Shoot to Kill

by James Craig

Simpson nodded.

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with my eyes,’ he added, somewhat defensively. ‘Everyone needs specs in the end.’

  ‘Quite,’ Simpson agreed, gesturing to her own glasses case lying on the desk. ‘Anyway, you know what this is about.’

  Carlyle cringed. ‘The Mayor’s website: have you seen the video?’

  Simpson shook her head.

  ‘You must be about the only person in the Met who hasn’t.’ Carlyle grinned. ‘I have a starring role.’

  Simpson picked up a mug of steaming peppermint tea from her desk and took a sip. ‘Why couldn’t you just do what you were told?’ Carlyle made to say something but she cut him off. ‘For once, just execute my order. Not create another bloody drama that gets the Mayor’s back up.’

  Carlyle’s grin got wider.

  ‘You bloody enjoy it!’ Simpson slammed her mug down on the desk, spilling tea over her newly signed letters. ‘Shit!’

  Carlyle struggled to suppress a laugh.

  Simpson could tell there was no point in trying to clean up the mess. The letters would have to be redone. ‘The problem is that you just like making trouble,’ she complained. ‘What on earth was the point of arresting that cameraman?’

  Carlyle spread his arms wide in what he hoped was a conciliatory fashion. ‘What was the point of arresting anyone? How many illegal aliens did we actually catch?’

  Simpson glared at the inspector. They both knew the answer to that: zero.

  Carlyle ploughed on. ‘One stripper arrested for assault – an assault that only happened because we turned up – and thousands of pounds’ worth of police time wasted. And all for what? So we could make some fancy video for the Mayor’s website.’

  ‘The Mayor—’

  ‘The Mayor,’ Carlyle said angrily, ‘can go fuck himself. It’s not like he’s going to be in the job for much longer anyway.’

  Simpson thought about mentioning Holyrod’s new job with Dino’s company but decided against it. ‘He’ll still be an important man,’ she said lamely.

  ‘We’ll see,’ Carlyle snorted.

  ‘What about the woman that assaulted your constable?’

  ‘PC Lea? She’s an American citizen by the name of Christina O’Brien. I expect that she’ll be deported. Bishop’s dealing with it, unless my new guy turns up, sharpish.’

  ‘That was the other thing I wanted to talk to you about,’ said Simpson, opening a desk drawer and pulling out a thin file. She handed it to Carlyle, careful to avoid the pool of tea on the table. ‘He starts on Monday. Here are the details.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Sitting back in his chair, Carlyle flicked through the contents. ‘Umar Sligo,’ he frowned. ‘What kind of a name is that?’

  ‘Fucking shit!’ Alain Costello threw his PSP at the wall in frustration. ‘Merde alors!’

  He had been playing the same game for weeks and had to get to a store to buy something new or his head felt like it would explode. No one would be looking for him now. His father Tuco was being a total arsehole. If Tuco had made more of an effort, Alain could have been home by now. Well, fuck him. Grabbing his puffer jacket, he headed for the door.

  ‘Hey! Where you going?’ Salvatore, the minder Tuco had instructed to look after him, stuck his head out of the kitchen door. In his hand was a ham and cheese sandwich. Frowning, he took a large bite. Alain swore to himself; all the fat fuck ever did was eat.

  ‘I’m going out.’

  ‘But . . .’ Salvatore struggled to chew and talk at the same time. ‘Tuco—’

  ‘Fuck Tuco,’ Alain whined. ‘I need some new games.’

  Salvatore shoved the remainder of the sandwich into his gaping maw and wiped his hands on his Kings of Leon T-shirt. ‘Tell me what you want. I’ll go and get them.’

  ‘I want to go out.’

  ‘But the police . . .’

  ‘There are no police,’ Alain scoffed. ‘Everyone thinks I have left the country.’

  Salvatore looked doubtful. ‘Hold on,’ he said finally. ‘I’ll come with you.’

  FIFTEEN

  Feeling weary, Adrian Gasparino turned into the driveway of number 47 Hobart Street and walked down the side of the house. Placing his rucksack against the wall, he gently pressed down on the handle and pushed open the back door. Stepping into the kitchen, he gazed upon the pile of dirty plates in the sink and breathed in the familiar, stale cooking smells that always filled the tiny space. Closing his eyes he tried to feel something. Over the ticking of the clock on the wall came the sound of children laughing from the garden next door.

