London Calling

by James Craig

  ‘You total fucking bastards!’ Murray screamed, hurling the phone at Xavier’s head, but missing wildly. Tears poured down his face as he fumbled about on the carpet for the broken bottle. Grabbing it by the remaining neck, he rose slowly to his feet.

  ‘Now it’s your turn to die …’

  The rest of his words were drowned out by a tidal wave of noise filling the room. To the soundtrack of The Prodigy’s ‘Omen’, the party’s election theme tune, Xavier watched open-mouthed as Trevor Miller slammed the door and launched himself through the air, taking Murray out with a tackle aimed at neck height. His head smashing against the wall, Murray collapsed to the floor, narrowly avoiding impaling himself on the jagged glass of the bottle still gripped in his hand.

  Miller jumped up, kicking Murray’s weapon out of his grasp. He then crossed the room and locked the door. Taking a Swiss Army knife from his pocket, he hacked at the tape binding Xavier’s hands until he could pull them free. Leaving him to untie his own feet, he then moved on to Edgar.

  Xavier winced as he pulled the tape from around his ankles, tugging away several follicles of hair in the process. Jumping up, he found his trousers and quickly pulled them on. Then he turned to watch Edgar, slowly struggling into his underwear with a glazed expression on his face.

  ‘Let’s get this sorted out,’ Xavier declared grimly.

  Edgar did not respond.

  Pulling on his shirt, Xavier shifted his gaze to Miller, who was now standing over the prostrate body of Murray. ‘Is he dead?’

  Miller gave the body a firm kick, which managed to elicit a groan. ‘Sadly not.’

  ‘What shall we do with him?’ Xavier asked.

  Miller shrugged. ‘Your call.’

  Buttoning up his shirt, Xaxier stared Miller in the eye. ‘He cannot leave this room alive.’

  After a moment’s reflection, Miller pulled aside the curtains covering most of the wall opposite the door. Behind them was a pair of sliding doors that gave access to a small balcony. Opening the doors, Miller stepped out on to the balcony itself, put his hands on the guard rail and peered over the edge. After checking that Murray was still immobile, Xavier headed over to do the same.

  They were currently on the top floor, and the balcony overlooked a large atrium rising through the centre of the hotel. They were more than a hundred feet up, and only twenty feet below the atrium’s glass roof. This level of the hotel was deserted – all the neighbouring suites having been kept empty on security grounds.

  After a few moments of silent contemplation, Miller turned to Xavier and grinned. ‘That’ll do nicely.’

  Carlyle found his access to the Carlton brothers’ suite barred by Miller’s security men, who showed no interest in either his warrant card or any demands for them to step aside. With his adrenaline pumping, and in no mood for further argument or delay, he headed over to a nearby fire alarm and smashed the glass, setting off a hellish cacophony of alarms and bells.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ One of the guards reached out to grab Carlyle by the throat.

  Joe Szyszkowski rabbit-punched him on the back of his neck, then gave him a kick to the back of his left knee. ‘Consider yourself arrested, my friend.’ As the man sank to the carpet, Joe slapped on a pair of cuffs, and then gave him another kick for good measure.

  ‘Thank you,’ Carlyle smiled.

  ‘My pleasure,’ Joe replied cheerily.

  As the bells continued to ring, people began leaving the ballroom, heading for the stairs as they evacuated the building.

  The second guard looked from Joe to Carlyle, as if eyeing up which one of them to smack first.

  Taking a step backwards, Joe pointed at a sign reading Exit. ‘It’s time for you to go.’

  ‘If you’re still here when I get back,’ Carlyle shouted over the noise, ‘you’ll be arrested for assault as well.’

  Disgusted but impotent, the man shook his head and started for the stairs.

  Carlyle jogged round a corner of the corridor just in time to see the door to the suite open and Edgar Carlton pop his head out. He looked very confused and didn’t seem to recognise the inspector. ‘What’s going on?’ he wailed, sounding as if he was about to burst into tears.

  Lengthening his stride, Carlyle pushed his way through the door and on past the befuddled politician. ‘Just a false alarm,’ he smiled cheerily. ‘Nothing to worry about.’

