Shoot to Kill

by James Craig

  ‘We all know who you are, Inspector,’ Wilson grinned in a rather unsettling manner. She flicked a thumb in Umar’s direction. ‘I’m here to see if your sergeant is going to deliver on his promise to take me out.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ Carlyle enjoyed watching Umar squirm in his seat.

  ‘You see—’

  Carlyle held up a hand. ‘No need to explain, Umar.’ Smiling broadly, he patted Wilson on the shoulder. ‘Make sure he takes you somewhere really expensive,’ he said mischievously. ‘I hear that Nobu on Park Lane is excellent.’

  Having caused as much trouble as he could, Carlyle left. Was that the sound of Umar gasping for air as he headed for the lift? He certainly liked to think so.

  FORTY

  ‘Want another?’

  Carlyle shook his head. There was barely enough whiskey left to cover the bottom of his glass but now was not the time for a refill; he wanted to get home.

  Alison Roche took the hint and placed the remains of her Guinness on the table.

  Carlyle gestured at her three-quarters empty glass. ‘You go for it, if you want another.’

  ‘Nah,’ Roche told him. ‘I’m fine.’

  Carlyle shrugged. ‘When did you get into drinking that stuff?’

  ‘Some of the guys I work with like a pint – or ten,’ Roche laughed. ‘I don’t mind the occasional one, now and again.’

  ‘Never got into it myself.’ Carlyle looked around the Essex Serpent and wished he had chosen a better venue to meet his former colleague for a quiet drink. The place was heaving, with more people coming through the door all the time.

  Sensing his discomfort, Roche finished her drink. ‘Alain Costello’s preliminary hearing is due next week.’

  Carlyle happily got to his feet. ‘It should be a formality.’

  ‘You would hope so,’ said Roche, hoisting her bag over her shoulder. ‘Will you come along?’

  ‘Sorry,’ Carlyle smiled, ‘I can’t. I’ll be in Liberia.’

  Roche gave him a funny look. ‘Where?’

  He waited until they were outside, standing on the relative calm of the pavement before he explained his unusual family trip.

  ‘Sounds interesting,’ she said doubtfully. ‘How are Helen and Alice getting on out there?’

  ‘Fine.’ Carlyle stepped into the gutter to allow a gaggle of Chinese tourists to get past. ‘To be honest, I haven’t heard that much from them so far.’

  ‘No news is good news.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Under the yellow glow of the streetlight, he noticed belatedly how tired she looked. ‘How are things with you?’

  Roche zipped up her coat. ‘Not too bad. Things have been a lot better since we nailed that little French bastard. They’re still making me go to your shrink, though.’

  ‘He’s hardly my shrink,’ Carlyle protested. As he did so, the uncomfortable recollection hit him that he had an appointment with Dr Wolf the next day.

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Carlyle groaned. Pulling his BlackBerry from his jacket pocket, he checked the calendar. There it was: 3 p.m. ‘I’ve got to see him tomorrow, as it happens.’

  ‘What do you talk about?’

  ‘As little as possible,’ Carlyle said. ‘I find him very – I dunno – disengaged.’

  ‘Isn’t that how it’s supposed to be?’

  ‘Okay, for “disengaged”, read “full of shit”.’

  ‘At least you manage to say what you think,’ Roche grinned. ‘You don’t bottle it all up inside.’

  ‘That would be unhealthy.’ Sticking his hands in his pockets, he started walking towards the piazza, knowing that Roche would be going the other way. ‘Good luck with Mr Costello,’ he called. ‘I’ll give you a ring when I get back from Africa.’

  Back at the flat, Carlyle retrieved the packet that had been left by Tuco Martinez and padded into the kitchen. Ripping open the envelope, he emptied the contents into the sink. There was a first-class open Eurostar ticket to Brussels, along with an authentic-looking Belgian passport, bearing Alain Costello’s photograph but in the name of Sébastien Daerden; then there was the cash: £500 in a mixture of £20 and £50 notes and a much thicker wad of crisp new €50 notes.

