Shoot to Kill

by James Craig

  ‘I suppose so,’ Carlyle agreed.

  ‘And the vacuum created by the Special Intelligence Section and their Operation Eagle will make London a complicated place to operate in for a while, especially if you are struggling for product.’

  ‘How are people dealing with the market disruption?’ Carlyle asked casually.

  ‘As I said, it will be filled soon enough,’ Dom replied, ‘but inevitably there will be some blood spilled along the way.’

  Carlyle shot him a questioning look.

  ‘You don’t need to know.’

  ‘Okay.’ Carefully folding the sheet of paper into quarters, Carlyle got to his feet.

  ‘What did you want to talk about?’ Dom asked.

  ‘It can wait.’ Carlyle waved the square of paper at Dom before putting it in his trouser pocket. ‘Let’s sort this out first.’

  Dom nodded. ‘They need to move today.’

  ‘Understood,’ Carlyle said briskly, heading for the door.

  Carlyle had been sitting in the Vida Sana juice bar on Glasshouse Street, just round the corner from Silver’s office, for more than half an hour, still trying to decide what best to do with Dom’s tip-off, but without coming to any conclusion. Looking out of the window, he watched a pretty, hippy-looking girl and her grungy boyfriend stroll past. Deep in animated conversation, the boy took a long drag on a monster joint, holding in the smoke as he handed it to the girl. Apropos of nothing, The Clash popped into Carlyle’s head and started up a spirited rendition of ‘Julie’s Been Working for the Drugs Squad’. Smiling, Carlyle tossed his empty beaker of Cactus Detox (Organic cactus, pineapple, lime, banana, pineapple juice and 98 per cent fat-free probiotic yoghurt) into a nearby trash can.

  ‘Brilliant,’ he mumbled to himself. ‘Problem sorted.’

  Turning into Agar Street, Carlyle skipped up the steps of the station. He had barely reached the top when he was accosted by his sergeant.

  ‘He’s confessed!’ Umar cried. Carlyle made a point of looking theatrically towards the unsettled grey heavens.

  ‘Groom,’ Umar added, lowering his voice to a whisper. ‘He signed a written confession a couple of hours ago.’

  You could have called me, Carlyle thought angrily.

  ‘I tried calling you,’ Umar continued. ‘Did you not get my message?’

  Carlyle grunted. Doubtless the voicemail would turn up in a couple of days. ‘Presumably he acted on the advice of his sodding agent.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  Umar gave him a funny look. ‘Anyway, he admitted he tried to force the girl into having sex with him and says he lost his temper when she refused. Things got a bit out of hand.’

  ‘Didn’t they just,’ said Carlyle, distinctly unconvinced.

  ‘According to Groom’s version of events,’ said Umar, picking up on his boss’s sceptical tone, ‘Swann tried to stop him, there was a fight and Sandy Carroll got accidentally smacked in the face.’

  Trying not to get too angry, Carlyle said, ‘Do we have any forensic evidence?’

  Umar shook his head. ‘Nothing we can use, apparently.’

  Fuck. Two men, one body, how fucking hard could it be? Surely they could give him something? ‘I’ll call Susan Phillips.’

  ‘I’ve read through her preliminary report,’ Umar protested.

  ‘I’ll call her anyway. Groom, where is he now?’

  ‘They’ve moved him to Belmarsh.’

  ‘That’s just great,’ Carlyle complained. If he wanted to quiz the prisoner himself, a trip to Belmarsh, in the arse end of Greenwich, would take the best part of a day. Parking Groom in Brixton or Wormwood Scrubs or, indeed, just about any of London’s other jails, would have made his life a lot easier.

  Umar shrugged. ‘Not my call, boss.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ Carlyle sighed.

  ‘I’m off to get some kip,’ Umar mumbled. ‘I’ll be back later.’

  ‘Let’s speak later, then.’ Carlyle patted him on the arm. ‘And well done.’ He coughed to try and mask the obvious lack of conviction in his voice. ‘You’ve done a good job on this one.’

  Umar nodded. ‘Thanks.’ Zipping up his jacket, he jogged down the steps.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Carlyle stood at the door of the station and watched Umar walk down the street until he reached the Strand and disappeared amongst the crowd. Pulling out his mobile, Carlyle called Susan Phillips’ work number. Tapping his foot impatiently against the edge of the top step, he listened to it ring for what seemed like an eternity before her voicemail message finally kicked in.

