‘Dunno. Anyway, William became a Catholic priest in Valparaiso, a coastal town north of Santiago. He disappeared during the 1973 military coup, when the army overthrew the government.’
‘That’s what usually happens in a military coup,’ Carlyle deadpanned.
Joe did not rise to the bait. ‘The family,’ he continued, ‘were eventually told that William Pettigrew was dead, but no body has ever been found.’
‘Again, not that uncommon.’
‘Agatha Mills, however, spent the last thirty-five years going back and forth between London and Chile, trying to find out what precisely happened to her brother and who killed him. She never lost hope of bringing her brother’s killers to justice.’
Carlyle sighed. ‘Good luck on that one.’
‘Well,’ said Joe, ‘you have to give the old girl some credit. She kept at it for decades, despite a history of threats from military types.’
‘Death threats?’ Carlyle perked up slightly.
‘Yeah… at least, according to some of the press reports. Mainly low-level stuff, like having her laptop nicked or her car tyres slashed. But I read one story about her getting an envelope in the post with a couple of bullets in it.’
‘The press are hardly reliable,’ Carlyle snorted. ‘I’m not going to start chasing my tail on the basis of a few clippings.’
‘No,’ Joe said, ‘but still.’
The inspector grunted.
‘You were the one who told me to check it out.’
‘Okay,’ Carlyle sniffed, ‘so she pissed off some Chileans pining for the good old days under that general.’ He groped for the name. ‘Maggie Thatcher’s mate.’
‘Pinochet.’
‘Yeah, right,’ Carlyle nodded, ‘General Pinochet.’
‘I think he was arrested in London a few years ago,’ Joe said, ‘while enjoying our Great British hospitality.’
Carlyle raised an eyebrow. ‘And?’
‘And nothing. Storm in a teacup and then he went home.’
‘Got away with it all,’ Carlyle mused.
‘I suppose so.’
‘They always do.’
‘To the victors the spoils.’
‘Yes, indeed, Joseph.’ Carlyle spent a moment contemplating life’s endless unfairness. ‘Isn’t he dead now?’
‘Pinochet?’ Joe made a face. ‘No idea.’
‘Either way,’ Carlyle mused, maybe just a little more interested now, ‘it’s all a long, long time ago. Why would anyone — apart from Agatha Mills, the loyal sister — still care about all this stuff now?’
‘Because Chile has got a new President,’ said Joe. ‘A socialist — and a woman.’
‘Interesting combination,’ said Carlyle, still not seeing the relevance.
‘She was a torture victim herself,’ Joe explained. ‘She ordered a fresh investigation into cases like William Pettigrew’s.’
‘Okay…’
‘The Pettigrew case review was completed last year. It concluded that he was almost certainly tortured and then shot dead aboard a navy ship called,’ he flicked through the papers again, ‘the White Lady.’
‘What did they do to him?’
‘The usual stuff, I suppose,’ said Joe. ‘Electric shocks to the gonads, that sort of thing.’
‘We could do with some of that downstairs,’ Carlyle grinned.
‘Different world back then.’
‘Which you would know all about, I suppose,’ Carlyle teased, ‘having been what, about one year old at the time.’
‘I bet you remember it well, though,’ Joe said cheekily.
‘Fuck off!’ Carlyle laughed. ‘I’m not that old.’
‘You just look it.’
‘That’s a consequence of working with you, sunshine.’ He thought back to 1973 — what did he remember? Not a lot. Certainly not what had been going on in a small country on the other side of the world.
‘Anyway,’ Joe continued, ‘the investigating judge ordered the arrest of a couple of navy officers last year.’
‘Names?’
‘Dunno. But they are due to face trial for the murder of William Pettigrew in the autumn.’
‘After all this time?’
‘There are a couple of witnesses who say that they’re now prepared to testify.’
‘Okay, the family is finally going to have its day in court, so why bother bumping off Agatha Mills? It’s not like she was there as a witness,’ he looked at Joe, ‘was she?’
‘No, not as far as I know.’
‘So she can’t really testify. At least not to anything important.’
‘She has been one of the driving forces behind this case getting to court, though.’ Joe shrugged. ‘Maybe the people who did it are still out there. Maybe they want to stop her; maybe they want to intimidate the other witnesses. Could be various things.’
They. Whenever you were dealing with them, you knew you were in trouble.
‘Maybe.’ Carlyle leaned back in his chair, placing his hands on his head. ‘Maybe, maybe, maybe. An octogenarian fascist plot? It’s all very thin.’
‘I know.’
‘So ultimately where does this little history lesson get us? Mrs Mills nee Pettigrew had an interesting backstory.’
Joe nodded.
‘A person or persons unknown, of a right-wing Chilean persuasion have a — what? Let’s say a possible — ’
‘Theoretical,’ the sergeant interjected.
‘A theoretical motive for bumping her off. But do we have any evidence that anyone other than her old man was inside that flat of theirs the night she died?’
‘No,’ Joe replied.
‘Do we have anyone reporting the sight of any foreign-looking gents acting suspiciously? Maybe mumbling a few words of Spanish? Doing the goose-step and clasping a photo of El General to their bosom?’
‘No.’
‘Anything on the CCTV?’
‘No. The cameras at Ridgemount Mansions were there just for show,’ Joe informed him. ‘They aren’t actually hooked up to any recording equipment. That would have added too much to the service charge, apparently.’
‘What about cameras in the street itself? Thousands of bloody tourists walk along that street every day. Some of them must get mugged. And someone must film it.’
Joe shrugged. ‘No one’s looked at those, as far as I know. Do you want us to get on it?’
Carlyle thought about it for a moment then said, ‘Nah. It would take too long. Got anything else?’
‘No.’ Joe stuck the documents back in the folder and placed it carefully on Carlyle’s desk.
‘Right, then,’ said Carlyle, ‘let’s remember rule number one of this job. In the first instance, always stick with the blindingly obvious.’ Sitting up straight, he turned towards his desk, getting ready to do battle with the Met’s appalling IT system.
It was time to type up his report.
‘Henry Mills has been charged. Justice will now take its course. In the meantime, my little Sancho Panza, we move on to the next thing.’
