All Kinds of Dead

by James Craig

  ‘The police are coming,’ Gopal shouted as the noise died away. And if they don’t get you, he thought, my uncle will crush you like bugs.

  ‘Fuck off,’ the gunman countered. His larger associate shook his head, his eyes sparkling with delight, as if he was amused by the exchange.

  ’I would be careful, kid,’ the big guy advised. ‘He’s armed and dangerous.’

  The gunman swung his arm round. ‘And I don’t give a monkey’s about the bloody police.’ As he trained the gun on Gopal, Giles saw his chance. Jumping forward, he swung the case at the man’s head. But the gunman easily ducked away from the blow. Gopal closed his eyes just as there was a loud explosion from the muzzle of the gun. He kept them tightly shut as the sound of the gunshot reverberated in his brain, followed by the sound of Giles whimpering on the tarmac.

  Gopal half-opened his eyes.

  ‘It’s just a flesh wound.’ The bigger man stepped over to Giles and pressed down on his blood-soaked trousers with the toe of one of his shoes.

  ‘Awww!’ Giles screamed. ‘Fuck!’

  ‘Unlock the handcuffs.’

  ‘He can’t,’ Gopal quickly explained. ‘We don’t have the keys.’

  The man frowned, but lifted his foot, releasing the pressure on Giles’ wound.

  ‘And we don’t have the combination to unlock the case either,’ Gopal added, anticipating his next question. ‘He can’t take it off or open it until we get to our meeting. That’s just the way these things work.’ It was true enough. Uncle Bill’s security basically boiled down to the mantra: ‘If they want it, they can chop your bloody arm off.’ At the time, Gopal had found this an amusingly quaint approach; now, not so much. Glancing back at the terminal, he saw Gary the holidaymaker emerge with two police officers. One was shouting into her radio, while the other lifted his machine gun to his shoulder and began walking slowly towards them.

  Gary’s wife was still stuck in no-man’s-land, clinging on to her trolley for dear life.

  The cop with his weapon raised was shouting something at them but he was too far away and his words were lost on the wind. He continued to approach them with all the speed of a pallbearer. Clearly, the officer wasn’t the have-a-go hero type. At his current rate of progress, he would be with them in about fifteen minutes. Where were the reinforcements? Gopal listened for the sound of sirens. Then he looked to the heavens for the reassuring whine of a police helicopter heading to the rescue.

  Nothing.

  The moment seemed frozen in time. Then the tableau was interrupted by a Range Rover which roared up and came screeching to a halt at the end of the row of parked cars.

  ‘Keys,’ the man demanded again.

  Brix groaned.

  ‘We don’t have them,’ Gopal insisted.

  A pained expression crossed the man’s face. ‘Can’t you unlock the case?’

  Gopal shook his head.

  The man looked at Brix.

  Brix shrugged as best he could.

  The seconds ticked slowly past. Word had obviously reached the terminal of an incident in the car park as no one had ventured outside in the last few minutes. The policeman with the machine gun was still closing in on them, inch by inch. Dancing forward like a batsman planning to hit a six, the gunman lifted his weapon and fired a warning shot over the cop’s head. Immediately, the officer ducked behind a parked van; the advance had been halted.

  ‘Hey!’ the large guy shouted. ‘No shooting!’

  The gunman gave his accomplice a no big deal look and gestured towards the getaway car. ‘Want me to get the bolt-cutters for the handcuffs?’

  ‘No time.’ The big man grabbed Brix by the collar and pulled him to his feet. ‘We’ll have to sort this out en route.’ He began marching Brix towards the car.

  ‘What about the other two?’ the gunman asked.

  Gopal glanced at the taxi driver, who was now sitting on the tarmac, mumbling to himself. In one hand, he grasped the crest on his football shirt as if that higher deity would help him escape this disaster unscathed.

  ‘Just leave ’em,’ the big man instructed.

  ‘But—’

  ‘Fucking hell, Andy! Just fucking leave them, all right? Enough with the cops and robbers already. We need to vamoose. Unless you want to go straight back to fucking Peterborough, let’s go.’

  Fortune pushed the man with the case towards the back door of the Range Rover. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Giles. Giles Brix.’

  ‘Okay, Giles. We’re going to get this little problem sorted out.’

