by James Craig
‘As you well know, only the Foreign Office can request a waiver of a person’s diplomatic immunity,’ Simpson stormed, ‘and even then it is up to the sending state — in this case Israel — to decide if they wish to comply.’
‘But they never do,’ Carlyle said huffily.
‘No.’
‘So fuck them.’
‘John. .’
‘The judge signed the warrant,’ Carlyle shrugged.
‘Did he even bother to read it?’ Simpson screamed.
No. ‘Of course.’
‘Then why did he fucking sign it, then?’
Because we didn’t explain to him precisely who she was. Carlyle raised a calming hand. ‘We can put it down as a bureaucratic error. Under the circumstances, I’m sure that the Ambassador will be,’ he stifled a chuckle, ‘diplomatic and not make too much of a fuss.’
Taking a step backwards, the Commander fought to get her anger under control.
‘I’ll go down and release the prisoner,’ said Roche, slipping off the desk.
‘You stay where you are,’ Simpson ordered. ‘I can’t believe that you could have picked up so many of the inspector’s appalling habits already.’ Roche started to reply, but Simpson cut her off. ‘One more word from you and you’ll be back in East London before the end of the day — if not in jail yourself.’
Silenced, the sergeant stared at the floor.
‘Have they paid the fines?’ the inspector asked.
Simpson’s face turned puce, until he thought that she might explode. ‘Carlyle!’
Keep your bloody hair on. Moving towards the stairs, he held up both his hands, trying not to grin like a naughty schoolboy. ‘Okay, don’t worry. I’m going.’
‘And make sure she gets taken out the back way,’ Simpson shouted after him. ‘There’s a car already waiting.’
Ignoring both Simpson and the protests of Waxman’s lawyer, Carlyle marched the Ambassador though the reception area, pausing at the front entrance to undo her handcuffs.
‘Your career is over,’ she hissed as he pulled open the door. ‘You’ve got a serious problem.’
‘That’s right, I’ve got a problem. My problem is that one of your psycho goons killed my sergeant.’
‘You’re talking crap.’
‘You can always give up Lieberman.’
‘He knows nothing about your guy.’
‘My guy had a name: Joe Szyszkowski. He had a wife and two kids. He was shot dead in the street.’ Grabbing Waxman by the arm, he shoved her out onto the steps to confront the waiting press.
Immediately, the cameras started flashing and the journalists surged forward.
‘Ambassador!’
‘Over here!’
‘Do you have a comment on your arrest?’
‘Did you pay the fine?’ someone shouted, to the general amusement of his colleagues.
Feeling empty and deflated, Carlyle slipped back inside.
‘Holy shit!’ Roche laughed as he reappeared on the third floor. ‘Did you see what happened?’
‘What?’ Carlyle said dully.
‘Waxman just smacked a journalist in the face!’ She pointed to the TV monitor hanging from the ceiling. ‘They just ran it live on Sky. Some guy asked her if she was going to pay her parking tickets, the rest of them started laughing and she just hit him with a left hook. The bloke went down like a sack of potatoes.’
‘She’s a big woman,’ Carlyle mused. ‘I expect she packs a fair old punch.’
‘That’ll take the heat off us, though.’
Us? ‘Where’s Simpson?’
‘Dunno. She pranced off somewhere. She might have left. Anyway, the issue now is the Ambassador clocking the hack. We’re old news already. The world has moved on.’
‘I don’t know about that,’ Carlyle said. ‘I’m sure there will still be hell to pay.’ He placed a hand on her shoulder. ‘But that’s my problem. It was my decision to give Waxman this grief, and I have to take full responsibility.’
‘But-’
‘It was down to me. You will be kept out of it.’
‘I don’t think so.’ Roche patted his hand and gently eased it from her shoulder, giving it a small squeeze before letting go.
‘There’s no point in us both taking the flak.’
‘Hey,’ she smiled, ‘we’re in this together. After all, I wouldn’t even be here if these fuckers didn’t think they could shoot up our streets like it was the Wild West.’
‘The Wild West of Beirut,’ Carlyle grinned. Could this woman rise any higher in his estimation in just one day?
‘Anyway, even if there is any comeback, we can both claim posttraumatic stress disorder.’
Carlyle gave her a funny look. ‘How do you reckon?’
