by James Craig
‘Will you protect me?’
Don’t promise what you can’t deliver, he told himself. ‘I will stop him.’
‘What should I do?’
‘Is there somewhere you can stay for a little while?’ he asked. ‘Out of the way, preferably somewhere outside of London.’
She thought about it for a moment. ‘I’ve got some friends up in Glasgow.’
‘Good, then this is what we’ll do.’ Carlyle programmed her mobile number into his private phone then took down the details of the people she would be staying with. ‘I will call you once a day. If goes to voicemail, I’ll leave a message.’
They walked back to the lifts in silence. Downstairs, by the front desk, Carlyle shook her hand again. ‘Thank you for coming.’
Monica Hartson gave him a wan smile. ‘I’m not sure whether I feel better for our conversation, or worse.’
‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘This is nearly over. Gori is a marked man. It will be done in a couple of days. Getting out of town is just an additional precaution.’
‘I hope so.’
‘One thing I was wondering, though . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘Why put yourself through all of this? Why go after someone like Gori?’
Hartson looked at him for a moment, as if deciding whether to tell him the whole story. ‘I was there,’ she said finally. ‘I saw what he did.’
‘What?’
‘We arrived in Ishaqi the day after Gori and his comrades had blown through,’ she said quietly. ‘I set up a Red Cross office under a makeshift awning by the side of one of the houses that hadn’t been burned out. I stood and watched a man in a black turban holding a hessian sack containing the remains of his son.’ She swallowed. ‘Only it wasn’t his son, just random scraps that had been recovered from around the place. The elders had already given away all the bodies, and even the limbs, to mourners who had got there first. Identifying anybody or anything was almost impossible. All that they could do was try and give each family something approximating the right number of corpses.’
‘Jesus.’
‘By the time this man arrived there were just a few pieces left. But he had to have something to take home. He just scooped up what he could and put it in his sack.’ Monica closed her eyes and stifled a sob. ‘The man went home to tell his wife that this was their son, so the family had something to bury while they said their prayers.’
Carlyle mumbled something that he hoped sounded sympathetic.
‘After that, I couldn’t get home quickly enough.’
‘I can understand.’
She was too polite to contradict him.
‘But,’ the inspector sighed, ‘there have been lots of killings, and doubtless there will be lots more. Even if you finally get him, if you bring Matias Gori to justice, will it have been worth it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Despite the death of your friends?’
‘The point is that they shouldn’t have had to die; just like those poor people in Ishaqi shouldn’t have had to die.’ She looked at him with a fierceness in her eyes that had been absent before. ‘If this was a decent country, something would have been done about Gori long before now. We wouldn’t even have needed to get involved – if the police had done their job properly.’
She waited for a response, but Carlyle said nothing.
‘But no one wanted to know,’ Hartson continued, ‘so we decided to take up the fight. All we wanted to do was bring one man – one murderer – to justice. We thought that was surely achievable – a small victory for decency. You’re right, many people get away with terrible things, but that’s no reason to give up. If everyone took your point of view, Inspector, the world would be an even worse place than it is now.’
Chastened, Carlyle held up a hand. ‘I didn’t say it was my point of view—’ But it was too late. Hoisting her bag on to her shoulder, she was already slaloming through the small knots of supplicants in the waiting room, and had almost reached the door by the time his words had got out.
After she had left, the inspector went through what they had. It was probably not enough to get Hartson police protection and certainly not enough to arrest Gori. But at least now Carlyle should be able to persuade Carole Simpson to let him see this thing through. He hoped so, at any rate. The Commander’s husband might still be making the news, but she remained at work. He rang her office and left a message with her PA, who promised to get Simpson to call him back as quickly as possible.
Ending the call, Carlyle looked around. What to do next? Scratching his head, he finally reached a decision; he would break his duck for the week and finally work up a sweat at Jubilee Hall.
