Time of Death (24 page)

This boy, apparently home alone at the time of the incident, had no alibi, but Carlyle couldn’t see him doing it – he seemed too much of a wimp. Anyway, domestics rarely involved
stolen cars; it was so much easier just to smack the offending partner over the head with a frying pan.

‘What I’m wondering,’ Carlyle continued, ‘is why someone would want to do this to her.’

‘Why would you care?’

‘I didn’t say I cared.’ Carlyle smiled nastily, just to keep the boy on his toes. If the little do-gooder wanted to believe in the fascist bullyboy stereotype, that was fine by
Carlyle. ‘It’s just that . . . well, it’s just that it’s come on to my radar.’ Thinking about it on his way over to the hospital, that was the best explanation he had
been able to come up with.

‘What about the other policemen?’ Joyce asked.

‘This is still their case,’ Carlyle replied. ‘But I have another case currently under investigation and I’m wondering if there might be a connection.’

‘So what do you want from me?’ Joyce asked, clearly not convinced that he should be having this conversation.

‘Tell me about what you guys were involved in.’

‘We weren’t involved in anything,’ Joyce said defensively.

‘You’re political,’ Carlyle said evenly. ‘You were campaigning for – what?’ His mind went blank. ‘That advertising business on the side of the
bus.’

‘Religious beliefs.’

What about the beliefs of atheists? Carlyle thought, but he bit his tongue. ‘That’s right, I remember. It’s kind of political, I suppose.’

‘That’s not a crime.’

‘I didn’t say that it was.’ Carlyle fought to keep his irritation in check. ‘Tell me about the things that are important to you guys. Tell about the campaigns
you’ve supported.’

The boy looked at the woman in the bed. Then, realising he didn’t have much else to do, he launched into a monologue he had clearly delivered many times before: ‘We draw our
inspiration from the Bible and from the social teachings of the Church . . .’

Which church? Carlyle wondered. That’s the thing about churches; they all think they’re ‘the’ church. His irritation level rose another notch, but again he said
nothing.

‘We want to help people who are poor, marginalised or oppressed,’ the boy continued, ‘and to fight injustice and poverty. There needs to be a global community that respects the
rights and dignity of everyone. Discrimination must be ended.’

Good luck, sunshine, Carlyle thought. He wondered what all this had to do with filming the antics of Clive the nutty bus driver and making the traffic congestion on St Giles High Street even
worse than normal.

‘The bounty of creation should be shared by all. To do that we need social justice, underpinned by the Christian faith and the values of the Gospel.’

Carlyle failed to stifle a yawn.

‘Am I boring you?’ the boy asked sharply.

Of course you bloody are, Carlyle thought. ‘No, no,’ he mumbled, yawning again. ‘Sorry, it’s just that it has been a very long day.’

The boy looked at him doubtfully.

The next yawn the inspector managed to stifle – third time lucky. ‘The Church – the campaign against unfairness – do you do any work in Latin America?’

‘Of course. We campaign wherever there is injustice and poverty.’

‘Anything specifically in Chile?’

The boy eyed him. ‘Why?’

Just answer the fucking question
. ‘Humour me.’

‘Maybe,’ Joyce said. ‘I’d have to check.’

‘That organisation Sandra mentioned – the Daughters of Something or other – is that what you use to achieve all this?’

‘Daughters of Dismas is one of the organisations that gets involved in the campaign, yes,’ Joyce replied. ‘But, obviously, it’s for women only, so I can’t really
get involved that much.’

‘How many members does it have?’

‘Quite a few.’

I bet, Carlyle thought. ‘What does that mean? Dozens? Hundreds? Thousands?’

‘I wouldn’t know exactly.’

Probably less than ten, Carlyle thought dismissively. He ploughed on. ‘What type of people are members?’

‘There are all sorts, from young activists like Sandra, through to old-timers – women who remember Greenham Common, things like that.’

Old-timers, thought Carlyle. Helen would love that. His wife had been to Greenham, the Women’s Peace camp in Berkshire, several times in the early 1980s, protesting against American cruise
missiles being based there. Carlyle hadn’t thought about that for a long time. It was from before they had got together; before he’d even joined the police force – which was just
as well or they might have met under very different circumstances. CND – the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament – had been a big deal back then, in the days when the Russians were the
number one enemy and no one had heard of Muslim fundamentalism. Now, it was all you heard. Carlyle wondered if CND was still going.