  Carlyle gave up counting when he got to €5,000. Placing the cash on the draining board, he considered his options. After a few moments, he pulled open a drawer, rooting around until he found a pre-addressed, freepost envelope for the Supporter Care Department at Avalon, Helen’s aid charity. With some reluctance, he stuffed the cash into the envelope, sealing it at both ends with some sellotape before sticking it in his jacket pocket. He then took a box of matches from the drawer and carefully set fire to the ticket, watching it burn before washing the remnants down the plughole. The passport was a tougher proposition; after several unsuccessful attempts to get it to light, Carlyle settled for cutting it up into small pieces with a large pair of scissors. Scooping up the pieces, he placed them back in the envelope and headed for the door.

  After dumping the remains of the Daerden passport in three different bins along Drury Lane, Carlyle dropped the cash in a post box on High Holborn, acknowledging just the slightest tinge of regret as he let it slip from his fingers and fall amongst the other first-class mail. To cheer himself up, he headed for the Rock & Sole Plaice, Covent Garden’s only fish and chip shop, a block away on Endell Street. After a ten-minute wait behind the usual line of tourists, he retreated back home with his order of skate and chips warming his hands.

  FORTY-ONE

  Wayne Devine looked like he was overdue a session on the sunbed. The suit he was wearing still looked expensive, but the man himself looked considerably shabbier than the last time they had met. There was no iPad in sight either. Instead, Paul Groom’s ex-agent fiddled with a cheap-looking mobile phone of the kind that Carlyle himself might use.

  ‘I don’t know what I can really tell you, Inspector,’ he sighed, staring into his cappuccino. ‘People change agents all the time. In my line of work you have to plan for that. You can’t put all your eggs in one basket.’

  ‘No.’ Carlyle finished his espresso and waited for Devine to continue.

  ‘You have to develop and maintain a portfolio of clients. I still have a group of quality players on my books.’ He reeled off a list of names, none of which Carlyle had ever heard of.

  ‘How long had you worked with Paul?’

  Devine blew the air out of his cheeks. ‘Going on for eight years. He came all the way through the ranks – county football, Academy, England under-18s, professional contract . . .’ His voice tailed off.

  ‘His career had stalled though,’ Carlyle mused, ‘even before he found himself in this mess.’

  ‘Hard to say,’ Devine said defensively. ‘He was still young, especially for a goalkeeper. He could have ended up dropping down a division, or even two, and still have had plenty of time to make it back to the top.’

  ‘Not now.’

  Devine shrugged. ‘Plenty of footballers have gone to jail and been able to resume their careers when they’ve got out.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Carlyle spluttered, ‘when they’ve been done for drink driving, not for murder!’

  ‘Manslaughter,’ Devine corrected him.

  ‘Whatever.’

  ‘There was the guy – can’t remember his name – killed a guy in a car crash and ran off.’

  ‘I remember that,’ Carlyle said. ‘He was done for Death By Dangerous Driving and got six years.’

  ‘Did three. Which, I suppose, is fair enough.’

  ‘Not if you’re the family of the guy he killed,’ Carlyle suggested.

  ‘He’s done quite well since he came back.’ Devine mentioned a lower league club. ‘He gets on the scoresheet quite often.’

  ‘I’m sure that makes them feel much better.’

  ‘Paul’s lawyer reckons he’ll get twelve years, absolute max. If he’s out in, say, six, he can still have a decent career.’

  ‘Is that why Blitz took him on?’


  Devine said, ‘That’s got to be a question for him, don’t you think?’

  ‘So you were happy to let him go?’

  ‘It comes with the territory.’ Devine made an effort to sound philosophical. ‘You have to move on. Paul won’t be earning anything for the foreseeable. Maybe Mr Blitz thinks he’s doing the right thing by standing by him.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Carlyle, sounding doubtful.

  ‘I’m sure he will get Paul something when he gets out.’

  ‘And what about you?’ Carlyle asked.

  ‘Things are looking good,’ Devine said, as if reciting a set of lines lines that he’d been busy learning for public consumption. ‘I have just joined forces with Marcus Angelides and will be representing a considerably expanded portfolio of talent.’

  Angelides? The name rang a bell. ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘One of the leading agents in the country,’ Devine explained happily. ‘Runs an agency based in Mayfair.’

  ‘Nice.’

  ‘Yes, it is.’ Leaning across the table, Devine confided, ‘That’s the great thing about my business, Inspector; there are young lads appearing over the horizon all the time. It’s a never-ending conveyor belt of opportunity.’

