All Kinds of Dead

by James Craig

  She waited for him to go on.

  ‘I never wanted to live anywhere else.’

  Can’t blame you for that, she thought, her hostility towards his presence dissolving rapidly. Nicky Jones, as she already thought of him, maybe wasn’t as pretty as the boys who cruised the harbour late into the evenings on their Vespas but she wouldn’t kick him out of bed either. She was just about to offer him a drink when an almighty crash came from next door, followed by a short burst of indecipherable shouting. Becky winced. ‘Don’t they know they have to be careful? What are they doing in there?’

  Pushing a loose strand of hair away from his face, the inspector made no attempt at an apology. ‘It seems that your husband is really in a lot of trouble.’

  ‘I’m well aware of that.’

  ‘We need to find him before there is any more trouble.’

  ‘But he’s not bleedin’ here, is he?’

  Leaning against the doorframe, Jones folded his arms. ‘You know where he is?’

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  Sceptical, the cop raised an eyebrow. It made him look silly. Despite everything, Becky had to suppress a smirk. ‘I think women usually like to know where their husbands are, don’t you?’

  ‘Not necessarily. Anyway, wanting to know and knowing are two different things.’ She checked his hands. No rings. ‘As you would understand if you were married.’

  The inspector conceded the point with the slightest of shrugs.

  Pulling out a chair, Becky sat down, signalling for him to join her. Shaking his head, he stayed where he was.

  ‘I saw him in prison before he – you know – like, escaped. Not that I knew what he was up to, of course. He should have taken his chances at the court-martial. I think he would have got off.’ She searched the policeman’s face for some sign of agreement. None was forthcoming. ‘After all, he was just a soldier doing his job. You’re fighting in a war, what are you supposed to do?’

  Jones made a vague gesture. He didn’t feel the need to venture an opinion.

  ‘Running wasn’t very clever.’

  If by ‘running’, Jones thought, you mean breaking out of prison, killing three people in the process, then no, it wasn’t. Not in the slightest. ‘When you spoke to him, he didn’t mention anything about diamonds – a robbery?’

  Becky’s eyes narrowed. ‘What robbery? Andy’s no crook. He’s just a soldier being hung out to dry by the brass.’

  Was she lying? He couldn’t tell. ‘Do you know a guy called Fortune . . . Ryan Fortune?’

  She bit her lower lip, giving the inspector a moment to anticipate the lie that was coming.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t think so. Andy has loads of mates though, so, you know, I couldn’t say I know them all.’

  ‘You know Captain Daniel Hunter though, don’t you?’

  ‘ ’Course I know Hunter,’ she snapped. ‘He was the wan—the cop that nicked Andy in the first place. The stupid sod could have just deleted that video file and none of this bollocks would have ever happened.’

  ‘What about Hunter’s family?’

  ‘What about them? I didn’t even know that he had one.’

  ‘They’ve gone missing.’

  ‘Have they? Well, good for them,’ Becky snorted, her indifference absolute. ‘I wish I could just bloody disappear. What’s that got to do with anything, anyway?’

  ‘From what I understand from the British authorities,’ the inspector said, casually rewinding the conversation, ‘you are seen as a possible accomplice in your husband’s escape.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Didn’t you go and speak to the Prison Commander about your husband being allowed to use the chapel?’

  ‘Everybody’s allowed to do that,’ she countered. ‘I was just trying to get him his rights.’

  ‘You were helping plan his escape.’

  ‘No,’ she said vehemently. ‘I was just getting him his rights. I didn’t know he was going to be sprung. Anyway, if he was gonna do it, it doesn’t matter whether he was taking confession at the time or not. What kind of prison is it that just lets him walk out anyway?’

  ‘The British Military Police may end up issuing a warrant for your arrest.’ The inspector paused to let the point sink in. ‘If they don’t find Mr Carson soon, I may well be coming back here with an order for your deportation back to the United Kingdom.’

  Becky drummed her fingers on the table. That bastard Hunter clearly wouldn’t leave them alone until he had destroyed their whole family. She glared at Jones. ‘Is that a threat?’

  ‘It is a simple statement of fact, Mrs Carson. I am simply the messenger. If you know anything, you should tell us now. We will pass it on to our colleagues in England and then we can hopefully leave you in peace in your lovely home.’ Giving her a rueful smile, he gestured over his shoulder. ‘My boys don’t like the early starts so much, you know.’

  ‘I don’t know where Andy is,’ Becky Carson stated again. ‘And he’s not coming here.’ I hope.

  The cop looked doubtful. ‘Where else would he go?’

  ‘I dunno, but he’s not stupid. He knows that this is the first place you would come looking. He wouldn’t want to drag his family into this mess.’

  ‘I’m afraid, Mrs Carson, he has done that already.’

  ‘It’s nothing to do with us.’ Looking out of the kitchen window, she contemplated the peaceful delights of her garden under the clear blue sky. Andy, you stupid bastard, she thought, if you do ever turn up here, I swear, I’ll kill you myself.

  ‘It really is a nice house you have here.’

  Lost on an ocean of self-pity, it took Becky several seconds to realize that he had spoken. ‘Huh?’

  ‘You have a very nice house,’ Jones repeated.

  ‘I did before your people started trashing it,’ she grumbled.

  ‘A soldier’s salary must be good.’

  Understanding the implication immediately, Becky jerked upright. ‘It’s my mother’s house. She bought it when my father died. You can’t touch it.’

  ‘That would be a matter for the courts. Proceeds of Crime legislation is quite rigorous these days, which is good . . . for us.’

  A sergeant appeared in the doorway and said something to the inspector in Greek. Jones nodded, replying at length before sending him on his way.

