Time of Death (13 page)

‘I know.’

‘So ultimately where does this little history lesson get us? Mrs Mills
née
Pettigrew had an interesting backstory.’

Joe nodded.

‘A person or persons unknown, of a right-wing Chilean persuasion have a – what? Let’s say a
possible
—’

‘Theoretical,’ the sergeant interjected.

‘A
theoretical
motive for bumping her off. But do we have any evidence that anyone other than her old man was inside that flat of theirs the night she died?’

‘No,’ Joe replied.

‘Do we have anyone reporting the sight of any foreign-looking gents acting suspiciously? Maybe mumbling a few words of Spanish? Doing the goose-step and clasping a photo of
El
General
to their bosom?’

‘No.’

‘Anything on the CCTV?’

‘No. The cameras at Ridgemount Mansions were there just for show,’ Joe informed him. ‘They aren’t actually hooked up to any recording equipment. That would have added too
much to the service charge, apparently.’

‘What about cameras in the street itself? Thousands of bloody tourists walk along that street every day. Some of them must get mugged. And someone must film it.’

Joe shrugged. ‘No one’s looked at those, as far as I know. Do you want us to get on it?’

Carlyle thought about it for a moment then said, ‘Nah. It would take too long. Got anything else?’

‘No.’ Joe stuck the documents back in the folder and placed it carefully on Carlyle’s desk.

‘Right, then,’ said Carlyle, ‘let’s remember rule number one of this job. In the first instance, always stick with the blindingly obvious.’ Sitting up straight, he
turned towards his desk, getting ready to do battle with the Met’s appalling IT system.

It was time to type up his report.

‘Henry Mills has been charged. Justice will now take its course. In the meantime, my little Sancho Panza, we move on to the next thing.’

A look of bemusement passed across Joe’s face. ‘Eh?’

I
n the event, Carlyle managed only a couple of paragraphs of the report before he got bored and turned his attention to the latest football gossip on the BBC’s web pages.
After that, he decided that the paperwork could wait for twenty-four hours, whereas the gym could not. Intending to come in early to get it done, he promised himself that the necessary
documentation would be on Commander Carole Simpson’s desk before lunchtime.

On his way out of the station, he spied the colleague in charge of the Jake Hagger investigation. Detective Inspector Oliver Cutler was a twelve-year veteran on the Force who had been stationed
at Charing Cross since the beginning of the year. Jacket on, heading towards the lift with a determined stride, he looked as if he was also leaving for the night. Carlyle quickened his step and
caught up with him. ‘Cutler!’

Cutler half-turned, but didn’t stop walking. ‘Yes?’

‘Carlyle.’

‘I know.’

Carlyle finally caught up with his man. Cutler pressed the lift button, saying nothing further.

‘It’s about Jake Hagger.’

‘What’s it to you, then?’ Cutler asked defensively, keeping his eyes on the lift doors.

Carlyle had never really given Cutler the once-over before. A small bloke, he looked tired and distracted: a man who in the short term was being kept from the pint of London Pride that was
waiting for him on the bar round the corner in the Sherlock Holmes pub and in the long term was winding down towards the earliest possible retirement on the best possible pension. Not the kind of
guy you’d want if you needed to get a result, Carlyle thought sourly.

Cutler pushed the button again, hoping that the lift would save him from this conversation.

‘I know the mother,’ Carlyle said.

A knowing look washed over Cutler’s face. ‘Giving her one, then?’

‘The father claimed he was going to sell the kid,’ Carlyle said evenly, ignoring the jibe.

Cutler shrugged. ‘Empty words.’

Carlyle took a position by the lift doors. ‘I don’t think so. Hagger wouldn’t have kept Jake for this long. He couldn’t look after a kid for ten minutes.’

‘Maybe they left the country.’

‘Neither of them had a passport.’

‘It can still be done.’

‘Hagger’s just a local scumbag, not an international jet-setting scumbag. Camden High Street is about as far as he usually travels.’

Cutler scratched his nose absent-mindedly. ‘Well, if he did sell him, then it’s game over. I doubt it though – I don’t suppose that he knows many couples who are
desperate to adopt.’

‘No.’