  Perspiration beading on his brow, a grim smile spread across Trevor Miller’s face as his eyes flicked between Carlyle and the sergeant. ‘Oh, look,’ he snarled, ‘it’s the fucking cavalry!’

  The first thing Carlyle noticed in the room was the smell: a strange mixture of cigar smoke, piss and burning flesh. ‘Fuck me,’ he quipped, ‘this place smells worse than a kebab shop on Tottenham Court Road!’

  Not for the first time in his life, he saw a joke fall flat. Carlyle didn’t even have time to laugh at his own gag before being rendered speechless by the scene in front of him.

  ‘Fuck me!’ Joe echoed from the doorway.

  Miller stood on a balcony, holding a bruised and bloodied William Murray in a headlock. Up against the bulk of the ex-policeman, Murray seemed almost like a child. His eyes were glazed and he barely seemed conscious. Unable to put up any resistance, his face was turning red as the air was choked out of him.

  ‘What are you doing, Trevor?’

  Miller automatically took a step backwards, thus propping Murray up against the balcony rail. ‘Just fuck off out of it, Inspector,’ he snarled.

  Signalling for Joe to stay back, Carlyle took a careful step forward, then another. His mouth was dry and his heart was pounding. For the briefest moment, it was just like the old days, when he was speeding his tits off on the picket line. He felt giddy, almost euphoric.

  ‘What happened here?’ he asked gently. ‘What did he do, Trevor?’

  ‘He’s our man.’ As Miller eased his grip slightly, Murray started twitching.

  ‘I know,’ said Carlyle, edging towards the balcony. ‘That’s why we’re here.’ The pair of them were only ten or eleven feet away from him now, but Carlyle realised that he had no room for manoeuvre. ‘That’s why you have to hand him over to me.’

  ‘You haven’t learned very much over the years, have you?’ Miller looked past Carlyle, in the direction of the Carltons, who were both hovering in a corner.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘What I mean is …’ Miller was in mid-sentence as Murray’s eyes opened wide and he started struggling. ‘Fuck!’ Miller started punching the aide in the face with his spare fist, eventually smashing his nose and showering them both with blood.

  Jumping forward, Carlyle made a grab for Murray, but a brutal smack across the face from Miller stopped him in his tracks. As he staggered backwards, it felt as if he had been hit by a frying pan, and Carlyle was sure that the ringing in his head wasn’t just the fire alarm.

  ‘Boss?’ Joe asked, moving to Carlyle’s shoulder. In the distance, they could make out sirens. The police and the fire brigade would be here within minutes at most.

  ‘It’s OK.’ Carlyle straightened himself up, anger mixing with the agony. ‘I’m OK.’ Waiting for his head to clear, he eyed Miller and smiled. ‘That’s it, Trevor. Time to hand him over.’

  A strangulated squeak emerged from Murray.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Miller hissed, tightening his grip.

  ‘Trevor …’

  ‘Fuck off, Carlyle.’ Pulling Murray upwards and backwards, Miller flipped both of them over the guard rail.

  For a split second, Carlyle stood there staring at the vacant space where the two men had been.

  ‘Shit!’ Rushing over to the rail, he peered down in time to see the two bodies hit the surface of what looked like a small swimming pool below. From the balcony, the splash sounded like a gentle ripple of applause.

  Joe appeared at Carlyle’s side and looked down. ‘Ouch!’ he grinned. ‘That’s got to hurt.’

  Carlyle turned q
uickly away and scanned the room. Both politicians had disappeared. On the carpet, amidst the broken glass, was a smouldering cigar. Stepping in from the balcony, he stamped it out with the toe of his shoe. As he did so, he caught sight of a light flashing under the sofa. Dropping to his knees, he pulled out an expensive-looking mobile phone, quickly dropping it in the pocket of his jacket before he stood up.

  Joe was still peering over the rail. ‘Looks like there’s some kind of movement down there.’

  ‘Come on,’ Carlyle groaned, ‘let’s see if the fuckers can swim.’

