Partly sheltered under the umbrella, he was even more conscious of the rain slipping under his collar and trickling down his spine. ‘What happened?’
Simpson pursed her lips, ignoring the question. ‘You’ve got a result… one way or another. It’s job done, and case closed.’
‘What are you doing here?’ Carlyle asked, struggling to keep any trace of emotion from his voice. The sick feeling in his stomach had dissipated. It was now being replaced by the kind of gentle numbness that came at times when things were going spectacularly tits-up.
A small, brittle smile appeared on Simpson’s lips. ‘Mr Miller called me personally, after he found the body. Apparently, Ms Ahl had called up Edgar Carlton to demand a meeting.’
‘What kind of meeting?’
Simpson shrugged. ‘It looks like we shall never know that. Carlton decided to send Miller. He arrived here about 6.30 and found the door was open.’
‘Miller? Carlton’s head of security? On Election Day?’
Simpson paused there, eyes shining, saying nothing further. The rain had now stopped and the air suddenly felt fresher than it had for weeks.
‘Was there anything suspicious about the death?’ Carlyle asked, trying and failing to keep a hint of desperation from his voice.
Simpson executed a small hop on the spot, like a small child desperate to go to the toilet. ‘Not as far as I could see.’ She lowered the umbrella, giving it vigorous shake before closing it. ‘When Miller went in, he found her hanging from the banister, so he rang 999, and then he rang me.’
‘Suicide?’
She let her gaze fall to the pavement. ‘Yes, I’d say so.’
Carlyle clamped his jaw tight and fixed his gaze on a point in the middle distance, before nodding at her carefully rehearsed answer.
‘Why wasn’t I called?’
‘I tried your mobile,’ Simpson said gently, ‘but I couldn’t get through. The network was busy. I rang the station, and they said you were on your way.’
He tried to work it through in his head, to see if that timing made sense. It was difficult to say.
Simpson radiated calm. She glanced towards Joe, still standing on the pavement outside Susy Ahl’s house. ‘You must pass on my congratulations to your sergeant, as well, John. It’s excellent work that we’ve managed to clear this thing up without too much… fuss. Good for our performance stats as well. You know that it all comes under SCD in the end, but I will make sure that you both get the proper recognition you deserve.’
Carlyle shivered. As far as he was concerned, the Specialist Crime Directorate could take whatever credit they wanted. He sneezed.
‘Bless you,’ said Simpson, reaching down to open the car door. ‘I know that you’ll have some more questions, but don’t hang around here any longer than is necessary. The officer in charge of the scene is a Sergeant Longmead, and she seems very efficient.’ Simpson gestured towards the house. ‘She’s inside right now. Go and speak to her, and let me have your final report first thing in the morning.’
‘Final’ meaning final. Meaning: Kindly fuck off back to the day job, the muggers and the drunks, and try to stay off my radar for a while. A long while.
‘Any loose ends?’ he asked, giving it one last push, more in hope than expectation.
‘Not really.’ Simpson had already lowered herself into the car and seemed keen to close the door. ‘Not really. There was an empty vodka bottle on the floor. The provisional time of death is around five p.m.’
Carlyle thought about his missed call. His brain was now slowly getting into gear. ‘What about a suicide note?’
‘No note,’ said Simpson, with just the slightest hint of levity in her tone, as if she might have just taken a stiff drink herself. ‘But that’s not unusual. After all, she knew that we were closing in.’
‘I should have arrested her yesterday.’ He said it to himself more than to Simpson, but he saw the first sign of irritation flash across her face.
She looked up at him sharply. ‘People hang themselves in jail, too, as you well know. Who’s to say that she wouldn’t have done exactly the same thing inside? Look at it this way, you’ve saved the taxpayer the cost of a trial. That could mean hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of pounds. Not to mention the thirty thousand or more a year necessary to keep Ms Ahl in prison for the rest of her life.’ Simpson did the mental arithmetic in her head. ‘Let’s say a couple of million pounds – one and a half minimum. That more than pays your way.’ She grabbed the inside door handle firmly. ‘Not a bad night’s work, I’d say. Once again, well done. I’ll call you once I’ve read your report.’ With that, she finally pulled the door shut and allowed herself to be driven off into the night.
Carlyle didn’t bother talking to Longmead or even taking a final look round Ahl’s house. Instead, he led Joe to the Eight Bells pub round the corner, on Woodlawn Road. As befitted his designated driver status, Joe was carefully sipping a half pint of London Pride bitter. Damp and dismayed, Carlyle had ordered a double measure of Jameson whiskey. After knocking that back in one, he was now nursing a second.
Did I get that woman killed? he wondered grimly. Is this one on me?
‘What do you think?’ asked Joe, trying to break his boss free of his dark mood.
Carlyle sneezed again. ‘I think I’m going down with the flu.’
Joe was not in the mood for handing out any faux sympathy. ‘You know what I mean.’
‘It doesn’t matter what I think,’ Carlyle said gloomily. ‘Not in the slightest.’
‘So what do we do now?’
‘What do you think?’ He sucked down the remaining whiskey. ‘You drive me back, and then I write my report.’
‘OK.’
Carlyle looked down at his glass. ‘Tell you what, I’ve got a better idea. You go and write the report, and I’ll sign it in the morning. I feel like one for the road.’
Joe shrugged, not caring one way or the other. It was the hanging around picking over the bones of failure that he hated. Now, it was time to move on, find some other bastards to get worked up about. ‘Sure.’ He pulled the car keys from his pocket and weighed them in his hand. ‘See you in the morning, boss.’
‘Thanks, Joe.’
Carlyle ordered another double at the bar and took it back to his seat. For the next few minutes he wanted nothing more than to enjoy his drink, stare vacantly into space, and hope that all the frustrations of recent weeks would fade as he began to get increasingly pissed.
Behind the bar was a television with the sound turned right down. Carlyle looked up to see Edgar Carlton, on the steps of party HQ, making an ‘impromptu’ speech to his cheering campaign workers. Edgar was surrounded by faces that had become all too familiar in recent days, all of them busy nodding and clapping as if their very lives depended on it, waiting for the polls to close so that the celebrations could begin in earnest.
‘Almost there now, aren’t you, you tossers,’ Carlyle slurred to himself. ‘Got what you wanted, your bloody birthright.’
He took another mouthful of whiskey and decided that tonight would be an excellent night to get totally shitfaced.
‘Tossers!’
The barman stopped pouring a pint and gave him a dirty look.
‘But they are,’ Carlyle grumbled under his breath.
Maybe he should just go to bed.
On the screen, the picture zoomed in on one bright, shining face hovering behind Edgar’s left shoulder. With the shot glass poised at his lips, Carlyle froze.
‘Holy fucking shit!’
This time, the barman looked ready to come over and sort him out.
Ignoring him, Carlyle jumped to his feet and bolted for the door.
