Acts of Violence (Inspector Carlyle)

by James Craig

  ‘As good a description as any.’ Carlyle watched as two of the figures disappeared in the direction of the alley. The third – tall, sleek and athletic – disappeared around the side of the van. Instinctively, the inspector knew precisely who he was looking at.

  Roche pointed at the screen. ‘That was when Marvin got garrotted.’

  ‘It’s a woman.’

  Roche and Howard both leaned forward, squinting at the screen. ‘Maybe,’ said the sergeant. ‘Impossible to say. However, the statistics suggest otherwise.’

  Carlyle grunted.

  ‘The numbers don’t lie,’ Roche insisted. ‘Even if you discount the upper-body strength that was required, you would not expect a woman to do something that savage. And so messy – urgh.’

  ‘I’ve seen her,’ Carlyle said, as much to himself as to Roche. ‘I know who she is.’ Kind of. Conscious of Howard’s presence, he added: ‘We can discuss it later.’

  The picture wobbled and then the screen went blank.

  ‘That was when I dropped the phone and called 999.’ Howard scratched his nose. ‘It’s a truly amazing bit of kit though. Apparently you can film stories for the TV news on them, the quality’s that good.’

  Carlyle and Roche exchanged glances.

  ‘You haven’t put this on YouTube, have you, sir?’

  Roche took Howard’s bemused look as a ‘no’.

  ‘And you haven’t given this footage to any journalists?’

  Howard shook his head vigorously. ‘Oh no. I wouldn’t do anything that silly.’

  ‘Good.’ Carlyle let out a small sigh of relief.

  ‘I know what a bunch of rapacious so-and-sos those fellows can be,’ said Howard with some feeling.

  ‘OK.’ Carlyle tapped the screen. ‘Let’s take another look.’

  ‘Why didn’t you mention this when we talked last time?’ Roche asked, once it had finished a second time.

  ‘To be honest, I wasn’t sure if I’d got it properly,’ Howard explained. ‘I thought I’d lost it. Once I finally managed to get it onto the computer, I sent it to your colleague, the young chap called . . .’ for a moment he struggled to recall the name ‘. . . Oliver.’

  Roche frowned. ‘Oliver Steed?’

  ‘That’s right!’ Howard said, pleased. ‘I’m surprised he didn’t show it to you.’

  ‘Oliver’s been put on another case.’ Slipping easily into the lie, Carlyle gave the ex-Foreign Office man a conspiratorial wink. ‘A bit of a crisis up North. Anyway, we’ve been left holding the baby on this one and are having to retrace some of his steps.’ He glanced at Roche, who was staring at her shoes, trying not to blush. ‘These things happen sometimes.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Inspector,’ Howard chuckled. ‘I know all about dysfunctional organizations.’

  Carlyle nodded sagely.

  ‘Anyway, once he’d got it, Oliver said I could delete my copy but, luckily for you, I hadn’t quite got round to that yet.’

  Pulling a business card from his pocket, Carlyle handed it to Howard. ‘Maybe you could send it to me, as well? That way we’ve all got it.’

  With Roche heading off to start her shift, the inspector made his way back into the centre of town. Walking through Leicester Square, he ducked up a side alley and approached a small black door marked STAFF ONLY. To the right of the door, at about head height, was an intercom with a keypad below it. Carlyle was just about to press the buzzer when a couple of tired-looking young women appeared at his side. Without a word, one of them punched in a code, pulled the door open, and disappeared inside with her friend. Grabbing the door handle before it shut, he counted to ten and then followed after them. Walking down a long, dark corridor, he came to a set of lifts. Picking the nearest one, he stepped inside and hit the button for the top floor.

  Clanking and shuddering, the lift slowly ascended. When the door opened, Carlyle found himself on a spacious landing, with doors off to either side. On the far wall, under a massive print of Debbie Harry circa 1980, was an uncomfortable-looking sofa. Reclining on it was a familiar giant, wheezing away, engrossed in a comic book.

  ‘Kendrick!’ Carlyle greeted him. ‘How’s it going?’

  Kendrick Saunders looked up from his copy of Justice League and scowled. The bouncer had never forgotten – or forgiven – the inspector for trying to have him jailed for putting a customer in hospital after a dispute about a bill. In the event, Kendrick had escaped with fifty hours of community service and a £2,000 fine but he still resented the fact that the policeman had shown an undue zeal in trying to secure a custodial sentence. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Where’s Sammy?’ Carlyle demanded, all trace of bonhomie extinguished.

