Acts of Violence (Inspector Carlyle)

by James Craig

  ‘It’s OK.’ Carlyle positioned himself in front of the TV and shoved his hands in his pockets. ‘This will only take a minute, then you can get back to your film.’

  Letting the remote drop from his fingers, Nicky let out an unhappy cluck. His companion considered Carlyle for a moment then slithered off the sofa and swanned out of the room.

  ‘Ma-artin,’ Nicky shouted after him, ‘get me a Coke, will you? Sugar-free.’ When he got no response, he turned his attention back to the policeman standing on his carpet. ‘You really have ruined the mood, you know.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Carlyle fibbed. ‘We just need to sort something out.’

  Nicky arched an eyebrow. ‘We?’

  Carlyle nodded.

  ‘What’s all this “we” business? Just because you had Alex Miles doing your bidding for you, it doesn’t mean you can come running upstairs now that he’s gone. From what I hear, you always were too demanding, Inspector.’

  ‘I am the hotel’s best friend,’ Carlyle countered, ‘and you know it. All the crap I spare you and your guests on a regular basis—’

  ‘All right, all right.’ Recovering the remote, Nicky looked at it longingly – keen, no doubt, to get back to the lovely Jennifer Aniston. ‘What is it this time?’

  Carlyle kept his explanation short and to the point, omitting any mention of his own wrongdoing.

  Trying to work up a sense of outrage, Nicky shook his head. ‘So you went rummaging about in one of our guests’ rooms, eh?’

  ‘The man is mistaken,’ Carlyle replied blithely. ‘No one went into his room.’

  Shifting in his seat, Nicky released a large fart to let the inspector know what he thought of the story he was fabricating, an amused grin dancing across his lips as he watched Carlyle move away in a futile attempt to escape the smell. ‘But?’

  ‘But this gentleman is involved in something else I am dealing with at the moment, so I need to make this little problem go away.’

  Grunting, Nicky tried to repeat his gas trick, failing miserably. ‘What’s this guy called again?’

  ‘Gregori.’

  ‘Gregory?’ His gaze drifted off into the middle distance. ‘I knew a boy called Greg once.’

  ‘Gregori’s the surname. With an i on the end.’

  Martin reappeared, minus the drink and Nicky shooed him away again, saying, ‘All I wanted was a bloody Coke.’

  ‘Houseboys,’ Carlyle opined, ‘they just don’t make ’em like they used to.’

  Nicky turned his nose up at the plod’s feeble attempt at humour. ‘This Gregori with an i. Why’s he so important that you had to go snooping around his room?’

  ‘That doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Well, maybe you could at least share some details regarding your proposed plan of action?’

  Nicky insisted on watching his Jennifer Aniston laughathon through to the bitter end before doing the inspector’s bidding. With twenty minutes to kill, Carlyle went in search of Rosalind McDonald. He was still looking for her when his mobile started vibrating in his pocket. Assuming it was Helen, he hit Receive and held it to his ear.

  ‘Hi, sweetheart.’

  ‘Inspector? It’s Naomi Taylor.’

  ‘Ah, yes, sorry. I thought you were someone else.’

  ‘Is this a bad time?’ Her voice sounded even more fragile than he remembered.

  Gritting his teeth, Carlyle glanced at his watch. Of course it’s a bad time. ‘No, no, not at all. What can I do for you?’

  ‘I just wondered how things were going?’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘My lawyer wants me to sue the Police Service for what they did to Marvin but I wanted to see what you were able to find out first.’

  Carlyle thrust his free hand into the pocket of his jacket. The crayon-covered invoice that Laurie had handed him was still there. Since leaving the Taylor household, he had done precisely nothing. ‘I’m still following up a couple of things.’ It was a lame response, but she was too polite to call him on it.

  ‘So I should tell the lawyer to hold off?’

  ‘Tell them to give us another couple of days.’ Us. A nice touch. Pleased with his own verbal dexterity, he smiled. ‘We should know where we stand by then.’ Neck-deep in a sea of shit, most likely.

  ‘All right. Thank you, Inspector.’ Her pathetic gratitude in the face of his sloth made him cringe.

