Time of Death (26 page)

‘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.’

‘Poor sod,’ said Carlyle, with feeling.

‘He was very, very unlucky,’ Phillips agreed. ‘It’s not unheard of, but the risk to anyone else has got to be negligible.’

‘So what’s with the boys in the Noddy suits?’ Carlyle asked.

‘Good question,’ Phillips replied. ‘Someone should have come along and quietly removed the evidence. Then I could have run some further tests and we could have kept an eye on
anyone we thought might have had even a tiny chance of catching anything. Going into the station like that was way over the top.’

‘Whose decision was it?’

There was a pause on the other end of the line. ‘Who do you think?’

‘Simpson?’

Phillips lowered her voice a notch. ‘Commander Carole Simpson, everyone’s favourite bureaucrat.’

‘But how did this problem reach all the way up to her?’

‘You know how these things work, John,’ Phillips said. ‘No one would make a decision, so it was kicked up the chain of command until it got to someone who couldn’t pass
the buck any further and had to do something.’

‘Safety-first Simpson.’

‘This isn’t safety first,’ Phillips scoffed, ‘this is blind panic. She’s probably petrified of being sued by anyone who’s stepped inside Charing Cross in the
last twenty-four hours.’

‘Quite,’ Carlyle agreed. ‘Maybe I should sue her myself.’

Phillips laughed. ‘Maybe you should. I’m sure your Federation rep would be only too happy to help.’

‘No question about it.’

There were voices in the background. Phillips told someone, ‘Don’t worry, I’m coming,’ and there was a pause while she listened to a reply. ‘John,’ she said,
coming back on the line, ‘I need to get on now. But don’t worry. Trust me, there’s no risk. Doubtless there’ll be lots of messing about for the next few hours, but
everything should be back to normal by tomorrow morning. If I were you, I’d just take the rest of the afternoon off.’

‘Good idea!’ Carlyle was pleased that his fears had been allayed. ‘Thanks for the tip. Good to speak to you, Susan. See you soon.’

‘You too, John. Take care.’

The line went dead and Carlyle stood for a moment glancing up and down the street. Nothing much had changed: still the same WPC on one side of the tape and a small group of onlookers on the
other. Then he saw a camera crew making its way towards them from the direction of St Martin’s Lane. ‘That’s my cue to leave,’ he said to himself and set off in the opposite
direction, heading towards the piazza where Dennis Felix had drummed his last.

Reaching King Street, he checked the clock on his mobile. He just about had time for a quick workout at Jubilee Hall gym and still get home in time to meet Alice when she got back from school.
That was the kind of metrosexual multi-tasking that would impress Helen more than his making it over to Padding-ton for lunch. At least, he hoped so. Bringing the handset to his ear, he let a smile
cross his lips as he prepared to give her the good news.

T
he weather had turned cold. It was grey and damp. Three hours earlier, when Carlyle had left the flat, clear blue skies offered the hint of a pleasant summer day. Now it
seemed a facsimile of February in June. Cursing himself for ignoring the weather forecast and leaving his raincoat at home, he cast his gaze to the heavens and hoped that the surrounding trees
would offer him some protection from the imminent rain.

Despite his discomfort, this was the right kind of weather for a funeral. Carlyle had long ago decided that getting buried on a beautiful summer’s day would just be the final insult
– the universe taking the piss. Dark, dank and introspective – that was how he wanted the proceedings when his own time came.

Waiting for the deluge, he forced himself to lighten up. With luck, his time would be a while in coming yet. For Agatha and Henry Mills, however, their time had already come. In their respective
wills, the pair had stipulated that they be buried together in the Pettigrew family mausoleum at Lavender Hill Cemetery in North London. Carlyle had picked up a leaflet at the main gate. Pulling it
from his pocket, he found his present location on the small map.

The Pettigrew family had a vestibule mausoleum on a plot near the centre of the cemetery. It looked like a small granite house (or a very big children’s playhouse). Walking around it,
Carlyle could still hear music coming from the non-conformist chapel by the main gate. The idea struck him that this was the kind of place that he himself would want to be buried in – above
ground, with some fresh air, a little sunlight and a good view.

Walking around the plot for a second time, Carlyle now realised that the door to the mausoleum had been unlocked in anticipation of the two new arrivals. Glancing around to make sure he
wasn’t being watched, he gave it a gentle push and, ducking his head, stepped inside. Illuminated by the light from a small round window at the back was a narrow aisle, long enough for each
casket to be slid sideways into one of the three crypts on each side. One side was already full, the other empty. Each crypt had a small wooden plaque listing a name, and the deceased’s dates
of birth and death. Crouching down even further, Carlyle read the names of Tomas and Sylvie Pettigrew, Agatha’s parents, who had been buried there in the 1970s, along with one Walter Henry,
who died on 4 August 1956 – presumably one of her grandparents. On the empty side, he read the freshly added names of Agatha
née
Pettigrew and Henry Mills. At the back, in faded
script, was a plaque below the space that had been reserved for William Pettigrew, the missing priest. No date of death had been added.

Since there was no remaining family, there was no one to suggest that the circumstances of her departure from this life might have caused Agatha to change her mind about being buried beside her
husband and suspected killer. Carlyle was pleased about that; he was more convinced than ever that Henry Mills had not killed his wife. That theory of course, was not playing well back at the
station. Simpson was pressing him for his final report, so that the case could be formally declared closed and another tick placed in the ‘win’ box. The report, however, had yet to be
completed. Simpson’s patience was wearing thin and the inspector knew that he would not be able to stall her for much longer.