Time of Death (12 page)

Carlyle snorted. ‘Sometimes I wonder if I
hope
he’s dead.’

‘But . . .’ Slowly, a patina of understanding spread across her face ‘Oh God, that is so horrible!’

Carlyle shrugged.

‘Maybe you are being too negative,’ Rosanna sniffed. ‘After all, child protection is not really your thing. A lot of kids get found. They reckon around five hundred children
are abducted in Britain each year. Almost all are taken by a disaffected parent who wants custody. Not nice, but a lot different from the kind of thing you’re thinking about.’

Carlyle looked down at his empty cup. ‘I’m no expert but, trust me, the last thing Michael Hagger wants is custody of his kid. He’s either tried to sell him or he’s used
him in some other way in one of his business transactions.’

‘Urgh!’ She stuck a finger in her cold tea and stirred it aimlessly. ‘That makes my problem look a little pathetic, doesn’t it?’

Yes, it does, Carlyle thought. ‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘But anything to do with kids is just the worst.’ He smiled. ‘When you become a mum, you’ll
realise.’

A rueful look passed over Rosanna’s face. ‘Josh would have kittens if he heard you talking about me having kids.’

‘Well,’ Carlyle said, feeling himself slip uneasily into father mode, ‘if I was ever talking to Josh about it, I would tell him that, when the time comes, the only thing that
he should be worrying about is doing what he is told, stepping up to the plate and performing.’

She blushed. ‘Inspector!’

‘It’s true,’ he grinned, pleased that he’d at least cheered her up a bit.

‘He wouldn’t be happy at all,’ she protested.

He scanned the street outside and sat back in his chair. ‘Alternatively, I could send round a couple of guys with baseball bats – threaten to break his legs.’

She laughed. ‘I presume you know plenty of people like that.’

‘I do,’ he said, trying not to sound too pleased about it.

For a moment they sat in comfortable silence. Then she asked: ‘Do you think there is any chance of finding Jake Hagger?’

Remember she’s a journalist
, a little voice piped up in the inspector’s head. ‘Off the record?’

‘Of course.’

He thought about it for a moment. ‘I think that there is as near to no chance as makes no difference.’

‘I see.’

He glanced at his watch. It told him that he really should be getting back to the station and dealing with Henry Mills but, once again, for some reason the enthusiasm to do so just wasn’t
there. For her part, Rosanna didn’t seem desperate to get off to work either. ‘So,’ he said finally, ‘how are your political chums? Spend a lot of time in Number
Ten?’

Spotting a woman acquaintance walking up the street, Rosanna waved to her, before returning her gaze to Carlyle. ‘I have been to Downing Street twice, as it happens. It was nice, but not
exactly life-changing. I know the Prime Minister’s Director of Communications extremely well – I’m sure I could get you an invite there if you wanted.’

I wonder what Simpson would make of that? Carlyle reflected. ‘Thanks. I’ll bear it in mind.’

Rosanna leaned slightly over the table towards him. ‘To be honest, I think that they’re not finding it as much fun as they thought it was going to be.’

The poor dears, Carlyle thought.

‘Edgar,’ she continued, ‘is finding it quite tough going. The poor chap is obsessed with the idea that he has been found out – as if you need to be a genius to be Prime
Minister. Every time his poll ratings slip a bit further, he’s waiting for Christian to come through the door and steal his job.’

‘I would have thought the Mayor of London has enough on his plate as it is,’ Carlyle mused, keen to hear more.

‘Being the Mayor is not really a full-time job though, is it? Certainly not for a man of action like Christian. All you’ve really got any responsibility for is trying to stop the
Tube drivers going on strike, which they do regardless, and implementing the congestion charge, which he wants to scrap anyway.’

‘So what does he do, then?’ Carlyle asked.

Rosanna gave him those big eyes. ‘To be fair, Christian Holyrod
is
amazing. The job itself just isn’t big enough for him. Apart from anything else, he needs his own foreign
policy; he’s a soldier right down to his DNA and he needs to operate on the biggest stage.’

This all sounded like gibberish to the inspector. ‘I see.’

‘Since he’s got elected to City Hall, he really has achieved a lot.’

‘Like what?’

‘Well, he’s successfully positioned himself as the number two politician in the country. He’s also built up his portfolio of non-executive directorships.’

‘Is that allowed?’

‘Of course it is. It’s vitally important that politicians keep in touch with the real world and see how business works. After all, that’s how wealth gets created.’