  Brix looked unconvinced. He was hobbling badly, wincing every time he put any weight on his injured leg.

  ‘You and me are just the hired help here, am I right?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Brix agreed. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Neither of us wants to end up face down on the tarmac in a squabble over someone else’s diamonds, do we?’

  ‘No.’ Brix nodded, his accent blanketed by a concentrated mixture of pain and fear. ‘That’s true enough.’

  ‘Good. As long as we’re on the same page, there’s no problem. Just stay cool and everything will be okay.’

  As they approached the motor, Colinson reached into the back and pushed open the door.

  ‘Get in,’ Fortune ordered. When Brix hesitated, Fortune gave him a glimpse of the Glock. ‘Just because I don’t wave it around like the moron over there doesn’t mean I won’t use it.’

  Brix nodded and a fleeting look of professional understanding passed between the two men. Grabbing the door, Brix pulled himself inside and slid across the back seat. Fortune slipped in behind him, cursing as his ears were assaulted by a blast of hideous thrash metal that was pouring from the car’s stereo.

  Colinson drummed his hands on the steering wheel in time to the music. ‘Hurry up!’ he shouted. ‘We should have been gone already.’

  ‘Turn that shit off,’ Fortune shouted.

  Still hitting the wheel with one hand, Colinson smacked the stereo with the other. The silence was instant and almost overwhelming. It felt so good that Fortune nearly smiled. Slamming the door closed, he looked back for Carson. ‘Andy . . .’

  A shot rang out, followed by a second.

  ‘No,’ Fortune growled as he contemplated the two bodies sprawled on the tarmac. ‘No, no no.’

  Carson turned and ambled towards the car, as nonchalant as a man heading to the pub on a Sunday lunchtime, not quickening his pace even as the first sirens sounded in the distance.

  As the sirens got louder, Carson finally broke into a jog. Climbing into the front passenger seat, the blood splatter on his face made his child-like grin seem totally deranged. Colinson stomped on the accelerator and they shot forward, heading in the direction of the A1020.

  Resisting an urge to splatter Carson’s brains all over the inside of the windscreen, Fortune fumbled for his seatbelt. Clicking it into place, he nudged Brix, who was sitting with the case on his knees, eyes front.

  ‘Buckle up,’ Fortune advised. ‘This is gonna be a bumpy ride’

  SEVENTEEN

  After seeing his father safely home, Carlyle headed back to Covent Garden. Feeling rather the worse for wear, he struggled to make sense of their situation. It was hardly unique. Nor was the fact that he was soon to become an orphan the greatest tragedy the world had ever seen. But he was conscious that he was moving into a new phase of his life and rather disconcerted that he didn’t feel much about it, one way or the other.

  Muttering to himself about ‘circle of life shit’, he wandered down Endell Street. It was still early and the post-work crowds were out and about. The energy and enthusiasm coming up from the pavement made him feel a little better as he tried to shake the woolly feeling from between his ears. Even sipping at a slow pace, the inspector had managed to work his way through five shots of Irish whiskey in the time that Alexander had managed to drink approximately half of his pint of Guinness, spilling most of the rest when he knocked the damn thing over.

&n
bsp; As Carlyle had been busy mopping up the mess, the auld fella had jumped to his feet and announced that he was calling it a night. Carlyle had returned the sopping bar towel to a less than impressed woman behind the bar, finished the last of his Jameson’s and stumbled after him – not drunk exactly, but not entirely sober either.

  ‘You shouldn’t drink so much,’ his father counselled as Carlyle tripped over a rogue paving stone and almost headbutted some random piece of street furniture which seemed to serve no obvious purpose, other than to turn a routine walk into an assault course.

  ‘At least I managed to put it in my mouth,’ Carlyle countered, rather unkindly.

  ‘Good for you,’ was all Alexander offered in retaliation.

  They walked the rest of the way in silence. Reaching Alexander’s flat – the family home on a small Fulham council estate where Carlyle had grown up – the inspector braced himself for the invite to come in for a cup of tea, but to his relief it was not forthcoming.

  ‘Night, Dad.’

  ‘Night, son.’

  Carlyle watched him trudge towards the stairs. At least the old man was back in the family home. It was only a few years ago that his parents had divorced and Alexander had been banished to a nearby bedsit. Carlyle’s mother had died not so long after that, and his father had quickly moved back in before the council could reclaim it.

