by James Craig
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.
Roche followed his gaze and smiled.
‘Just don’t bloody tell my wife I was in here,’ he joked.
Roche sipped at her beer in a rather amateurish fashion. ‘Why did you tell them that I was David’s girlfriend?’
Mm, that was a good question. The alcohol was quickly pickling his brain and Carlyle had to stop and think about it for a moment. ‘Two reasons,’ he said finally.
‘Yes?’
‘First, and most important, they are going to find out anyway. Everything he’s ever done will now come out in the wash, so you might as well be upfront with them.’ Taking a large mouthful of the whiskey, he gently clinked his glass against her beer bottle. ‘And, second, there might be some compo in it for you.’
‘What?’
‘Compensation. We live in a compensation culture these days, especially in the Met. You can get awarded thousands for mental distress if someone says they don’t like your bloody haircut. Having your boyfriend brutally slain in the line of duty must be worth a few bob, even if he was playing away.’
Laughing, Roche almost choked on her beer. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘You never know.’
‘Anyway, I wouldn’t want their bloody money.’
Carlyle looked aghast. ‘You can always give it to me.’ Oasis had finally stopped their racket and he watched as the black girl did the rounds with her pint pot, trying to catch any punters she hadn’t tapped up before starting her act. Disappointed that she had put her clothes back on, he waited patiently to hand over his contribution.
SIXTY-THREE
Helen smacked him hard on the arm. ‘Put the paper down!’
Reluctantly, Carlyle did what he was told. They were waiting outside the Headmaster’s office, sitting side by side like two sixth-formers who had been caught smoking in the bogs. Ahead of his telling-off, he wasn’t feeling in the mood for conversation.
‘I thought you said that it was all over,’ Helen whispered as one of the office secretaries walked past, giving them a stern look.
‘It was,’ Carlyle said, trying not to let his exasperation show. ‘And then it wasn’t.’ He shrugged. ‘These things happen. You know what it’s like.’
‘No.’ Helen shook her head. ‘I don’t know what it’s like. You are running around like a big kid, trying to get yourself killed. It’s almost as if you feel guilty because Joe got shot and you didn’t.’
‘You sound like the shrink,’ Carlyle snorted.
Helen folded her arms and stared into the middle distance. ‘Well, maybe you should go back and see him again.’
‘I will,’ Carlyle said, happy to concede something. ‘Simpson has already set it up.’ He took her hand and gave it a squeeze. ‘But there is nothing to worry about. A, I’m not going loopy and B, this issue really is under control now. There will be no more bloodshed.’
She reciprocated the squeeze. ‘I’m not convinced about either of those things,’ she said. ‘We both know that the Met isn’t likely to do much to protect you, mentally or physically.’
He leaned over and gave her a gentle peck on the cheek. ‘And so far, I’ve never relied on them to do either, have I?’
She turned to look at him. ‘What does that mean?’
It means that we’re going to deploy the skills and resources of Dominic Silver and his boys, Carlyle thought. He shot Helen the best smile he could manage. ‘It means that we’ll be fine.’
The door to the Headmaster’s office opened and out popped the bald head of Dr Terence Myers. ‘Mr and Mrs Carlyle? Please come in.’ He held the door open while the condemned parents shuffled inside. ‘Please take a seat.’
Once he had resumed residence behind the massive desk, Myers gave them the smallest of smiles. ‘Thank you for coming in at such short notice. I realize that this is a difficult issue, but let me tell you that I have to deal with situations like this on a fairly regular basis, and I am sure that we can get it sorted out.’
‘Thank you,’ said Carlyle.
‘It’s good that you have spoken to Alice about it,’ Myers continued, ‘and we will, of course, look into what she has said. But, remember, this is not a blame game that we are playing here. Everyone makes mistakes. The important thing is that there is no repeat of this incident on Alice’s part.’
‘Yes,’ both parents chirruped in unison.
Myers tapped a thin file resting on his desk. ‘Your daughter is doing very well here, both academically and socially. She is very much a valued member of our community.’
Carlyle glanced over at Helen. Despite the circumstances, his wife was bursting with pride at the praise being handed out to thei
r daughter. He had to resist the urge to smile.
‘However,’ said Myers, ‘we cannot tolerate a repeat performance. The school, as you know, has had its share of problems with drugs over recent years, and we have to show that we deal with such things firmly. So Alice will have to complete her suspension, I’m afraid.’
Pride well and truly burst, Helen hung her head in shame. ‘Yes.’
‘Good.’ Placing his hands on his ample belly, Myers sat back in his chair and told them, ‘That’s all. Do you have any questions?’
