Then We Die ic-5

by James Craig

  God give me strength, Carlyle thought. Glancing at the AC Milan team on the wall above Alice’s head, searching for inspiration, he was disappointed to see that the new poster was already grubby and torn. Someone had even scribbled over Fabio Capello’s face.

  ‘I know,’ said Marcello, arriving at the table with a double macchiato for Carlyle and a hot chocolate for Alice. He gestured at the poster with his chin. ‘It’s a bloody shame.’

  ‘I’ll speak to Alison,’ Carlyle replied, ‘see if she can get a new one.’

  ‘Who’s Alison?’ Alice asked.

  ‘Sergeant Roche. She’s working with me at the station.’

  ‘Is she Joe’s replacement?’

  Carlyle looked at Marcello, who just shrugged. ‘Yes.’

  Alice bent down and took a slurp of her hot chocolate. ‘It must be a real bummer, getting shot like that.’

  Carlyle was stunned by her apparent insouciance.

  ‘What would you like to eat?’ Marcello said quickly.

  ‘I’ll have some toast with honey, please, Marcello,’ she said brightly.

  ‘The usual,’ said Carlyle.

  ‘Coming right up.’ Marcello shuffled back behind the counter.

  ‘So,’ said Alice, taking another sip from her glass, ‘let’s get it over with.’

  ‘Don’t give me that attitude,’ Carlyle growled. He lifted the demitasse to his lips and drained the coffee in one. ‘Just tell me what happened.’

  ‘It was a fair cop,’ Alice sniggered.

  ‘I know that,’ Carlyle grinned, ‘but where did the dope come from?’

  ‘It wasn’t mine,’ she said hastily, stirring the remains of her hot chocolate with a spoon. ‘I don’t do drugs.’

  ‘Glad to hear it,’ Carlyle observed testily.

  ‘I was just holding it for someone.’

  ‘Who?’ he asked a bit too eagerly. ‘Stuart?’

  ‘No,’ she frowned. ‘It’s got nothing to do with him.’

  ‘Well, you’d better explain that to your mother. She’s got him firmly in her sights.’

  ‘She should mind her own bloody business!’ Alice complained.

  ‘She’s your mother,’ Carlyle responded, ‘so this is her business. Mine too.’

  All he got by way of reply was a pout. As the silence started to lengthen, Marcello appeared with Alice’s toast and a huge raisin Danish for Carlyle, along with a second macchiato. For a couple of minutes, they focused on eating.

  ‘You know,’ said Carlyle, after swallowing the last of his pastry, ‘this is a serious business.’

  Munching her toast, Alice eyed him doubtfully.

  Carlyle grinned. ‘I have to go and see the bloody Headmaster tomorrow!’

  ‘Really?’ Alice giggled, propelling a mouthful of crumbs across the table.

  ‘It’s the first time I’ve been called in to see the Head since. . oh, I dunno, something like 1979.’ He gave her a wink. ‘I was busted for drugs, too.’

  Alice’s eyes grew wide. ‘Really?’

  ‘ ’Fraid so,’ Carlyle said. ‘I was a bit older than you, but not much. I got done for selling half a gram of speed to Kenny Morris from 5C.’ Carlyle tutted in mock amusement. ‘I was suspended for a fortnight.’

  ‘Wow!’

  Carlyle shook his head at the memory. ‘And then the little bastard never paid me.’

  ‘Ha!’

  He leaned over and kissed his daughter on the forehead. ‘There’s nothing new under the sun, sweetheart.’ While that last statement may well have been true, the rest of his story was a complete fabrication. The young Carlyle had never been a playground dope dealer. Kenny Morris did exist though; he had had his nose broken and his head held down a flushing toilet after stealing a tenner from Carlyle’s school bag. After the subsequent investigation, Carlyle was sent home for a week.

  ‘You did drugs?’

  ‘A little — for a while. Speed mainly. Dope wasn’t my thing.’

  ‘And Mum?’

  ‘Not as far as I know.’

  ‘Did you like it?’

  Carlyle shrugged. ‘Speed was okay. It wasn’t that big a deal. It’s like most things, you grow out of it.’

  Alice finished her toast. ‘I don’t do drugs.’

  ‘So where did the cannabis come from?’

  ‘Skunk.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It was skunk.’

