Never Apologise, Never Explain - James Craig [7]
Somehow, Harry managed to slip an even more downbeat expression on his battered mug. ‘It doesn’t just turn up, you know.’
‘What?’
‘The telegram from Her Majesty.’
‘Oh?’ Carlyle realised he shouldn’t have gone there.
‘Someone has got to ask her for it.’
The grumpy old sod was making the inspector feel like the world’s biggest optimist. Taking a deep breath, he made a determined effort to remain cheery. ‘At least they don’t charge you for the privilege,’ he said, wondering if they did.
‘And you’ve got to prove your age.’
‘Give Helen a copy of your bloody birth certificate then,’ Carlyle snapped, his patience gone. ‘She’ll send it off to the powers-that-be, when the time comes.’
‘She’ll be dead by then.’
‘Who?’ said Carlyle, unsure whether to be concerned. ‘Helen?’
‘No,’ said Harry, ‘the Queen. She’s older than me, you know.’
Carlyle felt irritated and relieved at the same time. ‘Whatever. Anyway, you’ll be fine.’
‘Come on, Inspector,’ said Harry, a slight tinge of anger appearing in his voice, ‘don’t try and kid me. I’ve had a decent innings and I don’t need to drag it out. “Quit while you’re ahead”, my old dad always used to say, and he was right. I don’t want to leave it too late and turn into a vegetable in some horrible care home. Or be left forgotten and starving on a trolley in a hospital corridor. I’ve no family and it should be my choice. Assisted suicide, they call it. It’s all the rage these days. They had a guy die on the telly the other night.’
Carlyle grunted. He knew about the programme that Harry was referring to. The thought of it made his squeamishness flare up like an ulcer and also depressed the hell out of him. When Helen had insisted on watching it, he’d gone off to bed with a book. Even now, he shivered at the ghoulishness of it all. ‘The bloke on the telly had some incurable disease. And he spent three grand to go to Switzerland to have it done in some Alpine clinic.’ He looked directly at Harry. ‘Then there’s another seven grand, at least, to come home again and get buried. Do you have ten grand?’
‘No.’
‘Well, you can’t bloody die, then,’ Carlyle grinned, ‘can you?’
‘There are other ways,’ Harry said evenly. ‘You don’t have to go to Switzerland. Didn’t some copper in Wales walk up a mountain with a bottle of Scotch and freeze to death?’
Carlyle remembered it well, as it had been the talk of the station for days. ‘Yeah, I should imagine Wales is a good place for that. They have plenty of mountains.’
Out of the glare, came merciful relief in the form of an angel. A pretty blonde girl in a very short skirt turned off Drury Lane and began sauntering down the other side of Macklin Street, talking into her mobile phone as she did so. Her toned legs were very long and tanned and she had a portfolio stuck under one arm. He guessed she was looking for the model agency a block away on Parker Street. Like Keats once said: a thing of beauty is a joy forever. It was the best cure for depression he knew.
Harry caught him staring and smirked. ‘Too young for me.’
Carlyle said nothing as the girl did a U-turn and disappeared back down Drury Lane.
‘Too young for you too.’
‘Harry . . .’
‘I read about it in the paper,’ said Harry, returning to his theme, all thoughts of playing chicken with the traffic abandoned.
‘Huh?’
‘The policeman who walked up a mountain to kill himself.’
‘Oh, yeah.’ If Keats was alive today, a thing of beauty would be a joy for about ten seconds, Carlyle thought sourly.
‘He had a complicated love-life, or something.’
‘It must have been bloody complicated.’ Carlyle reached inside his jacket for his wallet. ‘For him to want to top himself.’ He groaned when he realised how little cash he was carrying, barely enough to pay the bill.