Never Apologise, Never Explain - James Craig [103]
Dog looked at the picture for a few seconds, eyes glazing over as he did his familiar impersonation of a man trying very hard to concentrate.
‘Was that the man who gave you the thousand-peso note?’
Mock concentration gave way to genuine confusion on Dog’s face. ‘Huh?’
‘The man who gave you the money that didn’t work?’
There was a vague flicker of recognition in Dog’s face. ‘Maybe.’
Come on, Carlyle thought, frustration rising in his throat. Come on, you stupid bastard, think – just this once. He tried to hand the drunk the picture, but he wouldn’t take it. ‘Walter . . .’
‘Excuse me.’ The woman’s voice, timid and polite, came from somewhere behind him. ‘Are you Inspector Carlyle?’
Carlyle didn’t look up. ‘In a minute,’ he replied rudely, still waving the picture at Dog.
The voice came a step closer. ‘I was told that you wanted to see me.’ Less timid now in the face of his rudeness.
‘In a minute,’ I said.
A hand appeared and took the picture from the inspector’s hand. ‘I know this man.’
Trying to keep his annoyance in check, Carlyle stood up and found himself in front of a tired-looking redhead in her thirties. ‘Yes?’
Looking at least a few kilos light of healthy, the woman was conservatively dressed in a white blouse and a navy knee-length skirt. She held out a hand and he shook it. ‘I’m Monica Hartson.’
He looked back at her blankly.
‘Daughters of Dismas,’ she added. ‘I’m a friend of Agatha Mills and Sandra Groves.’
‘Ah.’
She handed him back the picture. ‘One of the people trying to finally bring Matias Gori to justice.’
‘Mm.’ Carlyle held out the two quid and dropped it into Dog’s hand. ‘How did you get my name?’
‘After the episode on the bus,’ Hartson explained, ‘you are well known amongst the group.’
Fame at last, Carlyle thought.
‘I got a message saying I should speak to you.’
‘Thanks for coming.’ Standing back, Carlyle watched the tramp struggle to his feet and shuffle towards the door. ‘Not bad for a dead man,’ he grinned.
‘What?’ Hartson eyed him quizzically.
‘Nothing,’ Carlyle said quickly. ‘Thanks for coming in. Let’s go and have a chat upstairs.’
For once, the air conditioning was working. The fourth-floor meeting room was decidedly chilly, just the way he liked it. Declining a cup of coffee, Hartson pulled a small bottle of water from her shoulder bag and took a delicate sip.
Carlyle toyed with his espresso but didn’t take a drink. ‘So,’ he said casually, ‘tell me your story.’
She thought about that for a second, then looked at him, nonplussed. ‘Where do you want me to start?’
‘How do you know Matias Gori?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know him,’ she said carefully, ‘but I know about him.’
Great, thought Carlyle, a pedant zealot, just what I need. ‘Okay, why are you interested in him?’
Once again, she thought about where to start. Normally, Carlyle thought, that means they’re getting ready to lie to you. But in the case of Monica Hartson, he was sure she was just trying to be precise. ‘We have a campaign . . .’
‘The Daughters of Dismas?’
‘Yes. We have been campaigning against the use of mercenaries in places like Iraq.’ Rooting about in her bag, she pulled out a couple of flyers and pushed them across the table.
Carlyle let them lie there. ‘Just tell me in your own words first.’
‘Well, we have this campaign . . . we are particularly focusing on mercenaries who were being funded by British taxpayers’ money.’
‘LA . . . something . . .’
‘LAHC, yes.’ She seemed to relax slightly, buoyed by the hope that the policeman might be at least a little informed. ‘The initials come from Luis Alberto Hurtado Cruchaga. Father Hurtardo was a Jesuit priest who was made a saint by the Pope a few years ago.’
‘So,’ Carlyle said, unable to resist teasing her gently, ‘these people have a religious background, like you?’
‘Not really,