I’ve often wondered about that, Carlyle said to himself.

‘And,’ Rosanna grinned, ‘if they’re earning good money outside, it makes it less necessary for them to have to fiddle their expenses.’

‘Good point,’ Carlyle laughed. ‘What kind of directorships does Holyrod have?’

‘Quite a range, I think. There’s a media company, agribusiness, aerospace . . .’

‘Interesting. Make sure you give Christian and Edgar my kind regards next time you see them.’

Rosanna put a gentle hand on his forearm. ‘Inspector, don’t take this the wrong way, but I think that if either of them ever see you or hear of you ever again, it will be way too
soon.’

Recalling his previous run in with the politicians – an earlier case – Carlyle bowed modestly. ‘I wouldn’t have it any other way. I guess that means an invite to Downing
Street is a non-starter.’

‘Not necessarily,’ she said.

‘Oh?’

‘I could probably swing something. It would have to be for one of Edgar’s wife’s charity events, some time when he was out of the country.’

Carlyle tried to look affronted. ‘It wouldn’t be the same, then.’

She shook her head. ‘I think you just like causing trouble, Inspector.’ The smile vanished from her face. ‘Anyway, I must be going. Thank you for our talk.’

‘I
will
do what I can to help with your stalker,’ Carlyle promised. ‘Let me speak to Singleton and we’ll take it from there. Next time you see your guy, call me
straight away.’

‘He’s not my guy,’ she shot back.

He held up his hands in a conciliatory manner. ‘You know what I mean. Just call me.’

‘I’ll do that.’

‘The one thing that would be useful for me to have would be a surname. Maybe he’s in care or has a medical history. Maybe he’s not taking his medication. Maybe he just needs
help.’

‘Mmm . . .’ She didn’t sound too convinced. After all, this was supposed to be about
her
needs, not those of the man who was stalking her.

‘Any further thoughts on that, or any other developments, let me know.’ He pushed his chair away from the table and stood up, wiping some crumbs from his trousers as he did so.
‘But don’t approach him directly. Keep your distance and don’t take any risks.’

‘Yes, sir!’ She gave him a mock salute and he was pleased to see a little of the old sparkle return to her eyes. Standing up, she hoisted the bag over her shoulder and dropped the
sunglasses back on to her nose. Then she leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Thank you for this. I am very grateful. Just knowing that you are on the case is a big help.’

On the case? Carlyle felt himself redden slightly. ‘It will b-be fine,’ he stammered as she turned for the door. ‘Let’s speak soon.’

A
night in the cells had failed to encourage Henry Mills to change his story. He remained adamant that he had been soundly asleep while his wife was being brained in the
kitchen of their flat. Neither disappointed nor particularly surprised by this answer, Carlyle formally charged him with murder and went back upstairs to sort out the paperwork. In a couple of
hours, the Mills case would be off his desk and it would become someone else’s problem.

He was waiting for his computer to start up when Joe Szyszkowski came by with a blue A4-sized folder under his arm.

‘What have you got?’ Carlyle asked, without preamble.

Joe perched on the edge of the desk, opened the file and flipped through some sheets of paper. ‘It looks like he was telling the truth about the Chilean thing.’

‘Yeah?’ said Carlyle, looking at the somersaulting hourglass on his computer screen, not really caring any more.

‘Agatha Mills had a brother,’ Joe continued, ignoring his boss’s off-hand mood, ‘called William Pettigrew. They had a Chilean father and an English mother.’

‘Pettigrew? Doesn’t sound very Chilean to me.’

‘There’s a Scottish great-grandfather or great-great-grandfather in there somewhere,’ Joe explained. ‘There’s a strong Celtic influence, apparently. A whole bunch
of Scottish farmers went over in the 1840s and 1850s. And the Chilean navy was formed by a Scot, Lord Cochrane, when they were fighting for independence from the Spaniards.’

‘Interesting,’ said Carlyle, impressed.

‘Wikipedia is a great thing.’ Joe shrugged. ‘We’ve always been tight with the Chileans, apparently. They’ve even had people fighting in Iraq.’

‘Jesus!’ Carlyle shook his head. ‘What’s it to them?’

‘Dunno. Anyway, William became a Catholic priest in Valparaíso, a coastal town north of Santiago. He disappeared during the 1973 military coup, when the army overthrew the
government.’