‘Then some pervert will probably already have had their fun with the poor little bastard,’ Cutler said without any obvious feeling. ‘In that case, the most likely scenario is
that the body’s lying at the bottom of the West Reservoir.’

Carlyle nodded. More than once over the years he had fished bits of victims out of the decommissioned reservoir. A couple of miles away, in Stoke Newington, the reservoir was now used as a water
sports centre. Carlyle had never seen its attraction; apart from anything else, the ‘tranquil’ setting attracted criminals and weirdos of various persuasions. It was widely assumed that
there would be plenty more bodies and body parts discovered if the place was ever drained.

‘There are so many of these cases,’ Cutler continued, ‘that people don’t care any more. And even if they did, the public – as you know only too well – is no
fucking use whatsoever. No one ever pays any attention to what’s going on around them.’

‘So, case closed?’ Carlyle asked.

Cutler gazed at a spot beyond Carlyle’s left shoulder. ‘No, but it’s as good as – unless you have anything for me?’

‘No, but I told Sam Laidlaw that I’d ask around. If anything comes up, I’ll let you know.’

‘I knew it,’ Cutler smiled. Finally, the lift arrived and he stepped inside. ‘Give her one for me.’ Rocking back on his heels, the inspector waited for the doors to
close. Then, letting out a deep breath, he headed for the stairs.

H
andcuffed, but still wearing his own clothes, Henry Mills moved into the courtyard in the middle of Charing Cross police station, flanked by two security guards. Behind him
came two other prisoners, a nineteen-year-old glue-sniffing mugger and a fifty-two-year-old petty thief. The trio were being transported across London to Wormwood Scrubs, the Victorian prison,
where they would await their respective trials at Her Majesty’s Pleasure.

It was barely eight in the morning and a sharp chill lingered in the shade of the courtyard. Mills shivered, but breathed in deeply. It was the first time in almost two days that he’d
enjoyed some fresh air, and he appreciated it. His night in the cells below his feet had been extremely unpleasant, the liberally applied disinfectant failing to cover the smell of innumerable
bodily evacuations. He had spent the last twelve hours breathing through his mouth and failing to get any sleep. Equally, he hadn’t been able to wash or shave in the last couple of days.
Worst of all, he hadn’t been able to brush his teeth, and his mouth felt as if a small animal had died in it.

Edging slowly forward with dainty baby steps, he tried to focus on nothing other than the small patch of tarmac immediately in front of his feet.

‘Hold it!’ One of the guards, an emaciated skinhead called Jeremy, with a tattoo of an angel on the back of his neck, held up a hand.

The other guard stepped out from behind the prisoners and gazed sullenly at the assembled police vehicles in front of them. ‘Where’s the van?’ He turned to a mechanic who was
working under the hood of a Toyota Prius hybrid. ‘Mate,’ he asked, nodding at his trio of prisoners, ‘where’s the transport for our friends here?’

The mechanic stood up and twiddled a spanner aimlessly. ‘Huh?’

‘The van for the Scrubs?’

‘Oh yeah, it’s outside.’ The mechanic pointed with his spanner at the closed metal gates covering the entrance. ‘They couldn’t get it in. Some genius parked in
front of the doors. We’re waiting for them to get towed.’

The guards looked at each other.

Mills looked at the guards. His heart sank at the prospect of being sent back inside.

One of the other prisoners, the glue-sniffer, farted loudly and at length, eliciting a peal of hoarse laughter from the thief.

‘I’ll take them out one at a time,’ Jeremy decided, after a while. ‘You wait here with the others.’

‘Okay,’ the other guard nodded. ‘My shift finishes at half-nine, so let’s get on with it.’

Jeremy put a gentle hand on Mills’s shoulder. ‘Come on, sunshine,’ he said, gesturing towards a side door, right next to the main gates. ‘Over there.’

Less than a minute later, Henry Mills was out on the street and, fleetingly, back in the real world that he’d imagined he’d left behind for good. Feeling the sun on his face, he
squinted as he got his bearings. A couple of people walking by, on their way to work, stepped around him without a second glance. A taxi roared past. Life outside was going on as normal.

