Shoot to Kill

by James Craig

  ‘Fuck.’ Sitting back in her chair, she folded her arms.

  Carlyle closed the file.

  Christina eyed the miniature camera hanging from the ceiling in the corner of the room. Leaning across the table, she lowered her voice. ‘Is that thing on?’

  Carlyle turned to check the red blinking light below the lens. ‘Looks like it.’

  ‘Can you turn it off?’

  ‘No,’ Carlyle lied.

  Christina ran her tongue across her top lip. ‘I give great head,’ she whispered, ‘truly re-markable. Switch that thing off and I’ll do you right here. Make this thing go away and you can come and see me in Everton’s any time.’

  Carlyle jumped to his feet before he could start seriously contemplating the offer. ‘Thanks,’ he mumbled, ‘but I think I’ll pass.’

  Throwing herself back in the chair, Christina banged on the table in frustration. ‘Fucking English faggot!’

  Carlyle felt a flash of anger in his chest. Don’t call me fucking English! Grabbing his file, he quickly slipped out of the door.

  The exhibition’s curator, an elegant man in his late fifties with the outsized moniker of Simpson Salvador St John, stepped in front of the shimmering crown. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said, addressing the small group, ‘this is our star attraction, one of the world’s most beautiful and priceless objects. At the time, it was the ultimate accessory, flat-packed for easy transport in the first century AD.’

  ‘How much is it worth?’ asked a man hovering at his shoulder.

  St John tried not to show his frustration at the vulgarity of the question. ‘Like many of the other items in this exhibition,’ he said patiently, ‘its value is incalculable. It was discovered by Soviet archaeologists in 1978 in an elite nomadic cemetery and has never been shown in Britain before.’ He gestured across the exhibition floor, the sweep of his arm taking in a dazzling array of classical sculptures, gold jewellery, carved ivory and enamelled Roman glass. ‘Most of these pieces are unique in terms of the information they give about ancient trading patterns and Afghanistan’s relationship with the outside world at the time.’

  Another of the guests began to say something, but St John, in no mood for any more banality, ploughed on with his prepared spiel. ‘At the heart of the Silk Road, Afghanistan linked the great trading routes of ancient Iran, Central Asia, India and China, and the more distant cultures of Greece and Rome. The country’s unique location resulted in a legacy of extraordinarily rare objects, which reveal its rich and diverse past. Nearly lost during the years of civil war and later Taliban rule, these precious objects were bravely hidden in 1989 by officials from the National Museum of Afghanistan, to save them from destruction. They were kept hidden until 2004, after the fall of the Taliban and the election of the new government. We should salute the courage of the Afghan officials who risked their lives in order to safeguard the treasure.’

  ‘Hear, hear,’ Dino murmured, finally steering Simpson away from the group.

  ‘It really is an amazing collection,’ Simpson said, trying to sound grateful for the invite.

  ‘I know,’ Dino agreed. ‘But they say that everything will go back to the National Museum of Afghanistan in Kabul, so God knows what might happen to it.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Anyway, let’s go and get some dinner.’

  Sitting in one of the first-class carriages on the Eurostar, heading for home, Dominic Silver looked across the table at Gideon Spanner, who was staring vacantly out the window. For years, Dom had assumed that Gideon was suffering from some kind of post-traumatic stress disorder from his time in the Army. Now, he had come to the view that he was just a very closed-off guy, with the enviable ability to switch himself on and off. In the car park in Clichy-sous-Bois with Tuco the gunslinger, Gideon had been totally alert. Now he was resting; on standby mode.

  Gesturing to the service assistant for another glass of wine, Dom pulled out his mobile and called home.

  Eva picked up on the third ring. ‘Is everything okay?’ He could clearly hear the mixture of irritation and concern in her voice and vowed not to rise to it.

  ‘It’s fine,’ he said calmly, ‘we’re on our way back. How are the kids?’

  ‘A handful,’ she sighed, ‘as usual.’

  He looked at the clock on the screen of his phone. ‘I should be home about nine.’

  ‘Do you want some dinner when you get in?’

  ‘No, it’s all right. I’ll eat on the train.’

  ‘Okay. See you soon.’ She ended the call, letting him know that she was still pissed off with his Parisian adventure. Keeping me on my toes, Dom reflected. Always keeping me on my toes.