‘That’s what usually happens in a military coup,’ Carlyle deadpanned.

Joe did not rise to the bait. ‘The family,’ he continued, ‘were eventually told that William Pettigrew was dead, but no body has ever been found.’

‘Again, not that uncommon.’

‘Agatha Mills, however, spent the last thirty-five years going back and forth between London and Chile, trying to find out what precisely happened to her brother and who killed him. She
never lost hope of bringing her brother’s killers to justice.’

Carlyle sighed. ‘Good luck on that one.’

‘Well,’ said Joe, ‘you have to give the old girl some credit. She kept at it for decades, despite a history of threats from military types.’

‘Death threats?’ Carlyle perked up slightly.

‘Yeah . . . at least, according to some of the press reports. Mainly low-level stuff, like having her laptop nicked or her car tyres slashed. But I read one story about her getting an
envelope in the post with a couple of bullets in it.’

‘The press are hardly reliable,’ Carlyle snorted. ‘I’m not going to start chasing my tail on the basis of a few clippings.’

‘No,’ Joe said, ‘but still.’

The inspector grunted.

‘You were the one who told me to check it out.’

‘Okay,’ Carlyle sniffed, ‘so she pissed off some Chileans pining for the good old days under that general.’ He groped for the name. ‘Maggie Thatcher’s
mate.’

‘Pinochet.’

‘Yeah, right,’ Carlyle nodded, ‘General Pinochet.’

‘I think he was arrested in London a few years ago,’ Joe said, ‘while enjoying our Great British hospitality.’

Carlyle raised an eyebrow. ‘And?’

‘And nothing. Storm in a teacup and then he went home.’

‘Got away with it all,’ Carlyle mused.

‘I suppose so.’

‘They always do.’

‘To the victors the spoils.’

‘Yes, indeed, Joseph.’ Carlyle spent a moment contemplating life’s endless unfairness. ‘Isn’t he dead now?’

‘Pinochet?’ Joe made a face. ‘No idea.’

‘Either way,’ Carlyle mused, maybe just a little more interested now, ‘it’s all a long, long time ago. Why would anyone – apart from Agatha Mills, the loyal sister
– still care about all this stuff now?’

‘Because Chile has got a new President,’ said Joe. ‘A socialist – and a woman.’

‘Interesting combination,’ said Carlyle, still not seeing the relevance.

‘She was a torture victim herself,’ Joe explained. ‘She ordered a fresh investigation into cases like William Pettigrew’s.’

‘Okay . . .’

‘The Pettigrew case review was completed last year. It concluded that he was almost certainly tortured and then shot dead aboard a navy ship called,’ he flicked through the papers
again, ‘the
White Lady
.’

‘What did they do to him?’

‘The usual stuff, I suppose,’ said Joe. ‘Electric shocks to the gonads, that sort of thing.’

‘We could do with some of that downstairs,’ Carlyle grinned.

‘Different world back then.’

‘Which
you
would know all about, I suppose,’ Carlyle teased, ‘having been what, about one year old at the time.’

‘I bet
you
remember it well, though,’ Joe said cheekily.

‘Fuck off!’ Carlyle laughed. ‘I’m not that old.’

‘You just look it.’

‘That’s a consequence of working with you, sunshine.’ He thought back to 1973 – what did he remember? Not a lot. Certainly not what had been going on in a small country
on the other side of the world.

‘Anyway,’ Joe continued, ‘the investigating judge ordered the arrest of a couple of navy officers last year.’

‘Names?’

‘Dunno. But they are due to face trial for the murder of William Pettigrew in the autumn.’

‘After all this time?’

‘There are a couple of witnesses who say that they’re now prepared to testify.’

‘Okay, the family is finally going to have its day in court, so why bother bumping off Agatha Mills? It’s not like she was there as a witness,’ he looked at Joe, ‘was
she?’

‘No, not as far as I know.’

‘So she can’t really testify. At least not to anything important.’

‘She has been one of the driving forces behind this case getting to court, though.’ Joe shrugged. ‘Maybe the people who did it are still out there. Maybe they want to stop her;
maybe they want to intimidate the other witnesses. Could be various things.’

They.
Whenever you were dealing with
them
, you knew you were in trouble.

‘Maybe.’ Carlyle leaned back in his chair, placing his hands on his head. ‘Maybe, maybe, maybe. An octogenarian fascist plot? It’s all very thin.’