Never Apologise, Never Explain - James Craig [56]
Being a diplomat rather than a politician, Claudio Orb’s remarks were even shorter and blander that those of Christian Holyrod. As the Ambassador stepped away from the microphone, to exactly the same applause as his host, Carlyle began making his way down towards the throng.
The free bar must have been closed before the speeches had started, because the place had pretty much cleared in the forty seconds or so that it took the inspector to descend the stairs. Passing the guests heading out, he made straight for the Mayor, who was still in discussion with the Ambassador and another man by the front of the stage.
Fixing a big smile on his face, Carlyle stepped up to Holyrod with his hand outstretched. ‘Mr Mayor,’ he said warmly, gratified to see that the former soldier had put on quite a few pounds. The extra weight didn’t suit him, for it looked as if he had gone in age from thirty-five to fifty-five in about twelve months. ‘How very nice to see you again.’
Holyrod broke off from his discussion and looked up. Recognising the policeman, he fought to keep a look of displeasure off his face. ‘Inspector . . .’ He shook Carlyle’s hand firmly, trying to step away from his guests at the same time. But Carlyle had deliberately boxed him in and he had no alternative but to remain at Orb’s side.
‘. . . Carlyle,’ he prompted. ‘Inspector John Carlyle, from Charing Cross police station.’
Holyrod scanned some interesting spot in the middle distance. ‘Yes, yes, of course.’
‘Nice speech,’ said Carlyle, looking at the Ambassador.
‘Thank you,’ Holyrod replied, even more concerned now lest he become Carlyle’s quarry.
Still grinning like an idiot, Carlyle returned his gaze to the Mayor. ‘I thought perhaps you could introduce us?’
‘Ah, yes,’ said Holyrod, looking unhappier by the second. ‘Mr Ambassador,’ he said stiffly, ‘this is Inspector John Carlyle of the Metropolitan Police.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Inspector.’ Claudio Orb extended a hand and flashed the smile of a man who had nothing to fear from London’s finest. He was a trim, dapper man in an elegant three-piece navy suit, white shirt and bright red tie. About 5 feet 8 inches, with a shock of white hair and bright blue eyes, he looked to be well into his seventies. I hope I age that well, Carlyle thought, knowing that it was extremely unlikely. He glanced at the much younger man standing next to Orb. At most in his late thirties, the guy looked fit and tanned. He had the most well-tended beard that Carlyle had ever seen. He made no attempt to introduce himself, so Carlyle, writing him off as some flunky, quickly returned his full attention to the Ambassador. ‘I was wondering if I could have a few minutes of your time, sir,’ he asked in his most deferential tone, ignoring the baleful glare coming from Holyrod.
‘Of course!’ Orb’s eyes twinkled with delight. Carlyle wondered if the Ambassador had had a few; maybe he was even a little drunk. ‘It would be my pleasure to help the police with their enquiries.’ He nodded to the others. ‘Excuse us, gentlemen.’ He took Carlyle’s elbow and began marching him back up the walkway, in the direction from which he had arrived. ‘Why don’t we step outside for a minute. I could do with some air.’
Out on the vast empty terrace, Carlyle felt the cool breeze from the river on his face and realised how stuffy it had been inside.
‘What a pleasant evening,’ Orb said, holding on to the rail and inhaling deeply. ‘It’s nice to enjoy some fresh air, is it not?’
‘Or as near to fresh as it gets in London,’ Carlyle replied.
‘Hah!’ The older man grinned. ‘You should try Santiago sometime.’ He looked the policeman up and down. ‘Have you ever been to Chile, Inspector?’
‘No.’
‘Ah, you