‘Well, you’ve had to deal with more deaths in the last week than the average copper faces in a lifetime.’
‘I suppose.’
‘And I’ve had to deal with my boyfriend’s dick in some bimbo’s mouth in front of my very eyes.’
Too much information, Carlyle thought. ‘I’m sure that Dr Wolf will be delighted to make your acquaintance,’ he said. The mobile on his desk vibrated with a message. It was from Ronan: Urgent! Have found our man. Meet me at the stern arms shoreditch asap. Carlyle thought about that for a second, then rang him back. He listened to Ronan’s phone finish ringing and go to voicemail. Without leaving a message, he hung up and looked at Roche. ‘Do you know a pub called the Stern Arms?’
‘David likes to go there now and again.’ She sighed theatrically. ‘Strippers downstairs, private dances on the first floor.’
‘And on the second floor?’
‘I don’t want to think about what might happen upstairs. Why do you ask?’
‘He’s asked me to meet him there.’ Helen will be delighted, Carlyle thought. ‘How do I get there?’
‘Come out of Liverpool Street tube, walk up Shoreditch High Street for a couple of minutes and it’s on your left.’
‘Okay.’ Carlyle got to his feet. ‘Don’t suppose you want to come?’
Stalking away, she didn’t bother to reply.
SIXTY-ONE
Wearing raincoats over their stage outfits, a couple of strippers were standing on the pavement outside the Stern Arms, enjoying a fag and a chat. One of them gave the inspector a wan smile as he shuffled past them and headed inside. At the bar, he ordered a bottle of Budweiser and looked around. Dark and grimy, the place was almost empty save for a handful of men, each sitting at a table facing the space at the far end of the room, which had been cleared for the performers. A girl with badly bleached blonde hair wearing high heels and what looked like an Indian squaw outfit, was going round each customer in turn, collecting pound coins in a pint glass before starting her act. When she had done the various tables, she tottered over to the bar and thrust the glass under Carlyle’s nose.
‘It’s a pound,’ she explained flatly, ‘but you can give more if you want.’
Embarrassed, Carlyle dug into his trouser pocket and dropped a two-pound coin into the glass.
The girl brightened at this accidental show of generosity. ‘Thanks,’ she smiled, stepping in front of him. ‘If you fancy a special show upstairs afterwards, it’s twenty quid.’ Handing her pint pot to the barman for safekeeping, she then wandered off. Finishing his beer, Carlyle rang Ronan’s number again. Again the voicemail kicked in. Sighing, he watched the barman shove a CD in the stereo behind the bar and then hit Play. Kylie Minogue’s ‘Go Hard or Go Home’ started blaring from a couple of speakers as the squaw began slowly gyrating like a wounded buffalo.
Where the hell was Ronan? Should he stay? Or should he go? Carlyle was feeling paralysed by indecision when he suddenly felt a hand on his shoulder.
‘About bloody time!’ he hissed, turning to face the detective inspector.
‘Enjoying the show?’
It took him a moment to realize that it was Sylvia Swain — or at least the woman he knew as Sylvia Swain — who was standin
g next to him. Her hair had been cut short and she was dressed in cowboy boots, jeans and a Foo Fighters T-shirt. The overall effect was to make her look older.
‘I didn’t know you worked here,’ he grinned, after getting over his initial surprise.
‘I’m not sure I could live with the competition,’ she replied, gesturing at the stripper, who had just managed to struggle out of her bra.
‘So what can I do for you?’
Swain slipped her arm through his and led him away from the bar. ‘We have to take a little walk.’
‘And if I don’t want to do that?’ Carlyle asked.
She gave his arm a gentle squeeze. ‘That’s fine by me, but it means your colleague Dave will be dead within the next ten minutes.’
‘I think he prefers to be called David,’ Carlyle said, falling in step with her as she headed for the door.
Swain led Carlyle down an alley that ran alongside the pub, and past a couple of dilapidated apartment buildings. A young girl who looked like she was walking home from school stared at them as they passed, otherwise the street was empty. Stopping outside a boarded-up newsagents, Swain rapped firmly on the door. After a few moments, it opened and he was ushered inside.
‘Inspector Carlyle, how very good of you to join us.’