Bloody hell, Carlyle thought, we’ve got a result. Let’s get out of here. Looking at Helen, he jumped to his feet.
‘I was just wondering,’ Helen said, ‘will this affect Alice’s chances of winning a scholarship?’
No, no, no! Don’t start begging for money. Let’s just get going. Struggling to hide his annoyance, Carlyle slowly sank back into his chair.
‘I understand the considerable financial commitment that you have made to send your daughter to our school,’ Myers smiled, ‘but that is true of many parents. As you know, there is a lot of competition for our scholarships. All I can really say is that this incident will not prevent Alice from taking the scholarship exams. However, we do take a wide range of factors into consideration before making any award.’
So Alice being a drugs mule means we’re screwed, Carlyle thought morosely. I am going to be broke for the rest of my life paying your bloody school’s fees. ‘That’s very helpful guidance,’ he said politely, getting to his feet a second time. ‘Thank you for your time today. We will make sure we impress upon Alice the seriousness of the situation.’
‘Good,’ said Myers.
As Helen rose too, Carlyle took her by the arm and gently but firmly steered her towards the door.
‘Inspector?’ Myers had bounced out from behind his desk and made to open the door for them.
‘Yes?’ said Carlyle, wary at this belated use of his title.
‘I was wondering if there was something that you might be able to do for us regarding the drugs issue.’
Bollocks. ‘Of course.’
‘We occasionally organize outside speakers for the older girls – fifth- and sixth-formers mainly. I was wondering if you might give them a talk on drugs?’
‘Well . . .’
‘He would be delighted to,’ said Helen cheerily. ‘Just let us know when.’
* * *
‘I think that went okay,’ said Helen as they walked slowly, hand-inhand, across the empty playground.
‘Yes,’ Carlyle sighed, ‘as well as could be expected.’ He glanced at the phone in his free hand: it was his private, pay-as-you-go mobile, the one he usually forgot to answer. Tomorrow, this phone would be history – the handset thrown in the bin and the SIM card tossed down a drain in some distant part of London. Now, however, he desperately needed it to ring.
‘Do you think we can afford to keep paying the school fees?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Are you sure, John?’
‘Look,’ he snapped, ‘if I say we can afford it, we can afford it, all right?’ She gave him a dirty look and dropped his hand. Immediately he regretted being so sharp. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, planting a kiss on the top of her head. ‘I didn’t mean to shout at you.’
‘There’s no need to be so mean,’ she pouted.
‘I said I’m sorry.’ Trying to avoid compounding his mistake, he took a deep breath. ‘You know how our finances stack up as well as I do. We’ll be fine.’
Before she could answer, the phone started vibrating in Carlyle’s hand. He stepped away from his wife. ‘Hello?’
‘Have you got what we need?’
Carlyle cleared his throat. ‘Yes, I have,’ he said. ‘Let me give you the details . . .’
SIXTY-FOUR
Looking up from his mug of steaming black coffee, Sol Abramyan invited them to sit down.
‘Want some?’
‘Thanks.’ Under the watchful gaze of Sol’s bodyguards, Carlyle stood up from his chair and stepped over to the counter. Reaching for the coffee pot, he lined up a couple of mugs, filling one for himself and one for Dominic Silver. Placing Dom’s mug on the table in front of him, the inspector returned to his seat. He took a sip and savoured the distinct chocolate flavour.
‘Nice coffee.’
‘Elephant Arabica beans from Guatemala,’ Sol explained. ‘I always pick up a couple of kilos when I’m in London.’
‘You should try some Monsoon Malabar,’ said Dom, gripping his mug nervously. ‘It’s very nice. Just a little smoother.’ He tried to smile but didn’t quite manage it. Carlyle didn’t think he’d ever seen his friend looking so wired. Maybe more caffeine wasn’t such a good idea.
Sol took another sip. ‘So,’ he eyed the inspector carefully, ‘here you are sitting in my kitchen once again.’
Carlyle nodded.
‘Only this time, as far as I can judge, you have nothing to trade.’ He glanced at the Somalis who stood impassively by the back door, giving no impression of understanding any of what was being said. ‘In fact, it seems like the only thing you’ve managed to do is derail my current business plans, costing me a lot of money in the process.’
Taking another mouthful of coffee, Carlyle shook his head. ‘That was not my fault.’
Sol held up a hand. ‘Look, to be honest, I don’t really care who did what to whom or when or how and least of all, why. Regarding the politics of it all, I couldn’t give a damn. Apart from anything else, my Israeli clients are far more lucrative than my Arab ones. Money is no object to those boys; they can afford any shit they want, and they always want the best.’
