Acts of Violence (Inspector Carlyle)

by James Craig

  Carlyle scratched his head. ‘I want to go home.’

  ‘Sounds like a plan. I’m fairly knackered myself.’

  ‘You, on the other hand, can do a bit more digging.’

  Umar’s face fell. ‘Into what, exactly?’

  ‘Into the Huttons. Try and get a line on where they might be . . . check their credit cards, track their mobiles. Whatever works.’

  ‘Ooh,’ Umar sucked in some air. ‘Dodgy.’

  ‘I know, I know. But Simpson will back us up. She needs to find this Kortmann guy more than we do.’

  ‘And you think these two old lefties have got him?’

  ‘What other leads do we have?’

  ‘Fair point.’

  ‘So let’s find the old buggers then.’

  ‘OK, your call.’ Umar began ambling off in the direction of the station.

  Yes, Carlyle thought as he watched him go. My call.

  With a spring in his step, Carlyle bounced along the pavement mumbling the words to The Clash’s ‘London Calling’ as he danced between the oncoming pedestrians. The German case, as he had come to think of it, was in his bloodstream now and he felt energized. Whatever he had told his sergeant, he had no intention of heading home, not yet at least. Instead, he was off to do what he did best, tease out bits of information from unwilling sources that would allow him to inch closer to a resolution of the matter.

  Walking into the lobby of the Garden Hotel, he checked his phone. There was another irritated message from Helen, but even that could not dent his mood. Deleting it with a flourish, he felt the handset vibrate in his hand. Casting caution to the wind, he answered without first checking the screen.

  ‘Carlyle.’

  ‘Inspector, you’re sounding very chipper.’

  Shit. Carlyle cursed silently. Bernard Gilmore Esquire. The Fourth Estate’s finest. And a royal pain in the arse. ‘What can I do for you, Bernie?’

  ‘Just checking in,’ Bernie said lamely. ‘Keeping in touch with my contacts while I’ve got time on my hands. All this royal baby crap is making it impossible to get into the bloody paper at the moment.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ The inspector couldn’t give a toss.

  ‘The bloody woman goes into labour and it’s the first sixteen pages of the first edition, for fuck’s sake. Imagine what it’ll be like when the damn thing pops out. At this rate there won’t even be any bloody sport.’

  Carlyle yawned. ‘Didn’t have you pegged as a republican.’

  ‘I’m not, particularly. Then again, I’m not a seventeenth-century peasant either. All the fawning and grovelling does your head in.’

  ‘Helen says the same thing.’ On autopilot, Carlyle headed towards the lifts. Veering left, he came to the threshold of the Light Bar and peered into the gloom. ‘Look, I’m just about to go into a meeting . . .’

  ‘Yeah, right, so I was wondering what you could tell me about the Oakwood case.’

  ‘The Oakwood case?’ The name didn’t ring any bells.

  ‘Yeah,’ Bernie replied, his voice gaining strength as he got to the reason for his call. ‘I hear that arrests are imminent.’

  ‘Could be.’ Carlyle imagined that he could hear Bernie licking his lips.

  ‘And that there are some big names involved.’ He mentioned a couple of celebrities.

  ‘I wouldn’t know about that.’ He paused. If Bernie wanted a quote, he would have to beg.

  ‘Can you give me something?’

  ‘On background? No fingerprints?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And you owe me?’

  ‘I’ll add it to your balance in my famous book.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Carlyle took a deep breath. ‘So, how about something like this: An unnamed police source said: “We are very pleased with the way in which things are progressing and hope to be able to update the public on developments soon. Rest assured that no one will be given a free pass. Everyone will be required to account for their actions”.’ Rather pleased with himself, he waited for Bernie to scribble it down.

  ‘Great.’

  ‘Maybe make it: “Everyone will be required to fully account for their actions”.’

  ‘You’re a natural.’

  ‘Whatever,’ Carlyle said modestly. ‘Hope that helps you knock the sprog off the front page.’

  ‘Hardly. It might make page twenty-two, if I’m lucky.’