  ‘How’s Laurie doing?’ he asked feebly.

  ‘We’re doing OK.’ She struggled to fight back a sob. ‘One day at a time and all that.’

  ‘Yes.’ Embarrassed, he shifted his weight from foot to foot as he stared at the carpet. ‘Look, I’ve got to go.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I’ll be in touch.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘No problem.’ Ending the call, he immediately pulled up another number.

  ‘Are you stalking me, Inspector?’ Alison Roche sounded groggy.

  ‘Sorry, were you asleep?’

  ‘Like you care,’ she grumbled. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Not that late.’

  ‘All things are relative. What do you want?’

  ‘The Chelsea massacre. Did you come across a company called Tallow Business Services?’

  For a moment, he listened to silence on the line.

  ‘Alison?’

  ‘How do you know about that?’ she asked, all sleepiness disappearing from her voice in an instant.

  Once the final credits of the movie had rolled, Nicky Lezard followed the inspector down to the lobby to placate the irate Sebastian Gregori. They found him in the bar, sitting behind the rope in the otherwise empty VIP area, nursing a large glass of white wine. Carlyle noted the half-empty bottle of Chablis in a bucket by the side of the table and smiled.

  Starfish.

  The free booze seemed to have somewhat taken the edge off the German’s irritation. He shook the manager’s hand and politely listened as he parroted McDonald’s explanation of a carbon-monoxide scare on the second floor.

  ‘This would never happen in Germany,’ was his only observation when the tale was concluded.

  ‘No.’ Lezard glanced at the inspector, who remained inscrutable. ‘Well, I can only apologize. We will, of course, waive your bill for the duration of your stay.’

  Gregori gave a satisfied nod. ‘What about the audit?’

  ‘What?’ Nicky asked, flustered.

  ‘The audit trail for the safe.’ Gregori looked at the inspector. ‘Was it opened while I was out of the room?’

  ‘Er . . .’

  The inspector placed a calming hand on Nicky’s shoulder as he returned Gregori’s stare with interest. ‘I’m afraid that the particular model of safe that the hotel uses does not have this facility.’ It was a lie, but he had taken the precaution of getting McDonald to wipe all the incriminating data while waiting for Lezard’s movie to finish.

  Gregori started to say something but thought better of it. A waitress appeared with a bowl of roasted macadamia nuts. Placing them on the table, she smiled at Carlyle. ‘Would you like a drink, sir?’

  ‘No. I’ve got to get going. Thanks for your help, Mr Lezard.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ said Nicky archly.

  The inspector watched Gregori as he took a handful of nuts. ‘I will keep you posted on the other matter.’ No longer interested in their conversation, the German simply nodded and looked away.

  TWENTY

  Sammy Baldwin-Lee, founder and part-owner of the Racetrack, the West End’s premier entertainment complex, clasped his mojito to his breast and looked out over the balcony, surveying his domain. The dance floor wasn’t as full as he would like, but then again, tonight’s main attraction, DJ Oscar 451, wasn’t due to take the stage for another couple of hours at least. Initially, Sammy had baulked at the cost of bringing Oscar over from Ibiza to play three mid-week sets in London. That was until his Marketing Manager, a rather louche woman called Wendy, had produced a set of spreadsheets showing that punters paid a minimum of �
�80 to get into one of Oscar’s gigs and the average spend at the bar was almost £125 a head.

  ‘You’ll be able to clear six figures, easy,’ Wendy had told him at their weekly finance meeting, ‘maybe seven. He’s the new David Guetta.’

  Sammy didn’t have the first clue who the old David Guetta was, but he kept his mouth shut. He was a major nightclub-owner, after all, and he should know such things. He watched Wendy scratching at the sleeves of her cardigan. Maybe she’s on heroin, he thought. You never see her arms.

  ‘It’s a no-brainer, Sammy.’

  ‘When someone tells me something’s a no-brainer,’ he grumbled, ‘I usually run a mile in the opposite direction.’ She started to protest. ‘But in this case, let’s do it.’

  ‘Yay.’ Wendy made a feeble attempt at punching the air.