  He had barely slipped his handset back into his jacket pocket when the sound of Motörhead’s ‘Ace of Spades’ came from the other side of the table. Gideon looked blankly at his crotch before fishing an iPhone out of his pocket. He stared at the screen for what seemed like an eternity before taking the call.

  ‘Yeah?’

  The service assistant arrived with another small plastic bottle of wine and handed it to Dom, who nodded his thanks.

  ‘I’m on my way back,’ said Gideon to his caller.

  Unscrewing the top, Dom emptied two-thirds of the bottle into his glass, conscious of Gideon eyeing him intently as he did so.

  ‘Uhuh . . . when? . . . Okay, okay, I will come straight there when I get into London.’

  Dom sipped his wine. He was getting a nice buzz going now. He smiled as Gideon ended the call. ‘Anything important?’

  For a moment, Gideon looked bemused by the question. ‘My brother,’ he said finally.

  Dom shifted uneasily in his seat. He didn’t know Gideon had a brother. In fact, he didn’t know anything about Gideon’s family at all.

  ‘He’s dead.’

  ‘What?’ Almost dropping his wine glass, Dom sent most of his Merlot down his shirt.

  ‘Shot in Kandahar by a Talib in an ANA uniform. Some Taliban infiltrated the Afghan army. Turned up at a compound where Spencer and his team were waiting to engage the enemy and opened fire.’ He thrust a hopeless hand towards the unchanging gloom of the passing French countryside. ‘Game over.’

  Dom gulped down the rest of his wine before he spilled any more. ‘Jesus!’

  ‘Apparently,’ Gideon said tonelessly, ‘Spencer’s killer was a serving member of the army, rather than an insurgent disguised as a soldier, as if that makes any difference. There is no way the Afghans can pick up rogue officers. The Americans just want to get out as quickly as possible. Just like us. The areas that the Taliban don’t control already, they will do soon enough.’

  Dom had long since given up paying any attention to the news about Afghanistan; it was just a basket case, a medieval country living on the edge of extinction. ‘Is there anything I can do?’ he asked, feeling like a useless prick for even asking the question.

  Gideon frowned. ‘Nah. I’ll take care of it.’ As the train headed into the tunnel, he stared unseeingly at his reflection in the window.

  Relieved that the conversation was over, Dom sat back in his seat and closed his eyes. As he listened to the carriages move effortlessly under the Channel, taking him back to his more than charmed life, he suddenly realized that that had been – by some considerable distance – the longest personal conversation he’d had with Gideon in all the years they’d been working together.

  FOURTEEN

  Waiting to collect her coat, Simpson felt a hand on her shoulder. Turning, she found herself looking at a familiar face.

  ‘Good evening, Commander.’

  She gave him a thin smile. ‘Good evening, Mr Mayor.’

  Dino appeared from the gents, still zipping up his fly. ‘Christian!’ he said cheerily, slapping Holyrod on the back. ‘I’m glad you could make it.’ He handed his ticket over to the waiting coat-check girl while gesturing at Simpson. ‘Do you know Commander Carole Simpson?’

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ Holyrod said politely. ‘We go back quite a long way.’


  Dino’s eyes widened. ‘Oh, really?’

  ‘My former husband,’ she said, the smile now frozen on her face, ‘was a supporter when the mayor first ran for election.’

  ‘Ah,’ Dino nodded. Realizing that he had strayed onto a sensitive subject, he collected the waiting coats from the counter and began helping Simpson into her camel-hair jacket. ‘As you know, Christian has just agreed to join my Board,’ he said, ‘which is a major coup for us.’

  ‘I’m sure it is,’ said Simpson without any enthusiasm as she buttoned herself up.

  ‘Dino is too kind,’ Holyrod said smoothly. ‘I have a lot of learning to do if I am to get up to speed with the business.’

  ‘Well,’ said Simpson, ‘good luck with that.’ Pulling her belt tight, she watched with some irritation as Dino struggled into his Ralph Lauren trench-coat. ‘I hope you enjoy the exhibition, Mr Mayor. The pieces on display really are quite incredible.’