  ‘I’ll let you know if I manage to get anything for the pain relief.’

  ‘Aye,’ said the old man, his tone indicating a complete indifference one way or another. ‘You do that.’

  Back in Covent Garden, Carlyle decided that he didn’t want to arrive at his own home too obviously under the influence. He wasn’t much of a drinker, and Helen was tolerant of his occasional indulgences, but his wife would not appreciate him turning up clearly intoxicated.

  ‘Better get something to eat.’ Reaching the corner of Betterton Street, the inspector went to try and soak up some of the alcohol in his stomach with a visit to the Rock & Sole Plaice. The fish and chip shop was something of a tourist trap, being the only establishment of its kind in the neighbourhood, but the food was good for all that. After queuing for an age behind a family of Italian tourists, he emerged with an open bag of chips, smothered in vinegar and ketchup. Crossing the road, he speared a fat slab of fried potato with a tiny wooden fork and poked it into his mouth. As he did so, he felt his mobile phone begin to rumble in the breast pocket of his jacket.

  ‘Bollocks.’ Should he answer? The call might prove to be important. Then again, shouldn’t a man be allowed to have his dinner in peace?

  What to do? Dropping the fork into the bag, he cautiously lifted the phone between his thumb and forefinger. On the screen was a local landline number which he didn’t recognize.

  ‘Mm.’

  The phone kept ringing. Allowing alcohol-fuelled curiosity to get the better of him, Carlyle lifted it to his ear. ‘Yes?’

  ‘What took you so long?’ Dominic Silver sounded irritated.

  ‘Just be grateful that I picked it up at all,’ Carlyle shot back cheerily. ‘You know what I’m like with phones – if you had gone to voicemail, I might not have got to it until some time next week.’

  ‘Next month, more like,’ Dom pointed out, his annoyance tempered by a sense of surprise that he’d got through.

  Carlyle suddenly let out an unguarded burp.

  ‘Are you drunk?’

  ‘Me?’ Carlyle came to a halt in front of a poster advertising the latest edition of a style magazine. On the cover was a picture of a leading manager, a bullshit merchant of the highest order. The smug bastard was wearing his usual shit-eating grin, while the cover line explained that inside was an exclusive interview explaining in great detail the man’s innate genius. Grunting, the inspector instinctively wanted to flick a V-sign at the offensive creature, only to be prevented from doing so by the lack of a free hand.

  ‘You sound pissed,’ Dom persisted. ‘Have you been drinking?’

  ‘Just a few,’ Carlyle offered. ‘I was out with my dad.’ Wedging the phone between his ear and his shoulder, he tried to recover his fork from inside the chip bag. Failing, he picked up a couple of chips with his fingers. ‘Which reminds me,’ he said, shoving the chips into his mouth. ‘I’ve been trying to get hold of you. Where are you?’

  ‘West End Central,’ Dom said flatly.

  Carlyle frowned and chewed at the same time. ‘The police station? What are you doing there?’

  ‘What do you think? I’ve been bloody nicked.’

  Sitting on a bare mattress, Dom looked up as the cell door opened and Carlyle stepped inside. ‘You took your time.’

  ‘Nice to see you too,’ Carlyle smiled. ‘I came straight here when I got your call.’

  Dressed in a pair of jeans and a cashmere sweater, Dom gestured at the door with one of his Nikes. ‘The service in here is bloody terrible,’ he grumbled. ‘I asked for a Flat White an hour ago.’

  ‘I’ll have a stern word with Customer Service.’ Carlyle glanced over his shoulder, waiting for the door to close behind him. He listened to it being locked, followed by the sound of feet receding down the corridor before continuing: ‘Sorry it’s taken so long. It took me a while to blag my way inside your lovely abode.’ He gestured around the graffiti-ridden cell. ‘Seems you can’t just turn up and walk right in.’

  ‘Who knew?’ Dom was trying to be cool about it, but it was clearly a struggle.

  Carlyle tutted in mock dismay. ‘They’re a right suspicious bunch round here.’

  ‘I should have called my lawyer,’ Dom said.

  Carlyle frowned. Barry Fagen was a corporate lawyer. He firmly belonged to Dom’s current life, rather than his past. There was no merit in blurring the lines between the two. ‘Barry’s no good for a situation like this. Don’t worry, I’ll get you out, no problem.’

