Never Apologise, Never Explain Read Online Free PDF Page A

technicians.
    ‘And see how the canvass of the neighbours is going,’ Carlyle called after him.
    ‘Will do.’
    ‘Are you going to take her now?’ Carlyle asked Bassett.
    ‘Yes. I think we are more or less done here.’
    ‘The report?’
    ‘Shouldn’t take too long. If there are any surprises, I’ll give you a call straight away.’
    ‘Thanks.’
    In the living room, the WPC was sitting on the sofa, staring into space. Henry Mills was standing by the large bay window, contemplating the crowds entering the British Museum. A billboard in the courtyard advertised an exhibition devoted to Babylon: Myth & Reality . Helen had been trying to get him to go with her to see it, but Carlyle knew it was just another one of those things they would never get round to doing. Not that this worried him; he could live without the Tower of Babel and the madness of King Nebuchadnezzar, so was happy to just let it slide.
    After a few seconds, Mills half-turned in his direction. He was wearing jeans and a white shirt with a fine green check. His face was flushed. In one hand he held a glass of whisky, with the bottle in the other. The inspector clocked the label – Famous Grouse – and the fact that it was well on the way to being empty.
    He gestured for the WPC to leave them. As she struggled out of the sofa, he experienced a ripple of disgust. ‘Big-boned’ wasn’t the half of it. When did they start letting any fat slob join the force? he wondered glumly. Probably when most of the population started becoming obese, he told himself.
    Carlyle let Mills look him up and down, while the widower sucked down another slug of Scotch. The look on his face suggested that it gave him neither comfort nor pleasure.
    ‘I would lay off the drinking if I were you, sir,’ Carlyle said stiffly.
    ‘Oh, would you?’ Henry Mills made a face. ‘Well, it’s my bloody house,’ he drained his glass with a flourish, ‘and it’s my bloody wife.’
    But you’ll soon be at my bloody station, Carlyle thought. He was four feet from Mills and could clearly smell the drink already on his breath. Hopefully it would make him talkative or, just as good, forget to ask for a lawyer. ‘That’s an unfortunate form of words, sir,’ he said, ‘under the circumstances.’
    Despite everything, Henry Mills grinned. ‘Don’t I know it, Mr . . .’
    ‘Inspector.’ Carlyle fumbled in a pocket for his warrant card. ‘Inspector John Carlyle. I’m from the Charing Cross station.’
    By the time Carlyle had managed to recover his warrant card, Mills had already turned his back on him and was pouring himself another drink. ‘Want one?’ he asked, over his shoulder.
    Carlyle ignored the offer. ‘Why don’t you take a seat, sir?’
    Assured that his glass was well on the way to being three-quarters full, Henry Mills plonked himself down in an overstuffed armchair in one corner, beside the window, and then plonked the bottle on the floor beside him. Hoping she hadn’t managed to break the sofa, Carlyle took the place vacated by the outsized WPC. Preliminaries over, he decided to jump straight in. Looking past Mills, out of the window, at a sky that could have been blue, could have been grey, he asked: ‘Why did you kill your wife?’
    Mills’s brow furrowed and he gripped his glass more tightly. His mouth opened, but no words came out. Carlyle waited a moment. He was about to repeat the question when they were distracted by a noise coming from the hall. A second later, Bassett went past, followed by the body, bagged up, carried on a trolley. As Agatha Mills left home for the last time, her husband let out a low moan, sinking back into his chair. The next moment, Joe appeared in the doorway.
    It’s like trying to work in the middle of Piccadilly fucking Circus, Carlyle thought.
    He signalled for his sergeant to come in, and Joe complied, perching on an arm of the sofa that was closest to the door and furthest from Mills, who was meanwhile staring morosely at