  ‘I’m looking forward to it,’ Holyrod beamed, edging closer. ‘But there was something I was meaning to ask you about as well.’

  Dino gave her a quizzical look.

  Simpson’s heart sank. Not only had she been embarrassed by the antics of her insider-dealing husband, she had been embarrassed by the political company that he had kept. And now, with hindsight, she was even more embarrassed to admit that she had been a fellow traveller; a fellow traveller to the point where, arguably, she had overstepped the mark in disclosing to Holyrod details of an investigation in which he personally had been involved. As it happened, her indiscretion had not affected the outcome of the case; but it could have done and that thought still rankled. Still, she had learned an important lesson. Her dealings with politicians were, she had hoped, all long in the past. That was most definitely where she wanted to keep them.

  Holyrod let his voice drop until it was barely audible over the background hubbub. ‘It concerns my favourite policeman.’

  John bloody Carlyle. Simpson felt a sour twinge in her gut. The Commander’s relationship with her subordinate had improved immeasurably over recent years, but that did not preclude her from having an acute awareness of his somewhat severe shortcomings. The inspector was the kind of man who had a chip on both shoulders, along with the innate ability to piss off important people, especially the Mayor. On more than one occasion, Simpson had been caught in the middle when the pair had clashed. Whereas Carlyle seemed to revel in the conflict, she herself found it wearisome and futile.

  ‘There’s an issue in relation to—’

  Simpson stopped him. ‘I am aware of the situation. Why don’t you call me in the morning?’

  Holyrod was about to reply when an imperious figure appeared at his shoulder. At well over six feet, Abigail Slater towered over Simpson. She was wearing a Moschino twill blazer over a pearl blouse with the top three buttons undone, giving more than a glimpse of an ample décolletage. Dino’s mouth fell open. Resisting the urge to elbow her partner in the ribs, Simpson gave Holyrod a sly smile. ‘Is your wife not coming this evening?’ she asked maliciously.

  Catching her tone, Dino closed his mouth and, taking her arm, began manoeuvring the Commander towards the exit. ‘We’re off to dinner,’ he said, injecting a note of false cheer into his voice.

  ‘I will call you in the morning,’ Holyrod said grimly as Simpson walked away.

  ‘What a bitch,’ Slater sneered, loudly enough for Simpson to hear.

  ‘Forget it,’ Holyrod snapped, pulling her in the opposite direction. ‘Let’s go and see the bloody exhibition.’

  The squaddie drained his pint of Spitfire Ale and banged it down on the table. ‘They’re almost here.’

  Not looking up from his bottle of Foster’s, Adrian Gasparino grunted noncommittally. He was freezing cold in his dress uniform and trying to ignore the dull ache from his crippled leg.

  ‘Aren’t you going to come out and watch it?’ Not waiting for an answer, the squaddie was already out of the door and into the crowd, a few hundred strong that lined the main street in Wootton Bassett, the small Wiltshire town through which dead soldiers were driven on their way to the John Radcliffe Hospital in Oxford.

  Gasparino looked up at the television screen set high on the wall. One of the news channels was showing live images of the scene outside. Over the pictures, a newsreader’s voice said: ‘Since they began more than three years ago, there have been 149 repatriation ceremonies for 346 personnel. The rate has been increasing, with 34 ceremonies for 86 soldiers so far this year.’

  A perky blonde presenter was running up and down the street interviewing anyone in a uniform. Everyone used the same words – ‘tragedy’ and ‘bravery’ – the excited chatter only stopping when the hearses finally hove into view. There were six bodies being repatriated today. One of them belonged to Spencer Spanner. Gasparino kept his eyes on the screen as they passed by outside. As the last one disappeared, he finished his beer and went back to the bar.

  Fed up with waiting for his wife to make a comment, Carlyle picked up his new spectacles and waved them in front of his face.

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘They make you look different,’ Helen smirked.

  ‘At least I haven’t lost them yet,’ Carlyle replied, miffed that she couldn’t come up with something more positive to say about his new look.

  Reaching across the sofa, Helen took the frames from his hand. Placing them carefully on his face, she gave him an affectionate kiss on the lips. ‘They look good. With the grey hair, you are on the way to looking really quite distinguished.’

  ‘Getting old,’ Carlyle said sadly.