Carlyle forced out the thinnest of smiles. ‘My pleasure, Mr Lieberman.’
The room had been completely gutted. Everything that might have been of any value had been stripped out, including the electrical wiring from the walls and even some of the floorboards. ‘Over there.’ Lieberman gestured towards a door at the rear with the Browning Hi-Power semi-automatic held in his right hand. ‘Head right to the back. The room on your left. Be careful where you put your feet.’
Carlyle followed Swain down the corridor, with Lieberman bringing up the rear. The room at the back was maybe fifteen feet by twelve. It had also been stripped bare. In one corner, handcuffed to a narrow metal pipe protruding from the wall, about two feet off the floor, Ronan looked in bad shape. With a nasty gash on his forehead and his left eye closed up, it was clear that he’d taken a severe beating. There was blood-spatter on the wall behind his head and the DI looked barely conscious. When Carlyle gave him a gentle nudge with his boot, he got no response.
‘Not a great advert for your people, is he?’ Lieberman gestured for Carlyle to sit down next to the SO15 man.
‘Fuck off,’ Carlyle snorted. ‘You’re not doing that to me.’
‘Sit down,’ ordered Lieberman quietly. ‘Take out your cuffs and attach yourself to that pipe.’ Kneeling down, he aimed the barrel of the Browning directly into Ronan’s face. ‘Otherwise your friend dies now.’
Well done, excellent effort, Carlyle said to himself. You’ve got yourself into a really great situation here. Slowly lowering himself to the floor, he attached one cuff to the pipe and clicked the other around his left wrist.
‘Good,’ Lieberman approved.
‘What do you want?’ Carlyle asked.
‘We want our man back,’ Swain said. Standing over Carlyle, she gently massaged his crotch with the toe of her boot. ‘It would have been easier if you’d let me just fuck it out of you, but there you go.’ She gave him another prod. ‘Or maybe you’d like to fuck now?’
‘Why not?’ Carlyle smiled. ‘Just take these cuffs off and I’ll see what I can do.’
‘But, Inspector,’ she mocked, ‘there’s nothing happening down there.’ Swain glanced at Lieberman in mock disappointment. ‘Maybe he’s a faggot.’
If Helen could see me now, Carlyle thought.
Sid shrugged. ‘That doesn’t stop him from telling us what we want to know.’
‘I’ve been looking for your guy,’ Carlyle told him, ‘but I haven’t found him.’
Swain kicked him hard in the groin with her heel. ‘Don’t be such a fag!’
Grunting, Carlyle took a deep breath. Beside him, Ronan groaned in apparent sympathy.
‘Hey!’ Sid said, placing a hand on Swain’s arm. ‘There’s no need for any of that rough stuff.’ He turned to Carlyle. ‘It’s very simple now. You have two more chances to answer the question.’
‘I don’t know.’
Lieberman waved the Browning at Ronan. ‘If you fail to answer, he dies.’
‘I don’t-’
‘If he dies and you still don’t answer, we will leave you here while we go and get your wife.’
‘Or maybe his daughter,’ Swain chipped in. ‘Don’t you think that would have more impact?’
‘Maybe.’ Lieberman stroked his chin in apparent thought. ‘But no, let’s bring them both. Then we’ll let you sit around together a while, a happy family, before we kill you all.’
‘Fuck you,’ Carlyle hissed. Jesus Christ Almighty, his brain complained, how the hell did I get into this fucking mess?
Lieberman stepped to the far side of the room and gestured Swain out of the line of fire. ‘Last chance. .’
Oh shit, Carlyle thought. ‘Sol Abramyan.’
‘Who?’ Swain asked.
‘Sol Abramyan is the arms trader who set up the London deal for Hamas. He has your guy and I’ve been trying to get him back.’
‘Well done — Mazel tov,’ Lieberman said. ‘You got there in the end.’ Then, raising the Browning, he put two shots into the middle of Ronan’s chest. ‘At last, we’re making some progress.’
SIXTY-TWO
‘At least he won’t be banging the sister-in-law any more,’ Carlyle quipped, as they watched Ronan’s body being placed in the back of an ambulance and driven slowly away.
‘I’m sure that the skanky little bitch will be heartbroken,’ Roche said.
‘Are you sure you’re okay?’
