All Kinds of Dead

by James Craig

  ‘I never was much of a skydiver,’ Roche chuckled.

  ‘No, but you know what I mean. It wasn’t as if you went out looking for trouble this morning.’

  ‘I should have seen it coming though.’

  ‘What else were you going to do? Ignore it?’

  ‘I could have just called it in, rather than confront them. In the end, I held them up for maybe thirty seconds. The guy just stepped out of the van, smacked me with a left hook and that was that. I was right out of the game. Fortunately, I landed on my arse on the pavement. The next thing I remember, I was sitting against a wall, waiting for the ambulance.’

  ‘Thank God it turned out so well.’

  ‘Yeah. We’ve got to be thankful for small mercies. From what I understand, the other guys didn’t come off so good.’

  ‘No.’ Carlyle consulted the notebook in his hand. ‘David Howard and Serge . . . Aubry. I spoke to them on the way in. Howard has two broken fingers and a broken wrist. Aubry has a fractured jaw.’

  Roche said, ‘I didn’t have them pegged for have-a-go heroes.’

  ‘They weren’t coming to your aid,’ Carlyle pointed out. ‘From what I can tell, they just stood around like complete lemons; didn’t even have the sense to run away. The guy in the van clocked their cameras and was worried about what they might have filmed. When they refused to hand the cameras over, he slapped them about a bit and then took their kit.’

  ‘But they didn’t film anything, I don’t think.’

  ‘That’s what they told me. According to our two “heroes”, they didn’t shoot a single frame.’

  Grinning, Roche pulled her phone from the pocket of her jacket. ‘I did though.’ Flicking through a series of images, she held one up for Carlyle to inspect.

  ‘A picture of a zebra crossing,’ Carlyle deadpanned. ‘Nice.’

  She gave him a gentle smack on the arm. ‘There – in the background. You can distinctly see them.’ Tapping the screen, she zoomed in until the front of the van dominated the screen. The man behind the wheel was just a mess of pixels, but the licence-plate was clear enough.

  ‘Bugger me,’ Carlyle beamed, scribbling down the details. ‘Might be a fake, or stolen, but I’ll see where it gets us.’

  ‘Okay.’ Roche put the phone back in her pocket and slid off the bed.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘I’ve got to get out of here.’

  Carlyle looked around for an authority figure in a white coat who could come wafting down the corridor and counsel caution; perhaps insist that his sergeant be whisked off for an immediate MRI scan. But Holby City this was not. Scanning the corridor with a plaintive look on his face garnered no response whatsoever. When he glared at a bunch of orderlies chatting happily in front of a vending machine selling different kinds of junk food, they ignored him completely.

  ‘I’ve sat in this bloody corridor long enough,’ Roche grumbled.

  ‘Okay,’ he said resignedly. ‘I hear you.’

  ‘I hate hospitals.’

  It was a sentiment Carlyle could easily relate to. Hospitals always made him feel ill. Knowing better than to try and stop her, he offered her his arm. For a moment, Roche looked bemused but then she slipped her arm inside his and let him walk her to the door.

  Out on the street, he hailed a black cab. ‘Okay, here’s the deal. You head for home and put your feet up for the rest of the day. I’ll go back to the school and sniff around. And I’ll chase up the van. I’ll give you a call later on and then we can decide what to do next.’ As the taxi drew up to the kerb, he pulled open the passenger door and gestured for her to get inside. Roche hesitated, then did as he requested.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘No problem.’ Carlyle slammed the door shut. ‘I’ll call you later.’

  Reaching for his phone, he watched the cab pull out into the traffic. Hitting Simpson’s number, he listened to it ring for what seemed like an eternity before her voicemail kicked in. This time he did leave a message: ‘Boss, it’s me. I know you’re tied up on a course, but there have been a few developments. I just wanted to keep you informed. Give me a bell when you get the chance. Bye.’

  Satisfied that Simpson couldn’t now complain that he wasn’t keeping her in the loop, Carlyle rang another number.

  ‘Well, well, well, if it isn’t Inspector John Carlyle. What do you want?’

  ‘How are you?’ Carlyle chuckled. ‘And what makes you think I’m after something? It could be a social call.’