  ‘A good day to bury bad news,’ the inspector murmured. Who had said that? He couldn’t remember. It didn’t matter. Taking a second look around the bar, he finally located his target in a booth at the back just as another thought popped into his head. Might Werner Kortmann be on Bernie’s radar? Better not to ask. ‘Got to go. Keep me posted on . . .’

  ‘Oakwood.’

  ‘Yeah, right.’ Carlyle suddenly realized he was in the mood for a ridiculously expensive beer. Dropping the phone into his pocket, he strode manfully towards the bar.

  For a man who had seen his client kidnapped and also just been released from hospital, Sebastian Gregori looked to be in pretty good shape. Without waiting to be asked, the inspector took a seat and placed his bottle of Kirin on the table, along with the glass that he wasn’t going to use. Looking up from his newspaper, Gregori smiled thinly.

  ‘I see that everyone is very excited about this royal baby.’

  Carlyle made a face.

  Closing the paper, Gregori tossed it on the seat next to him. ‘We don’t have this kind of thing in Germany.’

  ‘That’s why you are Europe’s leading nation,’ the inspector observed drily, ‘loved and respected around the world.’

  ‘That is good to know.’

  ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘I am getting better, thank you.’ Gregori lifted his glass from the table and took a cautious sip of his carbonated mineral water. ‘The doctor said I should have no lasting effects from my unfortunate experience.’

  ‘That’s good.’ Carlyle reached for his bottle. The private eye watched him closely as he took a swig of beer. ‘I was wondering if you could remember anything else about what happened. About the men who attacked you, for example.’

  All he got in response was a blank look and a shrug. ‘No. I am sorry, I do not.’

  ‘OK.’ Carlyle chugged down the rest of his drink; ten quid well spent. ‘So what will you do now?’

  Sitting back on the banquette, Gregori folded his arms. ‘I will wait.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For you to find Herr Kortmann.’

  Carlyle suddenly tuned into the music playing quietly from a speaker above his head. The song, a track from South Korea of all places, was so ubiquitous that even he recognized it. It was also profoundly annoying. ‘That may take some time.’

  Gregori raised an eyebrow. ‘So I am beginning to understand.’

  ‘Which is why,’ Carlyle continued, ‘I would be extremely grateful for anything else that you might have that might help us in our investigations.’

  ‘Such as?’

  No idea. ‘Anything.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Inspector, but I have told you all I know.’ Catching the eye of a passing waitress, Gregori signalled for the bill before finishing his drink. When the woman appeared with the tab he signed it with a flourish, adding his room number in a large child-like script at the bottom. Even with his dodgy eyesight, Carlyle could make it out: 226. Getting to his feet, Gregori toyed with the top button of his jacket. ‘You will let me know of any progress that you make?’

  Carlyle nodded. ‘Of course.’ Playing with his empty bottle, he watched the German cross the lobby and head out on to the street. When the waitress appeared to claim the bill he ordered another Kirin with a whiskey chaser. They didn’t have Jameson’s, so he settled for Bushmills. As she cleared the table, he thought he caught a glimpse of Sonia Coverdale at the bar with another girl, but when she turned so he could see her face he realized it was someone else. The waitress reappeared with his drinks, slipping the tab on the table. Taking a mou
thful of the whiskey, he let it linger on the back of his throat while he fumbled in the inside pocket of his jacket. Pulling out a biro, he squinted at the bill, wincing at the price.

  ‘Ah well, never mind. It’s only money.’

  With a flourish, he scribbled a rough approximation of Gregori’s signature and added the room number. It’s the least you can do, he thought, for dropping me in this shit. Reaching across the table, he retrieved the newspaper and began flicking through its pages. He was almost at the middle before he found anything that wasn’t in some way related to the royal baby. Bernie Gilmore was right, he thought, it’s all a load of crap. Given all the domestic excitement, ‘World News’ had been relegated to half a page, next to the horoscopes. His eye caught a small story across three columns, under the headline REN QI FACES FIGHT TO SAVE HIS CAREER: High-flying Chinese politician Ren Qi is at the centre of China’s most serious political infighting for decades as Communist Party leaders try to clamp down on corruption and abuse of office.

