James Craig - Time of Death

‘Jesus.’ Carlyle rubbed his throat more vigorously this time.

‘It’s caused quite a stir.’

‘I can imagine,’ Carlyle replied, worried about the little tickle he could now detect in his throat whenever he swallowed.

‘And Dave Prentice has been sent off to the hospital for a check-up.’

Prentice? What about me? Telling himself not to be such a big girl’s blouse, Carlyle considered how he had been the one who had told Prentice to bring the damn bongos back to the station. He couldn’t have known that they were a bloody health hazard, but if Prentice got sick or, God forbid, died, Carlyle could easily see how it could end up being his fault. He felt his pulse quicken slightly. ‘It can’t be that serious, can it?’

‘Nah,’ Joe replied, looking slightly less than completely convinced. ‘You know what these things are like – panic, scare people shitless, then walk away. It’s the usual drill.’

Let’s hope so, Carlyle thought.

‘Anyway,’ said Joe, ‘I think I’m going to call it a day. The missus is cooking a curry tonight. See you tomorrow.’

‘Okay, see you tomorrow.’ Carlyle watched Joe set off down the road and wondered what he himself should do next. He had reached no particular conclusion, when Joe stopped, turned and walked halfway back towards him.

‘I almost forgot,’ the sergeant shouted. ‘You had a call from a Fiona Singleton.’

Carlyle made a face indicating that the name hadn’t registered.

‘She’s a sergeant at Fulham,’ Joe explained.

Singleton, Carlyle now remembered, was the officer who had listened to Rosanna Snowdon’s complaint about her stalker, a loser called . . . Carlyle tried to recall the guy’s name from their meeting at Patisserie Valerie, but it was another detail that escaped him. Maybe anthrax made your memory go funny. ‘Did she say what it was about?’

‘No.’ Joe shook his head.

At least she’s discreet, Carlyle thought. He held up a hand to Joe. ‘Okay, I’ll give her a call. Thanks. See you tomorrow.’

‘Sure, no problem.’ Joe turned and headed off again. This time he kept going. Carlyle watched him disappear round the corner, then took his official work mobile out of his jacket pocket, found the number he wanted and listened to it ring. He was almost resigned to leaving a voicemail, when a real live person finally responded at the other end.

‘Hello?’

‘Susan?’

‘Ah, John,’ the woman laughed. ‘Let me guess, you are standing on Agar Street, wondering what the hell is going on?’

‘Actually,’ he told her, ‘I’m just round the corner wondering what the hell is going on.’

‘Not a bad guess, huh?’

‘Susan Phillips – so much more than just your everyday pathologist.’

‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’

‘It most definitely is a compliment. What the hell is going on? My sergeant tells me it’s an anthrax scare. Should I be running to find the nearest hospital or the nearest priest?’

‘Neither really,’ Phillips sighed, all laughter draining from her voice now. ‘What’s happening down there is a complete overreaction. Poor Mr Felix did indeed die as a result of inhaling anthrax, almost certainly transferred from the skins on his drums.’

‘How did he manage that?’

‘He was a guy who liked to travel and I’m guessing that he got the skins in Africa. It’s fairly common for animals to ingest or inhale the spores while grazing. Diseased animals can spread anthrax to humans. Maybe he ate the flesh or, more likely, inhaled some spores while putting the skins on the drums himself.’

‘Poor sod,’ said Carlyle, with feeling.

‘He was very, very unlucky,’ Phillips agreed. ‘It’s not unheard of, but the risk to anyone else has got to be negligible.’

‘So what’s with the boys in the Noddy suits?’ Carlyle asked.

‘Good question,’ Phillips replied. ‘Someone should have come along and quietly removed the evidence. Then I could have run some further tests and we could have kept an eye on anyone we thought might have had even a tiny chance of catching anything. Going into the station like that was way over the top.’

‘Whose decision was it?’

There was a pause on the other end of the line. ‘Who do you think?’

‘Simpson?’

Phillips lowered her voice a notch. ‘Commander Carole Simpson, everyone’s favourite bureaucrat.’

‘But how did this problem reach all the way up to her?’

‘You know how these things work, John,’ Phillips said. ‘No one would make a decision, so it was kicked up the chain of command until it got to someone who couldn’t pass the buck any further and had to do something.’

‘Safety-first Simpson.’

‘This isn’t safety first,’ Phillips scoffed, ‘this is blind panic. She’s probably petrified of being sued by anyone who’s stepped inside Charing Cross in the last twenty-four hours.’

‘Quite,’ Carlyle agreed. ‘Maybe I should sue her myself.’

Phillips laughed. ‘Maybe you should. I’m sure your Federation rep would be only too happy to help.’

‘No question about it.’

There were voices in the background. Phillips told someone, ‘Don’t worry, I’m coming,’ and there was a pause while she listened to a reply. ‘John,’ she said, coming back on the line, ‘I need to get on now. But don’t worry. Trust me, there’s no risk. Doubtless there’ll be lots of messing about for the next few hours, but everything should be back to normal by tomorrow morning. If I were you, I’d just take the rest of the afternoon off.’

‘Good idea!’ Carlyle was pleased that his fears had been allayed. ‘Thanks for the tip. Good to speak to you, Susan. See you soon.’

‘You too, John. Take care.’

The line went dead and Carlyle stood for a moment glancing up and down the street. Nothing much had changed: still the same WPC on one side of the tape and a small group of onlookers on the other. Then he saw a camera crew making its way towards them from the direction of St Martin’s Lane. ‘That’s my cue to leave,’ he said to himself and set off in the opposite direction, heading towards the piazza where Dennis Felix had drummed his last.

Reaching King Street, he checked the clock on his mobile. He just about had time for a quick workout at Jubilee Hall gym and still get home in time to meet Alice when she got back from school. That was the kind of metrosexual multi-tasking that would impress Helen more than his making it over to Padding-ton for lunch. At least, he hoped so. Bringing the handset to his ear, he let a smile cross his lips as he prepared to give her the good news.

The weather had turned cold. It was grey and damp. Three hours earlier, when Carlyle had left the flat, clear blue skies offered the hint of a pleasant summer day. Now it seemed a facsimile of February in June. Cursing himself for ignoring the weather forecast and leaving his raincoat at home, he cast his gaze to the heavens and hoped that the surrounding trees would offer him some protection from the imminent rain.

Despite his discomfort, this was the right kind of weather for a funeral. Carlyle had long ago decided that getting buried on a beautiful summer’s day would just be the final insult – the universe taking the piss. Dark, dank and introspective – that was how he wanted the proceedings when his own time came.

Waiting for the deluge, he forced himself to lighten up. With luck, his time would be a while in coming yet. For Agatha and Henry Mills, however, their time had already come. In their respective wills, the pair had stipulated that they be buried together in the Pettigrew family mausoleum at Lavender Hill Cemetery in North London. Carlyle had picked up a leaflet at the main gate. Pulling it from his pocket, he found his present location on the small map.