Never Apologise, Never Explain - James Craig [47]
Their fingers tightened on the triggers of the ancient-looking rifles. One of the boys turned to the fourth man, who looked older than the rest, maybe twenty-four or twenty-five. His voice quivered as he asked: ‘Shall I shoot him?’
‘What?’ The older man tried to laugh but only a hoarse mumble came out, as if he was trying to clear his throat. He looked past the priest and into the wide blue yonder. ‘And waste a bullet?’
The boy blushed with embarrassment and he lowered his gun. His companions followed suit, and the trio slouched away like kids who have just had their football confiscated by an annoyed neighbour. The older man sniffed theatrically and spat at his feet. He swayed back on his heels and then stepped forward, not looking at the priest; not looking away either. Six long steps brought him to within inches of Pettigrew’s face. His eyes were bloodshot. He looked shattered.
A wave of euphoria swept over the priest. His time had come at last.
Here I am, good and gentle Jesus.
There was an almost imperceptible nod of recognition before the officer placed the fingertips of his left hand on Pettigrew’s chest. The priest looked down at the man’s hand and then back at his face. It was the face of a man who passed no judgement.
With great fervour, I pray and ask You to instil in me genuine convictions of faith, hope and love . . .
The sailor took another step forward, pushing gently, as if he was walking through a half-open door.
Pettigrew’s jaw ached as a smile broke across his face. Agatha is going to kill me, he thought. In slow motion, he fell backwards into space. Arms outstretched, he finally embraced his fate.
. . . with true sorrow for my sins and a firm resolve to amend them.
FIFTEEN
Heading north, Carlyle and Joe walked up Endell Street, enjoying the warm sunshine. It had been a slow morning in the fight against crime in the capital, and the atmosphere in Charing Cross police station was soporific. Despite his best intentions, Carlyle had still not completed his report into the Mills case. Partly that was down to ennui; partly it was a determination – inherited from both his parents – to look every gift horse that came along in the mouth, very carefully indeed. With the last traces of wife-murderer Henry washed from the tarmac outside, the Mills case was now firmly closed. It had solved itself. This was, Carlyle knew as well as anyone, a good thing. Two unnatural deaths accounted for was a nice little gift for the statisticians and the performance tables. All he had to do was wrap it all up in some understated prose, hand it over to Carole Simpson and then everyone would be happy. If something else had come through the door, demanding his time and attention, maybe he would have done that. But, apart from Mills, all he had on his plate at the moment was a domestic, where the wife was battering the husband, and a spate of pickpocketings around Cambridge Circus. Not enough to keep a grown man occupied.
As much to avoid these other cases as anything else, Carlyle was reluctant to close the Mills case just yet. Joe was not impressed when Carlyle told him that he had decided they should take another look at the Millses’ flat. However, the prospect of stopping off for a mid-morning snack on the way won him over. As they reached the top of Endell Street, the usual traffic jam came into view. This was where High Holborn, St Giles High Street, Bloomsbury Street and Shaftesbury Avenue converged. Traffic that knew where it was going mixed with traffic lost in Covent Garden’s tortuous one-way system. Gridlock was the norm here, and a familiar cacophony of horns and shouts greeted the two policemen as they approached. Carlyle did a quick calculation in his head; they would have to cross five roads and fourteen lanes of traffic to reach Ridgemount