Never Apologise, Never Explain - James Craig [92]
‘But you must have a view?’
Gori sighed theatrically. ‘For what it’s worth, I think that one should always look forwards, rather than back.’
How very convenient, Carlyle thought. ‘Were you involved in what happened back then?’
‘In 1973?’ Gori frowned. ‘I was barely two years old.’
‘But your family?’ Carlyle persisted.
‘Not really.’
Not really? It was a yes or no question, Carlyle thought angrily.
‘No more so than anyone else,’ Gori added. ‘Anyway, as I said, we are the kind of people who look to the future, Inspector. We do not wallow in the vagaries of the barely remembered past.’
They reached the front gate. It was starting to rain again, and Carlyle faced a long walk down Cedar Road in search of a bus stop. Gori pulled something out of his pocket and aimed it at the gleaming grey Mercedes sports car parked on a double yellow line across the road. The car beeped noisily as the doors unlocked. ‘I would offer you a lift, Inspector,’ he said, glancing at the leaden skies, ‘but I’m going the opposite way.’
‘Don’t worry,’ replied Carlyle through gritted teeth as he felt a fat raindrop land directly on the crown of his head. He forced what he hoped was something approaching a nonchalant grin onto his face. ‘One last thing, though?’
‘Yes?’ said Gori, stepping quickly over towards his car.
‘Do you know a woman called Sandra Groves?’
In one fluid movement, Gori pulled open the car door and slid inside. He looked past Carlyle as if wishing for the heavens to open up completely. An increasingly rapid procession of raindrops bounced off the windshield and he licked his lips. ‘No,’ he said finally. ‘Should I?’
‘No,’ said Carlyle, getting ready to beat a hasty retreat to the gatehouse. ‘Thank you for your time. And give the Ambassador my regards.’
But Gori had already slammed the car door shut and put the car into gear. As Carlyle watched the Mercedes pull away, the rain became heavier. Within seconds, he was soaked to the skin. Giving up the search for shelter, he began slowly walking down the road.
TWENTY-NINE
Sitting in her office on the twelfth floor of the ugly 1960s office block that was invariably described as ‘Britain’s most intimidating police station’, Commander Carole Simpson held her head in her hands as she fought back the urge to burst into tears. Things were not going according to plan. Without doubt, this was turning into the worst day of her life.
In the basement below, one of her assistants was giving a small group of select journalists a guided tour of the station’s special cells for terrorist suspects, which had just been refurbished at a cost of half a million pounds. With brown paper lining the walls – to ensure that suspects would not come into contact with anything that they could later claim contaminated them – and facilities for watching films and listening to music, this project had been Simpson’s baby. She had managed it well, and today was supposed to see her reward for getting the work finished on time and (more or less) on budget, as well as her putting up with all the moaning from anti-Terror officers that these new arrangements were too luxurious for some of Britain’s most wanted criminals.
Never shy when it came to personal publicity, Simpson had been looking forward for several weeks to another all-too-fleeting moment in the media spotlight. The Commander had come to understand that she had to work hard for her ‘share of voice’ in the media, and no opportunity to promote the personal Simpson brand could be passed up. Building a profile was essential if she was to keep climbing up the Met hierarchy. All through her career, she had seen journalists as allies.
Not any more.
Now she was shark chum.
That morning, just before 6 a.m., she had been rudely awakened by a couple of burly, unshaven men hammering on the front door of her Highgate home. Always a light sleeper, Simpson jumped out of bed, cursing her husband, who was happily snoring away. Pulling back the curtains, she opened the window and stuck her head out.
‘Bugger off,’ she