  ‘Whatever,’ Carlyle persisted, ‘where did it come from?’

  Alice gave him a long hard look. In that moment, she looked so like her mother that he found it impossible not to smile.

  ‘Patricia Fine,’ she said finally.

  Carlyle affected insouciance. ‘Who’s she?’

  Alice sighed. ‘She’s two years above me. I just did it as a favour.’

  ‘Why did she want you to look after it for her?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Alice hissed. ‘Stop being such a bloody policeman.’ She tried to slide out of the booth, but Carlyle put a hand on her arm.

  ‘Okay, okay,’ he said, ‘no more questions. I will go and take my punishment from the Headmaster. And I’ll get your mother to apologize to Stuart and his mum.’

  ‘I wouldn’t worry about that,’ Alice told him. ‘His mum can be a bit stuck-up. Stuart thought it was funny that they’d been arguing about it.’

  ‘Anyway,’ Carlyle said wearily, ‘I’ll get it sorted. Just don’t do anything like this again.’

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  Following all the domestic dramas, it was a blessed relief to get back to the station. After arriving at Charing Cross, Carlyle spent a happy hour reading the newspaper and surfing the internet for football gossip and other such chat. He was on his second cup of coffee by the time Roche arrived, grim-faced.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Carlyle asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ she replied unconvincingly.

  Suit yourself, Carlyle thought. ‘I need to speak to Ronan. What’s he up to this morning?’

  ‘No idea,’ she said sharply, before stalking off in the direction of the coffee machine.

  ‘I’ll have an espresso,’ Carlyle shouted after her.

  ‘Get it yourself,’ was the terse reply.

  Okay, he shrugged, I will. Putting on the cheeriest expression he could manage, Carlyle followed her across the room. When he was halfway there, he stopped and watched in amusement as she jabbed a succession of buttons, then gave the machine a good slap.

  ‘For fuck’s sake!’ She gave the machine another slap, then a kick for good measure. As he reached her side, Carlyle saw the Out of Order notice flash across the small display screen.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘let’s go out somewhere. That stuff’s shit anyway.’

  Sitting in Starbucks on St Martin’s Lane, Carlyle sipped a double espresso and was happy to watch the world go by. He ignored his colleague as she gloomily drank her latte and picked at an orange and lemon muffin. Across the road, he noticed a pretty girl walk into the Garden Hotel and wondered what had happened to Sylvia Swain. The Canadian journalist appeared to have vanished off the face of the earth: there was no record of her having left the country, and a phone call to her editor had simply elicited a gruff response that she was ‘on assignment and not contactable’. Fucking Canadians, Carlyle thought. What a Mickey Mouse country. However, he realized that it wasn’t worth starting an international row to try and track her down. What with his confrontation with the Israeli Ambassador, he was doing enough for the UK’s international relations already.

  Swain, whoever she was, was a minor player in this little drama. The inspector would be perfectly happy if she never resurfaced.

  ‘The fucking bastard!’

  Carlyle was shaken out of his thoughts by Roche’s sudden outburst.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘The bastard was shagging his sister-in-law.’

  Carlyle frowned. Had he missed something? What the hell was she talking about?

  She looked at him like he was terminally stupid. ‘DI
fucking Ronan. I caught him fucking his bastard sister-in-law — in our bed.’

  Ronan, Carlyle thought, you dirty dog. Returning his gaze to the window, he tried not to grin and said nothing.

  ‘He’s been banging her for months, apparently. The little bitch is only nineteen.’

  ‘I see,’ was all Carlyle could think of by way of reply.

  ‘I could have killed the little shit.’

  ‘But you didn’t?’

  ‘What?’ Roche gave him a funny look. ‘No, no.’ She laughed. ‘I did put the P30 to his head, though.’

  ‘A measured response,’ Carlyle acknowledged. He casually wondered if brandishing a Heckler amp; Koch P30 in front of his parents might help bring them to their senses. Somehow, he doubted it.

  ‘His skinny little girlfriend pissed herself when I flicked the safety.’

  ‘Literally?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Roche was grinning widely now.

  And they send me to the shrink, Carlyle thought to himself.

  ‘I thought Dave was going to shit himself.’

  ‘David,’ Carlyle corrected her.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing. Do you need some time off?’

