Then We Die ic-5

by James Craig

  ‘She seemed all right to me when I left,’ Carlyle lied.

  ‘I very much doubt that,’ Helen snapped. ‘The strain has been building for months, and now you’ve pushed her over the edge.’

  ‘Me?’ He stifled a laugh. ‘You were the one who put me on to her.’

  ‘I think that she’ll have to go on sick leave,’ Helen said, refusing to acknowledge any possible involvement on her own part. ‘Her doctor could be signing her off for months.’

  ‘What a pain,’ Carlyle said sympathetically. He knew what a problem that would cause Avalon. The charity’s modest finances could not cope with members of staff taking extended absences on full pay.

  Scowling, Helen shook her head at him.

  ‘What can I do?’ he protested. ‘Other people’s marriages are their own business. I don’t work for Relate.’

  ‘You could have persuaded him to talk to her,’ she replied, folding her arms as she returned her gaze to the screen.

  Carlyle shuffled along the sofa and slid his arm around his wife. ‘For what it’s worth,’ he said, ‘I don’t think I could have done much to get Fadi talking to Louisa. Basically, I presume that it wasn’t much more than a marriage of convenience as far as he was concerned.’

  ‘I know, but for her. .’

  ‘Wasn’t it a bit unprofessional of her, marrying a patient?’

  ‘Yes, probably,’ Helen agreed. ‘But who are we to judge?’

  ‘Quite. I suppose the poor woman deserves better. But realistically there’s nothing that I can do to help. Anyway, I had enough problems getting him to talk to me, never mind to her.’

  ‘Mm.’ Stretching out on the sofa, she rested her head on his lap. ‘Do you think he’ll be able to help your investigation?’

  ‘I don’t really know,’ Carlyle sighed, ‘but it’s not like I’ve got a lot else to go on. I have to find some way into this thing. It’s the least that Joe deserves.’

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Fabio Capello gave the inspector a hard stare as he entered Il Buffone. As previously agreed, AC Milan’s ’94 Champions League winning team had replaced Juve in the place of honour on the back wall of the cafe. Well done, Roche, Carlyle thought, as he greeted Marcello and ordered a double macchiato. Sliding into the back booth underneath Donadoni, Maldini and the rest, he shook hands with David Ronan nursing a mug of tea.

  ‘How are things with SO15?’ Carlyle asked, eyeing up the pretty girl in the next booth, who was shamelessly wolfing down a bacon roll.

  Marcello appeared with his coffee. Placing it on the table, he saw Carlyle checking out the girl and smiled. ‘Bella figura, si?’

  Carlyle felt himself blush slightly. ‘Thank you, Marcello,’ he said, gesturing him away. He knocked back about half of the macchiato and looked at Ronan enquiringly. ‘Have you made any progress?’

  ‘Things are not great,’ Ronan told him. ‘Counter Terrorism Command has been given full authority to conduct its investigation, but no one seems able to tell MI6 to butt out.’

  ‘So it’s going swimmingly, then.’

  ‘There is nothing to suggest that any arrest is imminent,’ Ronan said stiffly. ‘It seems likely that the Mossad crew have long since left the country.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ said Carlyle. ‘If they haven’t completed their mission, they might possibly still be here.’ Quickly he brought Ronan up to speed with selected highlights regarding his own enquiries, filling him in on his meeting with Fadi Kashkesh but leaving out any mention of either Sol Abramyan or Dominic Silver.

  ‘Interesting,’ was Ronan’s only comment after Carlyle had finished.

  ‘Up to a point.’

  Both men knew that they were up shit creek without a paddle. In a boat that was sinking slowly but surely into the muck.

  ‘Let’s keep talking,’ said Ronan, pulling some change out of his pocket.

  ‘Sure,’ said Carlyle, raising a hand. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll get this.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Ronan slid out of the booth. ‘How’s Alison getting on, by the way?’

  ‘Alison’s doing great,’ Carlyle said. ‘Did she tell you about the skeleton that was dug up, just down the road?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We’ve identified the body, so that’s a result,’ said Carlyle, happy to remind himself that there were still some things that could actually be resolved. He tapped the poster above his head. ‘And she sorted this for Marcello, so she’s basically considered one of the family already.’

