Never Apologise, Never Explain - James Craig [87]
‘Jesus.’ Carlyle rubbed his throat more vigorously this time.
‘It’s caused quite a stir.’
‘I can imagine,’ Carlyle replied, worried about the little tickle he could now detect in his throat whenever he swallowed.
‘And Dave Prentice has been sent off to the hospital for a check-up.’
Prentice? What about me? Telling himself not to be such a big girl’s blouse, Carlyle considered how he had been the one who had told Prentice to bring the damn bongos back to the station. He couldn’t have known that they were a bloody health hazard, but if Prentice got sick or, God forbid, died, Carlyle could easily see how it could end up being his fault. He felt his pulse quicken slightly. ‘It can’t be that serious, can it?’
‘Nah,’ Joe replied, looking slightly less than completely convinced. ‘You know what these things are like – panic, scare people shitless, then walk away. It’s the usual drill.’
Let’s hope so, Carlyle thought.
‘Anyway,’ said Joe, ‘I think I’m going to call it a day. The missus is cooking a curry tonight. See you tomorrow.’
‘Okay, see you tomorrow.’ Carlyle watched Joe set off down the road and wondered what he himself should do next. He had reached no particular conclusion, when Joe stopped, turned and walked halfway back towards him.
‘I almost forgot,’ the sergeant shouted. ‘You had a call from a Fiona Singleton.’
Carlyle made a face indicating that the name hadn’t registered.
‘She’s a sergeant at Fulham,’ Joe explained.
Singleton, Carlyle now remembered, was the officer who had listened to Rosanna Snowdon’s complaint about her stalker, a loser called . . . Carlyle tried to recall the guy’s name from their meeting at Patisserie Valerie, but it was another detail that escaped him. Maybe anthrax made your memory go funny. ‘Did she say what it was about?’
‘No.’ Joe shook his head.
At least she’s discreet, Carlyle thought. He held up a hand to Joe. ‘Okay, I’ll give her a call. Thanks. See you tomorrow.’
‘Sure, no problem.’ Joe turned and headed off again. This time he kept going. Carlyle watched him disappear round the corner, then took his official work mobile out of his jacket pocket, found the number he wanted and listened to it ring. He was almost resigned to leaving a voicemail, when a real live person finally responded at the other end.
‘Hello?’
‘Susan?’
‘Ah, John,’ the woman laughed. ‘Let me guess, you are standing on Agar Street, wondering what the hell is going on?’
‘Actually,’ he told her, ‘I’m just round the corner wondering what the hell is going on.’
‘Not a bad guess, huh?’
‘Susan Phillips – so much more than just your everyday pathologist.’
‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’
‘It most definitely is a compliment. What the hell is going on? My sergeant tells me it’s an anthrax scare. Should I be running to find the nearest hospital or the nearest priest?’
‘Neither really,’ Phillips sighed, all laughter draining from her voice now. ‘What’s happening down there is a complete overreaction. Poor Mr Felix did indeed die as a result of inhaling anthrax, almost certainly transferred from the skins on his drums.’
‘How did he manage that?’
‘He was a guy who liked to travel and I’m guessing that he got the skins in Africa. It’s fairly common for animals to ingest or inhale the spores while grazing. Diseased animals can spread anthrax to humans. Maybe he ate the flesh or, more likely, inhaled some spores while putting the skins on the drums himself.’
‘Poor sod,’ said Carlyle, with feeling.
‘He was very, very unlucky,’ Phillips agreed. ‘It’s not unheard of, but the risk to anyone else has got to be negligible.’
‘So what’s with the boys in the Noddy suits?’ Carlyle asked.
‘Good question,’ Phillips replied. ‘Someone should have come along and quietly removed the evidence. Then I could have run some further tests and we could have kept an eye on anyone we thought might have had even a tiny chance of catching anything. Going into the station