Time of Death (32 page)

It all happened so quickly. No one on the platform seemed to notice. Not breaking his stride, Gori thought he caught a whiff of burning meat, as if you were passing a kebab shop, but quickly
dismissed the idea. Doubtless it was just his imagination.

By the time it came to a halt the train was fully inside the station. The doors opened as normal and he heard the usual recorded message:
Let passengers off the train first, please!
Keeping a bored, vaguely annoyed look on his face, he allowed himself to be swallowed up by the disembarking travellers heading for the exit. Somewhere behind him an alarm sounded. This being
London, however, no one paid it any heed. Everyone kept shuffling forward. A couple of Tube workers in luminous orange jackets appeared on the platform, their walkie-talkie radios cracking with
static. Gori watched as they passed to his left, fighting their way through the crowd towards the driver.

It took maybe another minute for Gori to get off the platform and move into a tunnel that connected the different underground lines. Finally, the crowd began to thin and he was able to resume a
normal walking pace. At the bottom of a set of escalators, he checked a copy of the Tube map and came to a decision as to where he wanted to go next. As luck would have it, he reached the Bakerloo
Line just in time to jump on a train for Willesden Junction.

Barely ten minutes later, Matias stepped out of Edgware Road station. The sun was still strong and he felt thirsty. Ignoring the man selling the
Big Issue
outside the station entrance, he
turned right, heading north. Entering the first pub he came to, he ordered a bottle of Heineken Export. When it arrived, he drank more than half of it in one go. It tasted good.

W
ho the fuck played darts, these days? Dominic Silver stood at the bar in the Endurance, watching Michael Hagger throw a trio of arrows towards random parts of the board,
before sucking the head off his pint of fake German lager. Aside from Hagger’s darts companion, Silver counted seven other men in the bar, plus the bartender. They were exactly the type of
men you might expect to find in a bar in the middle of the afternoon on a working day: slackers and rejects of various descriptions. Everyone was busy minding his own business; no one was going to
cause any trouble.

After managing to stay below the radar for longer than anyone imagined possible, Michael Hagger had finally reverted to type and turned up in a place where he was likely to find himself in the
most amount of trouble in the shortest amount of time. The Endurance was located on Berwick Street, at the top end of the fruit and vegetable market. The pub was popular with an eclectic mix of
media professionals, stallholders and the occasional hooker working in one of the walk-up brothels on the opposite side of the street. It was one of Hagger’s favourite haunts, so Silver had
made sure it was checked regularly as the hunt for him continued. When Hagger had turned up and settled in for a session, word had got back to Silver within the hour. Less than forty minutes later,
his ‘assistant’, the ex-paratrooper Gideon Spanner, had parked the Range Rover outside, and they walked in.

Dominic took a sip from his glass of house rosé and winced. It was a long way short of the Etienne de Loury Sancerre he kept at home, and he now wished that he’d stuck to mineral
water. No matter.

He turned to Gideon: ‘Bring him over.’

‘Sure thing.’

Dominic sighed to himself as he watched a familiar mix of shock and resignation spread across Hagger’s face when Gideon tapped him on the shoulder. What did the idiot expect? The other
player caught Gideon’s eye and quickly dropped his darts on a nearby table, before scuttling outside with his drink.

‘Dominic would like a word.’ Gideon signalled back towards the bar.

Hagger looked round. Raising his pint to both men, he took another sip. Then he put it down carefully on the table and leaned closer to Spanner. ‘Fuck off,’ he hissed.

Gideon put his hands on his hips. ‘No, Michael,’ he said, keeping his voice bureaucratic-conversational, ‘we will not fuck off. Please step over to the bar and talk to the
man.’

Hagger threw back his shoulders to emphasise his physical advantage; he had a good couple of inches and quite a few pounds over the man in front of him. ‘Fuck off!’ he repeated,
louder this time, before retrieving his pint and drinking deep.

Tutting to himself, Gideon stepped over to the table and picked up the three abandoned darts. ‘Last chance . . .’

Hagger kept on drinking. He was about two-thirds of the way through his pint when Gideon fired a dart at the floor.

‘Shit!’ Hagger did a little jump, spilling some of the pint over his T-shirt as the arrow wedged itself firmly in the wooden floor, only an inch from his left foot. He scowled at
Gideon. ‘You could have hit me.’

