Acts of Violence (Inspector Carlyle)

by James Craig

‘We’re trying, sir. Hopefully it will only take a few minutes.’ She gestured in the direction he had come. ‘In the meantime, we have to follow the correct protocol. I’m afraid I need to ask you to return to the lobby.’

  Gregori glanced back at the lifts. ‘Should I take the stairs?’

  ‘Yes, please.’ She felt her pulse slacken slightly as it became apparent he would buy it. ‘If you want to go back down to the bar, all drinks for second-floor customers are complimentary at the moment. Just mention my name and give the waitress the code word, which is . . .’ for a moment her mind went blank, ‘er, starfish.’

  ‘Starfish.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And it won’t be long?’ Gregori looked wistfully at the door to his own room. ‘I wanted to have a shower.’

  ‘Just a few minutes. As soon as we have the all clear, I will come straight down and let you know.’ Reluctantly, he turned and headed back down the corridor. Only when he had disappeared into the stairwell did McDonald allow herself a deep breath.

  Hearing voices outside the door, Carlyle froze for a moment. Then, reminding himself to breathe, he gathered up all of the material on the bed, shoved it back into the safe and gently closed it, grimacing as the lock whirred shut. Stepping up to the door, he could clearly hear Rosalind McDonald trying to talk her way out of a tricky situation. Looking round, he considered his options, quickly coming to the conclusion that he didn’t have any.

  ‘. . . we have to follow protocol.’ The inspector smiled. Good for McDonald; the security chief was giving it her best shot, thinking on her feet. He concentrated on keeping his breathing under control. He felt a tightening of his chest and wondered if he might be having a heart attack. That would be great timing – typical. But the feeling quickly passed and instead a sense of calm enveloped him. He would just have to wait and see what happened.

  To his left was the bathroom. The door was open and he tiptoed inside, carefully closing the toilet lid and taking a seat, while his fate was decided.

  ‘. . . starfish.’

  Starfish. Carlyle stifled a giggle as he scanned the range of products lined up by the sink. Gregori certainly had a lot of toiletries for a gumshoe. Folding his arms, he counted a dozen small vials of different shapes and colours, all neatly lined up in front of the mirror. At the end of the row was a squat grey bottle of prescription tablets. Getting to his feet, Carlyle stepped over to the sink, picked it up and studied the label. ‘Well, well, well.’

  As he dropped the bottle in his pocket, there was a click as the door to the room opened. He turned to find McDonald in the doorway, giving him a funny look.

  ‘What are you doing in the loo?’

  The search of Kortmann’s room on the fifth floor was far more straightforward but yielded nothing of interest. The man’s clothes were all neatly put away and his shoes lined up next to the desk.

  The inspector checked the safe: empty.

  In the wardrobe, he found a bag from the Calvin Klein store on Long Acre, containing three unopened packs of boxer shorts, along with a receipt, showing that they had been purchased just after Kortmann’s visit to the police station. Carlyle was hit by a sudden feeling of listlessness as he looked around the spacious room; the bed had been made and the bathroom cleaned. Aside from a toothbrush and some toothpaste, there were no other toiletries and no bottles of prescription pills.

  When they returned downstairs, there was no sign of Gregori in the bar. Taking a seat in the VIP area, McDonald ordered a mineral water, while Carlyle opted for a whiskey.

  As the waitress hurried away, McDonald gave him a crooked smile. ‘I thought you weren’t supposed to drink on duty?’

  Now it was the inspector’s turn to smile, a tad sheepishly. ‘And I would have thought you would have realized by now that there’re quite a few things I do that are not strictly by the book.’

  ‘Alex did mention that you could be a bit unorthodox.’

  ‘Ha. That was uncharacteristically understated of him.’

  ‘He likes you.’

  ‘I don’t know about that.’

  ‘He said that you were very fair.’

  The waitress reappeared, placing their drinks on the table, along with a small bowl of olives. Looking at the olives, both of them decided to pass. Carlyle took a sip of his Jameson’s. ‘I try to be realistic about things.’

  ‘I suppose you have to be.’

  ‘Yes. Over the years, I’ve learned the hard way that you should pick your battles carefully.’ He watched her take a drink and for a few moments they sat in silence. Finally, he asked: ‘What should I call you, by the way?’

  McDonald made a face. ‘I prefer Rosalind, but everyone calls me Ros.’