  At the mention of his name, Marcello popped up from behind the counter. ‘The inspector needs all the help he can get now,’ he joked, ‘so I hope she’s staying.’

  ‘I think that she will be,’ Carlyle said, ‘which is fine by me.’

  ‘That’s good to know,’ smiled Ronan. ‘I’m sure she’ll be happy to hear it.’

  Watching the detective inspector leave, Carlyle finished the last of his coffee. Looking across, he was disappointed to see that the girl in the next booth had now gone.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  A lingering sense of unease sent Hilary Waxman down to the basement, in search of Sid Lieberman. For once, the military attache was actually to be found in the gloomy, windowless closet that he called an office, sitting at his desk with a number of A5-sized black and white photographs spread out in front of him. Standing next to him was a guy wearing jeans and an Iron Maiden Run for the Hills T-shirt. The guy was extremely tall — maybe six foot five — and thin, with a shaven head and a tan that was in need of a top-up. Waxman had never set eyes on him before.

  Standing in the open doorway, the Ambassador coughed politely. Both men looked up at her, but said nothing. After a moment’s hesitation, Lieberman gestured to the empty chair filling up almost all of the empty floorspace in front of his desk. He didn’t introduce the Iron Maiden fan and Waxman didn’t bother to ask. Taking a seat, she picked up one of the prints. The photo was of two men conversing on a busy street.

  Lieberman nodded to the other man, who stared at Waxman and left the room.

  ‘The young guy in the picture is called Fadi Kashkesh. He’s a Palestinian activist living in London. I believe he has been providing logistical support for the Hamas cell we have been. . liquidating.’

  The word made Waxman shudder, but not wanting to show any emotion that Lieberman might interpret as weakness, she simply said, ‘And the other guy?’

  ‘He’s a London policeman,’ Lieberman said. ‘His name is Inspector John Carlyle. It was his partner that Goya accidentally shot outside the Ritz Hotel.’

  Interesting use of the word ‘accidental’, Waxman thought, but again she said nothing. Instead she asked: ‘So why has he hooked up with the Palestinian?’

  ‘I presume,’ Lieberman smirked, ‘that, like us, he is trying to find Goya.’

  ‘He is leading the investigation?’

  ‘No, he is not officially involved at all, but clearly he is an interested party. Also, from what I am told, he is not the kind of police officer who cares too much about trampling all over other people’s cases.’

  ‘So what are you going to do?’ Waxman asked.

  Lieberman looked blank, as if confused by her question. Realizing that she was not going to get an answer, Waxman tossed the print back onto his desk and stood up. ‘Just one thing,’ she said, edging towards the door.

  Lieberman barely lifted his gaze. ‘Yes?’

  ‘No more dead policemen, okay? There are limits, even for you.’ Not waiting for an answer, she headed back upstairs.

  ‘I’ll do what I can,’ Sid Lieberman muttered to himself, once she had gone, ‘but no promises.’

  THIRTY-SIX

  ‘How does it feel to be back?’ Sol Abramyan smiled cautiously at Carlyle as he took a bite out of his miniature cucumber sandwich. The arms dealer was a tall, elegant-looking man of indeterminate age. Sitting across the table in an expensive-looking navy suit with a pale green shirt open at the neck, he finished the sandwich and carefully refilled his cup with some Earl
Grey tea, which he preferred black. Looking him up and down, Carlyle was reminded of a more sinister version of the actor Stewart Granger, who starred in a version of The Prisoner of Zenda way back in the 1950s.

  Carlyle slowly checked out the room, careful not to let his eyes linger on the two very large gentlemen sitting a couple of tables away. The duo looked more than a little out of place in the Palm Court of the Ritz; he presumed that they were Abramyan’s famed Somalian retainers. ‘It’s fine,’ he smiled.

  The twinkle in Abramyan’s eye grew brighter. ‘I was wondering why you happened to be here in the first place?’ He glanced at the third man at their table, Dominic Silver, whose expression was neutrality personified, then back to Carlyle. ‘No offence, but I don’t see you as a regular.’

  ‘None taken.’ Carlyle was just about to explain when Edwin Nyc, the hotel’s Security Manager, appeared next to the table.

  ‘Mr Abramyan,’ Nyc gushed, over the din from the other tables. ‘It’s so nice to see you again.’