‘I was trying to hit you,’ Gideon said, ‘but I’m shit at darts.’ Taking aim again, he swiftly sent a second arrow sinking deep into Michael Hagger’s right
foot.

This time Hagger jumped higher, his face turning red. ‘Christ! You bastard!’ Grabbing the sole of his Converse trainers, he started hopping about.

‘That was a lucky one – or maybe I’m just getting better at it.’ Gideon lined up the third dart. Everyone else in the pub buried themselves deeper in their newspapers or
stared harder at their betting slips.

‘Okay, okay.’ Hagger half-turned and slowly bounced in the direction of the bar like a drunken wallaby. Still holding the remainder of his pint to his chest, he made no effort to
remove the arrow from his foot.

Gideon fired the last dart at the board, scoring a six. ‘Like I said,’ he mumbled to no one in particular, ‘I’m shit at darts.’

Having safely placed his pint on the bar, Hagger looked at Silver.

‘You’ve been hiding, Michael,’ Dominic said eventually.

Hagger shrugged. ‘Not really.’

‘Where’s the boy?’

‘Jake is
my
kid.’ Hagger looked at the glass but didn’t take a drink. ‘That’s my business.’

‘Not just
your
business,’ Dominic Silver said gently. He felt a wave of infinite patience sweep over him. He was dealing with an idiot here, but for once, he had plenty of
time. He almost felt serene. Not being in a rush was the greatest luxury of all.

‘He’s my boy,’ Hagger said stubbornly.

‘Michael, you are never going to be Parent of the Year. You stole your kid from his mother. Even she could do a better job of looking after him than you – which is
really
saying something. The Metropolitan Police are looking for you – at least, they’re supposed to be. Your parental rights have been rescinded.’

‘Huh?’ This time Hagger reached for his glass.

‘Is Jake still alive?’

‘Yes!’

Dominic lowered his voice. ‘Let’s hope so, because if he’s not, or if he’s been damaged in any way, you are going to fucking die.’

Hagger took the threat in his stride. ‘What’s it to you, anyway?’

Dominic looked Hagger up and down once more and felt his wave of infinite patience retreat. While maintaining eye contact, he stomped one of his Timberlands down on the dart embedded in
Hagger’s foot.

The glass slipped from Hagger’s hand, smashing on the floor. His face went white and he looked like he was going to vomit. ‘Oh, Jesus!’

Dominic signalled to Gideon, who was hovering on the periphery. ‘Put him in the car.’ Leaving the remainder of his glass of rosé on the bar, he walked slowly out of the
door.

I
t took almost twenty minutes for Carlyle to find his ‘private’ mobile, the one on which he’d programmed Monica Hartson’s number. Somehow, it was
cunningly hidden under a pile of newspapers on the living-room floor. He had no recollection of leaving it there, but that was the way of these things: socks, keys, mobile phones – all
designed to be regularly lost, and occasionally found. Letting out a small yelp of triumph at the phone’s reappearance, he pulled up Hartson’s number and hit the call button. After
listening to it ring for what seemed like an eternity, he finally got a recorded message that simply said:
This number is not available. Please try later. Goodbye.

Bemused by the lack of voicemail, Carlyle ended the call. That’s not a good start, he thought, wondering what she might be up to. This kind of person was just so unreliable. Returning the
phone to a prominent position by the television, he went off to make himself a cup of green tea.

In the kitchen he filled the kettle. While he was waiting for it to boil, his gaze settled on an oversized cream envelope propped up against the bread bin. It was addressed to
John Carlyle
Esq.
He picked it up. On the back was a crest he didn’t recognise. Helen must have left it there, he decided, picking it up and weighing it in his hand. It felt weighty. It also felt
expensive.

He opened it carefully, pulling out an invitation, a piece of thick card, with a silver border and black inlaid script, requesting his attendance at a reception to be held at Number 10 Downing
Street for something called the Union of Social Givers. Where had that come from? Carlyle frowned. The kettle came to the boil. Placing the invite back in the envelope, he dropped a teabag into a
mug and added water, counting to ten before removing the bag. Dropping it into the sink, he remembered his conversation with Rosanna Snowdon in Patisserie Valerie on Marylebone High Street. It
seemed a long time ago now. Rosanna must have come through with her promise to get him invited to the Prime Minister’s residence. He felt a frisson of embarrassment as he considered this last
small act of kindness from a woman whose help he had never properly repaid and now never would.

