Time of Death

by James Craig

  If ever there was a girl who could look after herself . . . Carlyle thought. For once, he managed to keep his mouth shut and this thought to himself.

  ‘My boyfriend reckons it’s a joke,’ she continued, ‘but it’s not like it’s his problem. Anyway, he’s rarely about.’ She reached across the table and touched the back of Carlyle’s hand. ‘This is really stressing me out.’

  Instinctively moving away, Carlyle sat back in his chair. Ignoring his feelings of discomfort, he concentrated on trying to empathise. ‘I can understand.’

  ‘Josh confronted the guy one morning, but he just kind of shuffled off. He disappeared for a few days, but then he came back.’

  The boyfriend was Josh Harris, an England rugby player. One of those guys who was as broad as he was tall. He was a lock or a prop or something. Carlyle knew nothing about rugby, it being too middle-class for his tastes – just another one of those sad minority-interest sports that wasn’t football. He had, however, seen the pair of them once or twice in the party pages of one of the free newspapers. Helen had teased him about his ‘celebrity friend’. For some reason, he felt embarrassed about it.

  ‘Have you spoken to the police?’ he asked.

  ‘You are the police,’ she pouted.

  ‘I mean formally.’

  ‘Yes. I had a formal meeting with a Sergeant Singleton, a woman, at Fulham police station.’

  ‘Fulham?’ Carlyle repeated.

  ‘That’s where I live.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘I gave her copies of the letters.’

  ‘Do you have them with you?’ Carlyle asked.

  ‘Of course.’ Snowdon stuck a hand into her large tan shoulder bag, and pulled out a small bundle of envelopes held together with a red elastic band. She pulled off the band and handed the bunch of letters to Carlyle.

  ‘Thanks.’ He made a show of studying the envelopes. A couple of the postmarks were too smudged, but the rest had all clearly been sent via the same SW7 sorting office, suggesting, perhaps, that the guy was a local resident. Carefully removing each letter from its envelope, he laid everything out on the table. They were all written in blue biro on the same cheap, thin, white A5 paper. The handwriting was neat, but laboured, like that of a ten year old, making the sentiments seem all the more inappropriate. After what he hoped was a period of decent consideration, he replaced them all in their envelopes and handed them back to Snowdon.

  ‘What did Sergeant . . .’ His mind went blank.

  ‘Singleton.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘She said that they would act on any complaint.’

  ‘So,’ Carlyle asked, ‘did you make one?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Two reasons.’ She sat up in her chair, flicking a strand of loose hair from her eyes. ‘First of all, I didn’t think it would make much difference.’

  It was a reasonable assumption. Information prised from the Metropolitan Police Force by journalists, using the Freedom of Information Act, suggested that half of reported crimes were ‘screened out’ (i.e. ignored) on the grounds that they were unlikely to be solved. Even someone like Rosanna Snowdon was unlikely to get much joy from the system when it came to such a low-key problem as this.

  ‘And secondly,’ she continued, ‘I don’t want the publicity.’

  Carlyle stared at her and raised his eyebrows.

  She made a face. ‘Really. It would not be good for my image for this business to come out.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  She looked at him, as if not wanting to have to spell it out.

  He waited.

  ‘It would make me look weak,’ she said finally, ‘like a silly girl. Serious journalists don’t get stalked by fans.’ She thought about this last statement. ‘Serious journalists don’t have fans, full stop.’

  Carlyle nodded as sympathetically as he could manage. Were there any ‘serious’ journalists any more? he wondered privately. Chained to a desk, churning out the same stories as everyone else, while anyone who could be bothered to read their stories could do it first, and for free, on the Internet; surely you were either just a hack drone or a celebrity ‘face’ these days? Both of them knew which one was the better option.

  She reached back into her bag and pulled out a mobile. ‘I have a couple of pictures of the guy that I took on my phone.’ She hit a few buttons and handed it over to Carlyle.

  There were three images showing a weary, unshaven and slightly overweight middle-aged bloke, wearing a jacket and a jumper. He looked pretty vacant and totally nondescript. ‘Why don’t you send me one of those?’ he said, handing back the handset.

