‘Did you make another complaint after his death?’ Carlyle asked, trying to move the narrative along.
‘I made as much fuss as I could, but I was in a bit of a state.’
‘Not surprising.’
‘And then I thought to hell with it. One morning, I just got up, packed my bag and left Cambridge. It took me a while to get my act together, but the baby helped. After our son was born, I was able to move forward. Eventually, I went back to university.’
‘To Cambridge?’
‘No, I couldn’t face going back there, so I ended up studying Law at UCL. Being in London was a lot easier, and I was able to get on with my life.’
‘And now?’
‘And now,’ she smiled, ‘I have a very boring life.’
‘And your son?’ Carlyle asked casually.
‘Travelling.’ She eyed him carefully.
‘Where?’
She smiled. ‘Right this moment, I’m not exactly sure. Somewhere in Thailand, I expect.’
Another Trustafarian waster, no doubt, Carlyle thought. He changed tack. ‘Do you have any photos of Robert?’
‘Just the one. I keep it upstairs in my bedroom.’
‘Can I see it?’
‘Of course.’
What she handed him a couple of minutes later was a slightly faded photograph in a simple oak frame. It showed a younger, slimmer Susy Ahl sitting outside a cafe with Robert Ashton, his pretty-boy good looks preserved there for all time. She had one arm round his shoulders and they were laughing in a way that didn’t look at all posed for the camera. It was clearly not the same photograph that had been left beside Nicholas Hogarth’s corpse.
‘That was the Easter before it all happened,’ she explained, as Carlyle handed the picture back to her. ‘We took a holiday in France, near Lake Annecy. It was incredibly beautiful and serene – the Venice of the Alps and all that. We had the most perfect time.’ She gave him a fleeting, fragile smile. ‘It was probably the happiest moment of my life, but I suppose you don’t realise things like that ’til much later, do you?’
‘No.’ Carlyle left her reflection on the transient nature of happiness hanging in the air for a few seconds. Now it was time for the sharp end of the conversation. ‘And, with what happened afterwards, the past is the past?’
‘The past is the past,’ she agreed.
‘And your son?’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘What about him?’
‘Does he know about what happened to his father?’
Susy Ahl blanched, but quickly composed herself. ‘He knows about Robert’s suicide, yes.’
‘And the rest?’
‘No,’ she said sharply, ‘absolutely not. What would be the point of that?’
‘I understand,’ Carlyle nodded.
‘That is the one thing I ask of you, Inspector,’ she said slowly. ‘He is a sensitive boy, like his father in many respects. I do not want him to have to face all that being dug up after all this time.’
‘I understand,’ Carlyle repeated. Good luck, he thought. ‘So what about the Merrion Club now?’ he asked, edging the conversation forward.
‘What about them?’
‘It’s the General Election tomorrow,’ Carlyle mused.
‘So?’
‘It must be galling to see Robert’s attackers having such power, sitting smugly there at the top of the tree.’
She grimaced. ‘Let them do what they like. The past always catches up with people, don’t you think?’
‘Do you want them dead?’ he asked quietly.
She stared at him quizzically. ‘Do you expect me to answer that?’
‘Yes,’ he said firmly, ‘I do.’
‘Am I a suspect?’
‘I should say so,’ Carlyle said gently. ‘You are connected to all the people involved, and you have a motive. A very good motive, if I may say so.’
‘I do?’ she said, almost coyly.
‘If revenge is a dish best served cold,’ said Carlyle, ‘it might appear that you are taking your meal out of the freezer.’
‘What a tortuous metaphor, Inspector.’
It struck Carlyle how people always addressed him as ‘Inspector’ when they were patronising him. He took a deep breath and vowed to rise above any slight. ‘Let me ask it another way,’ he continued. ‘Do you care that some of them are dead?’
‘No.’ She did not flinch from the question. ‘It really doesn’t make any difference to me.’
‘And if the others were to be killed?’
‘The same. Inshallah, as my Arab clients might say. It is the will of God.’
‘That is not an answer that encourages me to look elsewhere for suspects,’ he reproached her, as sternly as he could manage.
‘I guess you have to use your professional judgement,’ she sighed.
‘Yes, yes, I do.’
She looked at him carefully. ‘But maybe they deserve to die.’
A lot of people deserve to die, Carlyle thought. ‘Maybe,’ he replied, ‘I wouldn’t know.’
‘Someone has to judge them.’
‘No, they don’t.’ He strove to sound reasonable. ‘They haven’t yet been arrested or charged with any crime.’
‘That means nothing,’ she pouted.
‘Life is not about right and wrong,’ he shrugged. ‘It’s about who gets to choose. You don’t get to choose… neither do I, for that matter.’
‘You have to set your sights higher than that, Inspector. Remember Jeremy Bentham: “Publicity is the very soul of justice. It is the keenest spur to exertion, and the surest of all guards against improbity. It keeps the judge himself, while trying, under trial.”’
Carlyle was lost. ‘Who?’
‘Jeremy Bentham. He was a philosopher and jurist who lived two hundred years ago.’
‘Ah.’ Carlyle didn’t have a clue who she was talking about. Philosopher and jurist? The only Jeremys he could think of were a couple of TV presenters.
‘At UCL they still have his skeleton on display,’ she grinned, ‘dressed in his own clothes, and with a wax head on top.’
‘Lovely.’
‘It’s what he said he wanted.’
‘Maybe I’ll go for something similar myself,’ Carlyle joked, ‘but in the foyer at New Scotland Yard.’
All trace of her smile vanished as the lawyer inside took over. ‘I can see I’m wasting my time here,’ she said sharply, ‘so let’s cut to the chase. What evidence do you actually have?’
I wish people would stop asking me that, thought Carlyle. ‘The investigation is proceeding in a fairly normal manner,’ he replied lamely.
‘So how can I actually help you?’ she asked neutrally.
‘Are you assuring me that you had absolutely nothing to do with the deaths of Hogarth, Blake and the others?’
She stared at him blankly. ‘I’m telling you that those types of questions will require the presence of my lawyer.’ She took a second business card from the mantelpiece and handed it to Carlyle.
He looked at the name on it. ‘Different firm?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘At our place, we don’t have anyone who specialises in… this type of thing. And, anyway, it is