Carlyle stood on the walkway that spiralled up the inside of the triangulated glass facade of City Hall, looking down into the foyer of the Greater London Assembly, while listening to the clink of glasses and the hum of polite conversation from below. He had been scanning the room for several minutes now, without being able to find any sign of Simpson or her husband. He had, however, seen the Mayor, Christian Holyrod, shoulder-to-shoulder with the man he assumed was the Chilean Ambassador, as they worked the room together.
The upper terrace had been closed off to the public for tonight’s event, so Carlyle found himself alone. As the Mayor stepped up on to a small raised platform to make some introductory remarks, Carlyle turned his back on the throng to take in the views over the river towards the Tower of London. For the next few minutes, he let his mind wander. An occasional phrase drifted up from the floor below but the words were no more than the usual trite nothings that accompanied events like this. He ignored them, as he watched the boats go by on the Thames, and reflected on his previous dealings with the Mayor.
Christian Holyrod was a Boy’s Own story made flesh. That alone would have been enough for Carlyle to be deeply suspicious of the man, even before they crossed swords on what turned out to be one of the more unpleasant cases he had recently had to deal with.
Before turning his hand to politics, Major Holyrod had commanded the 2nd Battalion of the Duke of Wellington’s Regiment (motto: Virtutis Fortuna Comes — Fortune Favours the Brave), one of the first British battle groups to go into action in Helmand Province in south-west Afghanistan, as part of Britain’s latest unsuccessful foray into the world’s most inhospitable country. His subsequent journey from unsung hero to big-time politician began when an American documentary crew arrived to film the story of Operation Clockwork Orange, a mission to capture a terrorist commander who had been hiding out in a mud compound in the middle of nowhere. The mission was a fiasco. Holyrod’s boys were ambushed and a swift retreat followed, leaving the target happily ensconced in his mountain lair, but the firefights and general chaos that followed made for great television. Shaky hand-held pictures of the major shouting ‘Contact, contact, contact!’ while squeezing off rounds from his SA80-A2 assault rifle and trying to drag a wounded squaddie back to his truck were as entertaining as anything that Hollywood could come up with. They made all the main news bulletins back home in Britain even before the show had aired in the US. For almost two days, it was the number one most-viewed video on YouTube, with more than 45 million hits around the world.
Holyrod became an instant celebrity. Within a fortnight, he was offered his own radio talk show, signed up to do a newspaper column, acquired an agent and had received more than a hundred offers of marriage.
Initially, the Ministry of Defence was more than happy to let a stream of journalists beat a path to his door, given their desperation for any kind of ‘good news’ out of a story that had been a complete disaster from day one. For his part, Holyrod quite enjoyed the attention, using this platform to argue that the MoD had seriously underestimated the task in hand, i.e. fighting the enemy. The tone of his interviews became more and more downbeat as he contemplated ‘the big picture’. After telling a very nice girl from the Sunday Express that ‘the whole thing’s gone to rats’, he was hauled back to London ‘for discussions’. His return to the front line was then cut short when he was caught on camera berating the Foreign Secretary, who was in the middle of a four-hour tour of the troops, about the lack of support from politicians back home for ‘his boys’.
Of course, the media had lapped it all up. Opinion polls suggested that Holyrod’s approval ratings were in the high eighties. No politician could live with him. The major’s window of opportunity had arrived. Now he had to decide what to do with it. It was at this point that the leader of the Opposition, Edgar Carlton MP, persuaded his old Cambridge University pal (and brother-in-law, for Christian had married Edgar’s sister, Sophia, some eight years earlier) to run for election as Mayor of London.
So it came to pass that Holyrod resigned from the Army, swapping his fatigues for a selection of very sharp Richard James suits. After six months campaigning under the party slogan Change that keeps changing he won a landslide victory, thus providing a template for Edgar Carlton’s first national government, which duly followed less than two years later.
It was during Edgar’s victorious General Election campaign that Carlyle had first come across both men. It was a nasty case, involving the deaths of several of their friends. With their stellar careers to protect, Carlton and Holyrod did not want the reason for the killings to be made public. All too predictably, the Metropolitan Police was no match for their united front. Although the case itself was nominally solved, the truth — or rather, the underlying facts of the case — never saw the light of day.
Having seen off this particular threat, the two men seemed to have cemented their political relationship. But the alliance was beginning to show signs of wear and tear. In Westminster village, Christian Holyrod was quickly identified as Edgar Carlton’s obvious successor and, therefore, his de facto rival.