  ‘Fine.’ She hit a couple more keys and a few moments later, he felt a familiar buzzing in his pocket.

  ‘Anything else?’ he asked.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Emails, phone calls, threats . . . anything like that?’

  ‘No. I’ve asked him myself to go away a couple of times. He kind of trudges off a little way down the road, and then stands hovering under a street light or something.’

  Carlyle scratched his head, trying to think of what else she could tell him. ‘Has he ever asked you for anything?’

  ‘Like what?’

  He made a face. ‘Like . . . I dunno, an autograph?’

  ‘He’s never asked for anything,’ she smiled weakly, ‘other than my hand in marriage, that is.’

  Carlyle changed tack. ‘What else did the sergeant say?’

  ‘Nothing really. She said that the guy was probably harmless but that I should be vigilant and call 999 if he ever threatened me.’ For the first time this morning, she gave Carlyle some proper eye contact. ‘It wasn’t very reassuring, to be honest. I mean, it’s not like it hasn’t happened before.’

  ‘This has happened before?’ he asked, confused.

  ‘Not to me,’ Snowdon said. ‘But I’m not the first presenter to be targeted.’

  ‘Yes.’ Carlyle remembered the case, a decade or so earlier, of a newsreader who had been shot dead on the street. That had been in Fulham too, if he remembered correctly. Maybe all newsreaders lived down there. The place had certainly risen in the world since the days when young Master Carlyle had grown up there.

  ‘What a mess that was!’ Rosanna exclaimed.

  ‘The dark side of fame,’ Carlyle mused. ‘The thing is, Singleton’s advice is basically sensible.’ He knew that it wasn’t what she wanted to hear, but it was all he had.

  ‘Look,’ she said, trying to press him further, ‘I know you think that I am a bit of an autocutie airhead—’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘A pushy bimbo.’

  ‘No.’ He tried to put some conviction into his voice. ‘Of course not.’

  ‘All I want is to do my job and be left in peace, Inspector. That is reasonable enough, surely?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘It’s a quality-of-life issue. I know this guy is probably not such a big deal, but he is beginning to get to me.’

  ‘That’s understandable,’ Carlyle said. Reasonableness personified.

  She traced the lip of her glass with her right index finger. ‘And you owe me, remember?’

  Here we go, Carlyle thought. He had been waiting for this moment and nodded in acknowledgement.

  ‘Well,’ she told him, ‘if you can help me on this, it will make us even. More than even. You can come on London Crime any time you want, although not talking about this business, obviously. The new series starts next week and we could do with covering some decent cases for a change.’

  ‘I will do what I can,’ Carlyle smiled. ‘Don’t worry about the show – that’s not my kind of thing.’

  ‘God!’ She rolled her eyes to the ceiling, and he watched her breasts swell inside her blouse. ‘You must be the only cop in London who doesn’t want to get himself on telly.’

  He grimaced slightly, forcing his gaze back to eye level. ‘The way I see it, having to go on your show –
any show really – is an admission of failure.’

  ‘Not really.’ Rosanna half-lifted her mint tea to her lips and then returned it gently to the table. ‘All you are trying to do is use the medium to good advantage.’

  ‘But how often does it get results?’

  That stopped her in her tracks. ‘Well . . .’

  He wondered if she’d ever really thought about it before. It was just some cheap entertainment. So who cared if it actually caught any criminals? But he pushed these thoughts to one side; he wasn’t here to put her on the spot. ‘I’ve become slightly involved in the Jake Hagger case,’ he said, moving the discussion on. ‘It’s not one of mine, but I know the mother.’

  ‘Ah yes,’ she nodded, ‘the little boy who was snatched from the nursery by his father.’

  ‘Did you cover it?’ Carlyle asked.

  ‘No, we’ve been off air. But we could do it on the new series, if you wanted.’

  ‘I think it’s too late for that.’

  ‘Why?’ She looked at him carefully, happy to be talking now about someone else’s problems. ‘Do you think he’s dead?’

  Carlyle snorted. ‘Sometimes I wonder if I hope he’s dead.’