  The door that led into the living room was ajar. From behind it he heard a noise – a grunt – followed by what sounded like a slap and an indistinct male voice. Gasparino stepped carefully to the door and pushed it open another couple of inches. His eyes moved to the large mirror hanging on the far wall, which gave him a view of the end of the L-shaped room. Biting his lip, he watched Justine, naked, on her hands and knees, her bump almost touching the carpet, move her legs apart for a man he had never seen before. Equally naked, the man slipped his engorged penis between her buttocks and thrust vigorously.

  Justine fell forwards on to the carpet, passing wind noisily as she did so. ‘Hey!’ she complained over her shoulder. ‘Not there! That’s the wrong hole!’

  Laughing, the man slapped her on the arse and pulled her back up into a kneeling position.

  Gasparino was amazed by the size of her breasts. They were twice as large as he remembered them, hanging either side of her belly, blue veins standing out against her off-white skin.

  ‘Take it gently,’ she whispered. ‘Don’t hurt me.’

  Moving back inside her, the man grasped her by the hips and began grinding slowly against her rear. Gasparino waited for him to look up and see that he was being watched, but, concentrating hard on the matter in hand, he never did.

  He noticed a large blue teddy bear sitting on the sofa, watching the engaged pair with an air of amused detachment.

  Maybe it’s a boy, thought Gasparino.

  The man’s thrusts got faster.

  ‘Oh, fuck,’ Justine groaned.

  Stepping back into the kitchen, Gasparino slipped out of the back door. Picking up his bag, he moved quietly out of the drive and began walking back down the road in the direction he had come.

  Roche sat at the first-floor window of an empty house on the other side of St Paul Street, sipping a cup of tea that she’d bought from a café round the corner. She hated surveillance work and would far rather have gone straight in and searched the place that Carlyle had been told Alain Costello was hiding out in. But the powers-that-be had decided they should wait. Two weeks earlier, the Met had mistakenly raided a wedding party in Bethnal Green, thinking it was a terrorist cell. There could be no more fuck-ups, for a while at least. Finishing her tea, she tossed the polystyrene cup into the corner of the room as two men came out of the target address. Both were wearing hoodies under their jackets, obscuring their faces.

  The radio burst into life. ‘Do we engage?’

  ‘Shit!’ Roche grabbed the Vanguard binoculars at her feet. But the pair were on the street now, walking away from her. Then she saw the PSP console in the hand of the guy nearest to her. ‘It’s him,’ she mumbled to herself.

  ‘Do we engage?’

  Ignoring the radio, Roche grabbed her Glock 26 and raced down the stairs. Out on the street she checked in both directions. Apart from the two hoodies and the two constables in an unmarked Range Rover twenty yards away, it was empty. Her targets were moving slowly down the far side of the street. In a couple of minutes, they would be on a busy main road and things would be far harder to control. Roche knew that she had to act now. Slipping between a couple of parked cars, she began jogging down the middle of the road, her gun at her side. They were less than fifteen yards in front of her now and she was closing quickly. Stepping on to the pavement, feeling her heart pounding in her chest, she raised the Glock.

  ‘Stop! Police! I am armed a
nd I have the authority to shoot.’

  Flicking an imaginary piece of lint from the sleeve of her blouse, Sandy Carroll took another mouthful of Verdicchio and wondered if they should order another bottle. She was beginning to feel pleasantly light-headed but knew that it would take a couple more glasses before she was getting the full effect of the alcohol. Putting the glass back on the table, she picked listlessly at her pollo pancetta. She didn’t normally eat this early and her appetite was lacking. The clock over the front door edged towards five fifteen. The Pizza Express just up from the Royal Opera House was already noisily full. Indeed, a queue of people waiting for a table was beginning to snake down the street; the usual collection of families, pre-theatre diners and tourists exhausted by a day spent trudging around Covent Garden’s crowded, tacky piazza.

  Sandy watched the waiters and waitresses flit from table to table, trying to get the current occupants served and out of the door as quickly as possible in order to accommodate those hovering outside. It crossed her mind that there must be dozens, if not hundreds, of other restaurants within a five- or ten-minute walk of Bow Street. For that matter, there were probably quite a few other Pizza Express restaurants nearby as well. Why stand on the pavement waiting to get into this one? Sandy wouldn’t be seen dead queuing to get into anywhere, never mind a pizza restaurant.

