‘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.
TWENTY-EIGHT
The 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 nee 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.
Indeed, Simpson would be horrified to know that he was here rather than devoting his energies to the latest case she had dropped on his desk — a series of robberies targeting wealthy members of the audience at the Royal Opera House. Carlyle, like Simpson and everyone else, knew that it had to be an inside job, but interviewing dozens of highly strung staff, with only Joe Szyszkowski and a couple of Community Support officers to help him, was going to take him weeks. Anyway, Carlyle thought, if the victims could afford?350 for a ticket and another?200 or so for dinner in the Amphitheatre restaurant afterwards, it was hard to be too sympathetic to their plight.
The inspector stepped back outside. As expected, the rain had started coming down quite heavily, and he ran for the cover of a large pine tree that stood about twenty yards from the mausoleum. From there, he watched a large, sleek, midnight-blue Volvo hearse containing both coffins heading slowly towards him. It was followed by what he thought was a surprisingly large number of mourners, who were making their way up the gentle slope on foot. A minute or so later, the hearse stopped in front of the mausoleum. As if on cue, the rain eased off to almost nothing. Four undertakers jumped out smartly and readied themselves, before waiting for the group of mourners — maybe thirty strong — to take their places, before opening the back of the Volvo and removing the first coffin.
At that moment, without warning, Justin Timberlake blared out across the cemetery. Eyes turned and mouths muttered; this might have been a non-conformist ceremony but a blast of ‘LoveStoned’ was clearly taking things a bit too far. Mortified at the disturbance he was causing, the inspector tried to pull the phone out of his pocket and shut it up. ‘Bloody Alice!’ he muttered as he jogged behind the tree, hoping that out of sight would be out of mind. It wasn’t the first time his daughter had changed the ringtone on his phone without him knowing it; he would kill the little so-and-so when he got home. In his panic, he hit the ‘receive’, rather than the ‘end’ button. His relief at Justin’s departure from the scene was offset by the unpleasant realisation that someone was still on the line.
Feeling completely put upon by the technology, Carlyle moved further away from the disapproving mourners, in the hope that his continuing breach of funeral etiquette would be less intrusive. He lifted the handset to his ear. ‘Hello?’ he half-whispered.
‘Inspector Carlyle? This is Fiona Singleton from Fulham.’ The words came out quickly, as if she was trying to get them out before he could stop her.
Shit, Carlyle thought.
‘I’ve been trying to get hold of you for a few days now,’ Singleton continued. ‘I left you a couple of messages at Agar Street..’
‘Ah, yes,’ Carlyle said keeping his voice low and his eyes on the coffins, which were now being carried inside the mausoleum. ‘Apologies for that. We’ve been having a few problems at Charing Cross.’
‘Yes,’ said Singleton sympathetically, ‘the anthrax thing. It must have caused quite a scare.’
‘Not really,’ Carlyle replied. Singleton’s tone caused him to relax a bit; at least she wasn’t giving him a hard time for not returning her call. ‘It was probably all a rather OTT, to be honest.’ Phillips was right; it had all been a twenty-four-hour wonder. No one had been discovered with any symptoms and even Dave Prentice had been given a clean bill of health. The station had returned to normal the next day.
‘Anyway,’ said Singleton, ‘you know why I’m ringing?’
‘Yes,’ Carlyle said, looking back down the slope. The rain had stopped, for the moment at least. Agatha and Henry Mills had been laid to rest and the mourners were already beginning to drift away. If he was going to get anything useful from this trip, he had to get going. ‘Look,’ he said hastily, ‘I’m at a funeral right now. Can I call you back in an hour or so?’
‘I suppose,’ Singleton sighed, resigning herself to being fobbed off yet again.
‘Okay, thanks.’ Carlyle ended the call and walked back round the tree towards the mausoleum. The funeral directors were standing patiently by their hearse, waiting for the last of the mourners to begin making their way back to the front gate. They watched Carlyle amble by, saying nothing.