  ‘But . . .’ Slowly, a patina of understanding spread across her face ‘Oh God, that is so horrible!’

  Carlyle shrugged.

  ‘Maybe you are being too negative,’ Rosanna sniffed. ‘After all, child protection is not really your thing. A lot of kids get found. They reckon around five hundred children are abducted in Britain each year. Almost all are taken by a disaffected parent who wants custody. Not nice, but a lot different from the kind of thing you’re thinking about.’

  Carlyle looked down at his empty cup. ‘I’m no expert but, trust me, the last thing Michael Hagger wants is custody of his kid. He’s either tried to sell him or he’s used him in some other way in one of his business transactions.’

  ‘Urgh!’ She stuck a finger in her cold tea and stirred it aimlessly. ‘That makes my problem look a little pathetic, doesn’t it?’

  Yes, it does, Carlyle thought. ‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘But anything to do with kids is just the worst.’ He smiled. ‘When you become a mum, you’ll realise.’

  A rueful look passed over Rosanna’s face. ‘Josh would have kittens if he heard you talking about me having kids.’

  ‘Well,’ Carlyle said, feeling himself slip uneasily into father mode, ‘if I was ever talking to Josh about it, I would tell him that, when the time comes, the only thing that he should be worrying about is doing what he is told, stepping up to the plate and performing.’

  She blushed. ‘Inspector!’

  ‘It’s true,’ he grinned, pleased that he’d at least cheered her up a bit.

  ‘He wouldn’t be happy at all,’ she protested.

  He scanned the street outside and sat back in his chair. ‘Alternatively, I could send round a couple of guys with baseball bats – threaten to break his legs.’

  She laughed. ‘I presume you know plenty of people like that.’

  ‘I do,’ he said, trying not to sound too pleased about it.

  For a moment they sat in comfortable silence. Then she asked: ‘Do you think there is any chance of finding Jake Hagger?’

  Remember she’s a journalist, a little voice piped up in the inspector’s head. ‘Off the record?’

  ‘Of course.’

  He thought about it for a moment. ‘I think that there is as near to no chance as makes no difference.’

  ‘I see.’

  He glanced at his watch. It told him that he really should be getting back to the station and dealing with Henry Mills but, once again, for some reason the enthusiasm to do so just wasn’t there. For her part, Rosanna didn’t seem desperate to get off to work either. ‘So,’ he said finally, ‘how are your political chums? Spend a lot of time in Number Ten?’

  Spotting a woman acquaintance walking up the street, Rosanna waved to her, before returning her gaze to Carlyle. ‘I have been to Downing Street twice, as it happens. It was nice, but not exactly life-changing. I know the Prime Minister’s Director of Communications extremely well – I’m sure I could get you an invite there if you wanted.’

  I wonder what Simpson would make of that? Carlyle reflected. ‘Thanks. I’ll bear it in mind.’

  Rosanna leaned slightly over the table towards him. ‘To be honest, I think that they’re not finding it as much fun as they thought it was going to be.’

  The poor dears, Carlyle thought.

  ‘Edgar,’ she continued, ‘is finding it quite tough going. The poor chap is obsessed with the idea that he has been found out – as if you need to be a genius to be Prime Minister. Every time his poll ratings slip a bit further, he’s waiting for Christian to come through the door and steal his job.’

  ‘I would have thought the Mayor of London has enough on his plate as it is,’ Carlyle mused, keen to hear more.

  ‘Being the Mayor is not really a full-time job though, is it? Certainly not for a man of action like Christian. All you’ve really got any responsibility for is trying to stop the Tube drivers going on strike, which they do regardless, and implementing the congestion charge, which he wants to scrap anyway.’

  ‘So what does he do, then?’ Carlyle asked.

  Rosanna gave him those big eyes. ‘To be fair, Christian Holyrod is amazing. The job itself just isn’t big enough for him. Apart from anything else, he needs his own foreign policy; he’s a soldier right down to his DNA and he needs to operate on the biggest stage.’

  This all sounded like gibberish to the inspector. ‘I see.’

  ‘Since he’s got elected to City Hall, he really has achieved a lot.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Well, he’s successfully positioned himself as the number two politician in the country. He’s also built up his portfolio of non-executive directorships.’

