by James Craig
Swann’s grin grew even wider. ‘We do.’ He gestured towards the open bathroom door and Sandy realized for the first time that the shower was running.
‘Who’s in the . . . ?’
Before she could finish the question, the water stopped. Through the door appeared a massive-looking guy, easily six five, drying his hair in a bath towel. This time, Sandy could not keep her gaze from heading south, past the guy’s well defined abs towards a piece of equipment that, on first glance, was easily twice the size of Swann’s.
‘I don’t—’
‘This is Paul, our reserve goalie. Big boy, isn’t he?’
Looking pleased with himself, Paul dropped his towel back onto the carpet, saying nothing.
Mesmerized and horrified in equal measure, Sandy watched as he started getting bigger.
‘He’s a shit goalie,’ Swann joked, ‘but he can screw for England.’
‘Fuck off,’ Paul laughed.
‘I wanna go,’ Sandy sobbed.
‘Strip!’ Swann commanded, pushing her onto the bed.
‘No!’ Sandy screamed. Bouncing back off the mattress, she got to her feet and made a grab for her bag. Dropping on one knee, she tried to scoop as much of the contents back inside as possible. Standing upright, Swann clasped her hair from behind, yanking her towards him. His hot breath on her cheek smelled of a mixture of beer and cheese and onion crisps. ‘You bitches were going to sell me out to the papers.’
‘No,’ Sandy snivelled unconvincingly. Turning her head, she could see his face turning puce with rage, beads of sweat forming on his brow. Behind him, the goalie laughed nervously.
‘Do you think I am stupid?’ Swann roared, pulling her head back as far as it would go.
Sandy shook her head. Her eyes blurred with tears.
‘Do you know how much I pay Frank every bloody year to keep me out of the papers? Do you think he’s going to give all that up for a few extra quid?’
‘Please . . .’ The laughing behind her had been replaced by a series of animal grunts and Sandy was horrified when an arc of semen flew past her right shoulder and splattered across the LCD screen in front of her, hitting the Sky Sports News weather girl smack in the face.
Releasing her hair, Swann almost fell over laughing. Blushing, Paul picked up the towel at his feet and wiped himself down.
Masturbating with one hand, Swann smiled maliciously at Sandy. ‘He’s just making sure he doesn’t finish too quickly . . . when it comes to the real thing.’
Regaining some of her composure, Sandy hoisted the bag over her shoulder and stepped towards Swann. Placing a hand on his chest, she pushed him firmly out of the way and headed for the door. ‘You are a pair of sick bastards,’ she shouted, hoping someone outside would hear her distress. ‘Fucking perverts. You should fuck each other. I’m going.’
‘I don’t think so,’ Swann growled.
Expecting him to grab her hair once again, Sandy flinched. But this time, he clutched her by the shoulder and spun her round, gesturing at his now fully erect penis. ‘Suck me off,’ he commanded.
Sandy started crying again. Massive, ripe tears rolled down her cheeks. The kind of tears she hadn’t cried since she was eight and Santa failed to bring her the right kind of Barbie for Christmas. ‘Piss off!’ she cried.
Placing a meaty hand on the top of her head, Swann tried to push her down towards his groin. When she resisted, he took a step back, unleashing a vicious right upper cut that caught her flush under the chin, sending her collapsing to the floor.
Letting go of Costello’s collar, Carlyle pushed him in the direction of the ashen-faced Roche. ‘You looking for this guy?’
Roche raised her eyes to the darkening heavens but said nothing. Standing next to the sergeant, a po-faced woman made a show of looking Carlyle up and down.
‘Who are you?’ she asked snootily.
‘This is Inspector Carlyle,’ said Roche, snapping out of her torpor as she stepped between them. She gestured at her boss. ‘Inspector, this is Chief Inspector Cass Wadham.’
Carlyle gave a curt nod. He already knew that Roche was right. Wadham was another paper-pushing copper destined to get up his nose; someone best left well alone.
‘How did the prisoner get those marks on his face?’ Wadham asked brusquely as Roche, taking possession of Costello, levered him into the back of a police car parked at the kerb.
‘He hit me,’ the Frenchman whined as he fell onto the back seat. ‘And he stole my PSP.’
