London Calling - James Craig [122]
Feeling a bit like a man who had just turned up late for his own funeral, Carlyle headed across to the opposite side of the street, with Joe following immediately behind. He was no longer worried about the rain, focusing rather on the sinking feeling in his stomach. It was clear that he had overplayed his hand, and now wasn’t the time to go rushing inside.
After a couple of minutes, the ambulance crew reappeared. They stowed the draped body in the back of the ambulance and slammed the doors shut, before climbing aboard and moving off. Ten yards down the road, the driver realised that his exit was blocked by the roadworks ahead. He performed a tortuous three-point turn and headed back the way he had come.
The gawkers took this as their cue to leave. Watching them depart, Carlyle tried to snap himself out of his funk. Then, just as he was about to step across the road, Trevor Miller emerged from the house. He stood on the pavement for a second, pulling up the collar of his raincoat. Looking up, he caught Carlyle’s eye. Acknowledging him with the slightest of nods, Miller stuck his hands into his pockets and hurried off in the direction of the river.
The rain began easing as Carlyle showed his ID to the copper posted on the gate. He was just sticking it back in his pocket when Simpson herself walked out of the front door, carrying an umbrella.
‘Ah, there you are, Inspector.’ She stopped to put up the umbrella before stepping towards him. Nodding a greeting to Joe, who was hovering a yard away, she placed a gentle hand on Carlyle’s elbow and guided him a few yards back along the street, to where a driver was waiting for her in a BMW. She stopped by the passenger door and looked Carlyle up and down.
‘Why are you looking so glum, John?’
Partly sheltered under the umbrella, he was even more conscious of the rain slipping under his collar and trickling down his spine. ‘What happened?’
Simpson pursed her lips, ignoring the question. ‘You’ve got a result … one way or another. It’s job done, and case closed.’
‘What are you doing here?’ Carlyle asked, struggling to keep any trace of emotion from his voice. The sick feeling in his stomach had dissipated. It was now being replaced by the kind of gentle numbness that came at times when things were going spectacularly tits-up.
A small, brittle smile appeared on Simpson’s lips. ‘Mr Miller called me personally, after he found the body. Apparently, Ms Ahl had called up Edgar Carlton to demand a meeting.’
‘What kind of meeting?’
Simpson shrugged. ‘It looks like we shall never know that. Carlton decided to send Miller. He arrived here about 6.30 and found the door was open.’
‘Miller? Carlton’s head of security? On Election Day?’
Simpson paused there, eyes shining, saying nothing further. The rain had now stopped and the air suddenly felt fresher than it had for weeks.
‘Was there anything suspicious about the death?’ Carlyle asked, trying and failing to keep a hint of desperation from his voice.
Simpson executed a small hop on the spot, like a small child desperate to go to the toilet. ‘Not as far as I could see.’ She lowered the umbrella, giving it vigorous shake before closing it. ‘When Miller went in, he found her hanging from the banister, so he rang 999, and then he rang me.’
‘Suicide?’
She let her gaze fall to the pavement. ‘Yes,