Towering over the other cars parked on Chandos Place, the Dennis high-security prison van was about ten yards down the road. After aiming a half-hearted kick at the Skoda Yeti illegally parked
in front of the police garage, Jeremy walked Mills towards the back of the prison van, nodding at the driver as he passed. Mills waited patiently on the pavement while the guard stepped up on to
the footplate to open the back door.

The door would not budge.

‘Christ!’ Jumping back down from the footplate, Jeremy pushed past his prisoner and jogged back to the front of the van. ‘It’s locked,’ he shouted at the driver.
‘Open it up!’

Engine revving, a blue flower-delivery van turned into the street, heading towards them. Mills watched the driver talking animatedly into his mobile phone while steering with one hand.
Isn’t there a law against that? he wondered. Either way, the driver was going far too fast. As he accelerated down the street, a woman pedestrian scuttled for cover. Ignoring the screeching
of brakes and the blaring horn, Henry Mills smiled. He looked up at the clear blue sky and felt himself floating away. Blinking away his tears, he heard a second van racing down the street towards
him. He knew that this was his moment. ‘I’m coming, Agatha,’ he mumbled to himself, as he stepped into the middle of the road and closed his eyes.

September 1973

D
uring the first few days on board the
White Lady
, William Pettigrew’s captors operated a rigorous sleep-deprivation programme. He was kept awake with regular
soakings from the water jets and random beatings. A head-count was taken every hour. In case anyone ever took a chance to doze off in their hammock, a sailor known as the ‘Bird of
Torture’ would bang on the metal doors to further keep sleep away. They were fed once a day – water and a thin porridge. A few shovelled it in, most picked disinterestedly; there was
always plenty left over for the seagulls.

Every so often, a group of sailors would appear and three or four people would be taken away for interrogation in the cabins which had been turned into torture chambers on the decks below. It
was impossible to tune out the yelling and screaming that came up through the floor as the electric shocks were applied. The sessions could last twenty minutes or they could last ten hours.
Afterwards, some of the victims came back, others didn’t.

The first time he was tortured, Pettigrew shat himself almost before the cattle prod tickled his balls. His interrogators laughed and then made him eat it. They laughed even more when he
immediately vomited the shit back up. They told him to eat it again. He tried, but this time he could not even manage to get it into his mouth. After some curses and some punches, they hosed him
down.

More electric shocks, this time to the anus. He started shitting blood, bright crimson splashes on the floor rapidly darkening in the heat. That caused more hilarity. They hosed him down again.
By now he welcomed the water jet. If nothing else, he could be clean.

The questioning was random and perfunctory. This was not sophisticated intelligence-gathering, and they were not interested in any answers. They had a lot of people to get through and could only
waste so much time on each individual. No one cared about anything he had to say. No one recorded anything. No one took any notes. He was like a fly having its wings pulled off by a bunch of
sadistic schoolboys.

It was all a charade. Emotionally, Pettigrew had closed down. He could feel the pain, but he didn’t have any thoughts about it. There was nothing he could say that could make him useful to
these people, nothing to hang on to that could fire a determination inside him to live. It wasn’t a question of trying to survive. It was just a question of seeing it through.

Their only question was
what do you know?

‘I know nothing,’ he would say, as calmly as possible.

‘What do you know?’

‘I know nothing.’ That was true enough, even in the beginning. By the third or fourth time they asked him, he could barely remember his own name.

They would give him a few slaps, maybe another shock, and ask again.

‘What do you know?’

Slap.

‘I know . . . nothing.’ Pettigrew couldn’t even think straight enough to make something up. Names? By the time that they finally got round to him, who was left? Who could they
not have possibly rounded up already?

‘What do you know?’

Slap.

‘Nothing.’

Pettigrew didn’t want to make anything up. He knew that if he started giving them any kind of ‘information’ that it could only prolong things. By now he just wanted it all to
be over as quickly as possible.

‘What do you know?’

Slap.

‘What do you know?’

He had nothing more to say. There were no more words. He was on a journey back to a time before language, before words; to a time when all you could do was howl.

A
fter his second torture session, Pettigrew was told that he would immediately be shot because he was a
fucking Communist whore
– both a traitor to the Church and
a traitor to the country.