London Calling - James Craig [112]
‘If revenge is a dish best served cold,’ said Carlyle, ‘it might appear that you are taking your meal out of the freezer.’
‘What a tortuous metaphor, Inspector.’
It struck Carlyle how people always addressed him as ‘Inspector’ when they were patronising him. He took a deep breath and vowed to rise above any slight. ‘Let me ask it another way,’ he continued. ‘Do you care that some of them are dead?’
‘No.’ She did not flinch from the question. ‘It really doesn’t make any difference to me.’
‘And if the others were to be killed?’
‘The same. Inshallah, as my Arab clients might say. It is the will of God.’
‘That is not an answer that encourages me to look elsewhere for suspects,’ he reproached her, as sternly as he could manage.
‘I guess you have to use your professional judgement,’ she sighed.
‘Yes, yes, I do.’
She looked at him carefully. ‘But maybe they deserve to die.’
A lot of people deserve to die, Carlyle thought. ‘Maybe,’ he replied, ‘I wouldn’t know.’
‘Someone has to judge them.’
‘No, they don’t.’ He strove to sound reasonable. ‘They haven’t yet been arrested or charged with any crime.’
‘That means nothing,’ she pouted.
‘Life is not about right and wrong,’ he shrugged. ‘It’s about who gets to choose. You don’t get to choose … neither do I, for that matter.’
‘You have to set your sights higher than that, Inspector. Remember Jeremy Bentham: “Publicity is the very soul of justice. It is the keenest spur to exertion, and the surest of all guards against improbity. It keeps the judge himself, while trying, under trial.”’
Carlyle was lost. ‘Who?’
‘Jeremy Bentham. He was a philosopher and jurist who lived two hundred years ago.’
‘Ah.’ Carlyle didn’t have a clue who she was talking about. Philosopher and jurist? The only Jeremys he could think of were a couple of TV presenters.
‘At UCL they still have his skeleton on display,’ she grinned, ‘dressed in his own clothes, and with a wax head on top.’
‘Lovely.’
‘It’s what he said he wanted.’
‘Maybe I’ll go for something similar myself,’ Carlyle joked, ‘but in the foyer at New Scotland Yard.’
All trace of her smile vanished as the lawyer inside took over. ‘I can see I’m wasting my time here,’ she said sharply, ‘so let’s cut to the chase. What evidence do you actually have?’
I wish people would stop asking me that, thought Carlyle. ‘The investigation is proceeding in a fairly normal manner,’ he replied lamely.
‘So how can I actually help you?’ she asked neutrally.
‘Are you assuring me that you had absolutely nothing to do with the deaths of Hogarth, Blake and the others?’
She stared at him blankly. ‘I’m telling you that those types of questions will require the presence of my lawyer.’ She took a second business card from the mantelpiece and handed it to Carlyle.
He looked at the name on it. ‘Different firm?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘At our place, we don’t have anyone who specialises in … this type of thing. And, anyway, it is not something that you really want to discuss with your colleagues.’
‘No.’
Arthur the Labrador reappeared, looking for another biscuit. Susy Ahl gave the dog a big smile and idly patted his back. ‘Are you arresting me?’
‘No.’
‘Not yet?’
‘Not yet.’
The smile grew bigger. ‘No evidence?’
Carlyle said nothing.
She headed towards the door. ‘I need another drink. Can I get you anything?’
‘No,’ said Carlyle, ‘I’ll be going now. Just one final question: are you planning on leaving the country on any more business trips?’
Under the effects of the wine, she took a few moments to mentally flip through her diary. ‘I am due back in Dubai in something like ten days’ time. Let me know soonest if that’s not allowed.’
‘I will. We may also ask for your passport. And, we might need to take your fingerprints and a DNA sample.’
‘Don’t worry, Inspector,’ she said, waving an ever so slightly inebriated hand in his direction, ‘I know that you have a job to do, and I will not impede you in any way.’
‘Thank you.’
Her eyes suddenly focused on him sharply. ‘But I won’t do your job for you, either.’
She then showed him to