Good point, Carlyle thought. Pulling the console out of his pocket, he threw it underarm to Roche. Fumbling the catch, she watched in dismay as it fell into the gutter.
‘Hey!’ Costello protested as Roche bent down to retrieve it.
It would be a shame if it happened to get broken, Carlyle mused.
‘I was asking . . .’ Wadham interjected.
Carlyle shot her a sharp look. ‘Just be grateful I recovered your man for you.’ He gestured towards the car. ‘Your track record when it comes to trying to arrest this guy is on the bad side of appalling.’
Making a sound like a deflating beach ball, Wadham stepped forward. For a moment, Carlyle thought she was going to give him a slap. Then, thinking better of it, she turned on her heel and stalked off down the street.
Carlyle watched the exaggerated swing of her hips.
Roche followed his gaze. ‘Are you checking out my boss’s arse?’
‘No way,’ Carlyle frowned.
Laughing, Roche slammed the door shut on Costello. ‘I told you that you wouldn’t like her.’
‘And you were right.’ Carlyle thrust his fists into his pockets. ‘How did you manage to lose the scumbag this time?’
Roche sighed. ‘Through the attic. He scuttled up there when he heard us coming in, and was able to get all the way along to the end of the row. It was just as well you were waiting for him.’
‘I was waiting for a bus,’ Carlyle quipped. ‘They seem to have a very good service round these parts.’
Roche stared at him uncomprehendingly.
‘Look – just don’t lose him again, eh?’ Carlyle told her.
‘I’ll try not to.’ Roche’s gaze fell to the pavement. ‘Thanks.’
‘No problem.’ Carlyle looked at his watch. ‘I need to get going.’
‘How are things back at Charing Cross?’ Roche asked quietly.
‘Fine.’
‘Have you replaced me yet?’
Carlyle gave her his cheesiest grin. ‘You’re irreplaceable.’
She lifted her eyes to meet his gaze. ‘I might want to come back.’
You made your bed . . . ‘They’ve given me someone.’
‘Any good?’
‘Too early to tell.’
‘Well,’ she said, ‘keep me posted.’
‘Of course.’ Carlyle was already heading back down the street. ‘See you later.’
TWENTY-TWO
Gazing vacantly out of the window, Carlyle sat on the 243 bus trundling back towards Central London, enjoying the luxury of an empty mind. His pleasant journey came to an end halfway down Clerkenwell Road when his mobile sprang into life. He looked at the screen. Alex Miles. Miles was the chief concierge at the Garden Hotel, round the corner from the police station. The inspector hesitated for a moment before answering.
‘Alex,’ he said tiredly. ‘How are you?’
‘Inspector?’
‘Yeah. It’s Carlyle here. What can I do for you?’
There was a long pause on the other end of the line.
Must be bad, Carlyle thought.
Finally, Miles cleared his throat. ‘Well . . .’
Distracted by a pretty girl walking by, Carlyle tuned out of the conversation.
‘Inspector?’
‘Yes?’
‘Were you listening to what I said?’ Miles huffed.
‘Yes, yes,’ Carlyle snapped. ‘Just sit tight. I’ll have some uniforms there in five minutes. Do nothing until I get there.’
&
nbsp; Ending the call, he quickly dialled the station and told Angie Middleton to have a team meet him at the hotel.
‘Shall we go up?’ Carlyle faced Alex Miles across the concierge’s table, a mahogany Regency writing desk, largely hidden behind an oversized sofa in the left-hand corner of the hotel lobby. They had been joined by a bored-looking uniform, PC Tim Burgess. Burgess had been a constable for the best part of a decade now and Carlyle knew that, even if he stayed in the Met for another thirty years, a constable he would remain. Useless was not the word.
As Miles headed for the lifts, Carlyle nodded at his colleague. ‘Stay here. I’ll give you a shout if you need to come up.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Burgess glumly.
Upstairs, he met Susan Phillips coming the other way. Working out of Holborn police station, Phillips had been a staff pathologist with the Met for more than twenty years now, and she and Carlyle had worked together many times.
‘John!’ she smiled, giving him a peck on the cheek.
‘Susan,’ he smiled in return, ‘you got here quick.’