  Kendrick tipped his comic, gesturing towards the door on Carlyle’s right.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘But he’s busy,’ Kendrick growled.

  ‘Don’t worry, I won’t take up too much of his time.’

  Watching the inspector stride towards the door, the bouncer thought about getting up before deciding that it would be too much effort. ‘Suit yourself,’ he muttered, returning to his reading.

  If the inspector had been expecting to find Sammy Baldwin-Lee up to no good, he was sorely disappointed. Striding into the office, he found the club-owner sitting behind his desk engrossed in a copy of the Financial Times. Just about the last man in London still to be reading the actual printed newspaper, he scanned each word carefully, his mouth open just enough for his tongue to pop out. In a pair of jeans and a Fleetwood Mac T-shirt, he had the look of an off-duty accountant.

  ‘Looking for tips?’ Carlyle quipped.

  ‘Looking for investors,’ Sammy said glumly. ‘Know any?’

  ‘Yeah, sure,’ Carlyle replied, casually looking around the room. The place was a tip, with promotional materials and other club-related detritus scattered everywhere. Removing a box from the only other chair in the room, he sat down.

  ‘Want a Racetrack T-shirt?’ Sammy asked, pointing at the box with a stubby finger. ‘On the house.’

  The inspector held up a hand. ‘Thank you, but no.’

  ‘Hundred per cent cotton. Specially designed by, er, someone or other. They sell for £38.99 downstairs. Just make sure you wash it separately. Maybe the wife would like one?’

  ‘I think she’s sorted in the wardrobe department for now, ta.’

  ‘OK, well, if you ever change your mind, the offer remains open.’

  ‘Thanks. I’ll let you know.’

  ‘By the way,’ tossing the newspaper on to his desk, Sammy gestured towards the door, ‘isn’t Kendrick out there? Keeping riffraff like you out is supposed to be part of his job description. At least it was last time I looked.’

  ‘I said “hello” to him on the way in, but he’s rather focused on reading his comic right now.’

  ‘That damn boy spends half his life in Forbidden Planet,’ Sammy griped, ‘and the other half in Burger King. Maybe I should think about an upgrade.’

  Carlyle gave a sympathetic cluck. ‘I hear that he didn’t do much to stop the fight the other night.’

  Sammy’s eyes narrowed. ‘Is that why you’re here? It was nothing at all, really. Just another average night on the town for our good friend Chase Race.’

  ‘I suppose there’s no such thing as bad publicity,’ Carlyle reflected.

  ‘I would never have thought I would say this, but he’s becoming a bit of a pain in the arse. We don’t want to be known as the kind of place where it’s all just bling, bling, bling. It’s all getting a bit too chavvy; very off-putting for the people who have serious money.’

  ‘I suppose it must be,’ the inspector sympathized. ‘However, it’s not Chase that I wanted to talk to you about.’

  ‘No?’ Sammy gave a disappointed shrug. ‘I was hoping that you might be able to put the git away for a year or two; just long enough for everyone to forget who he is.’

  ‘I’m here about the Chinese guy that Chase smacked.’

  Sammy picked out
a spot on the wall behind Carlyle and fixed his gaze upon it, bringing his hands together in silent contemplation.

  ‘Some big shot called Ren Qi,’ Carlyle continued. ‘He was arrested along with a couple of Harry Cummins’s hookers.’

  ‘How is Harry?’ Sammy asked genially. ‘I haven’t seen him for a while.’

  ‘We can sit here and talk shit all day,’ Carlyle said, ‘or you can tell me where to find Ren and I’ll let you get back to your reading.’

  ‘The guy was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. When Chase loses it, you want to be at least twenty yards away and out of his line of vision.’

  ‘He was in the VIP suite,’ Carlyle pointed out, ‘so don’t give me that old cobblers.’

  Leaning forward, Sammy scowled. ‘Look,’ he jabbed a stubby finger in the inspector’s direction, ‘this Chinese guy, from what I understand, well “big shot” is an understatement. He’s a major player. I’m hoping that he might become an investor in the club.’

  You can hope, Carlyle thought. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said reassuringly. ‘I just need to have a word with him about something completely different. He will never know that you and I have spoken.’

