Drumming her fingers on the desk, the Commander tried to force herself to think. The family lawyer, a former Government prosecutor called John Lucas who charged an astonishing?800 an hour, was currently meeting with Joshua at Kentish Town police station (at least they hadn’t brought him here, to Paddington!). Once that was over, Simpson would need to speak to Lucas in order to get a full debriefing. In the meantime she could only wait.
At no time did it cross her mind that Joshua might be innocent. Now it was all about the process. In her head Simpson could hear the gears of the system grinding into action. For the first time in her life, she was on the wrong side of the law. She felt chilled and helpless.
Slowly, the shock gave way to frustration and anger at her husband. As she had feared, Joshua had been laid low by a toxic mixture of his greed and his hubris. It was that letter, she thought, that bloody letter: Farewell, you suckers! Full of arrogance and spite, it had been good for a couple of amusing diary stories in the Financial Times, but ultimately served only to annoy some very important investors, the kind of people who could bring you down. Carole felt the tears begin to well up again. If Joshua really thought he could close his business down and get out without anyone realising that there was a huge black hole, he must have been crazy. Then again, he must have been crazy to create the black hole in the first place.
When the phone rang, it made her jump. She let it ring until it stopped. A few seconds later, her secretary, a temp who had started only the day before, nervously stuck her head round the door.
‘Commander? It’s the Mayor on the phone,’ the girl said, ploughing on in the face of her boss’s apparent catatonia. ‘He says he wants a word. It sounds quite important.’
Without waiting for a reply, the girl disappeared. A couple of seconds later, the phone started ringing again. Simpson slowly picked up the receiver. ‘Hello?’
‘Carole?’
Simpson forced herself to sit up straight in her chair. ‘Yes?’
‘It’s Christian Holyrod.’
She tried to think back to the last time they’d met. It was less than a fortnight ago at City Hall, at a reception followed by a fundraising dinner. Joshua had spent a ridiculous amount of money for their table. Holyrod had been very amiable to them that night, talking about his plans to move into national politics. He had even hinted — hinted heavily once he got stuck into the Scotch — about his plans for a long-awaited assault on Downing Street. He outlined his ‘medium-term campaign strategy’ for replacing Edgar Carlton as Prime Minister, but it was clearly becoming more short-term all the time. The party had been in government for a while now, and support was waning. Holyrod was not the only one with his eyes on the top job. Diehards like Joshua — rich supporters who could bankroll a leadership bid — were more courted than ever as rival factions prepared for battle.
All that seemed a very long time ago now. ‘Yes, Mr Mayor?’ she sniffed. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘Look, Carole, I’m very sorry to hear about this… thing with Joshua.’ Holyrod sounded embarrassed and distracted; there were voices in the background, as if he was at a lunch. ‘I’m sure that it is just a misunderstanding — a malicious complaint.’
‘Let’s hope so.’
‘I’m sure it is,’ Holyrod said soothingly. ‘You know what it’s like these days. Everyone’s hypersensitive about the least suggestion of anything whiffy. We’re just copying the Americans in that, like we do in all things. Any over-zealous investigator out there is constantly looking for the next big scalp.’
‘That man in America got a hundred and fifty years,’ Simpson whispered, trying to choke back a sudden sob. ‘A hundred and fifty!’
‘Yes, well,’ the Mayor replied, ‘that won’t happen here. I know that Joshua is as straight as they come.’
I wish I did, thought Simpson. ‘Thank you.’
The noise in the background died away as Holyrod apparently sought out a quiet corner. ‘I invested some money with him myself,’ he mused.
Past tense, Simpson noted.
‘He looked after me very nicely,’ the Mayor continued.
So that’s what you’re worried about, Simpson thought; the idea that this could come back and bite you on the bum. ‘That’s good.’
‘Yes, I was bit surprised when he decided to call it a day, but there’s nothing wrong with quitting while you’re ahead. More people should do so, in fact.’
‘Yes.’
‘Anyway, give him my best when you speak to him.’
‘I will. Thank you.’
‘And if there is anything I can do to help, let me know.’
‘I will.’
There was a pause.
‘There was one other thing that I wanted to talk to you about,’ the Mayor said.
‘Yes?’
‘Mrs Agatha Mills.’
Given the day’s events, Simpson took more than a moment to place the name.
‘The lady who lived near the British Museum,’ the Mayor prompted gently.
‘The woman bludgeoned to death by her husband?’
‘That’s the one,’ Holyrod said quickly. ‘Where are you with that business? Has the investigation been completed? Is the case closed?’
Simpson didn’t care to admit that she didn’t know. She quickly focused on what she did know. ‘The husband clearly did it. Then he walked out in front of a car — or rather, a van if I remember rightly.’ As the words came out, she felt a chill. Joshua had to be under at least as much stress as Henry Mills had been. Could he react in a similar way? No, she reassured herself. Whatever else happened, he wasn’t the kind of man to try and kill himself. She was sure of that. Fairly sure, at least.
She snapped out of her reverie. ‘The case is closed.’
‘Good,’ the Mayor said cheerily. ‘Would it be possible to see a copy of the final report?’
‘Well…’ The last thing Simpson needed right now was to be discovered playing fast and loose with official police files.
‘Discretion assured, of course.’
She thought it through a little more. What the hell, it wasn’t as if the hole she was already in could get any deeper. Maybe some goodwill in the Mayor’s office could be helpful in the coming weeks. ‘Of course. I’ll get something sent over.’
‘Thank you,’ the Mayor replied. ‘And be sure to give my best to Joshua.’
The line went dead before she could reply. Simpson carefully returned the handset to its cradle. Why was the Mayor so interested in the Mills case? And why hadn’t she yet seen a copy of the final report herself? Getting up from the desk, she stepped out of her office, surprising her secretary who was engrossed in a copy of some wretched celebrity magazine. Simpson raised her eyebrows at the headline — summer liposuction special — but didn’t comment. The secretary dropped the magazine into her bag and looked up expectantly.
Simpson tried to summon up her usual authoritative tone. ‘Get me Inspector Carlyle on the phone.’
THIRTY
Looking like a drowned rat, Carlyle had gone straight home from the cemetery. After a hot shower, some fresh clothes and lunch at Il Buffone, he felt much better, both mentally and physically, but without any real desire to venture towards the station. Ordering a second double macchiato to prolong his stay in the cafe, he felt his phone start to vibrate. Seeing that the call was from his sergeant, he answered.
‘Have you seen the paper?’ Joe began excitedly, sounding like a naughty schoolboy in possession of his first porn mag.
‘Which one?’
‘The Standard.’
‘Hold on a second.’ Carlyle turned to Marcello, the only other person still in the cafe at this late time. ‘Have you got tonight’s paper yet?’