  Carlyle shook his head. Politicians; it doesn’t matter where you go, they are all the same. A right shower. For a moment, his thoughts veered off in the direction of Marvin Taylor and Roche’s ninjas, but that would have to wait. Dropping the newspaper on to the table, he pulled out his mobile and brought up a number he hadn’t used in a while. Happily, the number was still working. Even more happily, the call was answered on the third ring.

  ‘Alex Miles.’

  ‘Mr Miles, John Carlyle.’ He paused, the better to enjoy the low groan from the other end. ‘How’s the new job going?’

  ‘It’s good, thank you,’ Miles said stiffly.

  ‘I’m at your old place at the moment,’ Carlyle explained. ‘I met your successor. She seems very nice.’

  ‘Debbie will do well.’

  ‘She prefers Deborah, apparently.’

  ‘Yes. Very proper,’ Alex chuckled. ‘You might not find her as easy to do business with as me.’

  ‘That’s exactly why I’m ringing, Alex.’

  Another groan. ‘I’m at work at the moment. Up against it a bit.’

  ‘This won’t take long.’

  ‘Very well.’ Miles lowered his voice. ‘So what is it that I can do for you, Inspector?’

  EIGHTEEN

  Making sure that the policeman hadn’t followed him out of the hotel, Sebastian Gregori headed down St Martin’s Lane, slipping round the corner and onto the Strand. After ducking into a mobile phone store, he bought a £20 pay-as-you-go sim card with cash. Exiting the shop, he crossed the road and hurried down Villiers Street, which ran down the side of Charing Cross station, towards the river. He had discovered Victoria Embankment Gardens while wandering round the area the day before. Now the scruffy park was empty apart from a few dossers. Taking a seat away from the entrance, he put the new sim into the cheap handset he’d bought from a different vendor earlier in the day. There was one number in the memory. He hit Call and waited for it to ring three times, as usual.

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘Everything is proceeding as planned.’ Gregori spoke clearly and slowly. ‘It should not be long now.’

  ‘Good.’ There was a pause. ‘We await your confirmation.’

  The line went dead.

  Gregori removed the sim from the handset and walked out of the park. Two minutes later he was standing on Hungerford footbridge, looking down into the Thames. A nearby beggar sitting on the pathway invited him to give alms. Gregori ignored him. Such a dirty river, he thought. Letting the sim fall from his hand, he watched it flutter downwards and disappear into the murky water.

  Such a dirty city.

  * * *

  Carlyle followed the woman along the corridor and waited patiently while she opened the door to Room 226 with her key card. Pushing the door open, she invited him to step inside.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘No problem.’ Rosalind McDonald, the Garden’s Head of Security, gave him a big smile. ‘Don’t be too long.’

  Carlyle took a pair of latex gloves from the pocket of his jacket and pulled them on. ‘Five minutes, max.’

  ‘OK. I’ll wait here. The desk will call me if Gregori reappears, in which case we’ll have to leg it.’

  ‘Sure.’ Stepping inside, Carlyle let the door close behind him and went straight to the closet. Finding the safe, he punched in the management override code that McDonald had supplied and let the door click open. Inside, Gregori had stashed his passport, an iPad and a sheaf of papers. Removing the lot, Carlyle sat down on the bed to see what he could find. On first glance, the papers were simply a copy of the Tosches file, which he’d already been given during their meeting at the station. Dropping them by his side, he powered up the iPad.

  ‘Shit.’

  It was locked. Looking at the screen, he scratched his head. Then he called Umar. Listening to the phone ring, he drummed his fingers on the screen. ‘C’mon, c’mon.’

  ‘You have reached—’

  ‘Bollocks.’ So much for Phone a fucking Friend; who else might know how to open the bastard machine? He pulled up another number and hit Call.

  ‘Hiya, Dad.’ Alice’s cheery voice made him smile.

  ‘Hiya, sweetheart, how’s it going?’

  ‘It’s going,’ Alice replied, her voice expressing a level of weariness that only a teenager could reach. ‘Mum’s pissed off though.’

  Why? He glanced at his watch; he had used up his five minutes already. ‘You can tell me later. Right now I just wondered if you could help me with something.’ He explained his problem.

  Alice thought about it for a moment. ‘You’d have to restore it to its original factory settings.’

