Time of Death (30 page)

‘I will see you there.’

‘Good,’ the lawyer replied. ‘Until tomorrow then.’

With a click, the line went dead. Simpson tossed the phone back on the table. For the next few minutes she sat in silence, going over their conversation in her head. Then she pulled some paper
and a pen from her bag, and began jotting down numbers.

C
arlyle dropped his biography of the football manager Brian Clough on the coffee-table and glanced over at Helen, who was sitting on the other end of the sofa. A dispiriting
sense of déjà vu overwhelmed him. His wife was still engrossed in her celebrities-in-the-jungle television show that seemed to have been running for months already. Carlyle was even
more amazed to note that former Metropolitan Police Commissioner Luke Osgood was still hanging in there with a chance of winning. Osgood had made it down to the last three of the competition, along
with a stripper (or, rather, ‘burlesque performer’) called Tizzy McDee and a nondescript-looking soap actor called Kevin. Carlyle tried to avert his eyes from the screen, particularly
when Osgood appeared, but the sight of the pneumatic Tizzy, wearing a bikini that would have been too small even for young Alice, was predictably hypnotic.

Mercifully, a commercial break arrived. Helen pulled the remote out from under a cushion and muted the sound. ‘Osgood’s done well to get this far,’ she said, ‘but
he’s not going to win.’

‘So it’s between the soap star and the stripper?’ Carlyle remarked, curious despite himself.

‘Yes,’ his wife replied, with all the seriousness appropriate to a discussion about a general election, ‘but the actor is more likely to win. Once Osgood is out, he can combine
the gay vote with the housewives’ vote. There aren’t enough teenage boys who can be bothered enough to ring in to vote for Tizzy over the line.’

‘They’ve all got their hands full already, I expect,’ Carlyle joked.

Helen shot him a sour look. ‘Moving away from events in the jungle,’ she said, ‘I have some more news.’

‘Oh, yes?’ he said warily, expecting anything from a demand for money to an announcement that his mother-in-law would be paying them a visit.

‘About Agatha Mills,’ Helen said, rolling back on the sofa and pulling her knees up to her chest.

‘What about her?’

‘Well . . . Agatha and Sandra Groves
did
know each other.’

Carlyle yawned. ‘You told me that already.’

Helen rose above the rebuke. ‘They were both involved in a Daughters of Dismas campaign against the arms trade. Their particular interest was in British military aid to Chile. Apparently
it was being used to finance mercenaries in Iraq.’

Carlyle let this new information sink in. ‘Does this come from the woman that you spoke to before?’

‘Yes.’ Helen glanced at the television screen to make sure that the adverts were still running and that she wasn’t missing any of her jungle fun. ‘I spoke to Clara again
this morning, and she put me on to a couple of other people she knows. They say that the two of them were quite active about it.’

‘Was there anyone else involved?’ Carlyle asked.

‘Dunno,’ Helen shrugged.

‘Well, you’d better get your friend to check,’ he chided her. ‘These two have ended up dead, which means any of their chums could now be at risk. They need to get in
touch with me straight away.’

‘I will pass the message on,’ Helen said coolly. She picked up some papers that were lying on the floor. ‘They were targeting a company called LAHC.’

‘Which stands for?’

Helen quickly scanned the text. ‘I don’t know. It was reportedly using men and equipment, paid for by British money, as so-called private security guards. Some of those guards are
accused of human rights violations.’

‘
I
get accused of human rights violations,’ Carlyle snorted, ‘on a fairly regular basis.’

‘Not including murder,’ Helen said bluntly. ‘This isn’t a laughing matter.’

‘I was just—’ Before he could finish his sentence, she dropped the sheaf of papers into his lap, restoring the television’s sound just as her programme resumed.

If anything, the stripper’s bikini seemed to have shrunk during the commercial break. Her nipples, meanwhile, seemed to have grown massively. Through great force of will, Carlyle managed
to tear his eyes away from the screen and scan the documents that Helen had handed him. Much of the material was in Spanish, but one thing he could read was a Daughters of Dismas press release
entitled
Time To Act Against Iraq Mercenaries
. Keeping one eye on the stripper’s tits, Carlyle scanned the text.
Mercenary recruitment agencies are sending former soldiers to Iraq .
. . human rights abuses . . . unauthorised use of Army weaponry . . . assault . . . murder
. He read on:
American private security companies who recruit guards at the request of the US
government to send into armed conflict zones, to protect strategic installations and military convoys, tend to subcontract to South American firms like LAHC Consulting. The owner of LAHC is Gomez
Gori, a retired admiral of the Chilean navy who played a leading role in overthrowing the democratically elected Chilean government in 1973.

Gomez Gori? Well, well, well. At that very moment, however, Tizzy McDee stepped into a shower. Her bikini became transparent and he completely lost his train of thought.

It took him several minutes to return to his reading. The only other item in English was a newspaper cutting from a year earlier:

by Daniel Franklin

A
t the top of the story was a photograph of three soldiers, standing in front of a battered jeep. They looked as if they were somewhere in a desert, but the location
wasn’t specified. Each was smiling while brandishing an automatic weapon that looked like something out of a
Terminator
movie.

Carlyle studied the photo carefully. None of these men was Matias Gori, but each of them was wearing what looked like a small badge. It was impossible to make it out clearly, but the motif could
include a dagger, the same or similar to the one on the pin Matias had worn at the cemetery.

‘I told you!’ Helen punched the air in triumph.

‘What?’

‘He’s off.’ She pointed at the screen.