  Fighting their way past the stragglers on the stairs, it took the two policemen the best part of ten minutes to make it down to the basement. At least the alarms had stopped by the time that they reached the swimming pool. Finding the entrance locked, Carlyle pressed his ear to the door and listened. Other than the hum of the air-conditioning, there was nothing. Once, twice, three times he tried and failed to kick the door in. For a moment, he stood there catching his breath, trying to ignore the pain in his right foot and glaring at Joe, who was struggling to stifle a laugh. ‘You try it then, you fat bastard,’ Carlyle snapped, stepping away from the door.

  ‘OK.’ Joe, whose experience of kicking doors in was much more current, jogged ten feet back along the corridor, then turned round at a crouch. ‘One, two, three …’ Springing forward, he charged the door head-down, looking like an enthusiastic baby rhino. Carlyle grimaced in expectation of the imminent crunch of bone against wood. But, with Joe just inches from his target, the door suddenly flew open.

  Carlyle watched open mouthed as his sergeant steamed through the doorway, tripped over a small flight of steps and belly-flopped into the pool beyond, splashing alongside the face-down floater that the inspector instinctively knew had to be William Murray. A moment later, Trevor Miller stepped out from behind the door. Although soaked from head to foot, he showed no sign of being injured by his fall.

  Bloody typical, Carlyle thought, Miller lying face down in the pool would have been a decent result.

  The security chief had a large white towel draped round his neck while vigorously drying what remained of his hair with another. ‘Well done, Carlyle,’ he grunted from somewhere behind the fabric. ‘Another crime scene compromised.’

  ‘Fuck you, Trevor,’ Carlyle snarled, ‘you’re under arrest.’

  ‘Am I indeed?’ Miller tossed the used towel on the floor and picked up a fresh one from a pile stacked on a white plastic chair nearby. ‘For what?’

  Carlyle said nothing. What had he just seen? Murder? He was sure of it. He was equally sure that he couldn’t prove it – even before one considered the queue of people who would be ready to cover it up.

  ‘You really haven’t learnt anything, have you?’ Miller sneered. ‘Even after all this time, you stupid, stupid little shit.’ Towelling himself down as best he could, he stepped towards the door, tossing the wet towel at Carlyle. ‘Come anywhere near any of our people and we’ll fucking crucify you. It’s case closed. This has finally been dealt with, no thanks to you.’ He jabbed a meaty finger towards Carlyle’s face. ‘Ironically, you might even get a bit of glory if you play your cards right. I’ll at least let you have that.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Carlyle snarled, but he was struggling to put on a brave face. Already, he could see how it would all play out.

  The meaty finger retreated into a clenched fist. ‘Don’t fuck it up again,’ Miller smiled. ‘Remember which side you’re on.’ Then, pushing Carlyle out of the way, he squelched out through the door and disappeared along the corridor.

  ‘Give me a hand, boss!’ Joe called as he struggled to get himself out of the pool.

  Ignoring him, Carlyle turned and left.

  THIRTY-SIX

  Edgar Carlton threw a large glass of Rémy Martin XO down his throat, followed quickly by another. Feeling suitably relaxed, he plastered what he hoped was a confident smile on his face and stepped out of No 10 Downing Street to address the world. Gripping the lectern that had been placed out in the street, he acknowledged the assembled journalists corralled behind barriers on the pavement, and waited for the flash photography and the whirr of camera motors to die down. Clearing his throat, he fixed his gaze on a point just above the tallest head in the throng, and launched into his statement:

  ‘Her Majesty the Queen has asked me to form a new government, and I have accepted. I came into politics because I believe deeply in public service. I love this great country of ours and I think that its best days still lie ahead. I want us all to work together to help to build a society with stronger families and stronger communities. We should remember the words of St Francis of Assisi when he said: “Where there is discord, may we bring harmony. Where there is error, may we bring truth. Where there is doubt, may we bring faith. And where there is despair, may we bring hope.” I believe that together we can provide that strong and stable government that our country needs based on those values – rebuilding family, rebuilding community and, above all, rebuilding responsibility in this country. These are the things I care about. These are the things that I will now start work on delivering. Thank you very much.’

  Before he had even finished, the hacks began hurling an avalanche of questions at him. Turning quickly away, Edgar fled back inside.

