The boy grunted. Carlyle took that as a yes – or maybe a no? – and wandered off.
He reached the ground floor to find the café shuttered. Inevitably, his stomach complained loudly. Carlyle issued a curse under his breath which got him a censorious look from an old woman shuffling by with the help of a walking frame. For a moment, he stood there unable to decide what to do next. Finally, he strode through the main doors and headed down Westminster Bridge Road, in search of some sustenance.
A greasy spoon that catered for cab drivers and other servants of the twilight economy allowed the inspector to refuel with a fried-egg roll, a jam doughnut and a double espresso. Half an hour later, he strolled back into the hospital carrying a small latte for Joyce. After another couple of minutes waiting for the lift, he reached the third floor. Walking into Groves’s room, he saw Joyce slumped face-down over the bed. Stepping closer, he could see a small hole where the boy had been shot in the back of the head. The stench indicated that he’d voided his bowels, and a pool of urine had collected at his feet.
‘Jesus Christ Almighty,’ the inspector groaned, ‘what a fucking mess.’ With his legs turning to jelly, he had to force himself to step closer to the bed. Careful not to disturb anything, he made himself look at the pulverized face of Sandra Groves lying on a pillow stained black with blood. Shot several times in the face, she was, to all intents and purposes, no longer recognisable, no longer obviously human. Carlyle’s gaze followed the blood splatter, his eyes stopping on a clump of hair and skin that had stuck to the wall above the bed. He felt sick to his stomach.
‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbled, for his own benefit rather than anything else. Taking a couple of deep breaths, he swallowed the bile in his throat and waited for the risk of his meal regurgitating to subside. Quickly, he took in the rest of the scene. The machines that Groves was still hooked up to stood silently by her bed, their screens blank. The killer had been careful to switch them off, to stop the alarm going off when her vital organs stopped functioning. On the bed, by Joyce’s head, lay a small semi-automatic pistol. Carlyle took out his mobile phone and called the front desk at Charing Cross. This business wouldn’t fall to them, but if he didn’t get things started on the right foot, Carlyle knew that he could be in for an even longer night than the one he was already facing.
Sensing movement behind him, he swivelled round to confront the Ward Sister. ‘What in the name of . . . ?’ She tried to look beyond him, at the mess in the corner, so he shuffled a couple of steps sideways in a half-hearted attempt to block her view.
They were distracted from this stand-off by some movement from the bed nearest the door. A head emerged from under the covers, followed by a bony finger which pointed at the inspector. ‘It was him! It was him!’ the patient yelled through her a drug-induced haze. ‘He did it!’
The Sister looked at Carlyle cautiously, unsure of whether she should stand her ground or run for help. Bouncing on the balls of her feet, she looked ready to bolt, but his accuser’s glassy, unfocused eyes gave her pause. The woman was so out of it, it was amazing she even realised that a shooting had occurred. Holding up a hand, Carlyle issued precise instructions over the phone, speaking loudly enough for the Ward Sister to understand that he had the situation under control.
Ending the call, he held the Sister’s gaze. She was a chunky, no-nonsense-looking blonde, maybe ten years younger than he was. Not a bad-looking woman but, you could clearly see, well on the way to being crushed by the daily grind. Excitement like this she could do without. ‘The police . . .’ Carlyle started. ‘More police will be here in a couple of minutes, along with a team of technicians and a pathologist – the usual crew.’
‘Yes,’ the Sister replied, her voice shaking just a little.
‘Make sure that they are shown straight here.’
The woman nodded.
‘In the meantime,’ Carlyle told her, ‘I don’t want anyone passing up and down that corridor outside.’
‘I understand,’ the Sister said, more composed now. She half-turned and then stopped. ‘What about the others?’ She gestured at the other beds occupying the room. The woman who had pointed the finger at Carlyle had retreated back under her sheets; the other patient was snoring away happily, as she had been when he had first arrived. Either she was the world’s soundest sleeper, Carlyle reckoned, or she was on some truly excellent medication.
He made a snap judgement. ‘Leave them where they are for the moment. We’ll need to talk to them. But I’ll make sure you can get them moved as soon as possible.’
‘Okay.’ She turned and swiftly left the room.
After she had gone, Carlyle stepped away from the murder scene and took the lid off Joyce’s coffee. He sipped it carefully. It was at best lukewarm now, but it was strong and it tasted good. He certainly wasn’t going to throw it away. ‘Waste not, want not,’ he said to no one in particular. ‘After all, this is going to be a long night.’
In the end, Carlyle spent almost four hours hanging around the hospital corridor before he was able to go home. It had taken a couple of hours for his new pals, Nick Chan and Greg Brown, to show up, and another hour before they were ready to talk to him. As far as Carlyle was concerned, that was fine. On this occasion, he would have to be professional courtesy and co-operation personified. For a start, he knew that he had a bit of explaining to do. Chan and Brown could really drop him in it if they wanted to. He could appeal to their goodwill but Carlyle knew that was not a good idea. Otherwise, all he could do was share his thoughts on a possible connection with the Agatha Mills killing and see if that might spark their imaginations.
‘Sounds like a load of rubbish to me,’ Brown snorted, after he had talked them through it.
Carlyle looked to Chan.
Chan shook his head. ‘“Rubbish” is the polite way of putting it.’
Recognising the reasonableness of their reaction, Carlyle gave a shrug. ‘The late Mr Joyce here sent a text to someone before I went off to the café, to check if Mills was part of the same group as his girlfriend. Did he get a reply?’
‘Let me see.’ Brown wandered off.
Chan watched him go and turned to Carlyle. ‘The gun is an Israeli semi-automatic, the Jericho 941, about fifteen years old. Not very common in this country.’
‘Not very common at all,’ Carlyle agreed.
Brown reappeared. ‘No texts for Mr Joyce this evening, but we can try and track down the recipient of the message he sent.’
‘Good.’ Chan turned away from his colleague to face Carlyle. ‘Inspector,’ he said, ‘you can go home now. We’ll be in touch.’
‘Fine,’ said Carlyle as he headed towards the main lifts. ‘You know where to find me.’
TWENTY-SEVEN
Carefully balancing a fragile but expensive-looking cup and saucer on his knee, Carlyle sat quietly waiting for Claudio Orb to take a sip of his own tea. High on the wall to Carlyle’s left was a large photograph of a Chanel-clad woman who presumably was the current Chilean President. From behind the Ambassador, light flooded in through the French windows opening on to a small balcony which looked over the busy square just outside.
He had arrived almost on a whim. When Henry Mills had walked out in front of that van, his case had apparently solved itself. It could be easily put to bed, and no one would give it another thought. Sandra Groves was Chan’s problem. Carlyle could put his feet up for a while and wait for the next pile of shit to come along. Being a restless soul, however, he knew that he wouldn’t be able to leave it alone. The sense that there was more to this than met the eye was lodged in his brain. It was a feeling that he’d experienced many times before. He hated the idea of being taken for a ride – whether it was due to professional pride or personal vanity – and he wasn’t minded to let things drop just yet.