  ‘Susan,’ he jumped in too quickly and was silenced by the beep. ‘Fuck . . . Susan, it’s John Carlyle. Give me a call.’

  Heading inside, Carlyle tried to convince himself that he wasn’t really bothered by the lack of forensic evidence in the Sandy Carroll case. After all, he had never been the kind of copper who relied on the test tube and tweezer brigade to bail him out. Indeed, the fact that forensics remained so fashionable made him uncomfortable. He had a lot of time for diligent and expert colleagues like Susan Phillips and also for the Met’s Scientific Support Unit, which coordinated crime scene activities. But popular expectations of forensic science, especially crime scene investigation and DNA testing, were way too high. This put everyone under huge pressure to solve everything in the blink of an eye.

  The word ‘forensic’, Carlyle was never slow to point out, came from the Latin forensis, meaning before the forum. Basically, back in Roman times, accuser and accused would make their case to the authorities. Whoever gave the best pitch would win and the facts rarely got a chance to speak for themselves.

  The truth was that some cases just didn’t get solved. Those that did were usually down to the basics – luck, confession, betrayal or, Carlyle’s own personal favourite, simple basic incompetence on the part of the criminal. Covering up a crime that was bad enough for anyone to bother to investigate seriously was a very difficult task. It required determination, stamina and considerable attention to detail. Most people didn’t think that far in advance. Or they couldn’t be bothered with the hard work required. The police, on the other hand, did it for a living. Carlyle knew who his money was on.

  He also knew that, out of eight million people, London managed less than a hundred and thirty murders in the previous year. As always, more than half of those were domestics – when the victim usually knew the killer– so you always knew where to look first.

  Then there was the fact that around 90 per cent of murderers are men.

  In any given year, the murder clean-up rate was 90 per cent plus, often as high as 97 or 98 per cent; you either find them, or they come to you.

  Those were good odds, statistics that gave Carlyle a great sense of wellbeing. It told him that he lived in a very safe city. Of course, some places in London were safer than others. And some people were safer than others. But most people – by a very, very big majority – had nothing whatsoever to worry about.

  Sadly for Sandy Carroll, she was not most people.

  The inspector had never been a ‘let’s do it for the victim’ kind of guy. The victim was dead, what did he or she care? Do it for the family? Maybe, but in Carlyle’s experience, the family sometimes cared, sometimes didn’t. No, his primary motivation was catching the perpetrators. He just hated the thought of the bastards getting away with it. Maybe Paul Groom landed the fatal blow on Carroll’s jaw, maybe not, but there were two men involved, and in his book, they were both responsible. It was Gavin Swann, with his poisonous mix of money, arrogance and stupidity that had put them all in that room, and it was Swann who thought his money could buy him a free pass.

  The thought really pissed Carlyle off. It bounced around his brain like a migraine while he told himself that, one way or another, he would nail the stupid little fucker.

  As he climbed the stairs to the third floor, he called Phillips again on her mobile. The call went to voicemail and he hesitated before deciding not to leav
e another message. Arriving at his desk, he tried to work out what to do next, but his mind was blank. Switching on his PC, he remembered that a call to Simpson was long overdue, even by his standards. The thought of having to talk to the Commander filled him with something approaching physical pain. Picking up the handset on his desk, he began dialling the number for Simpson’s office in Paddington Green before changing his mind and calling her mobile instead. Holding his breath for a moment, he punched the air when the call went to voicemail.

  ‘Result!’ A passing WPC gave him a funny look. After the beep, he left a desultory message and promised to call back later. Hanging up, he headed for the canteen, just in case Simpson called straight back.

  Twenty minutes and a double espresso later, he was back at his desk, sifting through his emails. The Police Federation had sent him a draft letter to send to his MP complaining about attempts to reduce police pensions. ‘Good luck with that,’ Carlyle mumbled to himself as he deleted it.

  Next up was a children’s ticket offer from Fulham FC. Carlyle was tempted but he knew that trying to convince Alice to go to a football match with him was a lost cause. Her mother’s virulent hostility towards the sport had infected their daughter at an early age and she had always refused his attempts to drag her along to Craven Cottage. Sadly, that too went into the cyber bin. Moving on to the BBC website, he checked out upcoming fixtures. Carlyle knew that if he didn’t start going to more games, Helen would start to complain about the cost of his season ticket.