  ‘I shall call you Rosalind then.’ The inspector raised his glass in salute. ‘Or Ms McDonald, if you want to keep it formal.’

  The Head of Security laughed ruefully. ‘I think it’s a bit late for that, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ the inspector agreed. ‘Thank you for bailing me out back there. That could have been tricky.’

  ‘Find anything useful?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  Lifting the glass, he let the remains of his drink moisten his lips. ‘I like the “starfish” thing. Very good.’

  McDonald nodded.

  ‘Quick thinking.’

  ‘No, no. It’s for real. We have a code that changes every month or so. At the moment it really is “starfish”, although I nearly forgot. My mind went blank for a second and I couldn’t remember the bloody word. Before that, it was “donkey”. It’s very handy if you’ve got a guest who’s pissed off about something or other. Nine times out of ten a free drink is enough to placate them. It was something I introduced when I arrived here.’

  Carlyle took a more substantial mouthful of whiskey. ‘How long have you been here?’

  ‘I got the Head of Security job about four months ago. Before that, I was at the Imperial in Sloane Square.’

  Carlyle shook his head. ‘Don’t know it.’

  ‘It was fine. A bit boring. Not as interesting as this place.’

  ‘In my experience,’ Carlyle grinned, ‘boring is good.’

  ‘Yeah,’ McDonald played with her glass, ‘but you know what I mean.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Before the Imperial, I was in the Army. An electronic warfare specialist in the Royal Signals.’

  ‘I see.’ He gave her the once-over: quite tall, maybe five eight but stocky with it, not yet thirty, open, guileless face under a black fringe.

  ‘Bomb disposal. One of the team would go in to cut the wires and my job was to block any signals that could set it off.’

  ‘Sounds like a barrel of laughs. How long did you do that for?’

  ‘I was in the Army for almost five years – did two tours in Afghanistan.’

  Here we go, Carlyle thought, bracing himself for a tale of shell-shock and body parts. ‘So why did you pack it in?’

  ‘Well,’ she grinned, ‘in the end, it wasn’t really compatible with being a single mum.’

  ‘Ah.’ Quite the surprise package, aren’t you? The inspector was beginning to take a shine to Ms McDonald. ‘And this job is?’

  ‘Well, I was hoping to get into the police, but what with the cuts and everything, that was a complete non-starter.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘So I got the gig at the Imperial through a mate and then ended up here. My mum helps out a lot, so it’s manageable. You’ve got to juggle a bit, but then so does everyone, don’t they?’

  ‘Yes.’ Finishing his whiskey, he placed the glass on the table.

  ‘Fancy another?’ she asked.

  ‘No, no. I’ve got to get going. Thanks again.’

  ‘No problem. Alex says you owe him though.’

  ‘In his dreams.’ A most unsavoury thought popped into Carlyle’s head. ‘Did he get you this job?’

  ‘No. He might have had a say, but it was Debbie who got me in the door.’

>   ‘Deborah,’ Carlyle corrected her.

  ‘I call her Debbie.’

  ‘You didn’t tell her what we were up to, did you?’

  ‘Yes – I had to. It was only prudent.’

  Carlyle grimaced. ‘Prudent?’

  ‘Yes.’ McDonald lifted her gaze past his shoulder. ‘Speak of the devil.’

  ‘Here you are.’ Pulling up a chair, Deborah Burke sat down without even acknowledging the inspector’s presence. ‘I thought you might have been nobbled.’

  ‘It would have helped if you’d given me a heads-up,’ McDonald shot back.

  Uh, oh, Carlyle thought, ready to make a speedy getaway. The last thing he wanted was to get stuck in the middle of a row. He had his own domestic waiting for him when he got home.

  ‘I sent the bloody text as soon as the bloke appeared,’ the concierge protested.

  ‘Oh yeah?’ McDonald pulled out her mobile and waved it above the table. ‘Where is it then?’

  ‘Ladies, ladies . . .’ Getting to his feet, Carlyle tried to inject some calm into the conversation. ‘All’s well that ends well and all that.’ Looking up, they grunted at him in stereo. It was, the inspector imagined, like dealing with a pair of truculent sixth-formers. ‘I am very grateful to both of you for your help,’ he continued, ‘and look forward to repaying the favour in due course. If I can ever be of assistance, you know I’m only round the corner. For the moment, however, let’s just keep this under our hats, shall we?’