  Abramyan nodded graciously, but made no effort to speak.

  Dom gave Carlyle a questioning look and then took a nibble out of his pain au raisin.

  ‘Are you staying with us at the hotel, sir?’ Nyc continued.

  Abramyan finally looked up. ‘Not today, Edwin,’ he replied. ‘I am only in London on a brief visit and I thought that it would be nice to enjoy just a little of your excellent hospitality.’

  Nyc bowed so low that Carlyle feared he might bang his forehead on the table.

  ‘So I am just taking tea with some friends here.’

  Nyc looked at the others, as if noticing Silver and Carlyle for the first time. Recognizing the inspector, he was unable to completely check the look of surprise that began creeping across his face. But, recovering well, he smiled obsequiously to all concerned, before beating a hasty retreat.

  Abramyan supped a mouthful of tea. ‘My apologies, Inspector. Some people are just too intrusive. What were you about to say?’

  Ignoring Dom’s amused expression, Carlyle explained about the annual ritual with his mother.

  ‘I like that,’ Abramyan said. ‘Sadly, my own mother passed away some time ago — as did my father. But your mother must be very proud to have such a dutiful son. It is good that you still do things together, talk together. .’

  Carlyle looked down at his empty coffee cup. ‘She told me she’s getting a divorce,’ he heard himself say.

  ‘Why?’ It was the first word Dom had spoken since he had made the introductions.

  ‘She found out that my father had had an affair,’ Carlyle explained, for some reason happy to discuss with an arms dealer and a drugs pusher certain things that he shied away from mentioning at home.

  ‘Ach!’ Abramyan objected. ‘These things happen. How long have they been married?’

  ‘Fifty years, give or take. The affair was thirty years ago, apparently.’

  Dom failed to suppress a titter. Carlyle gave him a hard stare and he held up a hand. ‘Sorry.’

  Abramyan plucked a pastry from the cake-stand in the centre of the table. ‘Your mother clearly is not one to forgive and forget,’ he remarked, dropping the pastry on his plate and daintily wiping his mouth with a napkin, ‘Normally, I like that robustness, especially in a woman. But in this case, well, what can she hope to achieve?’

  Carlyle shrugged.

  ‘Except keep everyone in a state of prolonged unhappiness,’ Abramyan continued with a frown. ‘And then they die.’

  Carlyle nodded. ‘That’s basically my thinking. But it looks like that’s the way it’s going to be.’

  Abramyan gave him a sly look. ‘Maybe I could talk to her?’

  Carlyle glanced at Dom, who now looked like he was going to piss himself with laughter. Aware that he’d let the conversation go too far off at a tangent, he held up a hand. ‘That’s okay. Thank you, though. They really need to sort it out among themselves. Anyway, it’s not really what we’re here to discuss.’

  Abramyan’s eyes narrowed. ‘No, of course.’ Reaching across, he patted Dom gently on the shoulder. ‘Mr Silver here tells me that you’re a very interesting man, for a policeman.’

  Now it was Carlyle’s turn to laugh. Catching Dom’s eye, he said, ‘Well, I do have some interesting friends.’

  ‘But you have no interest in me?’

  Carlyle sat up straight and looked Abramyan directly in the eye. ‘No. My interest is in the man who murdered my sergeant in the street outside.’

  Sol Abramyan folded his arms. ‘And I am relevant to all of this because?’

  Carlyle knew that Dom had already taken Abramyan through all of this in some detail. And he also knew that Abramyan wouldn’t even be here if he hadn’t become caught up in this whole sorry mess. But slowly, clearly, he took it all from the top.

  ‘So you think I have this man, this Israeli killer?’ Abramyan asked, when Carlyle had finished.

  ‘He’s disappeared,’ Carlyle observed. ‘That’s all we know.’

  Abramyan turned to Dominic and laughed. ‘That’s what these kind of people do. As I understand it, they disappear frequently.’

  ‘His last known whereabouts were inside your house,’ Carlyle persisted, leaning across the table and lowering his voice despite the background chatter, ‘where he killed one of your customers.’

  ‘All conjecture,’ Abramyan said.

  ‘The house was thoroughly searched, was it not?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And what did you find?’