Blowing on his tea, he took a cautious sip. It was still too hot. Should they go to the reception? It wasn’t really his thing but, then again, he would only ever get the one chance. He
smiled at the thought of walking past the police guards and through that black door. And, despite her liberal sensibilities, Helen might like it. He would let her decide.

L
ooking down at the traffic crawling round the square, Matias Gori stood on the roof of the Chilean Embassy. With one foot resting on the low parapet at the edge of the roof,
he sucked greedily on a well-deserved cigarette. He felt a gentle breeze on his face and shivered. It was getting colder. Not for the first time, he cursed the type of country that made you stand
outside for a smoke.

‘I thought I’d find you here.’

Gori turned to find Claudio Orb stepping carefully towards him.

‘Cold, isn’t it?’ the Ambassador smiled.

‘Yes,’ said Gori, taking a final drag of his Marlboro before flicking it over the side of the building. He caught Orb’s eye and shrugged. ‘This is the only place you are
allowed to smoke these days.’

‘And a good place for a quiet word.’

‘If you want.’ Gori stared at his immaculate John Lobb shoes. What could the old fool want with him? To him, Orb was spineless, merely a straw in the wind. How could a man like this
represent his country? For sure, he would have nothing interesting to say.

Orb stood by the parapet and gestured towards the city below. ‘I really won’t miss all this.’

‘Neither will I,’ Gori replied, ‘when the time comes.’

‘My time has already come.’

‘You’re going home?’

Orb nodded. ‘I’ve decided that it is finally time for me to retire. My wife wants to see more of our grandchildren.’

‘Is that a good enough reason?’ Gori sniffed.

‘Yes,’ Orb ignored the younger man’s bad humour, ‘I think it is. Anyway, I’ve had enough. The Ministry of Foreign Affairs is already lining up my replacement, so
there is no need for me to delay my decision.’

Gori nodded and lit another cigarette. ‘I’m hoping to go back soon myself.’

‘Oh?’ said Orb casually. ‘Is your work here done?’

Gori smirked. ‘My work is never done. That’s just the way it is.’

Orb looked up, to the skies, and listened to the sound of an airliner somewhere above the clouds. ‘And what work would that be?’

‘You know what they say . . .’

‘No, Matias.’ Orb’s smile faded. ‘I don’t.’

Gori waved his cigarette in the air, as if he was writing on a blackboard. ‘Never apologise, never explain, Mr Ambassador. Never apologise, never explain.’

‘That wouldn’t work for a diplomat.’

‘I’m not a diplomat,’ the younger man said sharply.

‘What are you, Matias?’

‘I’m a . . .’ Gori’s face broke into a broad smile, ‘warrior.’

Orb looked at his colleague. ‘How many more women were you thinking of killing?’

Gori let his gaze fall on a line of red tail-lights stretching all the way towards the Edgware Road, the city’s most famous Arab neighbourhood. Gori spent a lot of time there. It reminded
him of good times. He would head over there, to the Green Valley, his favourite Lebanese restaurant, for supper tonight.

‘Well?’ Orb asked quietly.

Gori turned and took a step closer to the old man, so that they were now only a couple of feet apart. Maybe the Ambassador wasn’t as stupid as he had thought. Not that it mattered.
‘Who told you?’ he asked finally. ‘Was it the policeman?’

‘No, I don’t think he knows quite what is going on here,’ Orb replied. ‘But he put me on the right track.’

‘Maybe he knows, maybe he doesn’t. Does it really matter?’ Gori dropped his second cigarette on to the asphalt, and stubbed it out vigorously with his shoe. ‘Are you
going to tell him?’

‘I don’t think that would be very helpful.’

So why are we having this conversation? Gori wondered. ‘And, anyway, even if he did find out, there’s nothing he could do about it.’

‘That is not the point, Matias.’

‘Oh? And what
is
the point, then, Excellency?’

Orb threw his shoulders back and put on his most authoritative voice. ‘This has to stop,’ he said. ‘It has to stop now.’

‘It never stops,’ Gori pouted.

‘This isn’t Iraq, Matias, or back home, circa 1973. You can’t fight a dirty war here.’