  ‘Just make sure there are punitive penalties in the contract if he doesn’t turn up.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Wendy chuckled, ‘I’ve already spoken to his manager. And Oscar’s a consummate professional; one of the hardest working men in showbiz, according to Heat magazine.’

  ‘Good for him.’ Sammy raised his eyes to the heavens. Instead of a nightclub, he should have opened an old folks’ care home, just as his mother had advised him. It would have been a lot less hassle and much better cash flow. ‘Make sure we have the penalty clauses in the contract anyway.’

  That had been three months ago. Now, on the second night of Oscar’s mini-residency, Sammy had to admit that it was a case of so far, so good. The tickets had been sold, at £87.50 (plus a £6.50 ‘industry standard’ booking fee) and the first night’s bar takings had been even better than Wendy had forecast. By all accounts, Mr 451 had put in a storming performance, not that Sammy had been around to see it. He would never admit it, but the music gave him a terrible headache. He could stand it for a maximum of an hour a night, tops, and even then, only when the volume was kept to a reasonable level. Once the party really got started, he took himself off to another part of the complex or just headed back to his Shaftesbury Avenue crash pad. A creature of routine, he liked to be in bed with a cup of organic tea and a nice juicy crime novel on his Kindle well before midnight.

  If all three nights went well, the Racetrack might almost break even for the week. It would be the first time since the refurb that this had happened – a milestone worthy of celebration, had it not arrived six months later than forecast. That, and the fact that there would be no Oscar 451 next week. On the back of last night’s efforts, Sammy had already enquired about the DJ’s availability, only to be offered some dates more than a year away. Despairing, he had sent Wendy off to try and rustle up some alternative names.

  ‘There must be more than one guy who is the next . . .’

  ‘David Guetta,’ she reminded him.

  A lightbulb went off over Sammy’s head and he waved his arms around excitedly. ‘Couldn’t we get the real David . . . thingy?’

  Wendy shook her head. ‘Never in a million years. Even if you could get a slot in his diary, which you couldn’t, we could never afford him.’

  ‘But he’s just a DJ,’ said Sammy, miffed.

  ‘Sammy, DJs are the new rock stars. It’s not like your day. Look how much we’re paying Oscar.’

  ‘We could charge more.’

  ‘We’re hitting the ceiling on ticket prices already.’

  ‘Not just tickets, I’m talking about booze. Once they’re inside, these kids will pay anything.’

  ‘We’re already asking almost a tenner for a bottle of lager. This is the most expansive venue in Town.’

  ‘OK, OK.’ Dismayed at being lectured on the financial facts of life by a marketing girl, he sought to bring the conversation to a swift end. ‘Just see who you can get.’

  Taking a sip of his mojito, Sammy settled back into his seat as the numbers kept whirring through his head. However many times he did the calculation, he always came back to the same conclusion: you’re sinking.

  From the outset, the Racetrack had always been marketed as a long-term investment. At least that was what Sammy had told his backers. The problem was, the investors’ idea of ‘long-term’ was eighteen months, two years max. On current projections, they were on course to get their money back in about two decades, if you factored in a significant, steady improvement in trading from this point. Not that clubs lasted that long – certainly not Sammy’s clubs. Waving at the hovering waitress for another drink, he turned to his guest. ‘You know, I’ve invested almost fifty million pounds restoring this place to its former glory.’

  ‘And how much of that came from your own pocket?’ Gunning his Grey Goose vodka, Ren Qi cradled the empty glass in his hands. With his London trip taking a turn for the worse, the last thing the Politburo chief needed was the hard sell from some nightclub-owner desperate to snare new investors willing to throw money into the financial black hole that he’d created. The whole point of investing in London was to protect the politician’s net worth, not see it evaporate into thin air.

  Ignoring the question, Sammy slipped into his established spiel: ‘We’re open twenty-four hours a day, offering a casino, two restaurants and four bars, as well as a disco and a bowling alley. You can even get a massage on the top floor.’

  Ren raised an eyebrow.

  ‘All totally kosher,’ Sammy chuckled. ‘Swedish, deep tissue – you name it.’