  A waiter, a small, thin bearded bloke who looked Italian, or maybe Turkish, swooped on their table, picked up the bottle of wine and refilled her glass. Sandy gave him a curt nod, refusing to return his cheeky smile. She had just completed a tough afternoon’s shopping and wanted to get pissed without anyone hitting on or otherwise hassling her.

  ‘How is your food?’ the waiter asked in lightly accented English.

  ‘It’s fine,’ Sandy mumbled, carefully avoiding any kind of eye-contact that might be misconstrued. Waiters were most definitely not her type. ‘Thank you,’ she added, almost as an afterthought.

  ‘Excellent – enjoy!’ Still smiling, the waiter placed the three-quarters empty bottle on the table and danced off. Must make your mouth hurt, that job, Sandy thought, what with having to smile all the bloody time.

  Over the general hubbub of the restaurant, the oh-so-familiar sound of ‘Parachute’ by the nation’s former sweetheart, Cheryl Cole, started bubbling up from under the table. With a squawk of delight, Sandy’s dining companion, Kelly Kellaway, reached down and pulled her iPhone from her tote bag. Taking another mouthful of wine, Sandy watched as Kelly opened a text message and, cackling with glee, quickly tapped in a reply.

  ‘Who was that?’

  ‘Drink up,’ Kelly ordered, signalling to the waiter for the bill. ‘I’ll get this. We’re off.’

  Sandy frowned. It wasn’t like Kelly to pay the whole bill. ‘Where are we going?’

  Without saying anything, Kelly handed Sandy the iPhone. Then, taking her purse from the bag, she fished out two twenties and a ten and dropped them on the table with a flourish.

  Sandy stared at the message on the screen. The texter’s ID just said Gavin. The message read, I’m at the Garden Hotel. Come on over. She looked at her friend and asked, ‘Who’s Gavin?’

  Kelly snorted with laughter. ‘Are you kidding?’ The waiter appeared with the bill, scooped up the cash and scuttled off to get some change. Dumping the last of the wine into her glass, Kelly drained it in one. ‘Come on,’ she said, getting to her feet, smoothing down the front of her Markus Lupfer camouflage knitted dress, a purchase from their most recent trip to Harvey Nichols the week before. ‘Let’s get going.’

  ‘Is this an agency job?’

  ‘No, it bloody isn’t.’ Kelly stuck her hands on her hips and pouted like a three year old before her face broke into a grin. ‘It’s top secret.’ The waiter returned with the change on a little tray but Kelly just left it there. Pulling her bag over her shoulder, she began manoeuvring her way between the nearby tables, heading for the exit.

  Sandy hesitated. She was tired. She wasn’t in the mood. Today was supposed to be a day off. More to the point, she was wearing a fairly grungy pair of M&S knickers and a bra that didn’t match. If she’d known what Kelly had in mind, she would have worn her Agent Provocateur Cendrillon Playsuit – that always went down a treat with the punters.

  ‘Come on!’ Kelly shouted over her shoulder, already halfway to the door. ‘He’s waiting.’

  With a sigh, Sandy hefted the bags of shopping piled around her feet. Getting up, she realized that not only was she not really dressed for the occasion, but she didn’t have any condoms on her. That might limit her bedroom options somewhat. Terrified of catching something nasty, she didn’t allow anyone to go bareback, not even a Premier League footballer. Not even Gavin bloody Swann.

  ‘Stop! Police! I am armed and I have the authority to shoot.’

  ‘Merde!’ As Salvatore took off down the street like a scalded cat, Alain Costello turned to face the woman with the Glock. Recognizing her as the cop from St Pancras, he smiled insolently.

  ‘Stop,’ Roche repeated as she moved carefully towards him. ‘Put your hands in the air!’ She was little more than five yards away when an old woman pushing a shopping trolley started to cross the road. She did a double-take when she saw Roche’s gun and let out a high-pitched scream. Laughing, Costello took his opportunity to turn and run.

  After spending a minute or so flicking through Umar Sligo’s file, Carlyle tossed it back onto Simpson’s desk. While he was reading, the Commander’s PA had speedily mopped up the spilled tea and removed the soaked letters, but he was still careful to avoid the remaining damp patch.

