‘Clara, it’s Helen. Hi! How are the boys? Good, yes, we’re all fine.’ She looked over at Carlyle and grinned. ‘Yes, he’s still a policeman. I know, I’m giving up hope of him ever getting a proper job.’
Carlyle made a face and she stuck her tongue out at him.
‘Look, Clara, sorry to interrupt lunch, but I just wanted to check something quickly. Have you ever heard of an organisation called Daughters of Dismas — Dismas. They’re a kind of international church campaign against poverty. What I need to know is whether a woman called…’
‘Agatha Mills,’ Carlyle chipped in.
‘Whether a woman called Agatha Mills is a member. I think it’s quite urgent, that’s why I’ve rung. That’s very kind of you. Yes, on the mobile. Speak soon — bye!’
Clara? Carlyle couldn’t place her, but that was no great surprise. He only paid the vaguest attention to Helen’s network of friends, acquaintances, colleagues and contacts, which was far bigger than his own. ‘Who was that?’ he asked.
‘No one who would ever be prepared to talk to you,’ Helen said sweetly, scanning the menu. ‘Professionally speaking, of course.’
‘That doesn’t narrow it down much,’ Carlyle grinned. ‘Fancy a pudding?’
‘Just a green tea for me,’ she replied, ‘but if you’ve got your eye on the chocolate doughnuts, don’t let me stop you.’
The waitress cleared the table. With some effort, Carlyle restricted himself to a double espresso. The drinks arrived within a few minutes and he was on his first sip when Helen’s mobile started vibrating on the table. She pressed it to her ear. ‘Clara? My goodness, that was quick. Yes, all right… interesting. Look, thanks a million for coming back to me so quickly. If I need anything else on this, can I give you a call? Lovely. Thanks again. Speak soon. Bye!’
She ended the call and dropped the phone back into her bag.
‘Well?’ he asked.
‘Well, well, Inspector,’ she grinned, taking a sip of her tea. ‘You might be on to something after all. Not only was Agatha Mills a member of Daughters of Dismas, she even worked for them for a couple of years.’
‘Here, in London?’
‘In Chile.’
Fuck, Carlyle thought, that is interesting.
Taking another mouthful of tea, Helen hauled her bag on to her shoulder and stood up. ‘I’ve got to get back to work,’ she said, reaching over the table to plant a kiss on his forehead. ‘Try and get home early tonight.’
‘I will.’
‘Good,’ she said, edging between the tables. ‘Thank you for lunch. You can pay, as I think I’ve earned it.’
Having duly paid the bill, Carlyle took the tube back to Tottenham Court Road and walked down towards Charing Cross police station. Turning into William IV Street, he was surprised to see the road cordoned off, with a small crowd milling by the police tape. Stepping past the gawkers and ducking under the tape, he flashed his warrant card at a young-looking WPC that he didn’t recognise.
‘What’s going on?’ Carlyle asked.
‘I’m not sure, sir,’ said the flustered officer, ‘but everyone was ordered out of the building about an hour ago.’ She nodded in the direction of the Ship and Shovel on the corner. ‘Most of them have gone down the pub.’
That figures, Carlyle thought. Feeling a hand on his shoulder, he turned around.
‘Hello, boss.’ Joe Szyszkowski returned the hand to his jacket pocket and rocked gently on his heels.
‘What’s going on?’ Carlyle repeated.
‘It’s Dennis Felix.’
‘Who?’
‘The bongo player in the piazza.’ Joe pulled him away from the WPC, so they were now standing in the middle of the empty road. ‘Apparently,’ he said in a stage whisper, ‘he’d contracted anthrax.’
Carlyle scratched his head. ‘Jesus!’
‘Quite. They reckon that he must have caught it from the animal skins he used on his bongo drums.’
‘Unlucky,’ said Carlyle, trying to dredge up some information from the recesses of his brain about what anthrax was and how exactly you caught it. As far as he could recall, you inhaled spores, but what that might have to do with animal skins, he had no idea. Bloody hell! He suddenly wondered — could he have caught it too? As far as he could recall, he hadn’t actually touched the drums, but had got reasonably close to take a look. As casually as he could manage, he rubbed his throat and gave a little cough. Maybe he was feeling a bit under the weather today?
‘They’ve sent in a couple of guys wearing biohazard suits,’ Joe continued, oblivious to his boss’s personal medical concerns, ‘to collect the bongos from the evidence locker. The station was evacuated about half an hour ago.’
‘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.’