  ‘Nah.’ She shook her head. ‘I’ve already moved out.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘I’m staying with a friend until I find somewhere permanent. In the meantime, I just want to get on with things.’

  ‘Very sensible.’

  ‘I’m not the kind to mope about.’

  ‘Good,’ Carlyle smiled. He realized that he was beginning to really like Alison Roche. She was shaping up to be a worthy successor to Joe Szyszkowski. Just as long as he never gave her cause to pull a gun on him. Draining the final drops from his cup, he stood up. ‘Come on.’

  Roche grabbed her bag and got to her feet. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘You’ll see.’

  Hilary Waxman gritted her teeth and forced something approaching a smile onto her lips.

  ‘Inspector. .’

  ‘Carlyle.’

  ‘Inspector Carlyle, this is harassment. I have already lodged an official protest with the Foreign Office and I will be pressing them to take this up with your superiors at the earliest opportunity.’

  Sitting forward in his chair, Carlyle smiled at Roche and Waxman in turn. ‘This is hardly harassment, Ambassador,’ he said evenly. ‘We are pursuing our legitimate enquiries and we are respectfully requesting your assistance.’

  ‘Mr Lieberman is not here,’ Waxman snapped. ‘As I told you, I am not apprised of his movements and you have no jurisdiction inside my Embassy.’

  Bowing his head, Carlyle pressed his hands together, as if in prayer. ‘On this occasion, we are not here in connection with Mr Lieberman.’ Pulling a small brown envelope out of the inside pocket of his jacket, he dropped it on the table.

  ‘What is that?’ Waxman asked, making no effort to pick it up.

  ‘It’s a warrant for your arrest,’ Roche said quietly.

  Waxman snorted with laughter as she stared at the two police officers in front of her. ‘Don’t be preposterous.’

  ‘Hilary Waxman,’ Carlyle said tonelessly, ‘you are under arrest for the non-payment of fines totalling one million, two hundred and fifty-six thousand, three hundred and twelve pounds and forty-seven pence.’

  ‘That,’ Roche chipped in, ‘accounts for the unpaid parking tickets run up by diplomatic staff working here at the Embassy, additional penalties and accumulated interest. The figure is only up to date as of last month, so it may have edged up a little.’

  Waxman smacked a fist down on her desk. ‘You have got to be kidding.’

  ‘We’ll take a cheque,’ Carlyle smirked.

  ‘Get out of my office this instant.’ Waxman pounded a buzzer on her desk.

  ‘Have it your way,’ Carlyle sighed. Getting to his feet, he pulled a pair of handcuffs from his pocket and quickly moved round behind the desk.

  ‘Get your hands off me!’ Waxman shrieked, as Carlyle tried to pull her to her feet. Grunting with the effort, he signalled to Roche to give him a hand. Together, they finally managed to wrestle her far enough out of the chair for Carlyle to snap on the cuffs.

  ‘Where are you taking her?’ Daniel, the lackey, had appeared in the doorway. Unable to make sense of the scene in front of him, he looked like he was about to cry.

  ‘I don’t know yet,’ Carlyle lied. ‘She’ll be allowed her phone call in due course.’

  ‘You know what to do,’ Waxman hissed to her aide, as she was hustled away. ‘Get this sorted immediately!’

  FIFTY-NINE

  Standing at the bar of the Stern Arms, David Ronan started on his second bottle of Estrella Damm and idly watched one of the club’s strippers mechanically going through her routine for the benefit of a scanty, post-lunch crowd.

  ‘Hey, there.’

  Ronan turned to meet the gaze of Suzie Perrin, aka ‘Starburst’, one of the Stern’s regular performers. Young-looking, with a pageboy haircut and cheeky grin, Ronan knew that Suzie could easily clear a couple of hundred quid in one lunchtime session. Most of it, however, immediately disappeared up her nose, just like the cash he gave her from the ‘confidential informer’ budget, in exchange for a regular bunk-up in one of the pub’s private rooms.

  ‘How’s it going?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s going,’ she sighed. ‘Wanna buy me a drink?’

  Ronan peeked at the sheer black basque visible under her barely tied robe. ‘Yeah, okay.’

  Almost instantly, the barman placed a bottle of Spanish beer in her hand. ‘Cheers,’ she smiled, taking a long drink.

  Ronan watched the other stripper complete her act. ‘Who’s she?’