  Sitting back in his chair, Sammy gave Stevie Nicks a scratch and folded his arms. ‘So, if I do help you find him, what’s in it for me?’

  ‘The continuing support and regard of your local constabulary,’ Carlyle said smoothly.

  Sammy swatted the suggestion away with a wave of his hand. ‘Too intangible.’

  ‘That’s just for starters.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes,’ Carlyle smiled. ‘If you help me with this, I think there’s possibly a way I can help you with your Chase Race problem.’

  THIRTY

  Xue Xi wondered when they were going home. Their job in London was done but still there seemed no urgency on the part of her boss, Guo Miao to return to Beijing. When she asked about it, the major had simply smiled and said, ‘Soon.’

  Rather than protest, she had nodded and returned to her post. Her father had always told her that waiting was an important part of the job.

  On the other side of the door, the screaming ticked up a notch. A gleeful Ren Qi had told his wife that Michael Nicholson was dead. The man simply could not control himself; he had to rub it in, reasserting his power. Wang Lei had worked herself up into a frenzy and was raging hysterically at her husband. Guo Miao had struggled to hold her back as she tried to scratch out Ren’s eyes. It seemed inconceivable to Xue that the woman would now return to China voluntarily.

  They were making life very difficult for themselves. Xue realized that things were different in England: harder to cover up. They had already caused a major furore with the killings of the security guards. When Nicholson’s body was discovered, it wouldn’t be long before someone made the connection between the crimes.

  The tall, athletic woman shifted uneasily from foot to foot.

  It was definitely time to go home.

  After a few minutes, the shouting stopped. The door opened and Guo’s head appeared. ‘Get the boy,’ he barked.

  Xue nodded and made her way briskly along the corridor. Reaching Ren Jiong’s room, she opened the door and stepped inside. The air was full of stale cigarette smoke. Xue had to do a little skip to avoid kicking over a full ashtray that had been left on the floor. Lying on the bed, Ren Junior was watching a porn movie on his iPad. Naked from the waist down, he bobbed his head in time to the grunts coming from the woman on the screen.

  ‘Get dressed,’ Xue commanded.

  Ren rolled over and gave her a dopey grin. Tossing the iPad to one side, he slipped off the bed and stood to attention.

  ‘Get dressed,’ Xue repeated.

  ‘What’s the hurry?’ he said thickly, stepping towards her. Dropping her right shoulder, Xue flicked out a jab. The punch caught him right on the chin and Ren toppled backwards, his skull cracking off the frame of the bed before he hit the floor with a thud.

  ‘Your father is waiting.’

  ‘Fuck you,’ the boy wheezed, but she knew that he had no fight in him. He was soft and weak. Standing over him, Xue had to resist the temptation to give him a swift kick in the genitals to hurry him up. Ever since arriving in this country, she had endured problems with her impulse control and anger management.

  Grabbing his hair, she pulled him up on to the bed. Disconcertingly, his erection remained intact. From the iPad, the groans of simulated ecstasy continued unabated. Switching off the tablet, Xue placed it on the bedside table.

  ‘I’m not going back,’ the boy warned, finally locating his underpants.

  Tell it to your father.

  Slowly, insolently, Ren recovered his jeans and pulled them on. Xue was reaching for the door handle when a buzzer sounded. She froze.

  After a few moments, the buzzer sounded again.

  Composing herself, Xue stepped out into the hallway; Guo was already there. The buzzer sounded for a third time. The major glared at Xue, as if it was her fault. ‘Make them go away.’

  Ordering the boy to stay in his room, Xue walked nervously down the corridor. Opening the front door, she was confronted by the crumpled officer from the police station. Trying to keep him from seeing the look of recognition in her eyes, she immediately turned her attention to his associate, a tall blonde woman. Very beautiful, Xue thought.

  ‘Yes?’

  The man held up his ID. ‘Police.’ He let her stare at it blankly for a few seconds before stuffing it back into his pocket. ‘I am here to see Ren Qi,’ he barked.

  How did you know his real name? And how did you know he was here? Gripping the door tightly, Xue tried to think of a response.

  ‘I am here to see Ren Qi,’ the man repeated, speaking more slowly this time, in the time-honoured tradition of Englishmen addressing foreigners. Edging forward, he had his foot in the door before she could consider slamming it in his face.

