Never Apologise, Never Explain - James Craig [112]
Making sure he still didn’t get too close to the edge, Carlyle gingerly leaned forward and took another quick glance down at the dead fish. ‘You’re not the first person to fall off a tall building recently, are you, matey?’ he said quietly to himself. Thinking back to Jerome Sullivan and Michael Hagger, he felt a sharp pang of guilt. Since Hagger had appeared in the piazza, Carlyle had done nothing to try and track down young Jake. As far as he knew, Cutler, the officer leading the search, hadn’t made any progress either. If there had been any hope, it had long since gone. The missing kid was doubtless beyond salvation now.
His stomach rumbled. Feeling a bit light-headed, Carlyle turned away from the edge of the building. ‘Let’s go.’
Joe nodded and they headed back inside.
‘So where does this leave us?’ Joe wondered, standing at the top of the stairs that led up to the roof.
‘I think it leaves us in quite a good place,’ Carlyle said. ‘Gori’s murder is not ours to worry about.’
‘It’ll probably get written up as an accident,’ Joe sniffed.
‘Quite,’ Carlyle agreed. ‘And if he was our killer, then it’s case closed.’
‘What about Groves?’
‘She’s not our problem either,’ Carlyle said, yawning. ‘I outlined my thinking to Chan and his sidekick at the hospital, and they pissed all over it, so let them work it out for themselves.’ He thought about Monica Hartson – her Glasgow exile could come to a speedy end. Pulling out his mobile, he rang her number. Tapping his foot impatiently on the asphalt, he listened to the call this time go to voicemail. ‘For fuck’s sake!’ he hissed. How was it that some people were just incapable of answering a bloody phone? Ending the call without leaving a message, he dropped the handset back into his jacket pocket. ‘Did you write up the Mills report?’
Joe started down the stairs without looking up. ‘No.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ Carlyle grinned. ‘I’ll sort it out after we’ve had breakfast.’
At the mention of food, Joe perked up considerably. ‘Great.’
‘And then I’ll go and see Simpson.’
THIRTY-EIGHT
In conclusion, it appears that Mr Mills killed his wife for reasons unknown, and subsequently took his own life in a fit of remorse.
On that basis, we believe that no further investigation is required and that the case can be closed.
Carole Simpson reread the last sentence carefully. Try as she might, she couldn’t find any double-meaning or hidden aside. She looked up at Carlyle, who was sitting in front of the desk with his hands clasped in his lap, an expression of Zen-like calm on his face. If there’s been a worse impersonation of a choirboy in this office in the last decade then I wasn’t around to see it, the Commander thought sourly.
Raising her eyebrows, she let the report drop on to the desk. ‘And that’s it?’
Sitting up straight in his chair, the inspector looked his boss directly in the eye. ‘Yes, Commander,’ he said stiffly.
‘No Chilean hit men?’
Carlyle smiled. ‘That was only ever one theory.’
‘What about Sandra Groves and the . . .’ she waved a hand impatiently in the air ‘. . . the Hartson woman?’
Carlyle felt his smile waver. You had to give it to Simpson, she was no mug. ‘I haven’t really kept up with the Groves case,’ he said vaguely. ‘As for Hartson, that has been listed as a suicide. Her GP confirmed that she had been suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder.’
I know the feeling, Simpson thought grimly.
‘It seems that she had been unwell for some time—’
The Commander cut him off in mid-sentence. ‘So she threw herself under a Tube train?’
Carlyle shrugged. When he finally managed to get through to Hartson’s mobile, it had been answered by a brusque WPC. After establishing who he was, she unceremoniously declared that the phone’s owner had ‘topped herself in front of a Tube train