  There was a pause, followed by some gentle, synchronized nodding. ‘Good.’ He began shuffling backwards, trying to get out of earshot before the bickering resumed. ‘I’ll see you both later.’

  NINETEEN

  Waiting for a muffin to toast, Carlyle looked at the picture of the fluffy caramel tabby cat. ‘Lovely Wilf the cat has gone missing from Flat Nine,’ he mumbled to himself. ‘He is not used to being on the street, so we think he may be in hiding somewhere.’ The toaster clicked off and the muffin popped up. Crumpling the flyer in his hand, he tossed it in the direction of the sink. ‘Poor bugger is probably in a kebab by now.’

  ‘What are you chuntering on about?’

  Reaching for the butter, he turned to find Helen in the doorway. She was wearing a pair of shorts and one of his old Fred Perry polo-shirts. The towel wrapped round her head finished off the ensemble nicely.

  ‘Enjoy your bath?’ he asked innocently, adding before she could reply, ‘Cup of tea?’

  Leaning against the frame of the door, Helen folded her arms. ‘Yes please. Peppermint.’

  ‘Jolly good.’ Maybe the lovely long soak had mellowed her mood, but he couldn’t be sure. Grabbing the kettle, he filled it at the sink. ‘Look,’ he said, his back still turned, ‘I’m really sorry about missing Dad’s GP appointment. It just turned into a hell of a day.’

  Appearing by his side, she slipped an arm round his waist. ‘It’s OK.’

  ‘Oh?’ he asked, relieved that he wasn’t going to get royally bollocked. Flipping down the lid, he plugged in the kettle and switched it on.

  ‘I went.’ Helen turned off the tap for him. ‘We had to wait almost an hour.’

  ‘Sorry, I know you’re busy too.’

  ‘It was fine. I didn’t want him to have to do it on his own.’

  ‘No.’ Carlyle opened a cupboard above his head and reached for some cups. ‘So, what’s the verdict?’

  ‘They’re sending him for a scan.’ She gave him a stern look. ‘You really must be there for that one.’

  ‘Of course,’ he said stiffly.

  ‘And you should give him a call.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Go and do it now.’ She shooed him away, in the direction of the hall. ‘I’ll sort the tea. What do you want on your muffin?’

  Conscious of someone hovering in front of her desk, Deborah Burke looked up and stifled a small gasp. ‘Can I help you, sir?’ she asked.

  ‘Someone has been in the safe in my room,’ Sebastian Gregori said flatly.

  The concierge frowned. ‘Has something been stolen?’

  ‘Nothing was taken. However, someone has been snooping around. I want to see the audit trail of the safe.’

  Placing her hands on the top of the desk, Burke pushed herself to her feet. ‘Let me go and find the Head of Security for you.’

  A pained expression settled on Gregori’s face. ‘I’m not interested in the Head of Security. Get me the manager. Right now.’

  After a fairly pointless couple of minutes on the phone with his father, Carlyle tucked into his muffin with relish. Wiping a blob of butter from his chin, he sat back on the sofa and contemplated a second.

  ‘Want another?’ Helen smiled.

  ‘Thinking about it.’ Taking a mouthful of his tea, he caught an unmistakable whiff of body odour. ‘I need a shower.’

  Helen murmured her agreement.

  ‘Presumably,’ Carlyle reflected, returning to the matter in hand, ‘it must be quite serious if they’re sending him for a scan.’

  ‘He is getting on. But at the moment, they’re just trying to find out what’s going on. You know what it’s like with doctors; they’re never going to commit to any definitive diagnosis if they can help it.’

  Carlyle nodded at his wife’s wise words.

  ‘I should know,’ Helen continued, ‘I’ve worked with enough of them over the last twenty years.’

  Make that thirty, Carlyle thought, but he let it slide.

  ‘Anyway, it’s best to know for sure,’ she said.

  ‘Depends what it is. If it’s cancer, I think he’d rather not know.’ For a few moments, the pair of them sat in silence, thinking about the mortality of their parents. Helen’s father had died years ago; Carlyle’s mother more recently. It was a grim business. Grim but inevitable.

  ‘How’s the rapper thing coming along?’ he asked finally, trying to lighten the mood.