  ‘Not a lot,’ the inspector admitted.

  ‘Quite. So, as I said, all you have is conjecture.’

  Dropping his napkin on the table, Abramyam quickly stood up. The bodyguards at the nearby table appeared instantly by his side. After shaking Dominic’s hand, he circled round the table to where Carlyle was now also on his feet. Abramyan offered his hand. When Carlyle accepted it, he pulled him closer and whispered in his ear: ‘If there is anything that I can do to help you, I will let you know.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Carlyle murmured.

  ‘And if I do help you, I expect to feel able to draw on your help in return sometime in the future. If I need it.’

  ‘Understood.’

  ‘Good.’ Abramyan took half a step back and smiled. ‘We have a deal.’

  ‘We do.’

  ‘Just remember,’ Abramyan teased, ‘I am a little bit like your mother.’

  Slow on the uptake, Carlyle frowned.

  Abramyan’s smile grew wider. ‘I am not one to forgive and forget. And if you break your word, if you make an enemy of me, you will have a lot more to worry about than a divorce in the family.’

  Returning to his seat, Carlyle watched Sol Abramyan make his way through the lobby and head out onto the street. After checking that the pot was still hot, he poured himself a fresh cup of coffee and watched Dom demolish another Danish pastry. ‘That went well,’ he said, ‘I think.’

  Dom both nodded and swallowed at the same time. ‘Yes. You made quite an impression there. I think Sol likes you.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘If he didn’t, the meeting would have been over in less than thirty seconds. Sol is not the kind of guy who has to put up with people if he doesn’t want to.’

  Carlyle thought about that statement for a moment. ‘So what do we do now?’

  ‘We wait,’ said Dom cheerfully. ‘Sol will be in touch pretty quickly, I’d imagine.’

  ‘Do you think he really has got the guy who killed Joe?’

  ‘How would I know?’ Dom said. ‘But I hope that he does.’

  Carlyle took another mouthful of coffee. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because that’s the only way there will be any justice for Joe.’ Dom signalled to one of the waiters, who immediately brought over the bill, along with a hand-held card-reader.

  Carlyle half-heartedly reached for his wallet.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Dom, casually handing over a black credit card. ‘I’ve already got it.’<
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  Relieved, Carlyle put the wallet back in his jacket pocket. ‘I thought you had to pay for this place in advance?’

  ‘Not if you’re Sol Abramyan you don’t.’ After entering his PIN, Dom took both the card and the receipt and stuffed them inside his coat.

  ‘Thanks for that,’ said Carlyle, getting back to his feet.

  Dom held up a restraining hand. ‘There’s one more thing. .’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Charlotte Gondomar.’

  ‘That’s all sorted. I spoke to Simpson last week. The IPCC investigation is basically a formality.’

  ‘I’m not worried about the bloody IPCC,’ Dom said quietly. ‘That was never going to be my problem. What I am rather interested in, however, is the Middle Market Drugs Project.’

  From the unhappy look on Dom’s face, Carlyle realized that he’d made a mistake here. He should have raised the Middle Market Drugs Project with Dom before Dom raised it with him.

  ‘I spoke to a guy called Sam Hooper at the same time as I was talking to the IPCC,’ Carlyle said evenly. ‘Hooper told me that he had been investigating Gondomar but was more interested in your fashion designer.’

  ‘Rollo?’

  Carlyle nodded. ‘He reckoned that Kasabian was involved in Lottie’s little scheme.’

  The frown on Dom’s face deepened. ‘And you didn’t think to tell me about this?’

  ‘As far as I could see, it wasn’t such a big deal,’ Carlyle explained. ‘Hooper was just fishing. Apart from anything else, your name didn’t come up. To be honest, with everything else going on, I simply forgot about it.’

  ‘What did you tell him?’

  Now it was Carlyle’s turn to frown. ‘What do you think I told him?’ he said, struggling to keep his annoyance in check. ‘Absolutely nothing.’

  The waiter reappeared and began clearing up, eager to get them moved on. Standing up, Dom chewed his lower lip for a moment as he stared into the middle distance. ‘Maybe,’ he said finally, ‘Hooper thinks that you’re bent.’

  ‘He can think what he likes,’ Carlyle snorted. ‘The one thing I am not is bent.’