  ‘Great. How do I do that?’

  ‘Are you sure you want to? You’ll delete everything that’s on it at the moment.’

  Damn. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘ ’fraid so. One of the girls at school lost all her stuff last week.’

  Bollocks.

  ‘By the way, Mum says you’re a useless git.’

  ‘What?’ Half-crazed with frustration, he struggled to deal with the switch in the conversation.

  ‘You missed Grandpa’s doctor’s appointment.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ he hissed. ‘Now’s really not the time.’

  ‘Just sayin’,’ she replied, offended.

  ‘OK, OK. Tell your mother I’m sorry but it’s been a bit of a tough day.’

  ‘She said you’d make some kind of lame excuse,’ Alice responded with gleeful malice.

  Good for her.

  ‘Just like you usually do.’

  ‘Tell her I’ll be home soon.’

  ‘OK. I’ll make sure I’m hiding in my bedroom when that happens.’

  Deborah Burke stifled a gasp as she saw Mr 226 himself slip through the revolving door and head across the lobby. Going back to the bar? From behind her desk, she watched as Sebastian Gregori veered to the left and came to a stop in front of the lifts.

  Apparently not.

  Folding his arms, Gregori waited patiently behind a Chinese couple who had just checked in with more than enough luggage for a two-month stay. They were VIPs of some sort or another – Burke had seen a memo about it – but they didn’t seem to have any entourage. Gregori smiled at the woman but she ignored him. Casually picking up the mobile on her desk, Burke hit the text message she had pre-prepared – he’s back – and hit the Send button. She then checked the lifts. One was on the top floor, the other making its way steadily upwards. That should give Carlyle more than enough time to get out of there. The Chief Concierge was very unhappy about being dragged into the policeman’s little scheme which was doubtless illegal and would certainly result in the sack should it come to light. But Rosalind had insisted. Deborah heaved a sigh; the girl could be so cavalier at times. She watched as one of the lifts finally made it back to the ground floor, disgorging its collection of guests heading out to sample London’s nightlife. The Chinese couple struggled in with their luggage – where was the bellbo
y? – and she could see Gregori hesitate. Should he squeeze in beside them or wait for the next one? Eventually, just as the doors were beginning to close, he jumped inside. The doors shuddered then finally came together. Deborah watched as the lift stopped at the first floor then continued on to the second.

  Plenty of time.

  Scrolling through her emails, Rosalind McDonald heard the lift open and someone get out. Conscious of a figure coming towards her, she looked up.

  Bloody hell.

  Sebastian Gregori shot her a quizzical look as he headed towards the door of his room.

  ‘Excuse me, sir.’ Stepping in front of him, she dropped the phone into her pocket and pulled out her ID. ‘Hotel Security. I’m afraid you’ll have to go back downstairs.’

  ‘But I want to go to my room.’ Gregori made a half-hearted attempt to brush past her, but McDonald stood her ground. Waving his key card in front of her face, he said, ‘This is ridiculous.’

  ‘I’m very sorry, sir,’ she smiled, ‘but we’ve been informed of a health and safety problem on this floor.’

  Gregori let his arm fall to his side. ‘What problem?’

  ‘We have had a report,’ she said, not missing a beat, ‘of multiple carbon-monoxide monitors going off. We’ve had to evacuate the entire floor.’ McDonald allowed herself a quick peek up and down the corridor. Please God, let no one come out of their rooms right now.

  From inside the room came a distinct whirring noise. Gregori stared at the door and then at McDonald. For a moment it looked as if he was about to force his way past but she pushed back her shoulders, making best use of her height advantage, in order to appear as intimidating as possible.

  ‘There’s someone in there.’ It was part-observation, part-cry.

  ‘One of our operatives, sir. Checking for fumes.’ She cast a grateful glance towards the door behind which her selfless colleague was risking life and limb before adding: ‘He’s got his own oxygen supply, obviously.’

  ‘They said nothing about all of this downstairs,’ Gregori grumbled.

  ‘It’s probably just a false alarm,’ she said soothingly. ‘We had one last week.’

  ‘You should get it properly fixed,’ he tutted.