  ‘Chase Race,’ Helen sighed, ‘is not a man who is used to being told no. We turned down his fifty grand, so he came back and offered us a hundred.’

  ‘Bugger. So what are you going to do?’

  ‘There’s another meeting to discuss it next week. On the plus side, he’s back with his girlfriend. On the minus, he was in the papers again yesterday, pictured snorting cocaine out of the bellybutton of a stripper.’

  ‘Sounds like Umar,’ Carlyle commented. ‘Those two would get on like a house on fire.’

  ‘What would you do?’

  ‘Same as you, sweetheart.’ Struggling to his feet, Carlyle planted a smacker on her forehead. ‘Take the money and run.’

  ‘My hero,’ Helen swooned. ‘Ever the pragmatist.’

  Carlyle tentatively sniffed the air. ‘A smelly pragmatist. I’m going for that shower.’

  * * *

  He was just drying himself off when Helen handed him his mobile. ‘It’s your favourite sergeant.’ Smirking at his nakedness, she retreated towards the living room.

  ‘Great,’ Carlyle groaned. Jamming the handset under his chin, he wrapped a towel around his rather too thick waist. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I’m at the Garden Hotel,’ Umar explained, keeping his voice low. ‘There’s a bit of a palaver.’

  A bit of a palaver? When did the bloody boy start mimicking his speech?

  ‘I’ve just spoken to a woman called Ros McDonald,’ Umar went on, barely whispering now, ‘and I think you’d better get down here asap.’

  Fifteen minutes later, Carlyle burst through the Garden’s revolving doors and strode purposefully towards the concierge’s desk. The look on Sebastian Gregori’s face hardened as he watched him approach.

  ‘Why are you here?’ he ground out.

  ‘Because,’ the inspector said as cheerily as he could manage, ‘it looks like I’m turning into your own private policeman.’ He gave a brisk nod to Burke and McDonald in turn, before glaring at Umar. Until he learned how much the sergeant knew, Carlyle was determined to play things straight. ‘What seems to be the problem?’ All four v
oices started at once, forcing Carlyle to hold up both hands. Noticing that they were beginning to attract a crowd, he took the opportunity to get rid of Umar by sending him off to disperse the gawkers.

  Turning to Gregori, he smiled unctuously. ‘Sir, why don’t you tell me what happened?’ Nodding at every opportunity, the inspector focused his attention exclusively on the private eye while he listened to his suspicions about the safe.

  Reaching his conclusion, Gregori pointed at McDonald. ‘And she was in on it.’ Saying nothing, the Head of Security kept her gaze fixed on an indistinct point in the middle distance. ‘When I demanded to see the manager, they refused, so I called the police.’ He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘They sent your boy.’

  Suppressing a grin, Carlyle looked across the lobby to see the sergeant deep in conversation with a very attractive middle-aged woman. For once, he was happy to let Umar get on with his flirting. Knitting his brows together, he turned back to the two women. ‘This is a very serious matter. Where is Nicky?’ Nicholas Lezard had been the manager of the Garden for almost fifteen years. The inspector knew him well enough to have a contact number programmed into his phone.

  Burke coughed. ‘I haven’t been able to get hold of him, Inspector.’

  ‘Is that the manager?’ Gregori demanded. ‘She didn’t even try.’

  Once again, Carlyle held up a hand for silence. Taking out his mobile, he pulled up Lezard’s number and hit Call. Almost immediately, it went to voicemail. With a sigh, he turned to Gregori. ‘Just give me a moment,’ he requested, heading for the reception desk. ‘I will sort this out for you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Gregori mumbled, unconvinced.

  He found Nicky Lezard in a serviced apartment on the top floor of the Garden, eating popcorn and watching a DVD. ‘Don’t you remember tonight is movie night?’ was all the hotel manager could bring himself to say when he finally responded to the persistent rapping of the inspector’s knuckles on the door. ‘We’ve got the latest Jennifer Aniston movie,’ he added, flouncing back into the living room. ‘At least, I think it’s the latest. The girl certainly knows how to churn them out.’

  Carlyle mumbled something suitably banal and followed him inside. Nicky flopped back onto the sofa and took the remote from his viewing companion – a young-looking guy with a crew cut and a Madonna T-shirt which harked back to the singer’s Like a Virgin period. His host reluctantly gestured towards a nearby armchair. ‘Take a seat.’