  ‘I’m more likely to get a social call from George Clooney.’

  ‘Sheelagh,’ he protested, ‘be fair.’

  ‘I am being fair. You’d think I was the only person in Scotland Yard dumb enough to do you favours.’

  You are, the inspector reflected, more or less. He had first met data analyst Sheelagh Buttimer on a mandatory training day, five, or maybe six, years ago. Like Carlyle, she was a second-generation Celt. Whereas his parents had arrived in London from Glasgow, hers had originated in Cork, ending up in a flat off the Fulham Palace Road, less than half a mile from the Carlyle home. It turned out that they shared a love of Fulham FC and a deep distrust of the Met management. Sitting in an office on the fourth floor of Police HQ, she had access to every database known to man, and quite a few that weren’t. As such, Carlyle had not been averse to co-opting Sheelagh into his own informal professional support network.

  ‘What did I get last time? A bottle of cava and a box of bleedin’ Milk Tray!’ Her tone was more amused than outraged. ‘Talk about a cheap date.’

  ‘Proper champagne this time,’ Carlyle promised.

  A heavy sigh came down the line. ‘What are you after?’

  ‘Can you check a numberplate with the DVLA for me?’

  ‘Can’t you do it yourself?’

  ‘I would, but I’m a bit tied up at the moment.’

  ‘What about that glamorous sergeant of yours, can’t she do it?’

  Glamorous? ‘That’s why I’m a bit tied up.’ Carlyle talked up Roche’s run-in with the van driver.

  ‘Oh, bloody hell. Is she going to be okay?’

  ‘She should be fine.’

  ‘Give me the licence-plate.’

  Carlyle obliged.

  Sheelagh read it back to him and added: ‘I’ll check it right now. Just need a couple of minutes.’

  ‘Thanks.’ As he put the phone back in his pocket, the inspector’s stomach started to rumble. On the other side of the road, he spied a Greggs offering a tempting selection of takeaway treats. Waiting for a break in the traffic, he licked his lips. ‘Food first,’ he muttered to himself, ‘then school.’

  Standing outside the shop, he was just shoving the last of a ham sandwich into his mouth when Sheelagh called him back.

  ‘The van was reported stolen in Peterborough, two days ago.’

  ‘That looks like a dead end then.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Not your fault. Thanks for checking. It’s one thing I can tick off the list.’

  ‘No problem. I’ll email you the details.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘I hope Roche is okay. Give her my best.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘Speak later.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Making a mental note to get Sheelagh a bottle of something nice, he turned his attention to the selection of cakes in Greggs window. ‘Time for dessert.’

  ELEVEN

  By the time he finally made it to the school, the lunch hour was in full swing. Arriving at the gate, Carlyle watched a swarming mass of kids rushing around in all directions, squealing and squawking with delight. Aside from a couple of teachers standing by a bike shed, playing on their mobile phones, it was an almost timeless scene.

  Envious of the children’s energy and good humour, the inspector watched the ebb and flow of a game of football for a few moments before pressing the buzzer and identifying himself. Several minutes later, a young woman with a severe bob haircut appeared through the throng. Dressed in a grey t
rouser suit and a red blouse, with a pair of sensible shoes, she looked like a management trainee from Marks & Spencer.

  ‘I’m Melissa Foreman, one of the administrative assistants.’ After carefully checking his ID, she released the lock and let him inside.

  Pushing open the gate, Carlyle gave her one of his winning smiles. ‘I’m here to—’

  Not interested in his explanation, the woman turned on her heel and began marching across the playground, expertly sidestepping little turbo-charged bodies as she went. ‘I’ll show you to the headmaster’s office.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Carlyle had to break into a jog to catch up.

  ‘We’ve had quite a morning,’ she said over her shoulder.

  ‘I can imagine,’ Carlyle replied to her back.

  ‘Poor Mrs Hunter,’ she clucked. ‘Was she really kidnapped? And her kids! What kind of a world are we living in?’

  The same one as always, the inspector thought.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘That’s what we’re trying to find out,’ Carlyle said blandly. ‘I’ll need to see all the relevant papers on the children.’

  ‘Your colleague is already upstairs.’ Slowing slightly, Melissa pointed to the top floor of the school building.

