ the secretary replied, ‘but I’m fairly sure that he had a flight to Madrid this morning. He was going back to Santiago.’

Orb sighed. ‘I see. Please check for me and let me know if that’s the case. And find out when he is due back in London.’

‘Of course.’

Orb ended the call. ‘I’m sorry, Inspector,’ he said, pushing his chair away from the desk and getting to his feet. ‘It looks as if you are out of luck today.’

Carlyle rose up and took a half-step towards the desk, hand outstretched. ‘Not a problem. Thank you for your help.’

‘My pleasure,’ smiled Orb, shaking his hand.

Carlyle stood his ground, however, happy to push things a little further. ‘Maybe I could see Mr Gori when he gets back to London?’

‘Will the case still be open then?’

‘Perhaps, perhaps not. In the meantime, if he could call me from Santiago, that would be a help.’

‘I will see what I can do,’ Orb said, shuffling round the table and guiding Carlyle towards the door. ‘Now, sadly, I have a rather dull meeting to attend, so Claudia will show you out.’

‘Thank you again for your time.’

‘It’s nothing.’ Orb patted him on the shoulder. ‘Let me know how you get on. I find this kind of thing fascinating.’

Back out on the street, watching the traffic snake erratically round Portman Square, Carlyle realised that the Embassy was little more than ten minutes’ walk from the Paddington offices of Avalon, the international medical aid charity where his wife worked as a senior administrative manager. Deciding to seize the moment, he headed up the Edgware Road and presented himself in front of a comatose-looking receptionist with a ring through her nose that made her look even uglier than she already was.

After an extended discussion with Helen’s PA about whether Ms Kennedy would want to see her husband, nose-ring girl informed Carlyle that he should take a seat and his wife would be down in a minute. Almost twenty minutes later, she finally appeared, looking hassled and not particularly pleased to see him.

‘What are you doing here?’ she asked suspiciously.

‘I was on business nearby,’ Carlyle said, raising himself out of the tatty faux-leather sofa. He set his jaw tight, determined to retain a cheery demeanour despite the grumpiness of his better half. ‘I thought we could grab some lunch.’

‘You could have called,’ she replied, hoisting an oversized sack-type bag bearing a logo he didn’t recognise on to her shoulder, before turning on her heel and heading for the revolving door leading to the street.

‘I guess that’s a “yes” then,’ Carlyle muttered sotto voce, as he followed at a safe distance.

Once he had caught her up, they settled for a Mexican restaurant a brisk five-minute walk away, halfway between Paddington railway station and Hyde Park. The place was busy, but they had been here before and knew the service would be good. Confident that she could be in and out in forty-five minutes, Helen relaxed slightly. Once they had ordered a selection of quesadillas and enchiladas, she even managed a smile. ‘This is a nice surprise,’ she said, albeit belatedly, ‘particularly as you were home so late last night.’

At least she didn’t say again , Carlyle thought as he nibbled on a tortilla chip. Concentrating on trying to stay in the happy zone, he didn’t really want to talk about his work, but he knew that wasn’t an option. Helen was not one of those women who could let her husband go off to work every day and not give a moment’s further thought to what he did or how he did it. She always kept track of what he was up to: his cases and, even more keenly, the endless cycle of the Met’s internal politics. In this regard, Carlyle knew that he was a very lucky chap. Now, more than ever, Helen was his main sounding-board and adviser. She was discreet, decisive and insightful, and he trusted her judgement completely.

She looked at him expectantly, so Carlyle leaned across the table, keeping his voice low. He didn’t want the people at the next table – a couple of girls currently discussing different mobile-phone tariffs – tuning into their conversation. ‘It was quite a night . . .’ He smiled wanly, before going on to explain how Sandra Groves and Stuart Joyce had been executed while he was down the road munching an egg roll.