THIRTY-THREE
Matias Gori stood in the shadows of the doorway of the long-since closed Zimbabwean High Commission, underneath a faded poster advertising trips to the Victoria Falls, and watched Monica Hartson as she walked down the front steps of Charing Cross police station and headed for the Strand. It was approaching rush-hour and the streets were crowded, so her progress was slow and Gori was able to stay close, no more than five or six yards behind her, without any danger of being detected.
Hartson then crossed the Strand, picked up a free newspaper and ducked inside Charing Cross train station. Dropping a little further behind, Gori watched her buy a coffee before heading down into the Tube. Realising that he didn’t have a ticket, he followed her down the escalator and jogged over to the nearest machine. Grabbing a handful of change from his jacket pocket, he pushed in front of a group of Chinese tourists and dropped enough coins in the slot to get a standard single. He rushed through the barriers just in time to see the top of Hartson’s head disappearing down another escalator, heading for the Northern Line. Skipping down into the bowels of the Tube station, he watched her turn right at the bottom of the escalator, stepping on to the platform for trains heading north. Slowly, he counted to five and followed.
The platform was full, but not packed, with sweaty, tired and frustrated-looking travellers. A voice on the tannoy was apologising about interruptions to the service, caused by signalling problems, and the electronic board was signalling a four-minute wait for the next train. Faced with a sea of blank faces, Gori made his way carefully down the platform, always moving, never making eye contact. He found her about three-quarters of the way along, standing just behind the yellow line, sipping her coffee and staring at a poster advertising Errazuriz Chardonnay. The board now showed two minutes until the next train. Over the tannoy came an announcement about planned engineering works on the Circle Line. Keeping out of her line of vision, Gori walked past Hartson, to the end of the platform, placing himself behind a pair of women intently studying a copy of the A–Z.
The next train was due. Gori walked cautiously back along the platform until he was standing about two feet behind Hartson and slightly to her left, on the opposite side of her from where the train would arrive. He could hear it now steadily getting closer, until there was a sudden blast of air and the harsh clatter of metal on metal as it emerged from the tunnel. As she looked up, Gori stepped forward. The train was halfway into the station now and he could see the driver yawning in his cab. Leaning forward, he gave her a firm shove in the small of the back as he walked past. Without making a sound, she involuntarily stepped over the yellow line and off the edge of the platform, disappearing under the front wheels with the gentlest of thuds.
It all happened so quickly. No one on the platform seemed to notice. Not breaking his stride, Gori thought he caught a whiff of burning meat, as if you were passing a kebab shop, but quickly dismissed the idea. Doubtless it was just his imagination.
By the time it came to a halt the train was fully inside the station. The doors opened as normal and he heard the usual recorded message: Let passengers off the train first, please! Keeping a bored, vaguely annoyed look on his face, he allowed himself to be swallowed up by the disembarking travellers heading for the exit. Somewhere behind him an alarm sounded. This being London, h
owever, no one paid it any heed. Everyone kept shuffling forward. A couple of Tube workers in luminous orange jackets appeared on the platform, their walkie-talkie radios cracking with static. Gori watched as they passed to his left, fighting their way through the crowd towards the driver.
It took maybe another minute for Gori to get off the platform and move into a tunnel that connected the different underground lines. Finally, the crowd began to thin and he was able to resume a normal walking pace. At the bottom of a set of escalators, he checked a copy of the Tube map and came to a decision as to where he wanted to go next. As luck would have it, he reached the Bakerloo Line just in time to jump on a train for Willesden Junction.
Barely ten minutes later, Matias stepped out of Edgware Road station. The sun was still strong and he felt thirsty. Ignoring the man selling the Big Issue outside the station entrance, he turned right, heading north. Entering the first pub he came to, he ordered a bottle of Heineken Export. When it arrived, he drank more than half of it in one go. It tasted good.
