Never Apologise, Never Explain - James Craig [90]
‘Inspector Carlyle? This is Fiona Singleton from Fulham.’ The words came out quickly, as if she was trying to get them out before he could stop her.
Shit, Carlyle thought.
‘I’ve been trying to get hold of you for a few days now,’ Singleton continued. ‘I left you a couple of messages at Agar Street . . .’
‘Ah, yes,’ Carlyle said keeping his voice low and his eyes on the coffins, which were now being carried inside the mausoleum. ‘Apologies for that. We’ve been having a few problems at Charing Cross.’
‘Yes,’ said Singleton sympathetically, ‘the anthrax thing. It must have caused quite a scare.’
‘Not really,’ Carlyle replied. Singleton’s tone caused him to relax a bit; at least she wasn’t giving him a hard time for not returning her call. ‘It was probably all a rather OTT, to be honest.’ Phillips was right; it had all been a twenty-four-hour wonder. No one had been discovered with any symptoms and even Dave Prentice had been given a clean bill of health. The station had returned to normal the next day.
‘Anyway,’ said Singleton, ‘you know why I’m ringing?’
‘Yes,’ Carlyle said, looking back down the slope. The rain had stopped, for the moment at least. Agatha and Henry Mills had been laid to rest and the mourners were already beginning to drift away. If he was going to get anything useful from this trip, he had to get going. ‘Look,’ he said hastily, ‘I’m at a funeral right now. Can I call you back in an hour or so?’
‘I suppose,’ Singleton sighed, resigning herself to being fobbed off yet again.
‘Okay, thanks.’ Carlyle ended the call and walked back round the tree towards the mausoleum. The funeral directors were standing patiently by their hearse, waiting for the last of the mourners to begin making their way back to the front gate. They watched Carlyle amble by, saying nothing.
The inspector stopped a couple of yards beyond their Volvo, watching the scattered groups of people heading down the road. What was he looking for here? Someone who looked as if she might be a member of Daughters of Dismas? Someone who looked Chilean? Someone who might know Sandra Groves? Distracted by the phone call from Singleton, his mind seemed unable to focus on the matter in hand. Thoughts of Rosanna Snowdon began monopolising his brain. It struck him that there had been nothing more of substance in the newspapers about her death. He was surprised that the stalker hadn’t been arrested yet. Not for the first time, he wondered if he should feel guilty about his failure to help Rosanna at the time, but once again concluded that there wasn’t much he could have done anyway. As his minded wandered, he also wondered what he was going to say to Fiona Singleton, and what he was going to have for lunch – but not necessarily in that order.
Trying to snap out of his funk, Carlyle set his gaze on a pair of women – perhaps a mother and daughter – walking thirty yards further down the road. He had just resolved to talk to them when he became aware of someone arriving by his shoulder. He turned to face a tanned, handsome man wearing an expensive-looking raincoat, which he wore over a classic black suit, with a white shirt and a black tie. The overall effect was of someone who had just stepped out of an Armani advert. The man was holding out his hand, so Carlyle shook it.
‘Matias Gori.’
You’ve shaved off the beard, Carlyle thought. ‘Inspector John Carlyle.’
‘Yes,’ Gori smiled, ‘I know.’
That’s enough of a preamble, you smug git, Carlyle thought. ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked abruptly.
Gori lowered his eyes, but retained the smile. ‘The Ambassador told me you wanted to speak to me. He also wished the Embassy to pay our respects to the Mills family.’ He gestured to a large wreath propped up against the entrance to the mausoleum. Attached to the front of it was a message in Spanish – con más sentido pésame – which Carlyle didn’t understand, but he got the drift. Carlyle recalled the funeral notice – No flowers. Please