Never Apologise, Never Explain - James Craig [71]
‘So I hear.’ Knowing now what this was about, Carlyle relaxed a little.
‘And did you?’
‘No.’ Carlyle smiled at Brown, who stared grimly back at him. ‘Have you guys not seen the reports?’
‘She’s in hospital,’ said Brown.
‘As far as I’m aware,’ Carlyle said, as casually as he could manage, ‘she was fine when she left this station.’
Brown folded his arms and leaned against the wall. ‘She’s in intensive care.’
Carlyle squeezed the juice bottle tightly, saying nothing. The room was hot and stuffy, but now was not the time to get up and try to open a window. In the breast pocket of his jacket, his phone started vibrating. That would be Dominic, but now was not the time to answer it. In fact, now was not the time to do anything but sit very still and listen.
‘Someone tried to run her over last night,’ Brown continued.
‘So?’
‘So,’ Chan replied, trying and failing to keep a grin from his face, ‘she says that it was you.’
TWENTY-FOUR
After a further twenty minutes, Chan and Brown departed. Carlyle had explained that firstly, he didn’t know how to drive, and secondly his wife could provide him with an alibi for the time when Sandra Groves was suffering a vehicular assault. The pair didn’t seem particularly concerned by what he had to say one way or another and, after mumbling the usual stuff about being back after making further enquiries, they left him sitting alone in the conference room, wondering what to do next.
The first thing he did was check his voicemail. As expected, it was Dominic Silver: John, it’s me. I thought you were definitely going to pick up? Anyway, don’t call me back. I’m busy this afternoon. I’ll try you again tonight.
It took Carlyle a moment to remember what he had called Dominic about in the first place, even though it was barely an hour ago. When he remembered, it didn’t seem so much of a priority any more. Standing up, he dropped his empty juice bottle into a bin in one corner of the room. Then he unfolded the newspaper and laid it out on the table. Reading the full headline, he grimaced:
TELEVISION PRESENTER FOUND DEAD AT HER FLAT
With a sick feeling in his stomach, he read on:
Leading London television presenter Rosanna Snowdon was found dead at her flat in Fulham early this morning. She had fallen down some stairs and it is believed she suffered a broken neck, as well as arm and head injuries. The police have declined to comment, but at this stage, sources suggest that foul play has not been ruled out.
Under a picture of Reith Mansions, the block where Rosanna had lived, the rest of the article consisted of filler about her career-history and her personal life. Thinking back to their meeting, Carlyle reread the article. If she fell down the stairs, maybe it was an accident. But if the police hadn’t ruled out something more sinister then they must have some serious doubts.
There was no reference in the paper to the stalker that Rosanna had been worried about. Carlyle tried and failed to recall the guy’s name. Perhaps he was involved? Refolding the paper, he dropped it back on the table.
Should he have taken her concerns more seriously?
Could he have stopped this?
As usual, there were lots of questions and no answers.
‘John,’ he whispered to himself as he left the room, ‘this is really not looking like it’s going to be a great day.’
Under the circumstances, Carlyle decided that it would be sensible to make himself scarce, for a while at least. That meant switching off his work mobile and getting out of the station for the rest of the afternoon. Deciding to head for the one place where he knew that he wouldn’t be disturbed, he took the keys to the Mills flat from his desk and headed for the street. Once outside, he walked slowly up through Covent Garden to Ridgemount Mansions, taking care to avoid any more arguments with bus drivers, protestors or anyone else on his way there.
Stepping inside, however, he realised that coming back to the flat had been a bad idea. The place had not been aired for a fortnight. The heat was oppressive and the atmosphere was rank. Closing