  According to the BBC, there were six games being played that evening. Sadly, Fulham were playing in Manchester, which was pretty much another guaranteed defeat. Glancing down the list, he noted two other games in London.

  ‘Interesting . . .’ As the germ of an idea formed in his head, a call came in on his mobile. Seeing Simpson’s number on the screen, he ignored it and went back to cleaning out his inbox.

  Five minutes later, Angie Middleton puffed up the stairs and staggered in his direction. Reaching his desk, she took a moment to catch her breath. ‘Simpson’s looking for you . . . again,’ she wheezed.

  Don’t have a heart attack, Carlyle thought. ‘I’ll get back to her straight away,’ he lied.

  Middleton looked doubtful. ‘She’s not very happy.’

  ‘She never is,’ Carlyle grunted.

  ‘We seem to be having this conversation a lot recently.’

  ‘Yeah, like a couple of losers in a Samuel Beckett play.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Never mind.’ Switching off his computer, Carlyle got to his feet.

  ‘So, are you going to call her?’

  ‘Angie,’ Carlyle said patiently, ‘I can walk and talk at the same time.’

  Middleton looked doubtful.

  ‘I need to check something out,’ Carlyle improvised. ‘I’ll call her on the way.’ Then, seeing her expression, he grinned, crossing his heart with his index finger. ‘I promise.’

  Susan Phillips gestured with her fork for Carlyle to sit down in the empty chair on the opposite side of the table.

  ‘Nice of you to come and see me,’ she smiled, spearing a tomato and popping it into her mouth.

  The owner of Tutti’s café on Lambs Conduit Street, up the road from Holborn police station, gave him an enquiring look. Having had more than enough coffee already, Carlyle ordered a green tea.

  Phillips picked through the remains of her salad before letting the fork fall on the plate. ‘Don’t you want anything to eat?’ She lifted a small glass bottle of peach and mango juice to her lips and took a swig.

  Carlyle shook his head. ‘I just thought I’d try and catch you before I head home.’

  Phillips nodded. ‘How are the family?’

  ‘Good,’ Carlyle replied enthusiastically. ‘All good. You?’ He wasn’t sure what Phillips’ domestic arrangements were but he wanted to show willing.

  ‘Good,’ Phillips parroted.

  His reserves of small talk exhausted, Carlyle turned to the matter in hand. ‘About Sandy Carroll . . .’

  ‘Didn’t you read my report?’

  ‘Haven’t had a chance yet.’

  The café-owner arrived with Carlyle’s tea. Sweeping up Phillips’ plate, he retreated behind the counter. Shaking her head, the pathologist glanced at her watch. ‘Look, I’ve got to go in five minutes.’

  ‘Just give me the highlights.’

  She gave him a sly smile. ‘Well, one of them killed her, but we can’t be sure which one. We have nothing which corroborates Groom’s story and, of course, we haven’t been able to process Swann – yet.’

  Ignoring the barb, Carlyle took a sip of his tea. ‘What are the odds?’

  Phillips finished her juice. ‘Based on what we know?’ She screwed the cap back on to the empty bottle. ‘Fifty-fifty. Assuming it wasn’t a joint effort, of course.’

  ‘So we have nothing.’

  Phillips pulled a small red leather notebook from her bag. ‘That’s the way it goes. We might have had more if I could have seen Mr Swann.’

  Okay, okay, Carlyle thought, give it a rest.

  ‘But, anyway,’ she said, taking a crisp twenty-pound note from her purse, ‘I hear that you, or rather your dishy new sergeant, have already got a confession.’

  Fucking Umar. Carlyle raised his eyes to the heavens. ‘Good news travels fast.’

  ‘It sure does,’ Phillips agreed. ‘That’s because there’s so little of it about.’ Getting to her feet, she walked over to the counter and paid for her lunch and for Carlyle’s tea.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ said Phillips, putting away her change. Leaving the café, they walked to the corner of Theobald’s Road. ‘Surely,’ said Phillips, ‘the confession solves your problem?’

  Carlyle sighed. ‘It depends what you think the problem is.’