  ‘Is that allowed?’

  ‘Of course it is. It’s vitally important that politicians keep in touch with the real world and see how business works. After all, that’s how wealth gets created.’

  I’ve often wondered about that, Carlyle said to himself.

  ‘And,’ Rosanna grinned, ‘if they’re earning good money outside, it makes it less necessary for them to have to fiddle their expenses.’

  ‘Good point,’ Carlyle laughed. ‘What kind of directorships does Holyrod have?’

  ‘Quite a range, I think. There’s a media company, agribusiness, aerospace . . .’

  ‘Interesting. Make sure you give Christian and Edgar my kind regards next time you see them.’

  Rosanna put a gentle hand on his forearm. ‘Inspector, don’t take this the wrong way, but I think that if either of them ever see you or hear of you ever again, it will be way too soon.’

  Recalling his previous run in with the politicians – an earlier case – Carlyle bowed modestly. ‘I wouldn’t have it any other way. I guess that means an invite to Downing Street is a non-starter.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ she said.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I could probably swing something. It would have to be for one of Edgar’s wife’s charity events, some time when he was out of the country.’

  Carlyle tried to look affronted. ‘It wouldn’t be the same, then.’

  She shook her head. ‘I think you just like causing trouble, Inspector.’ The smile vanished from her face. ‘Anyway, I must be going. Thank you for our talk.’

  ‘I will do what I can to help with your stalker,’ Carlyle promised. ‘Let me speak to Singleton and we’ll take it from there. Next time you see your guy, call me straight away.’

  ‘He’s not my guy,’ she shot back.

  He held up his hands in a conciliatory manner. ‘You know what I mean. Just call me.’

  ‘I’ll do that.’

  ‘The one thing that would be useful for me to have would be a surname. Maybe he’s in care or has a medical history. Maybe he’s not taking his medication. Maybe he just needs help.’


  ‘Mmm . . .’ She didn’t sound too convinced. After all, this was supposed to be about her needs, not those of the man who was stalking her.

  ‘Any further thoughts on that, or any other developments, let me know.’ He pushed his chair away from the table and stood up, wiping some crumbs from his trousers as he did so. ‘But don’t approach him directly. Keep your distance and don’t take any risks.’

  ‘Yes, sir!’ She gave him a mock salute and he was pleased to see a little of the old sparkle return to her eyes. Standing up, she hoisted the bag over her shoulder and dropped the sunglasses back on to her nose. Then she leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Thank you for this. I am very grateful. Just knowing that you are on the case is a big help.’

  On the case? Carlyle felt himself redden slightly. ‘It will b-be fine,’ he stammered as she turned for the door. ‘Let’s speak soon.’

  TWELVE

  A night in the cells had failed to encourage Henry Mills to change his story. He remained adamant that he had been soundly asleep while his wife was being brained in the kitchen of their flat. Neither disappointed nor particularly surprised by this answer, Carlyle formally charged him with murder and went back upstairs to sort out the paperwork. In a couple of hours, the Mills case would be off his desk and it would become someone else’s problem.

  He was waiting for his computer to start up when Joe Szyszkowski came by with a blue A4-sized folder under his arm.

  ‘What have you got?’ Carlyle asked, without preamble.

  Joe perched on the edge of the desk, opened the file and flipped through some sheets of paper. ‘It looks like he was telling the truth about the Chilean thing.’

  ‘Yeah?’ said Carlyle, looking at the somersaulting hourglass on his computer screen, not really caring any more.

  ‘Agatha Mills had a brother,’ Joe continued, ignoring his boss’s off-hand mood, ‘called William Pettigrew. They had a Chilean father and an English mother.’

  ‘Pettigrew? Doesn’t sound very Chilean to me.’

  ‘There’s a Scottish great-grandfather or great-great-grandfather in there somewhere,’ Joe explained. ‘There’s a strong Celtic influence, apparently. A whole bunch of Scottish farmers went over in the 1840s and 1850s. And the Chilean navy was formed by a Scot, Lord Cochrane, when they were fighting for independence from the Spaniards.’