Shoot to Kill

by James Craig

  This guy, Carlyle thought sadly, was probably just a corpse long before he had breathed his last.

  ‘Fuck!’ Looking down, Carlyle saw that he had stepped in the victim’s blood. He took a step backwards, ignoring the disapproving looks of the two technicians still working on the crime scene. Standing in the rain, he wiped the toe of his shoe in a pool of murky water and looked across at his sergeant, standing vacantly in the gutter waiting for something to happen.

  Umar caught him staring. He nodded again at the inspector’s cap. ‘Bad result for Fulham last night.’

  Tell me something I don’t know, Carlyle thought. Fourth defeat on the bounce, a shell-shocked manager and another wearisome relegation battle looming. ‘We’re not like United,’ he said maliciously, ‘with dodgy decisions from helpful referees every week.’

  Umar shook his head. ‘I’m a Citeh man,’ he said, ‘as you well know. I don’t like United any more than anyone else.’

  ‘These days that’s probably worse,’ Carlyle said morosely. Manchester City, for so long the poor relations of their local rivals, had been bought by some rich Arabs intent on buying their way to success. In football, where money was everything, even perennial losers like City could be transformed . . . eventually.

  Umar shrugged his shoulders. ‘You’re just jealous of our money,’ he said almost wistfully in a soft Lancashire accent that had clearly been honed in some of the smarter parts of Cheshire.

  ‘You can’t buy class.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Umar agreed, puzzled by his boss’s obvious hostility over such a trivial matter. ‘Like your cap – very classy.’

  Finally, Carlyle managed a grin. ‘At least it keeps my head dry.’

  Umar Sligo pulled himself up straight so that he could profit from his three-inch height advantage over his boss. ‘A bit of rain never hurt anyone,’ he said.

  Thrusting his hands deep into the pockets of his North Face jacket, Carlyle pawed the ground restlessly. Breakfast was long overdue. ‘Where you come from,’ he said, ‘I suppose it rains all the time.’

  ‘Manchester’s not that bad,’ Umar said defensively.

  ‘Yeah, right,’ Carlyle nodded. ‘Just be grateful that you’ve finally made it to civilization.’

  Umar looked at him defiantly. ‘Have you ever been there?’

  Carlyle frowned as if the question was crazy. He lived and worked in London. Why would he ever want to venture into the provinces? Letting his gaze slip from his sergeant, he watched an ambulance appear from round the corner, its blue lights flashing, then pull up to the tape.

  ‘We’re done here,’ he said. ‘Let’s go and get a drink.’

  Sitting in a cramped booth at the back of the Monmouth Coffee House, just off Seven Dials in Covent Garden, Carlyle took off his cap and hung his jacket over the back of his chair. He could feel a headache coming on. A trio of baristas expertly worked the red Gaggia Deco machines lined up against the far wall, and while he waited, he read the notice hanging above them that explained the characteristics – toasted almonds with smooth body and balanced fruity acidity – of his espresso. We currently use Fazenda do Serrado (Brasil) as the base of the espresso, adding Lo Mejor de Nariño (Colombia) for high notes and complexity and Finca Capetillo (Guatemala) for cocoa notes.

  Carlyle didn’t know whether to be impressed or embarrassed. Sipping his drink, he scanned the room. At a nearby table, a hugely famous, jaw-droppingly gorgeous young actress was canoodling with a young pretty boy who looked even more feminine than she did. Carlyle was no star-gazer – in Central London, celebrities, even proper celebrities, were ten a penny, but even so, he found it hard not to gawp.