‘Me? Oh yes.’ She gave him a shaky grin. ‘And before you ask, I have an alibi.’
‘Just as well,’ he replied. ‘But I’m sure that the shrink will still have a field day with you.’
‘That poor sod has got more than enough on his plate dealing with you.’
‘I have got to be one of the most straightforward cases he’s ever come across,’ Carlyle deadpanned. ‘There’s nothing wrong with me at all.’
‘Yeah, right.’
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Simpson emerge from the building where Ronan had been shot. Directly behind her was a senior-looking guy in uniform whom the inspector didn’t recognize. He flicked again through his story. The key thing was to sprinkle the lies sparingly among the facts. Carlyle knew he was quite good at that, but there was no room for complacency.
‘What happened?’ Simpson asked.
Ignoring the question, Carlyle held out a hand to her companion. ‘Inspector John Carlyle. And this is my colleague, Sergeant Alison Roche.’
Overcoming an obvious reluctance, the man shook Carlyle’s hand. ‘Commander Gavin Dugdale. I’m Simpson’s opposite number at SO15, and Ronan’s boss.’
Carlyle nodded. ‘We were working with Ronan on this investigation. Sergeant Roche here was also his partner.’ While Simpson and Dugdale exchanged bemused looks, Roche gave him a sly kick. Undeterred, he ploughed on. ‘His girlfriend.’
An angry look passed over Dugdale’s face. There were so many things wrong about this situation that he clearly didn’t know what to complain about first. In the end, all he said was, ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’
It sounded hollow and insincere but, with head bowed, Roche managed to mumble something that might just about have been construed as a ‘Thank you’.
‘So, what actually happened?’ Simpson repeated.
‘Ronan was shot twice by Sid Lieberman,’ Carlyle said matter-of-factly. ‘It appears that he was severely beaten in advance of his murder. Lieberman was being assisted by a woman who’d previously approached me claiming to be a journalist called Sylvia Swain.’
Simpson waited for him to go on. When he didn’t, she asked, ‘And how did you happen upon the scene?’
Carlyle gave both of his superiors some good eye-contact as he took his mobile from his
jacket pocket. ‘I received a text from Ronan’s phone,’ he said, pulling up the message and handing the phone to Simpson, ‘asking me to come to the pub down the road.’
Simpson read the message and showed it to Dugdale. ‘What does have found our man mean?’ she asked.
‘I presume that he was referring to Lieberman,’ Carlyle lied. ‘However, I can only speculate. When I got to the pub, Swain led me here. She told me that if I didn’t go with her, Ronan would be killed. When we arrived, Ronan was still alive but in a bad way. He did not seem conscious. Lieberman seemed to believe that Ronan or I could help him find a missing member of the Mossad hit squad that killed Joe. Neither of us were able to give him what he wanted, so he shot Ronan. He was going to shoot me, but then his gun jammed — so they just left.’
‘Why didn’t they stab you,’ Simpson mused, ‘or strangle you?’
‘I don’t know,’ Carlyle replied, ignoring the wistfulness in her tone. ‘Maybe you can ask him yourself, if we catch him.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Dugdale, ‘we’ll get them both.’
I’ve heard that before, Carlyle thought. ‘They seemed extremely stressed and in a considerable hurry. They left me with my phone and the keys to my handcuffs. Once I was sure that they were gone, I was able to call you straight away.’
Dugdale glanced doubtfully at Simpson, but her expression was giving nothing away. ‘Very well, Inspector,’ he said, ‘go and get yourself cleaned up. We’ll deal with this from now on.’
Returning to the bar in the Stern Arms, the inspector downed a triple measure of Jameson’s and a couple of Budweisers in less than five minutes. The barman gave him a funny look, but said nothing as Carlyle ordered another round.
‘I haven’t finished the first one yet,’ Roche protested.
‘Don’t worry,’ Carlyle told her, ‘I can always drink it for you.’
‘I think you should slow down a bit.’
‘You didn’t have someone just point a gun on you and pull the fucking trigger.’ Across the room, a lithe black girl with an outsized Afro swayed unconvincingly to ‘Wonderwall’ by Oasis. She was a lot prettier than the earlier stripper, so Carlyle reached into his pocket and pulled out a couple of pound coins.