Never Apologise, Never Explain - James Craig [10]
He turned to Bassett, who was puffing on his latest cigarette as if it was his first one for many months, and pointed at the dishwasher. ‘Has anyone looked inside this?’
Bassett thought about it for a second. ‘I don’t know. I don’t think so.’
Carlyle turned to Joe, who had appeared from elsewhere in the flat and was hovering in the doorway. ‘Make sure this has been checked for prints and then open it up.’
‘Okay.’ Joe went off to see if he could find any remaining forensic technicians.
‘And see how the canvass of the neighbours is going,’ Carlyle called after him.
‘Will do.’
‘Are you going to take her now?’ Carlyle asked Bassett.
‘Yes. I think we are more or less done here.’
‘The report?’
‘Shouldn’t take too long. If there are any surprises, I’ll give you a call straight away.’
‘Thanks.’
In the living room, the WPC was sitting on the sofa, staring into space. Henry Mills was standing by the large bay window, contemplating the crowds entering the British Museum. A billboard in the courtyard advertised an exhibition devoted to Babylon: Myth & Reality. Helen had been trying to get him to go with her to see it, but Carlyle knew it was just another one of those things they would never get round to doing. Not that this worried him; he could live without the Tower of Babel and the madness of King Nebuchadnezzar, so was happy to just let it slide.
After a few seconds, Mills half-turned in his direction. He was wearing jeans and a white shirt with a fine green check. His face was flushed. In one hand he held a glass of whisky, with the bottle in the other. The inspector clocked the label – Famous Grouse – and the fact that it was well on the way to being empty.
He gestured for the WPC to leave them. As she struggled out of the sofa, he experienced a ripple of disgust. ‘Big-boned’ wasn’t the half of it. When did they start letting any fat slob join the force? he wondered glumly. Probably when most of the population started becoming obese, he told himself.
Carlyle let Mills look him up and down, while the widower sucked down another slug of Scotch. The look on his face suggested that it gave him neither comfort nor pleasure.
‘I would lay off the drinking if I were you, sir,’ Carlyle said stiffly.
‘Oh, would you?’ Henry Mills made a face. ‘Well, it’s my bloody house,’ he drained his glass with a flourish, ‘and it’s my bloody wife.’
But you’ll soon be at my bloody station, Carlyle thought. He was four feet from Mills and could clearly smell the drink already on his breath. Hopefully it would make him talkative or, just as good, forget to ask for a lawyer. ‘That’s an unfortunate form of words, sir,’ he said, ‘under the circumstances.’
Despite everything, Henry Mills grinned. ‘Don’t I know it, Mr . . .’
‘Inspector.’ Carlyle fumbled in a pocket for his warrant card. ‘Inspector John Carlyle. I’m from the Charing Cross station.’
By the time Carlyle had managed to recover his warrant card, Mills had already turned his back on him and was pouring himself another drink. ‘Want one?’ he asked, over his shoulder.
Carlyle ignored the offer. ‘Why don’t you take a seat, sir?’
Assured that his glass was well on the way to being three-quarters full, Henry Mills plonked himself down in an overstuffed armchair in one corner, beside the window, and then plonked the bottle on the floor beside him. Hoping she hadn’t managed to break the sofa, Carlyle took the place vacated by the outsized