  Finishing his cappuccino, Umar noisily dropped his cup back on its saucer, bringing the inspector back to the present. ‘Shall we get going?’ he asked, bouncing around on his seat like a hyperactive five year old.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Carlyle. Making no move to get up, he gave his sergeant the onceover. They had been working together for a while now but Carlyle, usually a man quick to make a judgement on people, felt like he was still a long way off making a decision about Umar Sligo. Dark and clear-eyed, with a strong jawline, high cheekbones and a mane of pitch-black hair that was considerably longer than allowed for in the Met’s regulations, Umar was a pretty boy too, and no mistake. Sitting in a charcoal, single-breasted Jil Sander suit, something that Carlyle could never have afforded on his inspector’s salary, and with an aqua-blue Hugo Boss shirt, open at the neck, the young man looked more like a model than a policeman. Carlyle watched as the actress turned away from her boyfriend and blatantly gave Umar an appraising look. The stab of envy that Carlyle felt was sharp and lingering. What is it today, he wondered grumpily, with all these beautiful people? Glancing up, he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror that ran the length of the wall behind the bar. His hair was greyer than he remembered and his plebeian build, always slight, seemed to be shrinking as he hunched over his demitasse. To his own hypercritical eye, he looked at least ten years older than his actual age. You’re past your sell-by date, he said to himself, too old to be a footsoldier in the battle for law and order. You’ve been doing this job for far too long – you should have found something else to keep you busy by now.

  Umar had started reading a story on his BlackBerry Curve 8520 and was soon laughing out loud. ‘Have you heard the latest about Gavin Swann?’

  ‘His new contract?’

  ‘Nah. That was sorted weeks ago. Two hundred grand a week after tax, apparently.’ He turned the BlackBerry round in his hand, so that Carlyle could see the screen. It showed an image of a sleek white automobile. Gavin Swann was leaning out of the driver’s window, signing autographs for a couple of young boys. In the background, a gaggle of middle-aged men in shell-suits looked on. ‘The latest addition to his stable of high-end motors. A Bentley Continental. One of the most popular cars with Premier League footballers. More than a hundred grand’s worth of style and grace.’

  ‘Nice.’ Carlyle failed to fake much interest. The truth was that he knew nothing about cars and cared even less. ‘Bit of a cliché, though, isn’t it?’ he went on. ‘Footballer buys flash car. Not very imaginative.’

  ‘By and large,’ Umar acknowledged, ‘it is pretty much what you’d expect. English footballers tend to come either from the working class or from the underclass. Young men, lacking in both formal education and life skills, with a lot of disposable income . . . they like their expensive toys. A lot of them have a problem when it comes to managing money.’

  ‘He’s a chav,’ Carlyle sneered.

  ‘Like all of us, Gavin Swann is a product of his environment. Until he signed as a professional footballer, no one in Swann’s immediate family had worked for almost thirty years. He lived in a one-bedroom council house in Elephant and Castle until he bought a six-million-pound mansion in Surrey. He played for England before he had even qualified for a driving licence.’

  ‘Part of a long tradition of lovable “bad boys”, like George Best, Stan Bowles, Paul Gascoigne.’

  ‘His is the kind of story you’d expect from this society.’

  Carlyle let out a short, harsh laugh. ‘You sound like you’ve been on one sociology course too many.’

  ‘Nah.’ Umar shook his head. ‘But I read an interesting article about it in the FT at the weekend.’

  The FT? What kind of bloody copper, Carlyle wondered, reads the Financial Times?

  ‘They have a guy called Simon Kuper who writes lots of interesting stuff.’

  Carlyle gave him a blank look.

  ‘He co-wrote a book,’ Umar continued, ‘called Why England Lose.’

  For a nanosecond, Carlyle rediscovered his Scottish roots. ‘England lose because they are not very good,’ he said.

  ‘No, well, actually . . .’

  Carlyle held up a hand. ‘Let’s not go there.’ However shit England were on the football field, he knew only too well that Scotland were far worse.

  With a sigh, Umar realized th
at he was wasting his time, trying to have an intelligent conversation with his boss about anything that was not directly related to work. It was clear that the inspector was two-dimensional – at best – and Umar wondered just how much he would learn from working at Charing Cross. Hopefully, his stay would be a short one.

  ‘Okay,’ he asked, looking up from the screen of his smartphone, ‘what do you want me to do next?’

