Acts of Violence (Inspector Carlyle)

by James Craig

  ‘What time do you call this?’ Carlyle complained.

  ‘Sorry, boss, the traffic was a nightmare,’ the sergeant explained. He looked around. ‘Where’s your guy?’

  ‘He legged it in a black Beemer.’

  There was a pause while all three men contemplated the myriad frustrations of police work.

  ‘So what do we do now?’ Umar asked finally.

  ‘Fuck,’ Carlyle said emptily. ‘I dunno. Let’s go and get a coffee.’

  Leaving the car in a side street off the High Road, they picked a café at random, Carlyle ordered a smoothie and began checking the emails on his BlackBerry while Umar and Gapper played a game of table football in the back. The smoothie, when it came, was rather sharp. Sucking on his straw, Carlyle winced, his mood not helped by a message from Alice’s school about a proposed hike in fees for the next school year. He was forwarding the email to Helen when there was a whoop of delight from behind him. Moments later, Umar pulled up a chair and sat down. ‘Eight-three,’ he announced. ‘A massacre.’

  ‘Glad to know our little day trip hasn’t been a complete waste of time,’ Carlyle said coolly.

  ‘It was your idea,’ Umar reminded him, opening a bottle of Coke.

  ‘That makes me feel a lot better.’ Looking out of the window, he scanned the ugly main road. For many years, Finchley had been Maggie Thatcher’s constituency. A Conservative stronghold. That figured. To Carlyle this part of the city – N12 – had absolutely nothing in common with ‘his’ London. And then, from the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of movement. An expensive-looking car was pulling out of the road opposite.

  A black car.

  A black BMW.

  ‘It’s him!’ Carlyle jumped to his feet, spilling the remains of his smoothie over Umar.

  ‘Hey!’

  Ignoring his sergeant’s protests, Carlyle gestured at Gapper. ‘Get the car, quick.’ Sitting at the junction, Gregori patiently waited for a break in the traffic, before turning right and heading north towards High Barnet. Fumbling for some cash to pay the bill, Carlyle pushed his driver out of the door. ‘Quick,’ he repeated. ‘Let’s not lose him again.’

  ‘Urgh. This stuff is all sticky.’

  Carlyle looked in the rear-view mirror. ‘Stop whining,’ he chuckled, his good mood restored as much by his sergeant’s misfortune as the renewal of contact with Sebastian Gregori.

  ‘But it’s all over my jeans,’ Umar wailed. ‘It looks like I’ve pissed myself.’

  ‘Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with us.’

  Gapper and Carlyle exchanged grins. Putting his foot down on the accelerator, the driver eased them past a lumbering bus and through Whetstone. The traffic had finally begun to thin out slightly and they were soon making steady progress along the A1000. Gregori’s black BMW could be glimpsed half a dozen or so cars ahead of them.

  ‘So where do you think he’s going?’ Umar asked as they eventually passed Barnet Playing Fields.

  ‘Dunno,’ Carlyle yawned. ‘Maybe he’s heading for the M25.’

  In the event, Gregori ignored the orbital motorway, instead taking the A1, in the direction of Stevenage. The inspector glanced nervously at the dashboard. ‘How much petrol have we got?’

  ‘Enough,’ was Gapper’s only response.

  The BMW was still safely in sight, moving at a steady speed, when Umar piped up from the back seat. ‘I need a piss now, for real . . . all that Coke.’

  ‘For God’s sake.’ Carlyle shook his head.

  ‘If you mess the seats,’ Gapper said grimly, ‘I’ll kill you.’

  Almost an hour later, the BMW turned off the motorway at a place called Biggleswade. Careful not to get too close, Gapper followed suit. For several minutes they headed down a narrow two-lane road without seeing another vehicle. On both sides of the road were fields, surrounded by low hedges. Apart from the occasional group of sheep, the fields were empty. It reminded Carlyle of the landscapes of Skåne where a fictional Swedish detective ran around dealing with a non-stop crimewave that was far worse than anything a real-life London copper ever had to deal with.

  ‘Where the hell are we?’ he asked, as they passed a sign for the John O’Gaunt Golf Club.

  ‘Bedfordshire,’ the driver explained.

  ‘There’s nothing here,’ the inspector observed dolefully.

  ‘My grandparents used to live round here.’ Gapper glanced at the speedometer, careful not to go above 40 mph. ‘It was very handy for London.’