  ‘What do you think?’ Simpson asked. And seeing his expression: ‘You could at least show a little enthusiasm,’ she scolded. ‘I think he’ll be good.’

  Carlyle shifted in his seat. ‘We’ll see.’ With an Irish father and a Pakistani mother, Umar was living, breathing proof of the benefits of the multicultural society. Kassim Darwish Grammar School for Boys, South Manchester (The true measure of a good education is to explore the limitations of your knowledge) had been followed by a first-class degree from the University of Manchester in Politics and Criminology. After joining the Greater Manchester Police, he had been rapidly promoted, becoming one of the youngest sergeants on the force at the age of barely twenty-three.

  ‘John,’ she instructed him. ‘Make an effort.’

  ‘I will,’ he protested. ‘Of course I will.’

  ‘I will be keeping an eye on the pair of you.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Carlyle, getting to his feet. ‘Let’s see how it goes.’

  After many years of working together, Simpson understood Carlyle’s idiosyncrasies better than anyone else on the Force. Giving him a quizzical look, she decided to quit while she thought she was ahead. ‘Good,’ she said primly. ‘He’ll be with you tomorrow.’

  Roche sounded more than a little pissed. ‘I can’t believe we’ve lost Costello again,’ she wailed.

  Carlyle’s heart sank. He didn’t like these type of conversations and wished he’d let the call go to voicemail. Taking a deep breath, he tried to sound supportive. ‘Under the circumstances, it doesn’t sound like you could have done much differently. And now we know for sure that he’s still in the country.’

  ‘The bloody granny had a heart attack!’

  ‘At least you didn’t shoot her,’ Carlyle laughed.

  Roche mumbled something incomprehensible.

  ‘Look,’ Carlyle said firmly, ‘get some sleep. I’ll go back to my guy and see if he can give us another lead.’

  ‘Okay,’ she said, starting to sound tearful.

  ‘Get some rest,’ Carlyle repeated. ‘We’ll talk tomorrow.’ Ending the call, he phoned William Wallace. The Yardie answered almost immediately.

  ‘Mr Wallace?’

  ‘Mr Carlyle!’ Wallace too sounded somewhat inebriated. There was a party going on in the background. ‘Hold on a sec.’

  Carlyle waited while Wallace moved somewhere quieter.

  ‘What can I
do for you?’

  ‘The address you gave me was good.’

  ‘I told you,’ Wallace said, sounding pleased.

  ‘But the guy has done a runner.’ Carlyle didn’t go into details.

  Wallace let out a low whistle. ‘You mean you lost him again?’

  Carlyle chose not to rise to the bait. ‘I was wondering if you might have any thoughts about where he might be now?’

  ‘The guy he was staying with,’ Wallace lowered his voice a notch, ‘is called Salvatore Razzi. Nice enough bloke, but a bit of a slob. I happen to know that he also owns a place out west.’ Wallace gave Carlyle an address in Notting Hill.

  ‘Hold on, hold on. I need to write it down.’ After some considerable fumbling, Carlyle found a sandwich receipt and a pen in his jacket pocket. ‘Give me that again.’

  Wallace repeated the address.

  ‘Thanks, William.’

  ‘No problem.’

  Carlyle ended the call and dropped his phone into his pocket. Hopefully, it would be a case of third time lucky.

  SIXTEEN

  The Garden Hotel was located on St Martin’s Lane, a five-minute walk from the restaurant, just to the north of Trafalgar Square. It was the kind of high-end Central London location that attracted A-listers and all the hangers-on and ‘support-service’ providers that, inevitably, came with them. The girls had hung out at the Garden and its famous Light Bar many times before; they were both known to the chief concierge, Alex Miles, who had a ‘gentleman’s agreement’ with their agency.

  As they walked in, Miles was not at the desk. Sandy recognized one of his sidekicks, a thin, sour-faced woman named Jenny Thompson, who caught her eye, giving a slight nod of acknowledgement as the girls headed for the bank of three lifts at the back of the lobby.

  The place was heaving and all of the lifts were busy, stopping at every floor as they slowly made their way down to ground level. ‘Where are we going?’ Sandy whispered as they waited.

  Kelly didn’t look up as she tapped away at the screen of her iPhone. ‘Top floor, penthouse suite.’