Time of Death (31 page)

Dog looked at the picture for a few seconds, eyes glazing over as he did his familiar impersonation of a man trying very hard to concentrate.

‘Was that the man who gave you the thousand-peso note?’

Mock concentration gave way to genuine confusion on Dog’s face. ‘Huh?’

‘The man who gave you the money that didn’t work?’

There was a vague flicker of recognition in Dog’s face. ‘Maybe.’

Come on, Carlyle thought, frustration rising in his throat. Come on, you stupid bastard, think – just this once. He tried to hand the drunk the picture, but he wouldn’t take it.
‘Walter . . .’

‘Excuse me.’ The woman’s voice, timid and polite, came from somewhere behind him. ‘Are you Inspector Carlyle?’

Carlyle didn’t look up. ‘In a minute,’ he replied rudely, still waving the picture at Dog.

The voice came a step closer. ‘I was told that you wanted to see me.’ Less timid now in the face of his rudeness.

‘In a minute,’ I said.

A hand appeared and took the picture from the inspector’s hand. ‘I know this man.’

Trying to keep his annoyance in check, Carlyle stood up and found himself in front of a tired-looking redhead in her thirties. ‘Yes?’

Looking at least a few kilos light of healthy, the woman was conservatively dressed in a white blouse and a navy knee-length skirt. She held out a hand and he shook it. ‘I’m Monica
Hartson.’

He looked back at her blankly.

‘Daughters of Dismas,’ she added. ‘I’m a friend of Agatha Mills and Sandra Groves.’

‘Ah.’

She handed him back the picture. ‘One of the people trying to finally bring Matias Gori to justice.’

‘Mm.’ Carlyle held out the two quid and dropped it into Dog’s hand. ‘How did you get my name?’

‘After the episode on the bus,’ Hartson explained, ‘you are well known amongst the group.’

Fame at last, Carlyle thought.

‘I got a message saying I should speak to you.’

‘Thanks for coming.’ Standing back, Carlyle watched the tramp struggle to his feet and shuffle towards the door. ‘Not bad for a dead man,’ he grinned.

‘What?’ Hartson eyed him quizzically.

‘Nothing,’ Carlyle said quickly. ‘Thanks for coming in. Let’s go and have a chat upstairs.’

F
or once, the air conditioning was working. The fourth-floor meeting room was decidedly chilly, just the way he liked it. Declining a cup of coffee, Hartson pulled a small
bottle of water from her shoulder bag and took a delicate sip.

Carlyle toyed with his espresso but didn’t take a drink. ‘So,’ he said casually, ‘tell me your story.’

She thought about that for a second, then looked at him, nonplussed. ‘Where do you want me to start?’

‘How do you know Matias Gori?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know him,’ she said carefully, ‘but I know
about
him.’

Great, thought Carlyle, a pedant zealot, just what I need. ‘Okay, why are you interested in him?’

Once again, she thought about where to start. Normally, Carlyle thought, that means they’re getting ready to lie to you. But in the case of Monica Hartson, he was sure she was just trying
to be precise. ‘We have a campaign . . .’

‘The Daughters of Dismas?’

‘Yes. We have been campaigning against the use of mercenaries in places like Iraq.’ Rooting about in her bag, she pulled out a couple of flyers and pushed them across the table.

Carlyle let them lie there. ‘Just tell me in your own words first.’

‘Well, we have this campaign . . . we are particularly focusing on mercenaries who were being funded by British taxpayers’ money.’

‘LA . . . something . . .’

‘LAHC, yes.’ She seemed to relax slightly, buoyed by the hope that the policeman might be at least a little informed. ‘The initials come from Luis Alberto Hurtado Cruchaga.
Father Hurtardo was a Jesuit priest who was made a saint by the Pope a few years ago.’

‘So,’ Carlyle said, unable to resist teasing her gently, ‘these people have a religious background, like you?’

‘Not really,’ she said evenly, not rising to the bait. ‘LAHC has nothing to do with the Church, and it certainly has nothing to do with social reform. It is an
American-registered company, but essentially owned and run by a group of rich Chileans with connections to the military. They take former commandoes and other special forces, and use British aid
money to pay their wages.’

‘And that’s how you came across Gori?’