  Carlyle finished his drink. ‘Your call.’ The boy had to start making his own decisions. Until he did that, the inspector wouldn’t know if he was any good or not. Simpson hadn’t explained why Umar – academic, matinée idol and rising star in the provincial police force – had upped sticks and come to London. A restless spirit? A dark secret? A hidden agenda? Or simply an understandable desire to play with the big boys? There were various possibilities. Not that Carlyle cared much one way or another. As a Londoner, he always assumed that anyone unfortunate enough to find themselves living in another part of the country would try and make it to the capital at the earliest opportunity, before life passed them by completely. As a policeman, he was not overburdened by curiosity. Anyway, whatever Umar’s reasons for heading south, they were unlikely to have much bearing on how things worked out between the two of them at Charing Cross. The kid would either stick around or he wouldn’t. Only time would tell. If they established a good partnership, terrific. If not, he would get someone else. That was one of the great things about London: there was always someone else. You were never missed for long. No one was indispensable. Ever. It was not a place for sentimentality.

  Looking up, Carlyle saw the poster on the wall behind Umar’s head. It was for one of the ENO’s current shows called A Dog’s Heart. Bored, he read the blurb: . . .a new work by Russian composer Alexander Raskatov, based on a classic novella by one of the Soviet era’s best-known writers, Mikhail Bulgakov. Banned for many years under Stalin’s rule, Bulgakov’s absurdist tale tells of a stray mongrel that becomes human after a Frankenstein-like organ transplant by his master. Carlyle had never been to an opera in his life, but at least this one sounded interesting. At the bottom of the poster was a quote lifted from a Financial Times review: a total sensory extravaganza. Well, if it’s good enough for the FT . . . Carlyle thought sarkily.

  Maybe he should ask Umar his opinion.

  Maybe not.

  Shocked by his willingness to contemplate trying something new, he made a mental note to ask his wife about it. He chuckled to himself. Was an opera about a Frankenstein dog a good choice for a date? Was there even such a thing as a date opera anyway? Helen would have to be the judge of that. The point was that it was up to him to make the effort to do something.

  Umar finished typing some notes into his mobile device and looked up. ‘I’ll see if I can get a name, see what the uniforms come up with, knocking on doors, and chase up the pathologist’s report.’

  ‘Talk to the people at the halfway house on Parker Street and also the St Mungo’s hostel on Endell Street. They might be able to tell you something useful.’

  ‘Okay,’ Umar nodded.

  ‘Good.’ Carlyle got to his feet. ‘Get an estimated time of death and check the CCTV as well. I counted at least four different cameras that should have caught something.’

  Umar grinned. ‘That would make our life easier.’

  ‘We’ll see.’ Carlyle let out a deep breath. Accidentally catching the eye of the actress, he looked away quickly, feeling like a berk. ‘I’ll see you later.’

  Apparently oblivious to the star in his midst, Umar dropped the BlackBerry into his pocket. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Stuff to do,’ said Carlyle, as he headed for the door. ‘I’m off to see your predecessor.’

  TWENTY-ONE

  Was he imagining it, or did Roche look different? Scanning her face, Carlyle thought there was something missing. And then he saw it: the loss of sparkle in her eyes as she looked at him made him wonder if she could really recover from her tussles with Alain Costello.

  Stepping forward, she greeted him with a limp handshake. ‘Hello, Inspector.’

  ‘Sergeant.’

  She looked him up and down. ‘Like the specs. They make you look . . . different.’

  ‘So I’m told.’ Carlyle glanced down the suburban street. There was no sign of the two dozen or so police officers stationed within 100 yards of where they were standing. The neighbourhood looked deserted. ‘Are you ready to go?’

  ‘Just about.’ Roche pointed to a large, unmarked van parked twenty yards down the road. ‘My boss is in there,’ she mumbled. ‘I’d introduce you, but you wouldn’t like her.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Roche might have lost her edge but she still knew him well enough. There were already plenty of police officers the inspector didn’t like; he didn’t need to meet another one.

  ‘The target address is the next street over,’ Roche said. ‘It’s called Fortune Street – a top-floor flat. As far as we can tell, Costello is in there alone. We’re going in, in around five minutes. Straight through the front door. There is no alternative exit.’

  Third time lucky, Carlyle thought. Don’t fuck it up this time. If you have to shoot the bastard, that’s fine by me. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I’ll stay in the background.’

  As if reading his thoughts, Roche lovingly patted the Glock on her hip. ‘Are you armed?’ she asked.