THIRTY-FOUR
Who the fuck played darts, these days? Dominic Silver stood at the bar in the Endurance, watching Michael Hagger throw a trio of arrows towards random parts of the board, before sucking the head off his pint of fake German lager. Aside from Hagger’s darts companion, Silver counted seven other men in the bar, plus the bartender. They were exactly the type of men you might expect to find in a bar in the middle of the afternoon on a working day: slackers and rejects of various descriptions. Everyone was busy minding his own business; no one was going to cause any trouble.
After managing to stay below the radar for longer than anyone imagined possible, Michael Hagger had finally reverted to type and turned up in a place where he was likely to find himself in the most amount of trouble in the shortest amount of time. The Endurance was located on Berwick Street, at the top end of the fruit and vegetable market. The pub was popular with an eclectic mix of media professionals, stallholders and the occasional hooker working in one of the walk-up brothels on the opposite side of the street. It was one of Hagger’s favourite haunts, so Silver had made sure it was checked regularly as the hunt for him continued. When Hagger had turned up and settled in for a session, word had got back to Silver within the hour. Less than forty minutes later, his ‘assistant’, the ex-paratrooper Gideon Spanner, had parked the Range Rover outside, and they walked in.
Dominic took a sip from his glass of house rosé and winced. It was a long way short of the Etienne de Loury Sancerre he kept at home, and he now wished that he’d stuck to mineral water. No matter.
He turned to Gideon: ‘Bring him over.’
‘Sure thing.’
Dominic sighed to himself as he watched a familiar mix of shock and resignation spread across Hagger’s face when Gideon tapped him on the shoulder. What did the idiot expect? The other player caught Gideon’s eye and quickly dropped his darts on a nearby table, before scuttling outside with his drink.
‘Dominic would like a word.’ Gideon signalled back towards the bar.
Hagger looked round. Raising his pint to both men, he took another sip. Then he put it down carefully on the table and leaned closer to Spanner. ‘Fuck off,’ he hissed.
Gideon put his hands on his hips. ‘No, Michael,’ he said, keeping his voice bureaucratic-conversational, ‘we will not fuck off. Please step over to the bar and talk to the man.’
Hagger threw back his shoulders to emphasise his physical advantage; he had a good couple of inches and quite a few pounds over the man in front of him. ‘Fuck off!’ he repeated, louder this time, before retrieving his pint and drinking deep.
Tutting to himself, Gideon stepped over to the table and picked up the three abandoned darts. ‘Last chance . . .’
Hagger kept on drinking. He was about two-thirds of the way through his pint when Gideon fired a dart at the floor.
‘Shit!’ Hagger did a little jump, spilling some of the pint over his T-shirt as the arrow wedged itself firmly in the wooden floor, only an inch from his left foot. He scowled at Gideon. ‘You could have hit me.’
‘I was trying to hit you,’ Gideon said, ‘but I’m shit at darts.’ Taking aim again, he swiftly sent a second arrow sinking deep into Michael Hagger’s right foot.
This time Hagger jumped higher, his face turning red. ‘Christ! You bastard!’ Grabbing the sole of his Converse trainers, he started hopping about.
‘That was a lucky one – or maybe I’m just getting better at it.’ Gideon lined up the third dart. Everyone else in the pub buried themselves deeper in their newspapers or stared harder at their betting slips.
‘Okay, okay.’ Hagger half-turned and slowly bounced in the direction of the bar like a drunken wallaby. Still holding the remainder of his pint to his chest, he made no effort to remove the arrow from his foot.
Gideon fired the last dart at the board, scoring a six. ‘Like I said,’ he mumbled to no one in particular, ‘I’m shit at darts.’
Having safely placed his pint on the bar, Hagger looked at Silver.
‘You’ve been hiding, Michael,’ Dominic said eventually.
Hagger shrugged. ‘Not really.’
‘Where’s the boy?’
‘Jake is my kid.’ Hagger looked at the glass but didn’t take a drink. ‘That’s my business.’
‘Not just your business,’ Dominic Silver said gently. He felt a wave of infinite patience sweep over him. He was dealing with an idiot here, but for once, he had plenty of time. He almost felt serene. Not being in a rush was the greatest luxury of all.