‘Too quickly,’ Phillips told him. ‘I left some stuff in the car and need to nip back downstairs.’ She gestured over her shoulder. ‘But my colleague is in there. You can take a look.’
‘What happened?’
Phillips glanced at Miles, who bowed his head and retreated a respectful distance.
‘Simply speaking,’ Phillips whispered, ‘someone punched her lights out.’ She added: ‘Is it true the room was booked to Gavin Swann?’
Carlyle sighed. ‘So I’m told.’
Phillips shook her head. ‘What a bloody mess.’ She patted Carlyle on the shoulder. ‘Good luck.’
‘Thanks,’ said Carlyle, heading unhappily towards the door.
Less than twenty minutes later, Alex Miles stuck his head round the door of the room. He looked stressed. ‘Inspector! There are half-a-dozen journalists downstairs in the lobby already.’ He made it sound like this was somehow the inspector’s fault.
‘Not that surprising, is it?’ Carlyle affected an air of insouciance. Inwardly, however, his heart sank. The fact was that he shouldn’t have touched this case with a bargepole. But no, he’d had to play the big ‘I am’ and wade right in. As a result, he’d fucked himself good and proper. He turned grimly to the concierge. ‘Try to keep them downstairs,’ he instructed.
Well aware of the drill, Miles nodded and quickly disappeared. Carlyle turned to Phillips. ‘How much longer do you need?’
Standing over the crumpled body, the pathologist allowed herself a stretch. ‘An hour, maybe. No more than that.’
‘Okay.’ Studiously ignoring the victim, Carlyle stared out of the window. The view wasn’t much – just a brick wall – but it was better than looking at another body. He didn’t need to look at the poor girl’s face to know what had happened, broadly speaking. And pulling out his mobile, Carlyle dialled the number of Carole Simpson.
The Commander picked up on the second ring, catching him by surprise. ‘Yes?’ she asked brusquely. ‘What can I do for you, John?’
‘We need to call a press conference for an hour’s time . . .’
There was a pause while he listened to the negative vibes coming over the airwaves. Then, taking a deep breath, he explained what he wanted, and why. ‘I need to get the press away from the crime scene and into the station.’
‘And what am I supposed to tell them?’
‘Just the bare minimum; enough to be going on with.’
There was another pause, less hostile this time. ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ she said finally, ending the call.
Phillips watched him put away the phone. ‘Playing the media game, eh?’
‘Do I have a choice?’ Carlyle stepped towards the door. ‘We’ll get the reporters out of here and you can take the body back to the lab.’
Phillips nodded. ‘Okay – thanks. I’ll let you have more detail later. But I would say that Mr Swann should be helping you with our enquiries.’
‘Yes, indeed,’ Carlyle said wearily. ‘I wonder where the stupid little scrote has run off to.’
Thinking through his ‘to do’ list, Carlyle headed for the lifts. When he reached the hotel lobby, he was pleased to see that it was now clear of journalists who had, presumably, taken the bait of Simpson’s press conference. Heading for the exit, he felt his stomach rumble. Remembering that there was a Caffè Nero two doors down, he decided that a latte and a panini were in order before he returned to the station.
He was less than ten feet from the street when he felt a hand on his shoulder.
‘Inspector,’ said Alex Miles in a low voice. Clearly embarrassed to be consorting with a policeman, the concierge scanned the room anxiously.
Reluctantly stopping, Carlyle half-turned and looked around for himself. Apart from a few tourists milling aimlessly about, the place was empty. No one was interested in their conversation.
‘How’s it going?’ the concierge asked.
‘I need to get on,’ Carlyle said brusquely.
‘There is someone,’ Miles coughed, ‘whom you need to see.’
Carlyle gave him a convince me look.
‘Trust me, you do want to see this guy.’ Miles gestured back towards the lift. ‘He’s in the Light Bar.’
Carlyle thought about it for a second. ‘Are you serving food at the moment?’
Miles glanced at his watch. ‘Yes.’
‘Let’s go then,’ said Carlyle, heading back the way he had come.
Bathed in a pale violet light, the bar was completely empty, apart from a large man sitting in a booth at the back. Letting Miles lead the way, Carlyle checked out the succession of enormous black-and-white close-up photographs of various celebrities that hung on the walls. Some – Neneh Cherry, Vanessa Paradis, Lenny Kravitz – he recognized, but the majority he did not, which pleased him considerably. As they approached the table, Miles nodded nervously at the man, who was busy tucking into a beef sandwich and a side order of chips.