  Sitting outside Dr Wolf’s office, Carlyle looked at his watch and sighed. He was due to meet Dom at four thirty and it was already approaching ten past three.

  Wolf might not be a particularly engaging fellow but he was usually quite punctual. On the one hand, Carlyle had no desire to sit through another fifty minutes, or rather, forty minutes and counting, of navel gazing. On the other hand, he was here now. Someone was paying for the session, even if it wasn’t him, and just to abandon it felt like a waste of sorts.

  The doctor’s secretary had disappeared on some unspecified errand. The thought suddenly occurred to Carlyle that Wolf himself might be having an afternoon nap. During their sessions, Carlyle had got used to the doctor nodding off or, at least, giving every impression of having fallen asleep. A couple of boring patients in the morning and a decent lunch – perhaps washed down by a glass or two of Rioja – would probably do the trick quite easily.

  Another minute passed and the inspector felt his irritation solidifying in his gut. He couldn’t sit here like a lemon forever. Getting to his feet, he stepped stealthily towards the door, on the alert for sounds of snoring. All he could hear, however, was the comforting hum of traffic noise outside. He had started to step away from the door before he realized it was ever so slightly ajar. Giving it the gentlest of pushes, he peered into the room.

  Five minutes later, Carlyle finished his call to the station and took one last look at Wolf. The shrink was hanging from a length of black rubber flex that had been attached to the light fitting in the middle of the ceiling. It looked like he had stood on his desk, tied himself up and jumped. Stapled to the left leg of his olive corduroy trousers was a small sheet of paper on which had been written, in blue ink: This is a suicide note.

  Nice penmanship, Carlyle thought. He wanted to feel some sympathy for the doctor but all that was forthcoming was a kind of generic dismay. Maybe the guy should have had therapy himself. In the distance, he could hear a siren approaching from the direction of the Euston Road. The first uniforms would be here in about a minute, which was just as well; he needed to get going.

  FORTY-TWO

  ‘Where are we going?’ Carlyle stood shivering on an empty jetty in Brighton Marina. Not dressed for the occasion, he hopped from foot to foot as the biting wind cut through him.

  ‘Here you go.’ Dom threw him a pair of black leather gloves. ‘Put these on. And keep them on.’

  With his fingers going numb, Carlyle clumsily obliged.

  Dom gestured in front of them. ‘Time to get on board.’

  Carlyle looked at the 49-foot vessel with the name El Nino emblazoned in blue script on the stern. ‘You’ve got to be fucking kidding.’

  ‘This is a great boat,’ said Dom, pulling on his own gloves, ‘a tough and no-nonsense long-distance cruiser, with good speed and sail characteristics. The Germans built it with a high ballast-to-weight ratio for safe offshore work,’ he gazed up into the light-polluted darkness, ‘which will be handy tonight.’

  ‘What did you do,’ Carlyle said grumpily, ‘swallow the manual?’

  ‘Sailing is one of my passions,’ Dom said simply.

  ‘Since when?’

  ‘Since about thirty years ago, when I could first afford a decent boat.’ He gave Carlyle a look. ‘You don’t know everything about me, Inspector.’

  Gideon stuck his head out of the cabin. ‘We’re good to go.’

  ‘Okay,’ Dom gave him a thumbs-up.

  Not for the first time, Carlyle cursed his total stupidity. What the fuck was he playing at? ‘So we’re just going to tootle over to France,’ he asked, ‘and . . . what? Murder Martinez.’

  ‘RIP the Samurai,’ Dom grinned.

  ‘But I’m a fucking copper,’ Carlyle wailed.

  ‘A copper who is just protecting his family.’ Dom gave him a light punch on the shoulder. ‘Wake up and grow a pair.’

  Carlyle scowled like a ten year old being told it was time for bed. ‘What happens if we don’t get him?’

  Dom threw a comforting arm around him. ‘Remember Sol Abramyan?’

  ‘The arms dealer?’ Carlyle nodded slowly. ‘Yeah, course I do.’ Sol was the last man who had tried to kill him. He shuddered at the memory of staring down the barrel of a gun thinking what he truly imagined would be his last ever thoughts in this, or any other, life.

  What had those thoughts been? All he could remember now was the sense of crushing failure; how he had let Helen and Alice down, completely.