  ‘I suppose it would be.’ Failing to feign any interest in Gapper’s family tree, the inspector gestured at the road ahead. ‘How are we going to do this?’

  ‘We just have to keep far enough back that he doesn’t see us, and hope that we don’t lose him.’

  ‘Not very inspired,’ Carlyle sighed.

  ‘Always happy to hear a better idea.’ Straying into the middle of the road, Gapper eased the Astra round a bend and almost straight into the back of the Beemer, which had been parked on the side of the road.

  ‘Shit.’ Carlyle ducked down under the dashboard as Gapper took evasive action.

  ‘What do you want me to do, boss?’

  ‘Keep going!’ Carlyle shouted. ‘Find a place further along where we can stop.’ Cautiously checking in the rear-view mirror, he looked for signs of Gregori. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Maybe he’s taking a leak,’ Umar said pointedly.

  ‘All right, all right. Hold on.’

  A hundred yards further on, the road curved left and fell away into a hollow containing a few diseased-looking trees. ‘This’ll do.’

  Gapper edged the car off the road as far as he could and they got out. Showing a hitherto concealed turn of speed, Umar sprinted up to the nearest tree and relieved himself.

  ‘Aaahhh.’

  ‘Happy now?’ Already marching back up the road, Carlyle checked his phone to see if he had a signal. Two bars. Ah well, he supposed he should be grateful for that. He waved the phone at Gapper. ‘What’s your mobile number?’ Gapper had to recite it three times before Carlyle managed to correctly store it on his phone. ‘OK, good,’ he said finally. ‘You stay with the car. I’ll give you a call when we need you to come and pick us up.’

  ‘Sure,’ Gapper said, reaching for a packet of Benson & Hedges in his jacket pocket. ‘Suits me.’

  Umar reappeared, zipping himself up while still trying to scrape the worst of Carlyle’s smoothie from his crotch.

  ‘You look a right mess,’ Carlyle sniggered.

  ‘And whose bloody fault is that?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah.’ The inspector gestured for Umar to follow him. ‘C’mon, let’s go and see what this bent bugger is up to.’

  TWENTY-FIVE

  ‘Where’s the Beemer?’ Standing where the car had been, Carlyle scanned the horizon like a lost sailor searching for land. Hands on hips, he turned through 360 degrees in the vain hope of catching a glimpse of black metallic paint. All he saw was grass; lots of grass. Suddenly he felt hungry. Wishing he’d had something to eat in the café in North Finchley, he wondered how far away they were from food of any description. Miles, probably.

  Ten yards along the road was a gap in the hedge, with a low, wide metal gate. Umar climbed up on the bottom rung and peered over. ‘Looks like he went in here.’

  Carlyle sauntered over to take a look. ‘It’s an empty field.’

  Umar pointed to a set of muddy tracks leading from the gate to nowhere in particular. ‘That’s the car.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Let’s go and take a look.’ Without waiting for his boss, Umar vaulted the gate and began jogging across the field.

  Wearily, Carlyle hauled himself over the gate and followed at a more sedate pace. ‘Let’s just hope,’ he said to himself, ‘we don’t come across some farmer with a loaded shotgun.’

  It took the best part of twenty minutes for the inspector to cross the first field, by which time Umar was through another gate and halfway across a second field, headin
g towards a wood. Quite the little Boy Scout, Carlyle thought, panting. Tired and hungry, he pulled out his phone to call Gapper to come and pick them up. The screen, however, showed no signal.

  ‘Great.’ Shoving the phone back in his pocket, the inspector soldiered on.

  He caught up with Umar at the edge of the woods where the sergeant was having another piss.

  ‘Weak bladder?’ Carlyle enquired. ‘Maybe you should get your prostate checked.’

  ‘Maybe you should get yours checked, old man.’ Umar gestured towards where the vehicle tracks came into the wood. ‘There’s a gravel road down there. It’ll be to provide access for farm vehicles; more than big enough to get the Beemer down.’

  But the inspector was in no mood for further adventures. ‘It could go on for miles,’ he demurred, taking a seat on a conveniently located tree stump.

  ‘There’s only one way to find out.’

  ‘Have you got a signal on your phone?’

  Umar checked his handset. ‘Nah.’