Carlyle turned back to the television. Fireworks were going off and Luke Osgood, dressed in a T-shirt and shorts, was walking across a swaying bridge and out of his jungle camp, after having
been voted off the show.

‘I told you he wouldn’t win,’ Helen grinned, giving him a gentle poke with her foot. ‘Why don’t you go and make me a cup of tea?’

When he returned a few minutes later with a cup of peppermint tea, the celebrity nonsense had ended, giving way to the late-evening news bulletin. Carlyle half-watched the end of a story about
an earthquake in the Philippines or somewhere, and was just on his way to bed when an image of Rosanna Snowdon appeared on the screen.

He plonked himself back on the sofa, next to his wife as the newsreader solemnly delivered the commentary: ‘
Simon Lovell, the man accused of murdering television presenter Rosanna
Snowdon, was freed today after a preliminary hearing at which the judge ruled that his confession had been obtained under duress.
’

The programme then cut to a clip of one of Lovell’s lawyers, a hard-looking woman called Abigail Slater: ‘
My client is delighted by the decision made at today’s hearing. The
police have no evidence putting Mr Lovell at the scene of the alleged crime on the night in question, other than a forced confession which would never stand up at a full trial. All Mr Lovell wants
to do now is to resume a normal, quiet life.
’

‘Fat chance,’ Carlyle muttered.

‘Where does that leave the investigation into Rosanna’s death?’ Helen asked.

‘Nowhere, as far as I know,’ Carlyle sighed. ‘They don’t have anything else. Lovell was their only suspect.’

‘So why did they pick on that poor guy?’

‘They didn’t pick on him,’ Carlyle said testily, for some reason feeling the need to play Devil’s Advocate. ‘He confessed. What else were they supposed to
do?’

‘Do you think he did it?’

‘No idea.’

‘Will they find the killer?’

Carlyle finally found the strength to push himself off the sofa and head in the direction of his bed. ‘I wouldn’t bet on it,’ he yawned.

‘That poor woman,’ Helen said. ‘She deserved better.’

‘Yes,’ Carlyle agreed. ‘She did.’

‘Y
our dead friend is here.’

Carlyle had been lingering over lunch at Il Buffone when he took a call from Dave Prentice who had returned to his normal location behind the front desk at Charing Cross police station.

‘Don’t worry,’ Prentice laughed, ‘it looks like he’s settling in for a nice long rest. Assuming he doesn’t shit himself, I’ll leave him in
peace.’

‘Thanks, Dave. I’ll be about ten minutes.’ The inspector returned to the story he had been reading from that morning’s paper, entitled
sex swap police scandal
. It
was about public funding for the National Trans Police Association, which helped officers with ‘gender identity issues’. Carlyle had never heard of it. Some rent-a-quote MP, whom he had
never heard of either, complained: ‘
I don’t care if a police officer is gay, straight, trans-gender or whatever. I just want them to catch criminals
.’ Good luck with that,
Carlyle chuckled to himself as he handed the paper back to Marcello and paid for his lunch.

Outside, it was a beautiful afternoon and he took his time sauntering back to work. Approaching Jubilee Hall, he felt a stab of guilt; it had been almost a week since he’d visited the gym,
which wasn’t good enough at his age. On Dennis Felix’s old pitch, he passed a busker playing a dire rendition of Abba’s ‘Fernando’, to a dozen or so bored-looking
tourists. He wondered briefly what had happened to the poor sod and his anthrax-infested bongos. In the nearby snack van, a boy was handing over an ice cream to an expectant child. Of Kylie –
the only person on the planet who had appeared upset at Dennis’s demise – there was no sign. It’s that kind of place, Carlyle thought. People come, people go.

When he got to the station, Walter Poonoosamy, aka ‘Dog’, was found in familiar pose, slumped in a corner of the waiting room, snoring loudly. Resplendent in a pair of tartan
trousers and a newish-looking Prodigy T-shirt (the latter doubtless nicked from the local Oxfam shop on Drury Lane), he was cradling an almost empty vodka bottle in his arms, as if it was a baby.
For once, he didn’t seem to smell too bad, although he was still some way short of fragrant. Keeping a reasonable distance, Carlyle prodded him awake. Slowly, Dog opened his eyes. Sitting up
slightly, he stared at the inspector. A flicker of recognition crept across his face and then he closed his eyes again. The snoring resumed immediately, if anything, louder than it had been
before.

This time, Carlyle gave him a quick punch on the shoulder.

‘Ouch!’ Dog immediately sat bolt upright, rubbing his arm. ‘What did you do that for?’

‘Wakey, wakey.’ Carlyle waved a hand in front of the drunk’s face, making sure he had his full attention. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

A kind of grin appeared on Dog’s face. ‘That would be nice.’

Squatting down, Carlyle fished a couple of pound coins out of his pocket and held them up for Dog to inspect. More than enough for a cup of tea. Even better, enough for a can of Special Brew
from the newsagents round the corner – if the owner was up for a little haggling. ‘Take a look at something for me first, and then I’ll give you the cash.’

Dog gave a grunt of what Carlyle was happy to deem assent. The inspector quickly pulled a folded sheet of A4 paper from the inside pocket of his jacket. On it was printed a rather old and grainy
picture of Matias Gori that Orb’s office had emailed him. It wasn’t great, but the key thing was that Gori still had his beard. ‘Was this the man you saw hanging out at the back
of Ridgemount Mansions?’ he asked. ‘The guy who gave you the dodgy note?’