‘This is the officer in charge of the investigation,’ the concierge announced sotto voce.
Inspired by the food, Carlyle pulled up a chair and sat down. ‘Inspector Carlyle,’ he said, extending a hand. ‘I work out of Charing Cross, just round the corner.’
The man swallowed a mouthful of chips and took a couple of gulps from a bottle of Singha beer. Placing the bottle on the table, he wiped his oversized mitts on a napkin and then finally shook hands. ‘Clifford Blitz, pleased to meet you.’ Carlyle noted the indistinct provincial accent; impossible to place, he knew it would be from somewhere he had never heard of.
‘Mr Blitz,’ Miles interjected quickly, pulling up a chair for himself, ‘is Gavin Swann’s agent.’
Is he now? Carlyle thought. His phone started up but he ignored it.
Blitz handed over a business card, which Carlyle dropped in his pocket. ‘Thanks.’
Blitz nodded graciously.
Carlyle turned his gaze to the concierge. ‘Alex,’ he said pleasantly, ‘I need something to eat as a matter of some urgency.’ He gestured at Blitz’s half-empty plate. ‘The same as Clifford’s having would be great.’
Miles shot him a dirty look. ‘Including the beer?’
Especially the beer, Carlyle thought. ‘Yes, please.’
‘And I’ll have another,’ Blitz grunted, finishing off the last of his chips.
‘But,’ Miles started to whine, ‘I thought you weren’t allowed to drink on duty?’
‘That’s a myth,’ Carlyle lied as he looked the concierge straight in the eye. ‘Some sustenance would be gratefully appreciated while I have a private conversation with Mr Blitz.’
Miles reluctantly got to his feet. ‘Of course.’
‘Thank you.’ Carlyle watched the concierge slink off before turning back to the agent. ‘Now,’ he said evenly, ‘where is your client?’
Holding up a hand, Blitz drained the last of the beer from his bottle. ‘First things first,’ he said, placing the empty
bottle on the table. ‘What’s the deal? I need to make sure my guy will be looked after.’
‘I don’t know what happened yet,’ Carlyle told him.
Blitz sat back in his chair as a waiter appeared with their beers. ‘I can fill all that in for you.’
I’m sure you can, Carlyle thought. He nodded to the waiter. ‘Thanks.’
‘What have you got so far?’
‘That’s a very cheeky question,’ Carlyle said, chugging on his beer. It tasted good going down his neck, but in his empty stomach it felt cold and unsettling.
Blitz lifted his fresh beer bottle to his mouth. ‘I’m a cheeky guy,’ he grinned. Watching him sink half the beer, Carlyle pegged him at around five feet ten, well dressed in an expensive-looking navy suit and a white shirt, open at the neck. Maybe in his late forties, he was hard to age, with few lines around his eyes and remarkably little grey in his short brown hair. He wore a goatee, which, Carlyle thought, gave him a rather dissolute look, as did his overly full midriff.
Carlyle was delighted to see his sandwich arrive. He added some ketchup and took a hearty bite, then another. Blitz watched him as he swallowed.
‘Good?’
Carlyle nodded. ‘Not at all bad.’ He took another sip of his beer and sighed. His phone started ringing again. Again, he ignored it.
‘A sandwich is just a sandwich though, isn’t it?’ Blitz said, lifting the bottle back to his lips.
‘A great invention.’ Carlyle shoved the rest of the bread into his mouth and swallowed without chewing. ‘You can’t go wrong.’
Blitz signalled to the barman for another beer. ‘Want one?’
Carlyle shook his head. Turning in his seat, he shouted over, ‘I’ll have an espresso.’
‘So,’ said Blitz, ‘you were telling me about your investigation . . .’
‘No. I was waiting for you to answer my question,’ Carlyle said.
Sitting forward, Blitz leaned over the table and lowered his voice. ‘Inspector,’ he said, ‘you have a young girl’s body upstairs and a media circus on your doorstep.’
‘That, Mr Blitz, is all part and parcel of the job.’