  My colleague?

  ‘She has the files for Susannah and Robert.’

  ‘What kind of kids are they?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know,’ she said snootily. ‘We have more than three hundred and fifty children here. I don’t know them all personally.’

  ‘No, I suppose not.’ Carlyle was suddenly distracted by a football hurtling towards his face. Thrusting out a hand, he managed to push it away, avoiding another pair of broken specs in the process.

  Melissa scanned the sea of faces, looking for the rogue footballer. ‘Tommy Wilson,’ she scolded, ‘you’re even worse than Bobby Zamora.’

  The kid looked at her blankly.

  Before your time, Carlyle thought. Chasing after the ball, he passed it back towards the suitably shamed tousle-haired kid. To the inspector’s chagrin, the ball squirted off his toe and veered off to his left, almost decapitating a girl playing hopscotch before smacking harmlessly into a wall.

  Oops! Happily, Melissa, almost at the entrance to the school building, had not witnessed his lack of technique. Blushing, he chased after her. ‘Are you a West Ham fan then?’ he asked, referencing one of the well-travelled Zamora’s former clubs.

  She shook her head. ‘My family’s from Shepherd’s Bush; they all support QPR.’

  ‘Mm.’ Carlyle decided to keep his Fulham allegiance to himself. The only team Fulham fans liked less than Queens Park Rangers was Chelsea.

  Pulling open the door, she ushered him inside. ‘I’m not into football myself but I’ve had to listen to my dad and my brothers moan about poor old Bobby often enough over the years.’

  ‘I’d forgotten he played for them.’

  ‘I wish my lot would,’ the woman griped. ‘Even now, they still go on about him.’

  Unable to offer much sympathy, Carlyle pointed at the lift. ‘Is it upstairs?’

  ‘Yes.’ Melissa stepped forward, pressed the call button and the doors shuddered open. ‘Go to the third floor. Mrs Ray, Dr Fry’s secretary, will meet you there.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Carlyle stepped into the lift and waited for the doors to close.

  ‘Good luck,’ Melissa said, and smiled weakly. ‘I’ve got to go and get ready for 3c’s trip to Seymour Leisure Centre. You don’t know what stress is until you’ve had to take thirty six-year-olds swimming.’

  ‘I can imagine,’ Carlyle lied, watching her disappear down the hall as the doors closed.

  The headmaster’s office was little more than a large cubbyhole. With two people already inside, Carlyle could barely get through the door. Declining Mrs Ray’s offer of a coffee, he turned his attention first to the blonde woman sitting in the overstuffed armchair pushed up against a set of floor-to-ceiling shelves, filled to overflowing with books. On her knee rested a pair of blue files, presumably the records of the Hunter kids.

  ‘Inspector John Carlyle,’ he introduced himself.

  The woman lifted her backside a couple of inches out of the chair, reaching forward to offer a perfunctory handshake. ‘Sarah Ward. West End Central.’ The look on her face said, What are you doing here?

  ‘I work with Sergeant Roche. I’m just back from the hospital – she’s going to be fine.’ The woman said nothing; it appeared she could not have cared less. The inspector turned his attention to the grim-looking man perched on the edge of a tiny desk. He was a big bloke, dressed a bit casually for a headmaster, Carlyle thought, in jeans and a North Face fleece, but obviously in good physical shape. His handshake was as firm as the woman’s was limp.

  ‘Dr Fry?’

  The man’s face darkened. ‘No. I’m Daniel Hunter.’

  ‘The husband,’ Ward explained.

  ‘Ah. Okay.’

  Her eyes narrowed. ‘Carlyle . . . Didn’t you leave me a message about something?’

  ‘Er . . .’ It took a moment for his mind to click into gear. ‘Ah, yes. Lucio Spargo.’

  Ward’s expression became even more pained. ‘What do you want with that nasty piece of work?’

  ‘If you don’t mind, do you think we could focus on the matter in hand?’ Pushing himself off the desk, Hunter occupied almost all the remaining available floorspace. He was at least six inches taller than Carlyle and considerably wider. The inspector took an involuntary step backwards, so that he was almost standing in the corridor.