  Carlyle sat in a small office, looking out over the empty newsroom: an open-plan arrangement of desks and monitors, with a small studio set in the far corner. On maybe twenty separate screens, he could see images of Edgar Carlton proclaiming his victory on the steps of Downing Street.

  ‘How did you make the connection?’

  ‘Huh?’ Carlyle returned his gaze to Rosanna Snowdon. On the desk in front of her lay William Murray’s mobile phone, recovered from the Carlton brothers’ hotel suite. She eyed it nervously, as if it was radioactive.

  ‘Between father and son? What made you realise that William Murray was Robert Ashton’s kid?’

  ‘It just came to me,’ Carlyle shrugged. ‘I was sitting in a pub as the polls were closing. Edgar appeared on the TV screen, and William Murray was at his shoulder. Then it hit me …’

  ‘And his mother was covering up for him?’

  ‘Yes. We don’t know the precise balance of power in that relationship, but they were in it together.’

  ‘Madness.’

  ‘Was it?’ Carlyle exhaled. ‘If someone did that to my family, well …’

  Rosanna drummed a perfectly manicured fingernail on her desk. ‘Are you actually condoning murder, Inspector?’

  ‘No,’ he said stiffly, quickly descending into a bit of jargon in order to mask his opinions. ‘But at least you can put together the pieces and, at the very least, begin understanding the motivation of the perpetrators. That is not the same as condoning it.’

  ‘It’s an amazing story …’

  ‘It certainly is,’ Carlyle agreed.

  ‘… but I can’t use it.’

  She looked up at Carlyle, with a pained expression. ‘Why have you brought me this?’

  ‘I thought you wanted an exclusive,’ he said evenly.

  She gestured at the mobile. ‘Not this kind of exclusive.’

  Carlyle shifted in his chair. Maybe coming here wouldn’t be the brightest decision he had ever made – even in the course of this current investigation, which would certainly be saying something. ‘What kind is that then?’

  ‘The kind that will never see the light of day,’ she replied.

  He waited for her to explain.

  She screwed up her face. ‘How can I use this? It’s not a story.’

  ‘It seems like a story to me,’ Carlyle said, not convinced himself now. He felt a creeping embarrassment at his stupidity. Why was he even here? What was he thinking? Edgar Carlton was in his first week as prime minister. William Murray and Susy Ahl were both dead. No one cared about their deaths. Robert Ashton may or may not have been successfully avenged.

  Who had chosen Carlyle as the one man to shine a light on this dark little corn
er of the past? He wasn’t even doing his self-appointed task very well. There wasn’t going to be any ‘closure’. All he was doing was digging himself into another hole.

  She sat back and gave him a rather pitying smile. ‘That’s why you’re the policeman and I’m the journalist. A story is only a story if I can report it. No one can use this. The lawyers wouldn’t let us go anywhere near it.’

  Feeling like a complete idiot, Carlyle sat in silence.

  ‘You think this security guy …?’

  ‘Miller.’

  ‘Yes, Miller. You think he murdered the aide and also his mother?’

  Carlyle nodded.

  ‘And maybe that other guy … the one killed out near the airport.’

  ‘Allen?’ Carlyle shrugged. ‘Maybe. I don’t know, but it’s possible.’

  ‘Why would he have done that?’

  ‘Well, unlike the rest of them, I think Allen was ready to talk. Talk properly that is. He had agreed to speak to me once he returned to the country. If he had spilled the beans, then that would have been a problem for all of them.’

  ‘But you can’t prove any of this, otherwise you’d nick Miller.’ The word ‘nick’ was delivered with a childlike relish.

  ‘That is correct,’ Carlyle admitted.

  ‘So you dangle it in front of me,’ she smiled broadly, ‘hoping that I can stir up some trouble.’

  ‘But publicity is the very soul of justice,’ he said primly.

  ‘How profound,’ she said sarcastically. ‘Where did you pick that up from?’

  It took Carlyle a second to dredge the name from his memory. ‘Jeremy Bentham – he was a philosopher.’

  ‘I know who he was,’ Rosanna laughed, ‘but he never worked for the bloody BBC. And, anyway, I don’t think he meant that journalists should allow themselves to be used as a tool of revenge by frustrated coppers.’