  ‘No,’ Carlyle said. ‘Not really necessary, is it?’

  Roche made a face that suggested his statement lacked a certain degree of wisdom.

  ‘Anyway,’ Carlyle continued, ‘I am not an Authorized Firearms Officer. As it happens, I’ve never fired a gun in my life.’

  ‘No? Maybe you should learn,’ Roche replied as she turned and headed off down the street.

  ‘Maybe I will,’ Carlyle lied as he watched her disappear round the corner. There was no way on God’s earth you would get him anywhere near an armed weapon. He knew that if he ever ended up with a gun in his hand, most likely the only person he would end up shooting would be himself. No, guns were definitely not on his agenda. He glanced at his watch; a couple of minutes to kick-off. After a moment’s reflection, he began walking down the street at a brisk pace, heading in the opposite direction to Roche.

  At the end of the street, Carlyle crossed the two-lane road and went and sat on a grubby red plastic bench in a bus shelter that offered him a clear view down the length of Fortune Street. Arms folded, he watched as the snatch party of half a dozen uniformed officers smashed down a door halfway down the street, about 150 yards from where he was sitting. Carlyle saw an old woman, tartan shopping bag in hand, shuffling along the far side of the street, oblivious to what was going on around her. Otherwise, the place was deserted. Three buses trundled down the road in convoy, not bothering to stop. By the time they had passed, the police had disappeared inside, leaving a lone constable to stand duty outside. Carlyle heard a couple of quiet thuds and some indistinguishable voices, which quickly disappeared beneath the relentless hum of the traffic.

  Another bus passed. Carlyle watched as the scruffy figure of a young man slipped out of the front door of the house at the end of the street, nearest to the bus stop. Head bowed, he crossed the road while still playing on his games console. Stepping into the bus shelter, he looked up at the indicator board, which said the next bus was due in one minute.

  Bloody good service here, Carlyle thought, as he watched the single-decker lumber into view. Standing on the kerb, he fished his Oyster Card out of his pocket. Slipping his computer game in his pocket, the other passenger reached out and signalled to the driver to stop. The bus came to a halt and Carlyle listened to the familiar hiss of pressurized air as the doors opened. Stepping behind the man, he gripped the back of his neck and smashed his face into the side of the bus. Looking up, he caught the gaze of a middle-aged black woman who quickly glanced away, obviously not wanting to get involved. When Carlyle realized that the dazed man wasn’t going down, he grabbed the back of his jacket and hoisted him bac
kwards towards the plastic bench. Taking his cue, the bus driver quickly closed the doors and moved off.

  Carlyle’s target tried to wriggle free. As he did so, the games console fell out of his pocket and onto the pavement.

  ‘Fils du pute!’

  Ignoring his attacker, the man reached down to pick it up, allowing Carlyle to give him a swift, gratuitous kick in the ribs. With a groan, the man went down on one knee. Pulling his hands behind his back, Carlyle clipped on a pair of handcuffs, relieving him of his console as he did so. ‘Alain Costello,’ he said in his most official-sounding voice, ‘you are under arrest.’

  Struggling upright, Costello spat against the Perspex of the bus shelter. With a mixture of annoyance and despair, he watched Carlyle place the console into his pocket. ‘Give me back my PSP,’ he whined.

  ‘Shut the fuck up,’ Carlyle snorted. Resisting the temptation to drop the bloody thing down a drain, he took Costello by the arm and frog-marched him back across the street and into the waiting arms of SO15.

  Sandy Carroll chucked her handbag towards the chair in the corner of the room and watched, mortified, as it hit the arm and fell onto the floor, emptying half its contents onto the carpet. Grinning, Gavin Swann bent down and picked up a packet of Durex Extra Safe.

  ‘I see you’ve come prepared this time!’

  Sandy blushed. ‘Where’s Kelly?’

  Swann made a face. ‘Dunno.’ Undoing the white towel around his waist, he tossed it on the bed, inviting her to appreciate his nakedness.

  Sandy felt a flutter of concern in her stomach. Kelly was supposed to be bringing the recording device that Frank Maxwell’s PA had set them up with. ‘I thought you wanted another threesome,’ she said, keeping her gaze at eye-level.