  ‘You don’t reckon Groom did it?’ Phillips asked, dangling a toe over the edge of the kerb.

  Carlyle smiled mirthlessly. ‘I think it’s fifty-fifty.’

  Alex Miles ushered Kelly Kellaway towards the table at the back of the Light Bar occupied by Clifford Blitz. Recognizing Gavin Swann’s agent, Kelly gave her best smile as she dropped her designer leather hobo bag on the floor and slipped off her Juicy Couture faux fur jacket, draping it over the back of a chair.

  ‘Sit.’ Blitz nodded at the chair.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Kelly, primly lowering her rump into the seat.

  Blitz glowered at the concierge. ‘Leave us.’ Kelly tried and failed to suppress a smirk.

  ‘If you need anything . . .’ Miles said, the exasperation clear in his voice.

  ‘Sure, sure.’ Blitz waved him away with a dismissive hand. ‘For now, what I need is to be able to have a private conversation with the young lady here.’ Kelly’s smirk got wider. Tut-tutting to himself, Miles trotted off.

  Turning to the girl, Blitz looked her up and down. With her hair pulled back into a ponytail, she was wearing minimal make-up, making her look even younger than her twenty-two years. He spent several moments contemplating her décolletage – a black bra clearly visible beneath her expensive silk blouse – before dragging his gaze back up to eye-level. Not a bad-looking girl, if you liked that kind of thing. Definitely pretty. Her face, however, was disfigured by a blandness that suggested laziness and a lack of imagination.

  Kelly caught him looking at her chest. That was the great thing about men, they were all the same, totally predictable. Emboldened, she grabbed the litre bottle of Evian on the table and filled one of the two glasses that had been left beside it. She pointed the bottle at Blitz. ‘Want some?’

  The agent shook his head.

  Kelly took a mouthful of water. ‘So,’ she said, as casually as she could manage, ‘what happened to Sandy?’

  Sighing, Clifford Blitz reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a cheque. A fucking cheque! It had taken his PA three bloody hours to find the company cheque book. Clifford – proud owner of eight different credit cards – couldn’t e
ven remember the last time he had written one. He vaguely recalled seeing something on television that said they were going to be phased out. He dropped it on the table. ‘Here.’

  Kelly scooped it up quickly, her tongue running along her upper lip as she read and re-read what it said. Finally, she looked up at Blitz. ‘A hundred grand?’

  Blitz nodded. He wasn’t sure of the wisdom of giving her a cheque but it was too much cash to carry around. ‘Take it,’ he said quietly.

  Kelly folded the cheque, then unfolded it again.

  Blitz leaned across the table. ‘Take it,’ he repeated. ‘Put it in the bank and fuck off back to the provinces. Get a husband who works for the council or something. Have some kids. Just fuck off.’

  Kelly took another look at the cheque. ‘A measly hundred grand,’ she hissed, her pseudo-Sloane Square accent washed away in a wave of estuary English, ‘is fuck all. Get real.’

  Blitz glanced round the largely empty bar to check that no one was paying them any attention. Leaning closer, he opened his jacket just enough for the girl to be able to get a glimpse of the handle of the Smith & Wesson .45 in his inside pocket. The gun was a replica he’d bought from a model shop in Holborn but it was realistic enough. ‘It’s either a hundred k,’ he said grimly, ‘or a bullet in the face.’

  ‘You wouldn’t . . .’ She tried to sound defiant, but her bottom lip had started to quiver and he could see the fear in her eyes. He slipped a hand under the table and ran it along her leg, squeezing her thigh tightly when she tried to smack it away. Tears appeared in her eyes.

  ‘Try me.’

  After a moment’s reflection, Kelly refolded the cheque and dropped it in her bag. ‘You wouldn’t be doing this,’ she complained, ‘if Gavin wasn’t guilty.’ Finally removing his hand from her leg, she thrust her chest out defiantly. ‘How did you get that idiot Paul Groom to take the blame?’

  Getting to his feet, Blitz reached across the table and grabbed the collar of her blouse. ‘One more word . . .’ He pulled her close, letting her feel his breath on her face. ‘One more word out of you and you know what will happen. Don’t try and get fucking clever with me.’ Biting her lip, Kelly tried to free herself but he hoisted her even closer. He could smell the mix of her body odour and perfume. ‘You will never say anything about this to anyone.’