  ‘Mr Hunter,’ Ward said wearily, ‘we are taking all available steps—’

  Hunter swatted away the empty words. ‘I’ve told you already, I know who is responsible for this. We need to move fast. My wife and kids are in serious danger.’

  ‘And I’ve told you already that we are deploying all available resources on this,’ the woman snapped. Hunter started to say something else, but Ward pointed towards the open door. ‘If you could step outside for a moment, please, sir,’ she said, adopting a tone so official that it was almost a sneer, ‘I would like to consult with my colleague.’

  Glaring at each of them in turn, Hunter ducked out of the room. Carlyle listened to him stomp off down the corridor, wondering what Ward had in mind. He had never come across the inspector before, but his first impressions weren’t good.

  ‘Close the door.’

  Carlyle did as he was told, taking up Hunter’s position by the desk. He scanned the bookshelves, looking for something familiar. Sadly, they all seemed to be textbooks of one sort or another. The latest Robert Crais masterpiece was not in evidence.

  ‘That guy is really getting on my tits,’ Ward snapped, ‘and now you turn up.’ She smacked the files on her lap angrily.

  ‘We are talking about the kidnapping of his wife and kids,’ Carlyle said reasonably. ‘It’s not that surprising that he’s a bit stressed.’

  ‘Humpf.’ Ward shifted in her seat. ‘He should know better.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  Ward didn’t seem to hear the question. ‘It wouldn’t surprise me if it was some kind of domestic.’

  ‘A domestic?’

  ‘Stranger things have happened. Maybe he was beating her up and she faked her own disappearance.’

  ‘That’s a bit far-fetched, don’t you think?’

  ‘Not at all.’ She shot him a hard stare. ‘Or are you one of those old-school coppers who don’t think domestic violence is a serious issue?’

  Don’t put words in my mouth. Carlyle was about to fire back a barb of his own, but thought better of it. It was more important that he go and speak to the husband than get involved in a pointless row. ‘My sergeant seems to think it was for real,’ he said evenly.

  ‘It’s far more likely to be a domestic than his cock and bull story.’

  ‘What story?’

  Ward shrugged. ‘Ask him yourself. I know a bullshitter when I see one.’

  She was in
terrupted by the clanging of a bell, loudly signalling the end of the lunch break. It was followed by the sound of children stampeding down corridors and back into their classrooms. Waiting for relative quiet to return, the inspector was about to continue with his question when there was a knock and a rather peeved-looking man stuck his head round the door. He regarded Ward and Carlyle in turn, before addressing neither one of them in particular.

  ‘I was wondering if you were finished with my office yet?’

  Ward gave the headmaster what appeared to be her standard pissed-off look. ‘If I could just take a couple more minutes of your time, Dr Fry, to check a few things with you. I gather you witnessed the abduction.’

  ‘If you must.’ Slipping into the room, the headmaster removed his red waterproof and hung it on a peg on the back of the door. ‘If we could make it as quick as possible though, I would be very grateful.’ Stepping round Carlyle, he squeezed behind his desk, settling into a ratty office chair that looked like it had been rescued from a skip. ‘I have a paper to complete and a finance committee meeting that’s due to start in forty-five minutes. What a trying day!’

  Tough at the top, Carlyle thought, sarcastically. Very inconvenient, the abduction of two of your pupils and their mother.

  ‘This won’t take long,’ Ward said flatly.

  Leaving them to it, Carlyle slipped away. Taking the stairs, he went out of the building and crossed the playground – empty now, apart from the husband, who was standing by the gate, drawing hard on a cigarette.

  Watching Carlyle approach, Hunter took a final drag on the fag before tossing it on the ground and stubbing it out with the toe of his boot. Then, thinking better of it, he reached down and recovered the flattened stub. ‘I don’t reckon much to your colleague.’

  ‘Ward’s not really my colleague.’ Carlyle gestured in the direction of the school building. ‘I only just met her up there. We’ve never worked together before.’

  Hunter flicked the stub over the gate. It bounced once on the pavement and disappeared into the gutter. ‘So why are you here? I need something to happen – and soon. God knows what those bastards are doing to my family! Are you going to help me?’ The big man’s face was ugly with tension.