For all their time, effort and commitment, had those protestors ever achieved anything of note? Not as far as he could recall. The situation now was as bad as ever. The country was skint and yet
the politicians were still spending billions on fantastically expensive weapons systems. Were they still pointed at the Russians? Who knew?

He wondered if he dared ask Helen about it. Looking back, she was as ambivalent as most middle-aged people were about their youthful idealism. Holding hands and singing songs – it all
seemed so naïve now; just one of those things you did when you didn’t really understand the way the world worked. Still, the idea of people fighting the same battles almost thirty years
on filled him with sadness. He looked at the boy directly. ‘Have you ever heard of a woman called Agatha Mills?’

Joyce shook his head. ‘I don’t think so, no.’

Carlyle considered him, unsure if he was telling the truth. Sandra Groves let out a low moan, then shifted in the bed and started snoring lightly. Joyce looked at her, until he was happy that
she was still sleeping soundly. ‘I usually only tagged along with Sandra when she was on her own,’ he told Carlyle, ‘like that day on the bus. When she was with her
“sisters”, she didn’t like me being there. The Daughters of Dismas is supposed to be a women-only organisation.’

‘Ah, yes,’ Carlyle mumbled to himself. ‘The sisterhood in action.’

Joyce gave him a funny look. ‘What?’

‘Nothing,’ he said hurriedly. ‘Where would I find a membership list?’

‘You wouldn’t,’ said Joyce. ‘We are law-abiding people. We don’t need to be harassed by the police.’

Harassment? Carlyle thought wearily. You don’t know you’re born, you middle-class muppet. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘if I wanted to find out if my Mrs Mills had been
involved in Sandra’s group, how might I do that?’

Joyce told him: ‘If we checked and she was a member, she’d need to agree to let us share the information.’

‘She won’t be able to do that.’

‘Why not?’

‘She’s dead.’

Joyce looked confused. ‘Dead?’

‘She was murdered,’ sad Carlyle, without going into any of the details.

‘Um.’ Joyce looked a bit sick.

‘So,’ Carlyle continued, ‘I am wondering if there is any connection between Agatha Mills and Sandra here. Maybe the person who killed Agatha was the same person who tried to
run Sandra over. If there
is
a connection, that is very important for our investigation. It will help us track him down.’

He didn’t add
before he tries again
, not wanting to wind the boy up any more.

Joyce sat and thought about it. As the colour began returning to his cheeks, he pulled a mobile out of the back pocket of his jeans and started a text message. ‘I’ll see what I can
find out,’ he said, concentrating on his texting.

‘Thanks,’ said Carlyle limply. His stomach growled and he suddenly realised how hungry he felt. He remembered seeing a coffee shop on the ground floor as he came in. With luck, it
would still be open. He waited for Joyce to send his message. ‘I’m going to buy a coffee and something to eat. Can I get you anything?’

The boy grunted. Carlyle took that as a yes – or maybe a no? – and wandered off.

He reached the ground floor to find the café shuttered. Inevitably, his stomach complained loudly. Carlyle issued a curse under his breath which got him a censorious look from an old
woman shuffling by with the help of a walking frame. For a moment, he stood there unable to decide what to do next. Finally, he strode through the main doors and headed down Westminster Bridge
Road, in search of some sustenance.

A
greasy spoon that catered for cab drivers and other servants of the twilight economy allowed the inspector to refuel with a fried-egg roll, a jam doughnut and a double
espresso. Half an hour later, he strolled back into the hospital carrying a small latte for Joyce. After another couple of minutes waiting for the lift, he reached the third floor. Walking into
Groves’s room, he saw Joyce slumped face-down over the bed. Stepping closer, he could see a small hole where the boy had been shot in the back of the head. The stench indicated that
he’d voided his bowels, and a pool of urine had collected at his feet.

‘Jesus Christ Almighty,’ the inspector groaned, ‘what a fucking mess.’ With his legs turning to jelly, he had to force himself to step closer to the bed. Careful not to
disturb anything, he made himself look at the pulverized face of Sandra Groves lying on a pillow stained black with blood. Shot several times in the face, she was, to all intents and purposes, no
longer recognisable, no longer obviously human. Carlyle’s gaze followed the blood splatter, his eyes stopping on a clump of hair and skin that had stuck to the wall above the bed. He felt
sick to his stomach.

‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbled, for his own benefit rather than anything else. Taking a couple of deep breaths, he swallowed the bile in his throat and waited for the risk of his meal
regurgitating to subside. Quickly, he took in the rest of the scene. The machines that Groves was still hooked up to stood silently by her bed, their screens blank. The killer had been careful to
switch them off, to stop the alarm going off when her vital organs stopped functioning. On the bed, by Joyce’s head, lay a small semi-automatic pistol. Carlyle took out his mobile phone and
called the front desk at Charing Cross. This business wouldn’t fall to them, but if he didn’t get things started on the right foot, Carlyle knew that he could be in for an even longer
night than the one he was already facing.

Sensing movement behind him, he swivelled round to confront the Ward Sister. ‘What in the name of . . . ?’ She tried to look beyond him, at the mess in the corner, so he shuffled a
couple of steps sideways in a half-hearted attempt to block her view.

They were distracted from this stand-off by some movement from the bed nearest the door. A head emerged from under the covers, followed by a bony finger which pointed at the inspector. ‘It
was him! It was him!’ the patient yelled through her a drug-induced haze. ‘
He
did it!’

The Sister looked at Carlyle cautiously, unsure of whether she should stand her ground or run for help. Bouncing on the balls of her feet, she looked ready to bolt, but his accuser’s
glassy, unfocused eyes gave her pause. The woman was so out of it, it was amazing she even realised that a shooting had occurred. Holding up a hand, Carlyle issued precise instructions over the
phone, speaking loudly enough for the Ward Sister to understand that he had the situation under control.

Ending the call, he held the Sister’s gaze. She was a chunky, no-nonsense-looking blonde, maybe ten years younger than he was. Not a bad-looking woman but, you could clearly see, well on
the way to being crushed by the daily grind. Excitement like this she could do without. ‘The police . . .’ Carlyle started. ‘More police will be here in a couple of minutes, along
with a team of technicians and a pathologist – the usual crew.’

‘Yes,’ the Sister replied, her voice shaking just a little.

‘Make sure that they are shown straight here.’

The woman nodded.

‘In the meantime,’ Carlyle told her, ‘I don’t want anyone passing up and down that corridor outside.’

‘I understand,’ the Sister said, more composed now. She half-turned and then stopped. ‘What about the others?’ She gestured at the other beds occupying the room. The
woman who had pointed the finger at Carlyle had retreated back under her sheets; the other patient was snoring away happily, as she had been when he had first arrived. Either she was the
world’s soundest sleeper, Carlyle reckoned, or she was on some truly excellent medication.

He made a snap judgement. ‘Leave them where they are for the moment. We’ll need to talk to them. But I’ll make sure you can get them moved as soon as possible.’

‘Okay.’ She turned and swiftly left the room.

After she had gone, Carlyle stepped away from the murder scene and took the lid off Joyce’s coffee. He sipped it carefully. It was at best lukewarm now, but it was strong and it tasted
good. He certainly wasn’t going to throw it away. ‘Waste not, want not,’ he said to no one in particular. ‘After all, this is going to be a long night.’

I
n the end, Carlyle spent almost four hours hanging around the hospital corridor before he was able to go home. It had taken a couple of hours for his new pals, Nick Chan and
Greg Brown, to show up, and another hour before they were ready to talk to him. As far as Carlyle was concerned, that was fine. On this occasion, he would have to be professional courtesy and
co-operation personified. For a start, he knew that he had a bit of explaining to do. Chan and Brown could really drop him in it if they wanted to. He could appeal to their goodwill but Carlyle
knew that was not a good idea. Otherwise, all he could do was share his thoughts on a possible connection with the Agatha Mills killing and see if that might spark their imaginations.

‘Sounds like a load of rubbish to me,’ Brown snorted, after he had talked them through it.

Carlyle looked to Chan.

Chan shook his head. ‘“Rubbish” is the polite way of putting it.’

Recognising the reasonableness of their reaction, Carlyle gave a shrug. ‘The late Mr Joyce here sent a text to someone before I went off to the café, to check if Mills was part of
the same group as his girlfriend. Did he get a reply?’