  Remembering that this whole palaver had been his idea in the first place, Carlyle reluctantly pushed himself to his feet. ‘OK then,’ he sighed, ‘having come this far, I suppose we might as well go and take a look.’

  They walked in silence for nearly half an hour, each man keeping his thoughts to himself. The inspector was fantasizing about a Flat White from the Monmouth coffee shop when Umar put a hand on his arm.

  ‘Did you hear that?’ he whispered.

  For several moments, Carlyle did an impersonation of a man straining to distinguish the different sounds around him. Holding his breath, he focused all his attention on trying to pick apart the soundwaves bouncing off his eardrums.

  After a while, he exhaled, shaking his head. ‘Nothing, just the wind in the trees.’

  ‘Listen!’ Umar hissed.

  The inspector tried again. Still he could make out nothing of note. No point in telling Umar that, he thought. After all, it was nice to have the boy enthused about a task for a change. ‘Yes,’ he nodded. ‘You’re right.’

  ‘See?’ Umar grinned. ‘I told you.’

  Carlyle looked at his sergeant expectantly. ‘What is it?’

  Umar, however, was distracted by something over his shoulder.

  ‘Step backwards,’ a voice barked.

  Lifting his hands in surrender, the sergeant did as instructed.

  ‘Fuck’s sake,’ Carlyle tutted. ‘I knew we shouldn’t have gone wandering about in the countryside.’

  ‘No,’ Sebastian Gregori concurred, ‘you should have stayed in your own little world and done your own little job. That shouldn’t have been too difficult, should it?’ Bouncing on the balls of his feet, he clubbed the inspector across the back of the skull with his pistol. Falling to his knees, Carlyle flinched as a shot rang out above his head.

  As the ringing in his ears subsided, the inspector slowly opened his eyes. In front of him, Umar was rolling on the ground, holding his left thigh.

  ‘Shiiiit . . .’ the sergeant screamed. ‘I’ve been shot. The fucking bastard shot me.’

  ‘It’s only a flesh wound,’ Gregori said contemptuously. ‘Show some balls. You could be dead by now. As it is, worst-case scenario, you’ll have a slight limp for a while.’

  Or you could have no balls at all, Carlyle thought, as he watched the smoothie stain on Umar’s crotch disappear under a slowly spreading bloodstain. Staying down, the inspector watched the German circle round in front of him, keeping the prostrate sergeant between them.

  ‘That was just to let you know that I am serious.’

  ‘I never doubted it.’ Carlyle kept his eyes on the gun.

  ‘Not that I want you dead, you understand. I just have to even the numbers up a bit, seeing as there’s two of you and only one of me.’

  Good to know. Carlyle glanced at Umar, who was muttering to himself through gritted teeth as he tried to staunch the flow of blood.

  ‘Help him up,’ Gregori commanded.

  Slowly, Carlyle got to his feet and stumbled over to Umar.

  Squeamish at the best of times, the sight of blood made his stomach do a somersault. What should he do? A tourniquet perhaps? For the first time in his career, he wished he’d taken one of the First Aid courses regularly on offer at Charing Cross. He offered a hand to his stricken colleague. ‘Can you get up?’

  Still holding his leg, Umar showed no inclination to move. ‘I’ve been fucking shot, you dick.’

  Looking around helplessly, Carlyle’s gaze alighted on Gregori’s tie. The German might be psycho, but at least he was a well-dressed pyscho, with a white shirt and a very nice red and green number around his neck. The inspector held out a hand. ‘Gimme your tie.’

  ‘Huh?’ The German wiggled the gun irritatedly at his captives. ‘Get on with it.’

  ‘Give me the tie,’ Carlyle repeated, ‘and I’ll try to get him up.’

  ‘But it’s Hugo Boss,’ Gregori objected.

  ‘Just give me the sodding tie.’ Reluctantly, the German complied, clawing at the knot with his free hand, while keeping the gun trained on Carlyle.

  ‘Here.’ Pulling the tie from around his neck, Gregori threw it towards them.

  ‘Thank you.’ Ignoring Umar’s protests, Carlyle set about tying it around the top of the sergeant’s thigh before carefully helping him to his feet.

  ‘That way.’ Gregori gestured down the path. ‘Keep going. It’s not very far.’