‘Yes. Gori is former Chilean Special Forces, from the thirteenth Commando Group, known as the Scorpions. His uncle is also the founder of LAHC. After the Scorpions, Matias became,’
she raised her fingers in the air to indicate quotation marks, ‘a “diplomat”. But he has very close ties to the mercenaries, some of whom he served with in the army.’

She glanced at Carlyle, who signalled for her to go on. ‘He has even gone out on missions with them. One of these missions, to a town called Ishaqi, north of Baghdad, ended up with the
massacre of more than fifty men, women and children. According to witness reports, Matias Gori killed as many as a dozen of them himself. When we found out that he was working in London, we tried
to get him arrested so that he could be tried either here or in Iraq or maybe at the War Crimes Tribunal at The Hague.’

Carlyle took a sip of his espresso. ‘And?’

Hartson looked angry. ‘Our lawyers say we need more evidence. That is why we tried to confront him directly.’

Oh, oh, Carlyle thought, the Women’s Institute takes on Rambo. Excellent idea. ‘When was this?’

‘Earlier this month there was a demonstration. We marched to the Embassy and lodged a petition with the Ambassador, asking for Gori to be handed over to the police for
questioning.’

‘And what did the Ambassador say?’

‘We’re still waiting for a reply.’

‘And now two of you are dead.’

She looked at him blankly.

Shit, Carlyle thought, too late to sugar-coat the pill now. ‘Agatha and Sandra were both murdered; didn’t you know?’

The tears were already welling up in her eyes as she absorbed this shocking news. Carlyle made no attempt to comfort her, but gave her time to compose herself before he began running through a
quick summary of the relevant events.

By the time he had finished, Hartson had largely regained her calm. ‘I’ve been away for a while,’ she explained. ‘I only got back to London yesterday.’

That may well have saved your life, Carlyle reflected.

‘Do you think,’ her voice quivered a little, ‘that Gori killed them?’

‘Maybe.’ Carlyle said. ‘I think so.’

Monica looked at him carefully. ‘Can you prove it?’

He smiled grimly. ‘That’s not the question.’

‘Oh,’ she said shakily. ‘What is?’

‘The question is – will I have to?’

‘I’m not sure I understand.’

‘Good.’

‘Will he come after me?’

Yes. ‘Maybe.’

She ran her hands through her hair and shivered. ‘Will I be safe?’

Maybe. ‘Yes.’

‘Will you protect me?’

Don’t promise what you can’t deliver, he told himself. ‘I will stop him.’

‘What should I do?’

‘Is there somewhere you can stay for a little while?’ he asked. ‘Out of the way, preferably somewhere outside of London.’

She thought about it for a moment. ‘I’ve got some friends up in Glasgow.’

‘Good, then this is what we’ll do.’ Carlyle programmed her mobile number into his private phone then took down the details of the people she would be staying with. ‘I
will call you once a day. If goes to voicemail, I’ll leave a message.’

They walked back to the lifts in silence. Downstairs, by the front desk, Carlyle shook her hand again. ‘Thank you for coming.’

Monica Hartson gave him a wan smile. ‘I’m not sure whether I feel better for our conversation, or worse.’

‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘This is nearly over. Gori is a marked man. It will be done in a couple of days. Getting out of town is just an additional precaution.’

‘I hope so.’

‘One thing I was wondering, though . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘Why put yourself through all of this? Why go after someone like Gori?’

Hartson looked at him for a moment, as if deciding whether to tell him the whole story. ‘I was there,’ she said finally. ‘I saw what he did.’

‘What?’

‘We arrived in Ishaqi the day after Gori and his comrades had blown through,’ she said quietly. ‘I set up a Red Cross office under a makeshift awning by the side of one of the
houses that hadn’t been burned out. I stood and watched a man in a black turban holding a hessian sack containing the remains of his son.’ She swallowed. ‘Only it wasn’t his
son, just random scraps that had been recovered from around the place. The elders had already given away all the bodies, and even the limbs, to mourners who had got there first. Identifying anybody
or anything was almost impossible. All that they could do was try and give each family something approximating the right number of corpses.’

‘Jesus.’

‘By the time this man arrived there were just a few pieces left. But he had to have something to take home. He just scooped up what he could and put it in his sack.’ Monica closed
her eyes and stifled a sob. ‘The man went home to tell his wife that this was their son, so the family had something to bury while they said their prayers.’