  It was not the kind of feeling that you ever forgot.

  ‘I stood shoulder to shoulder with you then,’ Dom reminded him. ‘And we got through it.’

  ‘True.’ Feeling more reluctant than he had ever done about anything in his life, Carlyle fell in step with Dom as they edged slowly towards the boat. As he did so, another name from the past came to mind.

  ‘Remember Sam Hooper?’

  Silver nodded. ‘Sure.’

  Hooper had been a member of the Met’s Middle Market Drugs Project. Dominic Silver had been in the unit’s sights. Carlyle was, at the very least, 90 per cent certain that Hooper had been killed at Dom’s insistence. ‘What about him?’ he asked warily.

  ‘I had to get the job done,’ Dom replied, ‘and I got the job done. I always get the job done, Johnny boy. Always.’

  Stepping on board, Carlyle immediately felt queasy. ‘Is this your boat?’

  ‘No,’ Dom said brusquely. ‘Of course not. It’s owned by a Spanish family and was rented out a month ago under a false name using a credit card that will never come back to me. I have it for another two months, with an option to buy,’ he grinned, ‘which, you won’t be surprised to learn, I will not be taking up.’

  Carlyle thought about that for a moment. ‘So this has been in the works for a while?’

  ‘I’m not slow to admit when I’ve made a mistake. After hooking up with Tuco in Paris, I knew that it wasn’t going to work out.’

  Despite his discomfort, Carlyle managed to muster an I told you so smirk.

  ‘You were right,’ Dom sighed. ‘Eva was right. I was a mug for looking to get back into the game at this level.’

  ‘So now you have to take him out?’

  ‘He’s a complete nut job. I’m not going to sit around and wait for the next parcel bomb.’

  Fair enough, Carlyle thought. Fair enough. ‘So where are we going?’

  ‘An island called Belle-Île-en-Mer, off the Brittany coast. It’s not that far.’

  ‘Great.’ Carlyle knew nothing about sailing but he knew that crossing the Channel meant crossing one of the busiest shipping lanes in the world. Images of El Nino being mown down by a ferry or an oil tanker flashed across his brain.

  ‘Tuco was born there. He grew up on the island and still has strong l
inks there. His family is descended from Acadian colonists who returned to France after being expelled from Nova Scotia during le Grand Dérangement.’

  Carlyle didn’t have a clue what Dom was talking about.

  ‘He has a farm on the Atlantic side of the island, the Côte Sauvage,’ Dom went on. ‘It’s quite remote. Far better to deal with him there than in Paris or London. I’ve been waiting for him to put in an appearance on the island, which he finally did four days ago.’

  ‘How do you know he’s still there?’

  ‘He normally stays for a week, at least.’

  Carlyle wondered where Dom had his intelligence from but knew better than to ask.

  ‘It’s a very relaxing spot. The British occupied Belle-Île for a couple of years in the eighteenth century,’ Dom informed him. ‘I’ve sailed there a couple of times – it’s a great place for a family trip in the summer. I much prefer it to the Ile de Ré; for a start, you’re a lot less likely to bump into Johnny Depp and Vanessa Paradis.’

  ‘Fuck me, Dom,’ Carlyle grumbled, ‘we’re not going on a bloody holiday.’ A celebrity gossip thought popped into his head. ‘Anyway, didn’t they get divorced?’

  ‘Yeah, I think so. He was chasing after some hot lesbian, or something like that.’

  ‘Glad we got that sorted out,’ said Carlyle, shivering.

  ‘Why don’t you go inside?’ Dom pointed towards the cockpit. ‘There’s some Jameson’s in the saloon to warm you up a bit.’

  As Gideon cranked up the engine, Carlyle stared at the jetty. He should get off the boat while he still had the chance. His brain was screaming at him to get off. Slowly, the boat edged away from its berth and headed out of the marina. Chilled to the bone, he stepped below deck in search of the whiskey.

  FORTY-THREE

  ‘Wake up, we’re here.’

  Carlyle rubbed his eyes. Thanks to the calming effects of a quarter of the bottle of Jameson’s, he had enjoyed a surprisingly good sleep as they had crossed the Channel. He swung his feet over the side of the bunk and made his way unsteadily outside.