Turning all this over in his head, Carlyle felt the familiar stab of anger and frustration that came when he thought about cases with too many loose ends. He remained deeply unhappy about what had happened, and still fretted over whether he could have dealt with it better. Above all, he still felt irritated at his inability to close the case properly, lay all the facts on the table and let all the principals take responsibility for their actions. As the investigation had reached its conclusion, Carlyle had attempted to pressure Holyrod into at least acknowledging what had taken place. But the Mayor was not going to be browbeaten by a lowly policeman, and he stood his ground.
A lowly policeman.
That was what rankled as much as anything. Being treated like the hired help. A gamma male who had stumbled into an alpha world.
One of the little people.
Well, now their paths had crossed again. Maybe belatedly there would be a chance to settle the score.
Frowning, the inspector leaned over the railing and looked down at the small crowd. Holyrod was speaking from notes written on pieces of card: ‘ Britain and Chile are two countries sharing a belief in fairness, democracy and freedom… ’ He paused, waiting for the smattering of polite applause which duly followed.
Carlyle yawned and glanced at his watch.
This evening, however, Holyrod chose to keep his remarks mercifully brief. After barely two minutes, he signed off with a reference to ‘our long-standing political, social and military links with Chile’, and invited his guests back to London to attend a conference called TEMPO, which was taking place in September. Acknowledging the further applause, he handed the microphone over to the Ambassador.
Being a diplomat rather than a politician, Claudio Orb’s remarks were even shorter and blander that those of Christian Holyrod. As the Ambassador stepped away from the microphone, to exactly the same applause as his host, Carlyle began making his way down towards the throng.
The free bar must have been closed before the speeches had started, because the place had pretty much cleared in the forty seconds or so that it took the inspector to descend the stairs. Passing the guests heading out, he made straight for the Mayor, who was still in discussion with the Ambassador and another man by the front of the stage.
Fixing a big smile on his face, Carlyle stepped up to Holyrod with his hand outstretched. ‘Mr Mayor,’ he said warmly, gratified to see that the former soldier had put on quite a few pounds. The extra weight didn’t suit him, for it looked as if he had gone in age from thirty-five to fifty-five in about twelve months. ‘How very nice to see you again.’
Holyrod broke off from his discussion and looked up. Recognising the policeman, he fought to keep a look of displeasure off his face. ‘Inspector…’ He shook Carlyle’s hand firmly, trying to step away from his guests at the same time. But Carlyle had deliberately boxed him in and he had no alternative but to remain at Orb’s side.
‘… Carlyle,’ he prompted. ‘Inspector John Carlyle, from Charing Cross police station.’
Holyrod scanned some interesting spot in the middle distance. ‘Yes, yes, of course.’
‘Nice speech,’ said Carlyle, looking at the Ambassador.
‘Thank you,’ Holyrod replied, even more concerned now lest he become Carlyle’s quarry.
Still grinning like an idiot, Carlyle returned his gaze to the Mayor. ‘I thought perhaps you could introduce us?’
‘Ah, yes,’ said Holyrod, looking unhappier by the second. ‘Mr Ambassador,’ he said stiffly, ‘this is Inspector John Carlyle of the Metropolitan Police.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Inspector.’ Claudio Orb extended a hand and flashed the smile of a man who had nothing to fear from London’s finest. He was a trim, dapper man in an elegant three-piece navy suit, white shirt and bright red tie. About 5 feet 8 inches, with a shock of white hair and bright blue eyes, he looked to be well into his seventies. I hope I age that well, Carlyle thought, knowing that it was extremely unlikely. He glanced at the much younger man standing next to Orb. At most in his late thirties, the guy looked fit and tanned. He had the most well-tended beard that Carlyle had ever seen. He made no attempt to introduce himself, so Carlyle, writing him off as some flunky, quickly returned his full attention to the Ambassador. ‘I was wondering if I could have a few minutes of your time, sir,’ he asked in his most deferential tone, ignoring the baleful glare coming from Holyrod.
‘Of course!’ Orb’s eyes twinkled with delight. Carlyle wondered if the Ambassador had had a few; maybe he was even a little drunk. ‘It would be my pleasure to help the police with their enquiries.’ He nodded to the others. ‘Excuse us, gentlemen.’ He took Carlyle’s elbow and began marching him back up the walkway, in the direction from which he had arrived. ‘Why don’t we step outside for a minute. I could do with some air.’
Out on the vast empty terrace, Carlyle felt the cool breeze from the river on his face and realised how stuffy it had been inside.
‘What a pleasant evening,’ Orb said, holding on to the rail and inhaling deeply. ‘It’s nice to enjoy some fresh air, is it not?’
‘Or as near to fresh as it gets in London,’ Carlyle replied.
‘Hah!’ The older man grinned. ‘You should try Santiago sometime.’ He looked the policeman up and down. ‘Have you ever been to Chile, Inspector?’
‘No.’
‘Ah, you should. It’s well worth a visit. I know I’m biased, but it’s a great country.’