  Ren nodded. Rolling his head, he could feel the tension in his shoulders; he could certainly do with a massage. Maybe he should check it out.

  ‘Last quarter, we pulled in almost 35,000 people a week, well ahead of our original forecasts. Highest ticket price in town. Highest in-venue spend.’ He gestured towards the dance floor. ‘And with gigs like these, those numbers are going to increase substantially.’

  ‘Impressive,’ Ren lied. He stared at the ice in the bottom of his glass. He currently had far more pressing matters to attend to than the London entertainment market. His energy levels had been depleted to the point where he knew that he had to step back for a short while, or risk making further mistakes. Things were bad enough already. Wang Lei was on the warpath and even Ren Jiong couldn’t be kept quiet with an endless diet of computer games for ever. Both of them would need to be dealt with, one way or another.

  Ren Qi couldn’t risk further details of their London activities getting back to Beijing. There were plenty of people who would feast on the news of his family’s final, incontrovertible implosion. His career – thirty-five years of unstinting hard work – would be over in an instant as he was transformed into a poster boy for the latest clampdown on graft and corruption.

  His trial, a carefully scripted affair in some hitherto unheard-of provincial Intermediate People’s Court, would be a classic Tiger-thrashing – the elite throwing one of its own to the mob in an attempt to show the masses that no one was above the law. Of course, everyone would see through the sham but it was a tried and tested technique that the Politburo would cling to for as long as they could. Ren himself had never had any problem with it, so long as he was not the one on trial. Now that he was facing the dock himself, the best-case scenario would be twenty years in jail, the rest of his life, more or less; the worst, a firing squad. Ren could sense them closing in. He was deeply uncomfortable about having to rely so completely on Guo Miao after the State Security man had messed up so badly with the death of Michael Nicholson. On the other hand, this was the first time in the many years they had worked together that the major’s competence had ever been an issue. Just as important, Guo’s dedication to Ren was not in any doubt. Nor was his willingness to undertake the dirtiest of dirty work without complaint.

  After being told of Nicholson’s demise, Ren had ordered that the body be disposed of. He was confident that Guo would not fail again. No traces of his wife’s lover would ever be found.

  Now, sitting with the nightclub-owner, the thought made him chuckle. He had hoped that Nicholson would be shipped back to China where he would be assured of a slow, painful dea
th. In the event, however, this was retribution enough.

  Seeing his guest muster a smile, Sammy ploughed on. ‘We are forecasting a profit within the next couple of years. Around half of our visitors are Asian, many from London and the South East, but we get many Chinese tour groups too. They do a circuit of Bicester Village, Bond Street, Buckingham Palace and the Racetrack.’

  The waitress reappeared with another mojito and a large vodka. Although he hadn’t asked for the fresh drink, Ren began mechanically drinking the vodka. Never much of a drinker, he was already feeling slightly woozy. It was hot and he fumbled with the top button of his shirt before loosening his tie. The music, some unidentifiable mush, was beginning to give him a migrane.

  ‘Send all the information to my financial advisers in Mayfair,’ he said. ‘I will see what they have to say.’

  ‘Good, good.’ Sammy poked at the ice in his drink with a green straw. ‘I will make sure they have it tomorrow.’

  ‘Fine.’ Ren took another mouthful of Grey Goose and felt his eyelids slowly begin to droop. ‘But now is not the time for business,’ he muttered.

  ‘No, no.’ Jumping to his feet, Sammy raised a hand, clicking his fingers.

  Three tables away, Sonia Coverdale nudged her co-worker for the evening, a redhead from Scotland called Morag, who already looked like she’d had one glass too many. ‘C’mon.’

  ‘About time,’ Morag slurred, struggling to her feet.

  Sonia tenderly pushed a strand of hair from her companion’s face. ‘Get a grip, girl – Harry won’t be happy.’ Harry Cummins expected his girls to live up to certain standards when they were working. In particular, the boss did not tolerate drunkenness, which he considered ‘prole-like behaviour’. If he found out about Morag, she would be out on her ear faster than you could say ‘sorry sir, but I’m afraid that you do have to wear a condom’.

  ‘Harry’s a wanker,’ Morag grumbled.