Never Apologise, Never Explain Read Online Free PDF Page B

looked at the woman expectantly, without feeling the need to expend the effort to either introduce himself, or to ask her name.
    ‘This looks like it could be it,’ she said, taking her cue.
    Carlyle nodded. ‘It must have been cleaned up pretty good in there.’
    ‘Yes,’ the woman said, ‘and the outside of the dishwasher has been wiped clean of all prints. But we should still find some material in the filter or the pipes.’
    ‘Good,’ said Carlyle. Finally, he could feel his energy levels rising. They should have this sorted out by the end of the day, if not earlier. The thought of such an easy win put a spring in his step. ‘That’s very good,’ he said. ‘Very helpful.’ He turned and walked back into the hallway. Checking his watch, he wondered idly if he could beat his previous record for closing a case. Seven or eight years ago, he’d had a homeless girl deliver up a full confession to the killing of her ‘boyfriend’ less than three and a half minutes from the start of her formal interview. Carlyle had been counting off the seconds from the clock in the interview room as she droned into the tape recorder. The boyfriend had been an evil, drunken bastard and had deserved everything he got, which in this case was more than a dozen stab wounds to the head and chest.
    Carlyle had felt no real interest in the girl – a runaway from some provincial hellhole – or why she had done it. He couldn’t even remember what had happened to her subsequently; if she had been sent to prison or placed into care. But he could still close his eyes and see her blank expression. And he recalled the fleeting satisfaction derived from closing a case almost before it had even been opened. Sometimes people couldn’t get the words out quickly enough. Spilling your guts was an extremely commendable impulse, in the inspector’s book. The question now was: would Mr Mills similarly oblige?
    Standing in the middle of the living room, Carlyle looked Henry Mills up and down. He waited for Mills to make eye contact before speaking.
    ‘What happened?’
    ‘I don’t know,’ Mills replied.
    ‘Did you kill her?’ Carlyle asked evenly.
    Mills looked at his empty glass. ‘No.’
    ‘Come on, Mr Mills, it looks very clear-cut to us.’ He glanced at Joe, who responded with a vague gesture of agreement.
    ‘No.’ Mills shook his head. ‘I didn’t do it,’ he said. He suddenly seemed completely sober.
    Fuck, Carlyle thought. No confession means no record-breaking for me today. His energy levels started ebbing again. Time for our man to visit the station, he decided. Stick him in a cell for a while.
    No more Famous Grouse.
    No more armchairs.
    No more comfortable untidiness.
    No more options.
    Wait a while and then charge him. Start making this thing feel real. But that would mean a lawyer, stretching things out even longer. He gave it one more push. ‘You didn’t do it?’ He gestured at the glass. ‘Or maybe you don’t remember doing it?’
    ‘No,’ Mills said firmly, sounding clearer by the minute. ‘I didn’t do it. I haven’t forgotten anything. I didn’t even have one drink last night.’
    Carlyle glanced at the bottle and decided that was not very likely. ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘if you didn’t do it, then who did?’
    ‘I don’t know,’ Mills said again, as if it was an even more acceptable answer the second time around. ‘She was like that when I found her.’
    ‘Where were you when it happened?’
    ‘In bed, asleep.’
    ‘Did you hear any noise?’
    ‘No. I wear earplugs because I’m a light sleeper.’ He nodded in the direction of the window. ‘The traffic . . .’
    ‘If it wasn’t you,’ said Joe, ‘do you know who might have done it?’
    Carlyle folded his arms. This was the bit where they would be told that the victim was a modern-day saint who didn’t have an enemy in the world.
    Mills carefully placed his glass down on the floor next to the bottle and looked at the sergeant, hopeful that he