  ‘New girl,’ Suzie said, finishing her beer and smacking the empty bottle down on the table. ‘Don’t know her name. Why? D’ya fancy her?’

  ‘Nah,’ said Ronan, shaking his head. ‘Just wondering.’

  ‘She won’t last,’ Suzie said, without malice. ‘She just hasn’t got what it takes.’

  And what would that be, Ronan wondered ironically; the ability to stay coked out of your head twenty-four hours a day while flashing your arsehole at the world? ‘Are you on next?’ he asked.

  Suzie scanned the room. ‘For this lot? Nah, not worth it. I’d barely make a tenner.’ She gave him her trademark impish smile. ‘Tell you what, though, come upstairs and I’ll give you a special show.’

  Ronan thought about that for perhaps a nanosecond, trying to conceal the fact that his crotch had already decided for him. ‘Oh, all right then,’ he grinned, ‘you’ve talked me into it.’

  On the second floor, Ronan nodded to Steve, one of the club’s bouncers, as he walked past the No physical contact allowed sign and down a corridor which had three doors on each side.

  ‘Take the left on the end,’ Suzie directed him.

  ‘Okay,’ said Ronan, as he started stroking himself through his trousers.

  It was a room he’d been in several times before and he knew the drill. Throwing his jacket over the back of a chair, he took a seat on a low sofa that had been pushed up against the rear wall. Without any ceremony, Suzie slipped off her robe and switched on a CD player that rested on the floor, beside the door.

  ‘You know the rules,’ she said giggling, as 5 °Cent’s ‘In Da Club’ started thumping out of the tinny speakers. ‘No touching me, no touching yourself. .’

  Ronan grunted as he unzipped his fly.

  ‘And if I have to hit this panic button,’ Suzie continued, now speaking for some reason in a fake American drawl, ‘Steve will be in here immediately to stomp on your ass.’

  ‘Just get on with it,’ Ronan shouted.

  Two and a half minutes later, having broken every house rule he could think of, Ronan sat content, his aussieBum Wonderjock trunks around his ankles as he finished his beer.

  Dropping a wad of tissues in a bin next to the CD player, Suzie turned to him and smiled. ‘Fancy another beer?’

>   Ronan gave himself a good scratch. ‘Yeah, why not?’

  She slipped her robe back on, then opened the door. ‘Same again?’

  ‘Perfect.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll be back in a minute.’

  ‘Great.’ Yawning, Ronan dropped his empty beer bottle on the floor, closing his eyes as Fiddy faded into the background.

  ‘Hey, big boy, wake up.’

  Ronan slowly brought the room into focus. Still in a state of undress, he had been placed in a chair. Pushing himself up in his seat, he looked at the woman in front of him. It took him a moment or two to realize that it wasn’t Suzie. He was fairly sure he hadn’t seen her before. She looked quite old, in her forties maybe, but not in bad shape. And she was caressing his scrotum. At least the gun in her hand was.

  ‘What the fuck?’ Completely startled, Ronan reared up, tipped over backwards on his chair and went sprawling across the floor.

  ‘Much as I like looking at your ass,’ said the woman, in an accent not unlike Suzie’s earlier, ‘I need you to put your underwear on. You’re coming with me.’

  SIXTY

  Arms crossed, Simpson paced the room with a look of constipated fury plastered all over her face. ‘Where did all those bloody journalists come from?’

  Carlyle bit his tongue and tried not to look at Roche, who was perched on the edge of his desk desperately trying not to laugh. At least I’ve managed to cheer her up a bit, he thought.

  ‘Where is she?’ Simpson demanded.

  ‘Downstairs,’ Carlyle admitted.

  ‘Well, I hope you’re ready to grovel when you go back down. She is to be released immediately.’

  ‘But I’ve got a warrant,’ Carlyle protested.

  Simpson stepped forward and jabbed him in the chest with her index finger. ‘John, do not try my patience one second longer. How in the name of Jesus Christ you ever managed to convince a judge to grant you such an arrest warrant is beyond me. What kind of idiot would let you try and arrest someone with diplomatic immunity?’

  Carlyle decided now was not the time to share the story of Judge Brian Cosby and his unfortunate relationship with cocaine, something which the inspector was happy to overlook in return for the odd favour, however outrageous.