  Carlyle recognized the woman immediately. Up close, she looked even stronger and more imposing than he had imagined. Happily, she didn’t have any cheese wire in her hand. Still, the inspector had little doubt that he was looking at a good thrashing, should things come to fisticuffs. His mind went back to Gerald Howard’s dancing ninjas and he wondered if it might have been wiser to organize some back-up. He wished that he had Roche with him, but she had cried off, citing a ‘hot date’. Could Elmhirst look after herself in a ruck?

  A bit late to be worrying about that now.

  Pushing his way inside, he barrelled down the corridor. The woman tried to stop him, but Elmhirst cut her off. On his left was a door. As he reached for the handle, the door flew open. Carlyle jumped back in surprise.

  ‘Inspector,’ Ren Qi smiled. ‘Please, come in.’

  * * *

  Ignoring Elmhirst’s disapproving look, the inspector accepted a large glass of fifteen-year-old Dalwhinnie and settled into an armchair on one side of the fireplace, the better to enjoy the oppressive atmosphere. Cradling a glass of his own, Ren Qi took the chair opposite. The woman who had opened the door – the killer ninja as Carlyle had come to think of her – had disappeared, leaving an older woman and a short, intense middle-aged man to complete the numbers in the room. No one was making any introductions, so Carlyle sat back and savoured a mouthful of his whisky.

  Ren did the same, giving a sigh of appreciation as he waited for the policeman to declare his intentions.

  ‘Why did you give me a false name?’ Looking up from his drink, Carlyle gave his host a not that it’s any skin off my nose smile.

  ‘I have to apologize for that,’ Ren said smoothly, determined to outdo his guest with the depth of his insincerity. ‘A man of my position, finding himself in such an unusual and unfortunate situation . . .’ He shrugged. ‘I’m afraid to say that I simply panicked.’

  Carlyle nodded.

  ‘An error of judgement for which I am deeply sorry. Of course, I will accept the appropriate punishment without demur.’

  ‘Don’t wor
ry about that, sir.’ Carlyle waved away his host’s concerned look before taking another taste of the single malt. The Dalwhinnie burned on the back of his throat and his brain began to feel pleasingly warm. ‘I completely understand how your state of mind could have been negatively impacted by the events of the evening in question.’ The evening in question. Hurrah for the petty bureaucrat. ‘I would like to assure you that the Metropolitan Police have no interest in making an issue of such a minor matter.’

  Nodding graciously, Ren waited patiently for him to get to the point.

  ‘Indeed,’ Carlyle went on, continuing his meandering preamble, ‘if I had been on duty at the time, I would have had you released immediately. I can only apologize that that did not happen.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Which brings me to the reason for my visit.’ Finishing his drink, Carlyle held out his glass for a refill. After a moment’s hesitation, the squat lackey fetched the whisky bottle and carefully placed half an inch in the bottom of the glass. ‘Thank you.’ The man exchanged glances with Ren and retreated to his position by the door. ‘I was wondering,’ said Carlyle, slowly looking up from his drink, ‘if you could talk me through your relationship with Michael Nicholson?’

  A strangled groan came from the woman in the corner. Ren shot her an angry look and the lackey put a restraining hand on her shoulder. Happy to watch events unfold, Carlyle took another mouthful of whisky. He was beginning to feel its effects now and told himself to slow down. Two drinks were more than enough.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Ren said finally, ‘but I don’t think I recognize the name.’

  Lies, lies, lies. Stifling a yawn, the inspector went on. ‘He ran a company called Tallow Business Services. I asked you about it before.’

  For a few moments, Ren mimed a man considering the name. ‘No, as I said at the police station, I don’t think we’ve come across it.’

  ‘His body was found not far from here.’ Carlyle was deliberately stringing out the conversation, letting the man hang himself. Finishing the Scotch, he watched Ren glare at the lackey. The drink was really getting to him now. ‘I was wondering,’ he continued rashly, unable to resist a smirk, ‘why you had him, and three other men, killed?’ As he turned to give Elmhirst a wink, the room began to spin. Clinging to his seat, he tried to return his attention to Ren. The smiling face of the politician was moving in and out of focus. Carlyle felt his stomach heave in a sudden lurch. What the hell’s going on? he wondered, irritated. I only had a couple of small ones. Lifting the glass, he noticed a line of fine white residue that had collected, just below the rim.