James Craig - Time of Death

He gave her the two-minute version, avoiding too many details that might put her off her lunch when it came. Even so, by the time he’d finished, Helen managed to look pale and angry at the same time. ‘Thank Christ you weren’t there!’ she hissed.

But I was there, Carlyle thought. ‘What do you mean?’

She picked a knife off the table and waved it in his general direction. ‘I mean, Inspector bloody Carlyle, that if you hadn’t gone off to get yourself something to eat, they’d have shot you as well.’

They were just then interrupted by the arrival of the waitress with their food, which saved him from having to admit that he hadn’t thought of that.

For a short while they ate in silence. After a couple of mouthfuls of enchilada, Helen seemed to have successfully overcome her shock at Carlyle’s near brush with death. ‘So why did that poor girl get shot?’ she asked.

‘Dunno,’ said Carlyle. ‘It’s not my case.’

Helen daintily wiped the corners of her mouth with a napkin. ‘If it’s not your case,’ she said finally, ‘then why were you at the hospital?’

‘Well . . .’ Once again, Carlyle gave her the short version: a quick explanation about the Daughters of Dismas, and his idea about a possible connection between Agatha Mills and Sandra Groves. ‘The boyfriend said that they had some old-timers in their group; the kind of people who had been campaigning against all this sort of stuff for decades.’ He smiled meekly. ‘The kind of people who used to go to Greenham Common.’

‘There was nothing wrong with going to Greenham,’ Helen said tartly. ‘I did it myself, after all.’

Carlyle sat back in his chair and held up a hand. ‘I know, I know.’

‘And if I’d come across you on the front line, I wouldn’t have fancied your chances.’

Me neither, Carlyle thought.

‘I’m glad I had the spirit to do that,’ Helen continued. ‘I hope Alice has it about her too.’

‘Yes,’ Carlyle agreed readily.

Helen watched him carefully, waiting to see if he could resist poking fun at her youthful idealism back in the day. When she was satisfied that he had, for once, managed to resist the temptation to tease her, she said: ‘What was the name of that group of women again?’

‘Daughters of Dismas.’

‘Never heard of it.’

‘No reason why you should have.’ Carlyle shrugged. ‘Dismas was some old-time religious guy in the Bible. He hung out with Jesus – something like that. They’re just a bunch of religious loonies.’

‘But I know someone who will.’ Helen reached down under the table and pulled her bag on to her lap. After rummaging around for a few seconds, she found her mobile and started searching through the contacts list. The girls at the next table had moved on from talking about technology to discussing sex and were casually comparing STDs. Carlyle tried not to listen, watching Helen hit the call button as he began contemplating a plate of churros y chocolate .

‘Clara, it’s Helen. Hi! How are the boys? Good, yes, we’re all fine.’ She looked over at Carlyle and grinned. ‘Yes, he’s still a policeman. I know, I’m giving up hope of him ever getting a proper job.’

Carlyle made a face and she stuck her tongue out at him.

‘Look, Clara, sorry to interrupt lunch, but I just wanted to check something quickly. Have you ever heard of an organisation called Daughters of Dismas – Dismas . They’re a kind of international church campaign against poverty. What I need to know is whether a woman called . . .’

‘Agatha Mills,’ Carlyle chipped in.

‘Whether a woman called Agatha Mills is a member. I think it’s quite urgent, that’s why I’ve rung. That’s very kind of you. Yes, on the mobile. Speak soon – bye!’

Clara? Carlyle couldn’t place her, but that was no great surprise. He only paid the vaguest attention to Helen’s network of friends, acquaintances, colleagues and contacts, which was far bigger than his own. ‘Who was that?’ he asked.

‘No one who would ever be prepared to talk to you,’ Helen said sweetly, scanning the menu. ‘Professionally speaking, of course.’

‘That doesn’t narrow it down much,’ Carlyle grinned. ‘Fancy a pudding?’

‘Just a green tea for me,’ she replied, ‘but if you’ve got your eye on the chocolate doughnuts, don’t let me stop you.’

The waitress cleared the table. With some effort, Carlyle restricted himself to a double espresso. The drinks arrived within a few minutes and he was on his first sip when Helen’s mobile started vibrating on the table. She pressed it to her ear. ‘Clara? My goodness, that was quick. Yes, all right . . . interesting. Look, thanks a million for coming back to me so quickly. If I need anything else on this, can I give you a call? Lovely. Thanks again. Speak soon. Bye!’

She ended the call and dropped the phone back into her bag.

‘Well?’ he asked.

‘Well, well, Inspector,’ she grinned, taking a sip of her tea. ‘You might be on to something after all. Not only was Agatha Mills a member of Daughters of Dismas, she even worked for them for a couple of years.’

‘Here, in London?’

‘In Chile.’

Fuck, Carlyle thought, that is interesting.

Taking another mouthful of tea, Helen hauled her bag on to her shoulder and stood up. ‘I’ve got to get back to work,’ she said, reaching over the table to plant a kiss on his forehead. ‘Try and get home early tonight.’

‘I will.’

‘Good,’ she said, edging between the tables. ‘Thank you for lunch. You can pay, as I think I’ve earned it.’

Having duly paid the bill, Carlyle took the tube back to Tottenham Court Road and walked down towards Charing Cross police station. Turning into William IV Street, he was surprised to see the road cordoned off, with a small crowd milling by the police tape. Stepping past the gawkers and ducking under the tape, he flashed his warrant card at a young-looking WPC that he didn’t recognise.

‘What’s going on?’ Carlyle asked.

‘I’m not sure, sir,’ said the flustered officer, ‘but everyone was ordered out of the building about an hour ago.’ She nodded in the direction of the Ship and Shovel on the corner. ‘Most of them have gone down the pub.’

That figures, Carlyle thought. Feeling a hand on his shoulder, he turned around.

‘Hello, boss.’ Joe Szyszkowski returned the hand to his jacket pocket and rocked gently on his heels.

‘What’s going on?’ Carlyle repeated.

‘It’s Dennis Felix.’

‘Who?’

‘The bongo player in the piazza.’ Joe pulled him away from the WPC, so they were now standing in the middle of the empty road. ‘Apparently,’ he said in a stage whisper, ‘he’d contracted anthrax.’

Carlyle scratched his head. ‘Jesus!’

‘Quite. They reckon that he must have caught it from the animal skins he used on his bongo drums.’

‘Unlucky,’ said Carlyle, trying to dredge up some information from the recesses of his brain about what anthrax was and how exactly you caught it. As far as he could recall, you inhaled spores, but what that might have to do with animal skins, he had no idea. Bloody hell! He suddenly wondered – could he have caught it too? As far as he could recall, he hadn’t actually touched the drums, but had got reasonably close to take a look. As casually as he could manage, he rubbed his throat and gave a little cough. Maybe he was feeling a bit under the weather today?

‘They’ve sent in a couple of guys wearing biohazard suits,’ Joe continued, oblivious to his boss’s personal medical concerns, ‘to collect the bongos from the evidence locker. The station was evacuated about half an hour ago.’