James Craig - Time of Death

‘That man in America got a hundred and fifty years,’ Simpson whispered, trying to choke back a sudden sob. ‘A hundred and fifty!’

‘Yes, well,’ the Mayor replied, ‘that won’t happen here. I know that Joshua is as straight as they come.’

I wish I did, thought Simpson. ‘Thank you.’

The noise in the background died away as Holyrod apparently sought out a quiet corner. ‘I invested some money with him myself,’ he mused.

Past tense, Simpson noted.

‘He looked after me very nicely,’ the Mayor continued.

So that’s what you’re worried about, Simpson thought; the idea that this could come back and bite you on the bum. ‘That’s good.’

‘Yes, I was bit surprised when he decided to call it a day, but there’s nothing wrong with quitting while you’re ahead. More people should do so, in fact.’

‘Yes.’

‘Anyway, give him my best when you speak to him.’

‘I will. Thank you.’

‘And if there is anything I can do to help, let me know.’

‘I will.’

There was a pause.

‘There was one other thing that I wanted to talk to you about,’ the Mayor said.

‘Yes?’

‘Mrs Agatha Mills.’

Given the day’s events, Simpson took more than a moment to place the name.

‘The lady who lived near the British Museum,’ the Mayor prompted gently.

‘The woman bludgeoned to death by her husband?’

‘That’s the one,’ Holyrod said quickly. ‘Where are you with that business? Has the investigation been completed? Is the case closed?’

Simpson didn’t care to admit that she didn’t know. She quickly focused on what she did know. ‘The husband clearly did it. Then he walked out in front of a car – or rather, a van if I remember rightly.’ As the words came out, she felt a chill. Joshua had to be under at least as much stress as Henry Mills had been. Could he react in a similar way? No, she reassured herself. Whatever else happened, he wasn’t the kind of man to try and kill himself. She was sure of that. Fairly sure, at least.

She snapped out of her reverie. ‘The case is closed.’

‘Good,’ the Mayor said cheerily. ‘Would it be possible to see a copy of the final report?’

‘Well . . .’ The last thing Simpson needed right now was to be discovered playing fast and loose with official police files.

‘Discretion assured, of course.’

She thought it through a little more. What the hell, it wasn’t as if the hole she was already in could get any deeper. Maybe some goodwill in the Mayor’s office could be helpful in the coming weeks. ‘Of course. I’ll get something sent over.’

‘Thank you,’ the Mayor replied. ‘And be sure to give my best to Joshua.’

The line went dead before she could reply. Simpson carefully returned the handset to its cradle. Why was the Mayor so interested in the Mills case? And why hadn’t she yet seen a copy of the final report herself? Getting up from the desk, she stepped out of her office, surprising her secretary who was engrossed in a copy of some wretched celebrity magazine. Simpson raised her eyebrows at the headline – summer liposuction special – but didn’t comment. The secretary dropped the magazine into her bag and looked up expectantly.

Simpson tried to summon up her usual authoritative tone. ‘Get me Inspector Carlyle on the phone.’

Looking like a drowned rat, Carlyle had gone straight home from the cemetery. After a hot shower, some fresh clothes and lunch at Il Buffone, he felt much better, both mentally and physically, but without any real desire to venture towards the station. Ordering a second double macchiato to prolong his stay in the café, he felt his phone start to vibrate. Seeing that the call was from his sergeant, he answered.

‘Have you seen the paper?’ Joe began excitedly, sounding like a naughty schoolboy in possession of his first porn mag.

‘Which one?’

‘The Standard .’

‘Hold on a second.’ Carlyle turned to Marcello, the only other person still in the café at this late time. ‘Have you got tonight’s paper yet?’

‘ Certo .’ Wiping his hands on a tea towel, Marcello stepped into the small alcove behind the counter, which served as both kitchen and storeroom, before returning immediately with a folded copy of the newspaper.

‘Thanks.’ Carlyle scanned the headline and brought the phone back to his ear.

‘Spurs set for another good season?’

‘No, you idiot,’ Joe hissed. ‘The front page!’

Carlyle flipped the paper over and felt his jaw drop to the floor. He stared at it all in disbelief for a couple of seconds: Simpson’s wedding picture, the glaring headline, the mundane yet lurid details of her husband’s arrest. ‘Fucking hell!’

‘Indeed,’ Joe giggled. ‘I spoke to a mate of mine in the Financial Crimes Unit, who says that Joshua Hunt, Mr Carole Simpson, is bang to rights.’

‘Jesus.’

‘The guy hasn’t even tried to deny it. Have you ever met him?’

‘Nah.’ Carlyle thought about it for a moment. ‘At least, not as far as I remember.’

‘Well, it looks like he’s going down for a long time.’

‘Shit . . . what about Simpson herself?’

‘The Met has already put out a statement saying that it is nothing to do with her.’

‘But he’s her husband!’ Carlyle protested.

‘Other people’s marriages,’ Joe remarked philosophically. ‘Who knows what goes on behind closed doors. Maybe they were living separate lives.’

Carlyle looked back down at the story in front of him. ‘In a six-million-pound North London mansion?’

‘It’s got to be big enough for the two of them to have their own living arrangements.’

‘They were happily married, as far as I know,’ the inspector mused.

‘Who knows what was going on?’ Joe continued. ‘Even if everything was all hunky-dory between them, how much would you expect her to know about his financial dealings?’

‘If she was anything like Helen,’ Carlyle sighed, ‘she would know everything.’

Joe laughed. ‘That’s your marriage.’

‘Humph.’

‘Seriously, though,’ Joe added, ‘whatever else we think about Simpson, she isn’t flash and she works hard at her job – a proper job too. Maybe she didn’t know anything about what he was up to.’

Carlyle scanned the article again. ‘But all that cash . . .’

‘Just numbers on a piece of paper,’ Joe sniffed. ‘And, anyway, you hear about lots of people making shedloads of cash. They can’t all be crooks.’

‘I don’t know about that.’

‘Even if he is bent, maybe she isn’t – I could believe that.’

‘I suppose I could too,’ said Carlyle grudgingly. However much he disliked Simpson, ultimately, he didn’t think that she was bent.

‘Anyway,’ said Joe, ‘she’s still at work. And she wants to speak to you.’

‘Great.’ Carlyle’s heart sank. ‘What about?’

‘Agatha Mills. She wants to know why she hasn’t seen the final report into the woman’s murder.’

That’s because I haven’t written it, Carlyle thought. ‘Shit. What did you tell her?’

‘I haven’t told her anything,’ Joe said defensively. ‘I just took the message from her secretary.’

‘Okay.’ Carlyle thought about it for a moment. ‘Could you draft something for me, very factual, straight up and down, just the way she likes it?’

‘All right,’ said Joe, not sounding too happy about it.

‘Good. I’ll take a look at it in the morning. Thanks,’ said Carlyle, pleased at having managed to exercise his power of delegation for once. ‘See you, then.’