  ‘Mm.’

  ‘Does Eva know?’

  ‘No, no. And she doesn’t need to know, either. She’s off at her mum’s anyway, so that’s all fine.’

  Carlyle tried to remember Dom mentioning his mother-in-law before. It didn’t matter. ‘What about the kids?’

  Dom and Eva had more kids than you could shake a stick at. Sometimes Carlyle – who worried about Alice being an only child – felt jealous about that; mostly he just felt relieved. In his experience, one was more than enough.

  Dom thought about it for a moment. ‘They’re all doing their own thing.’

  ‘All of them?’

  Dom shrugged. ‘They’re not babies any more. They grow up fast.’ He saw the doubt in Carlyle’s eyes. ‘Don’t worry, they’re all accounted for. I know what they’re all up to. Do you want a list?’

  ‘No, ’course not.’

  ‘Well then.’ Folding his arms, Dom leaned back against the cell wall. ‘What did you tell them at the front desk?’

  ‘I told them that you are a CI and that by picking you up they have compromised a long and expensive investigation.’

  ‘Me?’ Dom scoffed. ‘A Confidential Informer? Ha!’

  ‘I’ll have to put you on the list now,’ Carlyle said.

  ‘A bit late for that.’

  ‘Yes, well.’ For a couple of moments, the two men contemplated some of the scrapes they’d been in together over the years, all of them strictly off the books.

  Those days, they both hoped, were over.

  ‘So, what happened?’

  Dom’s eyes narrowed as he looked around the cell. ‘Are you sure that this place isn’t bugged?’

  ‘Come on! That’s just the kind of thing they do on the TV.’ Carlyle took a half-step into the middle of the room. The residual smell of disinfectant and bodily emissions was beginning to make him feel sick, after the whiskey and chips. ‘Apart from anything else, the Met could never afford the equipment.’

  ‘Fair point,’ Dom conceded. ‘So, I was locking up at the Gallery when—’

  Suddenly in dire need of some fresh air, Carlyle held up a hand. ‘Bugged or not, th
at can wait till we get out of here.’

  Dom jumped to his feet. ‘I can go?’

  ‘Not quite yet.’

  ‘Ah.’ He sat back down again.

  ‘I just need to get some paperwork sorted out. You know what it’s like.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Dom nodded. As an ex-copper, he was well aware of the Met’s addiction to form-filling.

  ‘Won’t take too long.’ Keen to be on his way, Carlyle turned back to the cell door and gave it three quick bangs with the flat of his hand. After a few moments, the duty sergeant idled down the corridor and opened up.

  ‘Hurry up,’ Dom hissed.

  ‘Don’t worry.’ Carlyle smiled blandly as he stood on the threshold. ‘Give me ten minutes.’

  In the event, Carlyle was uncharacteristically optimistic when it came to his timings. Back upstairs, he was halfway through filling in yet another form when he was confronted by the arresting officer, a rather obtuse young constable, who clearly didn’t believe Carlyle’s story about Dom being a CI.

  ‘The guy had a bag of illegal tablets sitting on his desk,’ the constable harrumphed. In his mid-twenties, he was a ruddy-faced beanpole who couldn’t have looked any more pleased with himself if he had just been made Commissioner. ‘There was more than enough for a charge of possession with intent to supply.’

  Save it for your sergeant’s exam, Carlyle thought. The boy was so annoying it was a racing certainty that he would be on some management fast-track as soon as the brass got wind of him.

  ‘Under normal circumstances.’

  ‘Under normal circumstances,’ the constable agreed. ‘They’re releasing your pal now but it’s all highly irregular.’

  ‘He’s not my pal,’ Carlyle lied, ‘he’s a very valuable contact.’

  ‘It’s still highly irregular,’ the constable sniffed. ‘There’s no way he can have the drugs back, even if he does work for you.’

  ‘No, certainly not,’ Carlyle agreed. Clearly, Alexander’s pain-relief medicine would have to remain in the evidence locker at the back of the building for a little while longer.

  Watching the frown deepen on Carlyle’s face, the constable mistook his dismay for confusion. ‘Didn’t you know your CI was a dealer?’ he smirked.