  Entering a small paddock, in front of a group of three low buildings, Carlyle helped Umar sit down on a large stone. Off to the left, their BMW was parked next to an ancient Land Rover. Behind the vehicles, a single-lane tarmacked road led away from the buildings. Presumably this was where Kortmann had been brought. Maybe the businessman was still here. The motive for his ‘kidnapping’ was still a mystery, but the inspector had seen enough in his time to know that there was no reason to assume that things had to make any sense at all. His gaze alighted on a small patch of ground next to a fallen tree that looked as if it had been recently dug up. Maybe Kortmann’s in there, he thought grimly.

  Keeping his distance, Gregori circled the two policemen. There was a vaguely satisfied look on the German’s face. For the first time, the inspector wondered if he might really be bonkers.

  With his free hand, Gregori pointed towards the building, furthest from the vehicles. ‘You are going in there, gentlemen, so if you please . . .’

  The building looked like a barn, with a large wooden door at one end and no windows, at least on the side that Carlyle could see. Even from this distance, it was clear that the door was badly warped and rotting at the bottom. Its green paint had flaked off in large patches and there was no sign of a lock. Not much of a prison.

  ‘Please,’ Gregori repeated.

  With a troubled sigh, Carlyle leaned over and helped Umar back onto his feet. The sergeant’s skin was cold and clammy and his eyes were glazed. He’s gone into shock, Carlyle thought. Flesh wound or not, the boy needs some medical attention. Slowly, he led him over the rough ground towards the building. Walking ahead of them, Gregori pulled open the door and gestured for them to enter.

  Inside, the barn was cool and dark. The smell of damp and decay filled his nostrils as Carlyle let his eyes adjust to the gloom.

  ‘In there.’

  Oh shit. Feeling his knees buckle, Carlyle had to quickly adjust his stance to prevent himself and the sergeant from both falling over. Bolted on to the back wall of the barn was a cage, a lattice of narrow metal bars roughly twelve feet wide and twelve feet high. The floor of the cage was covered with dirty-looking straw and, next to the door were lined up a dozen two-litre bottles of water, a couple of toilet rolls and a metal bucket. The whole scene was like something out of a torture porn movie.

  ‘In you go.’

  Reluctantly, the inspector led Umar inside, laying him carefully on the straw as Gregori padlocked the door behind them. ‘Make yourselves comfortable,’ the man advised them. ‘You may be here for a little
while.’

  ‘My colleague needs a doctor,’ Carlyle replied, trying to keep his voice from cracking. On cue, Umar let out an anguished groan.

  Gregori dropped the key into his pocket, saying tersely, ‘He’ll live.’

  ‘He’s lost a lot of blood,’ Carlyle persisted.

  ‘He’ll still live,’ Gregori said. ‘The human body is a wonderful thing.’

  Reaching for one of the bottles, the inspector knelt down by his colleague. Unscrewing the cap, he lifted the bottle to Umar’s lips and forced him to drink a little water. ‘Slowly, slowly,’ Carlyle said, ‘there’s no rush.’

  Smiling weakly, Umar signalled that he’d had enough.

  Over his shoulder, the inspector shouted: ‘What about food?’

  ‘Later.’

  ‘You know they’ll be looking for us.’

  ‘Looking is one thing,’ Gregori replied. ‘Finding is another.’

  Don’t I know it. Just then, the inspector caught sight of something lying in the corner of the cage; it was a newspaper. Was it the one Kortmann had been holding in his photograph? Maybe. Getting back to his feet, he turned to face Gregori. ‘You brought Werner Kortmann here?’

  Smirking, Gregori said nothing.

  Taking a gulp of water, Carlyle rinsed his mouth before spitting it onto the ground. ‘What I don’t understand is why you would kidnap your own client?’ Replacing the cap on the bottle, he placed it back with the others. ‘Perhaps you could explain it to me?’

  The German’s smirk grew wider. ‘Do you really want to know?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Contemplating his answer, Gregori scratched his temple with the muzzle of his gun. ‘In that case,’ he said finally, ‘you’ll have to see if you can work it out for yourself. However, with your track record I doubt very much that you will be able to manage it.’ Argument won, their captor turned and headed towards the light.

  ‘Wanker.’ Lowering himself to the floor, Carlyle leaned back against the side of the cage and yawned. For a while, he sat staring into space, thinking about nothing in particular, his Zen-like calm only interrupted by the sound of a car starting up and driving away.