James Craig - Time of Death

No sooner had he ended his call with Joe than the phone went again. This time it was Fiona Singleton from the Fulham station.

‘Have you seen the news?’ she asked, in a tone far more matter-of-fact than Joe’s burbling call.

‘Yes,’ Carlyle replied. ‘Amazing, isn’t it?’

‘Not that amazing really,’ Singleton replied. ‘Lovell has already confessed.’

‘Sorry?’ said Carlyle, confused.

‘Simon Lovell,’ Singleton explained, ‘the saddo who was stalking Rosanna Snowdon. We picked him up last night and he was quite happy to admit that he’d done it. It was going to be in the paper today, but we’ve held it over because of all this . . . other stuff. I thought you might have heard anyway, but I just wanted to give you a heads-up.’

‘Thanks.’ Carlyle thought about it for a moment. ‘Did he really kill her?’

‘Lovell? I suppose so.’ Singleton ran it through in her head one more time. ‘Snowdon was dropped off outside the flat by her boss. Lovell admits he was waiting for her. He looks like a bit of a gentle giant, but he could have easily thrown her down those stairs, no problem at all.’

Justifying the easy win, Carlyle thought. ‘She was drunk?’

Singleton grunted.

‘Maybe it was an accident?’ he suggested.

‘We don’t think so,’ she said firmly.

‘Is there any physical evidence?’

‘I don’t think so. It probably doesn’t matter now.’

‘Just make sure that this isn’t another lame-brain going down for an easy win,’ Carlyle said. ‘It’ll come back to haunt you, if it is.’

‘Not your problem,’ Singleton replied, sounding as if she was regretting having made the call.

‘What about the boyfriend?’ Carlyle asked, moving on.

‘The rugby player? He’s in New Zealand on a tour.’

‘Good alibi.’

‘Yes,’ Singleton agreed. ‘The colleague who spoke to him on the phone said he didn’t seem particularly grief-stricken.’

‘No?’ If I’d just lost a girlfriend like Rosanna Snowdon, Carlyle thought, grief-stricken wouldn’t be the half of it.

‘No,’ Singleton laughed. ‘It may have something to do with a story in the tabloids yesterday about him groping a couple of groupies in a nightclub while watching a dwarf-throwing competition.’

‘People deal with bereavement in different ways,’ Carlyle reflected. ‘Anyway, thanks for the call.’

‘No problem.’

Carlyle studied the Simpson story once again, without finding out anything new. When he had finished, he looked at the clock behind the counter which told him that it was already almost four. No one had entered the café in the last twenty minutes and now Marcello was making a show of getting ready to close up. It was time for the inspector to take the hint and let the man get home.

After paying for his lunch, he decided to go back into Winter Garden House. Alice would be home from school soon. It would be nice to be there to meet her and find out how her day had been. Carlyle’s own day was pretty much a write-off. A lot had happened but he’d achieved nothing. Sometimes you just had to quit while you were behind. Better now just to let things lie, then wait and see how they looked in the morning.

Stepping out of the café, Carlyle almost walked straight into a couple strolling arm-in-arm along Macklin Street. ‘Sorry,’ he mumbled, keeping his eyes on the pavement.

‘Inspector!’

Carlyle looked up to see Harry Ripley – Heart Attack Harry – with a homely looking woman who appeared to be in her early sixties. ‘Harry,’ he said, ‘how are you?’ He nodded at the woman.

‘This is Esther,’ the old soldier beamed, ‘Esther McGee. We met at a Residents’ Association coffee morning not long after . . . er, you and I last met.’

Carlyle stuck out a hand. ‘Nice to meet you, Esther,’ he said. ‘I’m John Carlyle, one of Harry’s neighbours.’

‘Oh, yes, Inspector,’ the woman smiled. ‘Harry has told me all about you.’

‘I hope he’s looking after you well,’ Carlyle grinned, some of the couple’s obvious good spirits now rubbing off on him.

‘Oh, yes, he’s a right gentleman.’ A naughty twinkle appeared in Esther’s eye, as she pulled Harry close. ‘And still in such good shape,’ she winked, ‘if you know what I mean. There’s still plenty of lead in his pencil.’

‘Well, yes,’ Carlyle coughed, feeling himself blush. But that was nothing compared to Harry, who had gone a bright beetroot red. The old dog, Carlyle thought. But at least we don’t have to worry any more about him trying to top himself. Hoorah for the power of love, or whatever this is. ‘Nice to run into you both,’ he stammered. ‘I’m glad things are going so well, Harry.’

It took the old man a few extra seconds to regain the power of speech. ‘Nice to see you, too, Inspector,’ he said finally. ‘And give my best to Helen and Alice.’

‘I will,’ Carlyle replied. ‘The pair of you must come round for tea some time soon.’

‘Oh, yes,’ Esther agreed, ‘that would be lovely.’

‘There you are, Harry,’ Carlyle smiled. ‘Speak to Helen and she can let you know when would be a good time.’ With that, he scuttled across the road and quickly retreated inside Winter Garden House.

Carole Simpson sat morosely at her kitchen table in Highgate, holding a very large glass of Langoa Barton 2001, while waiting for her £800-an-hour lawyer to call. When the call finally came, she pounced on the handset lying in front of her.

‘Hello?’

‘Carole, it’s John Lucas. I’ve just come out of Kentish Town police station.’

‘Yes.’ She could hear traffic noise in the background. Presumably the lawyer was walking along the road looking for a cab. Good luck to him, Simpson thought. Kentish Town was one of the neighbourhoods affected by the recent burst of rioting that had spread across the city before the Met had been able to react. Even at the best of times, it wasn’t the kind of place a man in a suit should be wandering around alone at night. She hoped that Lucas would find a taxi before he got mugged.

As if to allay her fears, she heard Lucas suddenly bellow, ‘TAXI!’

She waited as he clambered inside and told the driver to head for a restaurant in the West End, before restarting their conversation. ‘You were in the station a long time,’ she said, knowing what that must mean, waiting for the final confirmation of how completely her life had been demolished.

‘Yes,’ the lawyer said, sounding more chipper now that he was safely ensconced in the back of a black cab. ‘More than eight hours, in fact.’

Simpson did the calculation in her head. Good God, she thought morosely, that’s more than six grand. She wondered how much money she had in her purse. £50? All of their bank accounts had been frozen. Would they find the money to pay the legal bills?

‘He’s confessed, Carole. He’s admitted to defrauding his investors.’

‘You told him to do that?’ she asked incredulously.

‘No, no,’ the lawyer said, shocked. ‘Of course not. I’m not even completely sure what exactly he’s confessing to , at this point. He was looking to wind the fund up, which isn’t really what you would expect of someone in these circumstances.’

‘What do you mean “ in these circumstances ”?’ she asked sharply.

‘Well . . .’ Lucas chose his words carefully, ‘in a so-called pyramid or ponzi scheme, things usually get to the point where the whole thing collapses as a result of too many people trying to take their money out at the same time. Here, it seems, Joshua was trying to give their money back to them – or at least part of it.’