  ‘We’re all getting old,’ Helen retorted. ‘No need to get all gloomy about it.’ She gestured at the television. On the screen were pictures of Union Jack-draped coffins being unloaded from an RAF plane. ‘There’s a lot worse could happen to you. Those kids were only in their twenties. It seems like they’re coming home almost every day now.’

  ‘I know.’

  The news report turned to a series of vox pops with people who had turned out to watch the bodies return home. ‘I’m here to pay my respects,’ said one woman, carrying a baby. ‘They’re all heroes.’

  Carlyle shook his head. ‘What kind of person takes a young kid to something like that?’

  Helen made a face. ‘It has clearly become a bit of a tradition. A day out for people.’

  ‘I’m sure it makes the poor buggers in the coffins feel a whole lot better,’ said Carlyle grumpily.

  A stern-looking chap in uniform appeared on the screen under the title Lieutenant-General Sir Kelvin Frank. ‘There is a greater infatuation with the military,’ he announced, staring into the camera in a rather disconcerting fashion, ‘than at any other stage of recent history. Much of it is pretty mawkish – what you might call recreational grief . . . Diana . . . Graceland-type stuff. It’s just an extension of the vapid celebrity culture that is corroding our country and doesn’t do anyone any good.’

  Carlyle gave a small cheer. ‘At last,’ he said, gesturing at the screen, ‘someone’s talking some bloody sense. Why do we let ourselves wallow in all this sentimentality? You tell ’em, General!’

  ‘Alice came back with something from school yesterday,’ Helen said. ‘They’re doing a sponsored walk for Help for Heroes and Veterans Aid.’

  Carlyle looked at her uncomprehendingly.

  ‘They’re charities aimed at helping ex-servicemen get back into civilian life.’

  ‘Isn’t that the government’s job?’ Carlyle asked. Holding up his hand, he corrected himself immediately. ‘Sorry, that was a remarkably stupid thing to say. Good for Alice. How much is she looking to raise?’

  ‘A minimum of two hundred quid. She’s really up for it.’

  ‘Good for her,’ Carlyle repeated, quietly wondering how much he would have to stump up himself. ‘What does she think of it all?’

  ‘Dunno,’ Helen replied. ‘I think she buys into the basic idea that the soldiers are heroes, but doesn’t have much of an
understanding – if any at all – about what they’re actually fighting for.’

  ‘Same as everyone else then,’ Carlyle quipped. ‘I’d better see if I can dig out an old Stranglers CD for her to listen to.’

  Leaping off the sofa, he began singing the first verse of ‘No More Heroes’ in his best Jean-Jacques Burnel accent. Raising her eyes to the ceiling, Helen picked up the remote and raised the volume on the TV.

  Standing in the mud in the Royal British Legion Wootton Bassett Field of Remembrance, Gasparino shivered. He had eaten nothing for more than twenty-four hours and the beer had gone to his head. Looking around, he saw a smattering of people, small knots of families wandering among the rows of tiny crosses pressed into the turf. A sharp blast of wind blew across the field. Looking up at the slate-grey sky, he breathed in deeply, trying to clear his head. In his hand, he was holding a six-inch wooden cross, the legend Sergeant Spencer Spanner written in blue biro across the tip. Dropping on to his good knee, Gasparino drove the cross into the ground until he was sure it was safely secured. His injured leg flared with pain as he struggled to his feet. Stepping away from the cross, he felt the first rain of the day on his uncovered head.

  ‘Sorry, mate,’ he said, choked.

  Keeping his gaze on the ground, he headed for the road.

  The inspector sat in the familiar surroundings of Simpson’s office in Paddington Green police station. Aside from the basic office furniture, the place was empty. The only personal touch – a photo of Simpson’s husband – had been removed years earlier, around the time the latter had been arrested for fraud. Carlyle waited patiently while she signed some papers. After a few moments, she tossed the biro onto the desk and looked up.

  There was a pause while she did a double-take.

  ‘When did you . . . ?’

  Carlyle shuffled uncomfortably in his seat. ‘The other day.’

  Simpson tried not to grin. ‘They make you look different.’

  A familiar sense of being persecuted stabbed Carlyle in the chest. ‘That’s exactly what Helen said.’