‘The best kind of clients,’ Dom quipped. Sol gave him a sharp look and he quickly returned his gaze to his cup.
‘I have no problem with Mossad, or whoever the fuck it was, nailing whoever they like. My only wish is that they wouldn’t liquidate clients before they’ve settled their accounts.’ Sol shrugged. ‘It’s a simple business principle: you gotta get paid.’
Carlyle nodded, happy to let Sol continue spouting off for as long as he liked.
‘I’ve got nothing against the Israelis – apart from the little shit downstairs,’ he nodded to a small door in the far corner of the kitchen, ‘but then he tried to fucking kill me. They are great people to deal with, hard but fair.’ He grinned at Carlyle. ‘If I may be so bold as to give you a word of advice, I think that you have been rather too aggressive in your dealings with them. They will fuck you royally in the end.’
Carlyle gave him a what’s-done-is-done type of a shrug.
‘So, what have you got for me?’
‘Well,’ Carlyle smiled, ‘I’m going to let you walk away . . . live to fight another day, as it were.’
Sol looked at Silver and frowned. ‘Excuse me?’
Silver just stared into his mug.
‘I need you to hand over the captive downstairs,’ said Carlyle evenly. ‘He needs to be taken into custody and processed.’
‘Oh yes?’ said Sol, a mixture of amusement and annoyance in his voice. ‘He’s going to be processed all right. He’s going to be processed all the way to Hell. And if you don’t start talking some sense, you’ll be going with him.’
Carlyle ignored the threat. ‘I’m sure that if I were to have you arrested,’ he continued, ‘that would prove to be only a temporary inconvenience. Anyway, I assured Dominic here that I would respect you, being his client. Like I said, you can walk away. Sure, the deal fell through, but these things happen. It certainly wasn’t my fault and I am doing you the very great favour of overlooking the fact that what you are doing is completely fucking illegal.’
‘How very kind of you.’
‘That’s a more than fair exchange for a man you don’t really have any use for anyway.’
Sol sat back and crossed his arms. ‘And if I say no?’ Behind him, the two bodyguards, sensing the meeting had taken a downward turn, swayed forwards on the balls of their feet, ready for ac
tion. As they did so, there was a gentle tinkle of breaking glass, and the kitchen window disintegrated.
‘What the fuck?’ Before Sol could get out of his chair, the Somalis were both lying face down, blood leaking out of almost identical head wounds, brain matter splattered over the wooden floor and the fridge door. Reaching over to the nearest one, he tried to retrieve the Uzi pistol sticking out of the dead man’s Wrangler jeans.
‘Step away from the body!’ Sid Lieberman edged his way through the door, the Browning Hi-Power that had killed DI David Ronan – now with an outsized suppressor attached to the end of its barrel – pointing at Sol Abramyan’s head.
Carlyle looked over at Dom, who was gripping the table in order to stop himself shaking. The inspector gave him a gentle pat on the arm, and Dom almost jumped out of his skin. ‘Just stay calm,’ Carlyle murmured, ‘and we’ll walk out of this.’
Dom let out a constipated grunt that suggested he wasn’t entirely reassured, in view of the evidence in front of him.
Sol moved away from Lieberman, until he was standing next to Carlyle. ‘You are one fucked-up policeman,’ he hissed, just before a .40 S&W round punched straight through his skull and sent him flying backwards.
‘That was neat!’ Sylvia Swain stepped from behind Lieberman and trained a second silenced Browning on Carlyle. She had that glazed expression on her face that suggested she was high on either drink or drugs. ‘Can I do the copper as well?’
‘First things first,’ Lieberman scowled. He turned to Silver. ‘Who are you?’
‘A civilian,’ explained Carlyle quickly.
‘There are no fucking civilians,’ Lieberman snarled. ‘He dies here with you.’
‘Kill him and you get nothing,’ Carlyle said quietly.
‘Give me my man right now,’ Lieberman screamed, ‘or I will fucking kill you both right this second. Then I will go straight to your home and kill your fucking family.’
‘Cool!’ trilled Swain.
Carlyle glanced at Dom, who was staring at a spot somewhere out in the darkness beyond the shattered window. There was something that might have been a smile on his face, and Carlyle realized that he was thinking about his kids and his wife, and all the things that made his life worthwhile. Fighting back a tear, he felt a flood of overwhelming gratitude towards the man who was at his side. If he was going to die, at least he wouldn’t die alone.