Carlyle mumbled something that he hoped sounded sympathetic.

‘After that, I couldn’t get home quickly enough.’

‘I can understand.’

She was too polite to contradict him.

‘But,’ the inspector sighed, ‘there have been lots of killings, and doubtless there will be lots more. Even if you finally get him, if you bring Matias Gori to justice, will it
have been worth it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Despite the death of your friends?’

‘The point is that they shouldn’t have had to die; just like those poor people in Ishaqi shouldn’t have had to die.’ She looked at him with a fierceness in her eyes that
had been absent before. ‘If this was a decent country, something would have been done about Gori long before now. We wouldn’t even have needed to get involved –
if
the
police had done their job properly.’

She waited for a response, but Carlyle said nothing.

‘But no one wanted to know,’ Hartson continued, ‘so we decided to take up the fight. All we wanted to do was bring one man – one
murderer
– to justice. We
thought that was surely achievable – a small victory for decency. You’re right, many people get away with terrible things, but that’s no reason to give up. If everyone took your
point of view, Inspector, the world would be an even worse place than it is now.’

Chastened, Carlyle held up a hand. ‘I didn’t say it was my point of view—’ But it was too late. Hoisting her bag on to her shoulder, she was already slaloming through the
small knots of supplicants in the waiting room, and had almost reached the door by the time his words had got out.

A
fter she had left, the inspector went through what they had. It was probably not enough to get Hartson police protection and certainly not enough to arrest Gori. But at least
now Carlyle should be able to persuade Carole Simpson to let him see this thing through. He hoped so, at any rate. The Commander’s husband might still be making the news, but she remained at
work. He rang her office and left a message with her PA, who promised to get Simpson to call him back as quickly as possible.

Ending the call, Carlyle looked around. What to do next? Scratching his head, he finally reached a decision; he would break his duck for the week and finally work up a sweat at Jubilee Hall.

M
atias Gori stood in the shadows of the doorway of the long-since closed Zimbabwean High Commission, underneath a faded poster advertising trips to the Victoria Falls, and
watched Monica Hartson as she walked down the front steps of Charing Cross police station and headed for the Strand. It was approaching rush-hour and the streets were crowded, so her progress was
slow and Gori was able to stay close, no more than five or six yards behind her, without any danger of being detected.

Hartson then crossed the Strand, picked up a free newspaper and ducked inside Charing Cross train station. Dropping a little further behind, Gori watched her buy a coffee before heading down
into the Tube. Realising that he didn’t have a ticket, he followed her down the escalator and jogged over to the nearest machine. Grabbing a handful of change from his jacket pocket, he
pushed in front of a group of Chinese tourists and dropped enough coins in the slot to get a standard single. He rushed through the barriers just in time to see the top of Hartson’s head
disappearing down another escalator, heading for the Northern Line. Skipping down into the bowels of the Tube station, he watched her turn right at the bottom of the escalator, stepping on to the
platform for trains heading north. Slowly, he counted to five and followed.

The platform was full, but not packed, with sweaty, tired and frustrated-looking travellers. A voice on the tannoy was apologising about interruptions to the service, caused by signalling
problems, and the electronic board was signalling a four-minute wait for the next train. Faced with a sea of blank faces, Gori made his way carefully down the platform, always moving, never making
eye contact. He found her about three-quarters of the way along, standing just behind the yellow line, sipping her coffee and staring at a poster advertising Errazuriz Chardonnay. The board now
showed two minutes until the next train. Over the tannoy came an announcement about planned engineering works on the Circle Line. Keeping out of her line of vision, Gori walked past Hartson, to the
end of the platform, placing himself behind a pair of women intently studying a copy of the
A–Z
.

The next train was due. Gori walked cautiously back along the platform until he was standing about two feet behind Hartson and slightly to her left, on the opposite side of her from where the
train would arrive. He could hear it now steadily getting closer, until there was a sudden blast of air and the harsh clatter of metal on metal as it emerged from the tunnel. As she looked up, Gori
stepped forward. The train was halfway into the station now and he could see the driver yawning in his cab. Leaning forward, he gave her a firm shove in the small of the back as he walked past.
Without making a sound, she involuntarily stepped over the yellow line and off the edge of the platform, disappearing under the front wheels with the gentlest of thuds.