‘Maybe one day.’ Carlyle shrugged.
‘So… what can I do for you?’ the Ambassador continued cheerily. ‘Ask and you shall receive, as they say. I’m already in your debt for saving me from your Mayor, if only for a short time.’
Carlyle laughed. ‘So he’s not to your taste either?’
‘No, no.’ Orb wagged an admonishing finger, ‘it’s not that. I’m a diplomat, so taste doesn’t come into it. And, in many ways, Mr Holyrod is a very admirable man. Apart from anything else, he was a fine soldier.’
‘But?’ Carlyle, relaxed about being distracted from what was, at best, a fishing exercise, was curious about the man’s opinion of the Mayor.
‘But he’s playing games with us a little bit.’
‘How so?’
‘The last time I looked,’ the Ambassador said gently, ‘I was Ambassador to the Court of St James’s, not to the Court of St Christian Holyrod. The Mayor wants to use people like us as he tries to develop his own mini-foreign policy on the side, while expanding his own business interests at the same time. He wants to be the next Prime Minister and needs to fill in gaps in his CV. That’s why he’s touting TEMPO.’
‘What is that?’ Carlyle asked.
‘TEMPO is a big arms fair, held in London every other year,’ Orb explained. ‘Chile has a successful military technology industry, so it is an important event for us. But we do not seek publicity.’
‘No?’
‘It should be a discreet place to do business. If Mayor Holyrod goes and turns the event into a political platform, well, that is not good for anyone.’
‘No,’ Carlyle agreed. He had never stopped to consider the problems faced by international arms dealers before, but he could see the Ambassador’s point.
‘Then there’s the whole question of conflict of interest,’ the Ambassador continued. ‘I thought that you British were always quite.. proper when it came to that kind of thing.’
‘What conflict of interest?’ Carlyle asked, trying not to sound too interested.
‘Christian Holyrod is a non-executive director of the company called Pierrepoint Aerospace.’
Carlyle shrugged, none the wiser.
‘“Aerospace”,’ Orb continued, ‘is a widely-used euphemism for “arms manufacturer” these days, Inspector. Sophisticated arms, true, but they still kill — when they work, that is. Holyrod is busy trying to drum up business for his company — and, no doubt commission for himself — at the same time as he’s supposed to be running this city.’
Carlyle made a face. ‘I thought that you had to give up outside interests like that when you took office?’
‘Apparently not,’ Orb sniffed.
‘And you think that’s wrong?’
‘It’s not my country.’ Orb held up a cautionary hand. ‘And it’s not my business. It would be wrong for me to express a view. Anyway, I have seen a lot worse activities in my time.’
Carlyle smiled. ‘I’m sure you have.’
‘I am just an amused observer.’
Watching a pleasure craft head upriver, Carlyle pondered what the Ambassador had said. ‘Are we talking about corruption here?’ he asked finally.
A gust of wind from the river blew across the terrace, and Orb shivered. ‘That is such a vague term,’ he said. ‘Look at it this way, there is no danger of him going to jail. All I’m saying is that I’ve been around a long time and there are certain ways of doing business. No one likes it when confronted with someone who is becoming too pushy.’
‘Isn’t that just the modern world in microcosm?’ Carlyle said.
‘You are absolutely right,’ Orb laughed. ‘Anyway,’ he took his hands from the rail and spread his arms wide, ‘you didn’t come here to listen to me being un diplomatic, Inspector. I am sure that you will ignore my indiscretion.’
Carlyle nodded. ‘Of course.’
‘The end of my career is looming,’ Orb said solemnly. ‘I don’t have to worry so much about my every utterance, but even so…’
‘I have no interest in causing you any embarrassment, sir,’ Carlyle said. ‘After all, that is not what I was seeking out your opinion on.’
‘Good,’ the Ambassador nodded. ‘Thank you. So… what is it that you want to talk about?’
‘Well,’ Carlyle looked at his shoes, which needed a polish, ‘I am conducting an investigation, which maybe has a Chilean angle, and I thought that you might be able to help me out with some advice.’
The Ambassador listened intently as Carlyle explained the Mills case, as well as the story of William Pettigrew and the belated attempt to bring his killers to justice. After the inspector had finished, he pondered for a while.
‘It sounds as if you have already done a good job, Inspector,’ Orb said eventually. ‘What help do you need from me?’
‘I was wondering whether there could be any credibility in Henry Mills’s claims about his wife having had enemies in Chile.’
‘We all have enemies.’
‘Enemies who might want her dead,’ Carlyle clarified.
Orb knitted his eyebrows, making him look older. ‘But I thought that the matter had been closed. You have charged the husband?’
‘Yes,’ he said, omitting to mention that the suspect was no longer on this earth.