‘He’s my boy,’ Hagger said stubbornly.
‘Michael, you are never going to be Parent of the Year. You stole your kid from his mother. Even she could do a better job of looking after him than you – which is really saying something. The Metropolitan Police are looking for you – at least, they’re supposed to be. Your parental rights have been rescinded.’
‘Huh?’ This time Hagger reached for his glass.
‘Is Jake still alive?’
‘Yes!’
Dominic lowered his voice. ‘Let’s hope so, because if he’s not, or if he’s been damaged in any way, you are going to fucking die.’
Hagger took the threat in his stride. ‘What’s it to you, anyway?’
Dominic looked Hagger up and down once more and felt his wave of infinite patience retreat. While maintaining eye contact, he stomped one of his Timberlands down on the dart embedded in Hagger’s foot.
The glass slipped from Hagger’s hand, smashing on the floor. His face went white and he looked like he was going to vomit. ‘Oh, Jesus!’
Dominic signalled to Gideon, who was hovering on the periphery. ‘Put him in the car.’ Leaving the remainder of his glass of rosé on the bar, he walked slowly out of the door.
THIRTY-FIVE
It took almost twenty minutes for Carlyle to find his ‘private’ mobile, the one on which he’d programmed Monica Hartson’s number. Somehow, it was cunningly hidden under a pile of newspapers on the living-room floor. He had no recollection of leaving it there, but that was the way of these things: socks, keys, mobile phones – all designed to be regularly lost, and occasionally found. Letting out a small yelp of triumph at the phone’s reappearance, he pulled up Hartson’s number and hit the call button. After listening to it ring for what seemed like an eternity, he finally got a recorded message that simply said: This number is not available. Please try later. Goodbye.
Bemused by the lack of voicemail, Carlyle ended the call. That’s not a good start, he thought, wondering what she might be up to. This kind of person was just so unreliable. Returning the phone to a prominent position by the television, he went off to make himself a cup of green tea.
In the kitchen he filled the kettle. While he was waiting for it to boil, his gaze settled on an oversized cream envelope propped up against the bread bin. It was addressed to John Carlyle Esq. He picked it up. On the back was a crest he didn’t recognise. Helen must have left it there, he decided, picking i
t up and weighing it in his hand. It felt weighty. It also felt expensive.
He opened it carefully, pulling out an invitation, a piece of thick card, with a silver border and black inlaid script, requesting his attendance at a reception to be held at Number 10 Downing Street for something called the Union of Social Givers. Where had that come from? Carlyle frowned. The kettle came to the boil. Placing the invite back in the envelope, he dropped a teabag into a mug and added water, counting to ten before removing the bag. Dropping it into the sink, he remembered his conversation with Rosanna Snowdon in Patisserie Valerie on Marylebone High Street. It seemed a long time ago now. Rosanna must have come through with her promise to get him invited to the Prime Minister’s residence. He felt a frisson of embarrassment as he considered this last small act of kindness from a woman whose help he had never properly repaid and now never would.
Blowing on his tea, he took a cautious sip. It was still too hot. Should they go to the reception? It wasn’t really his thing but, then again, he would only ever get the one chance. He smiled at the thought of walking past the police guards and through that black door. And, despite her liberal sensibilities, Helen might like it. He would let her decide.
Looking down at the traffic crawling round the square, Matias Gori stood on the roof of the Chilean Embassy. With one foot resting on the low parapet at the edge of the roof, he sucked greedily on a well-deserved cigarette. He felt a gentle breeze on his face and shivered. It was getting colder. Not for the first time, he cursed the type of country that made you stand outside for a smoke.
‘I thought I’d find you here.’
Gori turned to find Claudio Orb stepping carefully towards him.
‘Cold, isn’t it?’ the Ambassador smiled.
‘Yes,’ said Gori, taking a final drag of his Marlboro before flicking it over the side of the building. He caught Orb’s eye and shrugged. ‘This is the only place you are allowed to smoke these days.’