Orb looked at him carefully. ‘Don’t you believe that he did it?’
Carlyle wasn’t going to share his personal concerns about the investigation with a man he had only just met. ‘I am just tying up some loose ends,’ he said, as casually as possible. ‘This is a very serious matter and I would not want a cynical defence lawyer to suggest that we had been less than thorough.’
‘Of course. Of course.’ Hand on chin, Orb struck a thoughtful pose. ‘I don’t know the particular individuals, obviously, but it is true that the particular chapter in our history to which you refer has not yet been fully closed. Plenty of people disappeared at that time, not just priests. Many of them have still not been found.’ He looked at Carlyle. ‘Can you imagine the anguish that must cause their families?’
Carlyle said nothing. That kind of pain, he didn’t want to imagine.
‘If, as you say,’ Orb continued, ‘there is a case like this coming to court back home, old wounds may well have been reopened. How could it be otherwise? We Chileans are only human, after all. It was a very difficult time.’
‘I understand.’
‘Look at the passions the Civil War in Spain still arouses, for example. That occurred a lot earlier than our… situation. But so long as there are generations still alive who were touched directly, it will always remain a very emotive subject.’
‘Emotive enough for people to kill?’ Carlyle asked.
‘That is a very difficult question to answer.’ The Ambassador ran a hand through his hair. ‘Theoretically, yes. But, in my experience, theory and practice can often be far removed from each other. It is indeed possible, but that is a long way from saying people would take the law into their own hands in such a way — especially so far from home. Times are different now, but back then…’ Orb’s voice trailed off as he scanned the river, maybe looking for a distraction. Finding none, he turned back to Carlyle. ‘Well, back then I would not have been so happy about helping a policeman with his enquiries.’
‘People could kill and get away with it?’ Carlyle asked.
‘Yes, they could. People like you.’
Carlyle smiled to show that he hadn’t taken offence. ‘I’m sure that you are right, but what about people like you?’
‘People like me?’ Orb frowned. ‘Oh, people like me never have to get our hands dirty.’
‘So you got through it all unscathed?’
‘Of course. It was a terrible time, but life goes on. You go to work, you have dinner parties at home, you take your children to the zoo; the world doesn’t stop turning because some people are being murdered in a football stadium a few blocks down the road. Even if you know about it, even if you can hear the shots, what can you do? Nothing. So you get on with your life. Hard to imagine now, but that was the case.’
‘It’s not that hard to imagine,’ Carlyle remarked.
‘What?’ Orb raised an eyebrow. ‘Here in England? One of the most civilised countries in the world? And you, a man who has never known war or serious civil unrest?’
‘I know,’ Carlyle said. ‘I am very lucky. But at least I know how lucky I am. I also know how quickly it can all fall apart. The veneer of civilised society is thin. Under the right circumstances — the wrong circumstances — what happened in Chile, what happened to William Pettigrew, can happen to anyone.’
‘Indeed,’ the Ambassador nodded.
The light was going. It was time for Carlyle to ask for what he really wanted. ‘Do you have a list of the people who were invited here tonight?’
‘Of course. My office was responsible for the invitations.’
‘Can I have a copy?’
‘Absolutely,’ the Ambassador said. ‘I will have it sent to you in the morning.’
‘Thank you.’ A thought suddenly struck Carlyle as he handed over a business card with his email address and fax number on it. ‘What were you doing back then?’
‘Me?’ A look of surprise spread across Orb’s face. ‘In seventy-three?’
‘Yes.’
The old man raised his gaze to the darkening sky. ‘Back in 1973, I was what you might call a rising star in the Christian Democratic Party. I taught Economics at the Universidad Catolica de Chile in Santiago. My specialism was agrarian reform.’ He sighed. ‘It’s a long time ago now.’
The man did not seem embarrassed about discussing his past, so Carlyle kept going. ‘Did you support Pinochet?’ he asked.
Orb shrugged. ‘It was not a question of being for or against him, Inspector. It happened. I made sure my family came through relatively unscathed.’
‘You’re a survivor.’
‘I’ve had a long career,’ Orb said to that. ‘Now I work for a Socialist president, who is also a woman. You never know how things will turn out, so it is better not to nail your colours too firmly to the mast.’ He touched Carlyle gently on the arm. ‘I’m sure you already know that well.’
‘Yes,’ said Carlyle, who had spent his whole life pointlessly nailing colours to masts, usually on ships that were already sinking. ‘I suppose that’s right.’
‘Now, if you’d excuse me,’ Orb held out his hand, ‘I must be going. I’m hosting a dinner with your multi-tasking Mayor.’ He grinned. ‘I will give him your best wishes, since I get the impression that you are a big supporter of his.’