  Getting to her feet, Becky went and stood in front of the window, resting her backside against the sink. She was barely four feet from the man now, and lowered her voice accordingly. ‘Look, you’re not going to find anything here. Take it from me. As far as I know, Andy is still in England. Where, I don’t know. London, maybe. But I do know that he’s fucked up, big time. And he’s not going to get away with it. He’ll definitely have to go to prison now, which is fair enough.’

  Arms folded, Jones stared at the pristine desert boots on his feet, letting her make her pitch.

  ‘All I want is for me and the kids to be left completely out of it. We’ve come here to get away from all the crap back at home. The grief they were getting at school was unbelievable. Andy’s identity was supposed to be a secret but everybody knew. The bastards all treated us like we was dirt. Criminals. Whatever their dad did, it’s not the kids’ fault, is it? We just want to be left alone. To have a bit of peace and quiet.’

  Still staring at his shoes, Jones nodded. ‘Fair enough.’

  Becky took a deep breath. ‘So, as soon as I hear from him, I’ll let you know and tell you where he is.’

  ‘Fine.’ Jones stuck a hand in his jacket pocket, fished out a business card and passed it to her. ‘You call the mobile.’

  ‘Okay.’ Taking the card, Becky stepped over to the dresser. Opening the zipped compartment in her bag, she placed it next to the one for Daniel Hunter. Two cops; Becky realized that she would have to throw her lot in with one of them.

  But which one?

  Hovering in the doorway, Jones shouted to his sergeant that it was time to leave. There was the sound of doors banging and boots
clattering on stone as the policemen jumped back into their van.

  ‘Call me,’ Jones shouted over his shoulder as he climbed into the front of the van, next to the driver.

  ‘Yes,’ Becky replied. ‘I’ll call you.’ One of you, at least.

  Standing at the window, she watched the van disappear down the drive and out into the road.

  ‘He was cute, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Eh?’ Becky turned to face her daughter. Lucinda was wearing a white T-shirt, which barely covered her bum. The front said I’d Rather Not in black letters. Talk about mixed messages.

  ‘That cop who was in charge,’ Lucinda grinned, ‘I saw you flirting with him.’

  ‘I did not!’ Becky pulled open the drawer next to the sink and was relieved and irritated in equal measure to find a Bic nestling alongside a collection of spoons. Taking the lighter, she went to the dresser, retrieved her discarded cigarette and lit up. Taking a deep drag, she let the smoke settle in her lungs, holding it in for a full five seconds before exhaling. ‘Ahh!”

  ‘Can I have one?’

  ‘No, you can’t. Where’s Grandma?’

  ‘Dunno,’ the girl pouted. ‘She was up early. I think she went into town.’

  Thank God for that, Becky thought. The last thing I need is my mum giving me grief as well.

  Opening a cupboard, Lucinda took out some Coco Pops. ‘Liam didn’t come home last night, the dirty little sod.’

  Another plus. Becky shrugged as she puffed vigorously on the cigarette.

  ‘Did they take anything?’ Lucinda wanted to know.

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  Lucinda found a bowl and poured some cereal into it, ‘What will happen to Dad?’ Suddenly she sounded like the child she was.

  ‘How should I know?’ Becky said irritably, not interested in offering the girl any comfort. ‘We’ll just have to wait and see.’

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Turning the key in the lock, Carlyle quietly pushed open the door. For a moment, the two men stood on the threshold, looking inside. Facing them was a large empty space, maybe thirty feet long and twenty feet wide, with wooden floors and walls that had been stripped back to the original brick. Devoid of furniture, it looked as if its new tenant had still to arrive. Squinting, the inspector glanced at the notes he had scribbled on the back of the particulars he had taken from the agent: 8A Falstaff Court. Rented by a Joseph Isaacs almost a month ago, deposit and 3 months paid in advance. On the left, a massive window looked out over the rooftops of the neighbouring buildings. Under the window, an attaché case lay open on the floor. In the far corner of the room was a kitchen. Next to the kitchen was a second door. It was shut.

  ‘Through there,’ Carlyle flipped over the sheet of paper and consulted the floorplan, ‘is a bathroom and two bedrooms.’ Folding up the paper, he shoved it back in his jacket pocket. ‘Mr Isaacs must have a few bob; he’s paying almost eight hundred quid a week for this. Or maybe it’s a corporate let or something.’ He was about to take a step inside when he felt a hand on his shoulder, staying him.

  ‘This is it,’ Hunter whispered.

  Carlyle frowned. ‘How do you know?’ he hissed back.

  By way of response, Hunter pulled a semi-automatic from the back of his jeans. Releasing the safety, he racked a round in the chamber. ‘Have you got a gun?’

  ‘Me?’ Carlyle squeaked. ‘No. I’m a fucking policeman, remember?’

  ‘You should carry.’

  ‘Why? I know that this area is a bit rough but, still, it’s not exactly the Wild West. It’s not even my usual neighbourhood.’ As the words left his mouth, Carlyle realized that he should have given his colleagues in the City of London police a heads-up that he was operating on their patch. Oh well, it was a bit late for that now.

  ‘Fuck’s sake.’ Sticking his free hand in his jacket pocket, Hunter came up with a second, smaller weapon. Holding it by the barrel, he offered it to the inspector. ‘Have you ever fired one?’

  ‘No,’ Carlyle lied. The truth was different, but it was too complicated and the time for swapping war stories was over.

  ‘Well, these guys have. Take it.’

  Carlyle reluctantly did as he was told.

  ‘The safety’s on.’ Hunter pointed to the small lever above the handle. ‘Leave it on unless things get a bit tasty.’

  Carlyle nodded.

  ‘Whatever happens, don’t shoot me.’ Hunter slipped past the inspector, weapon raised, and cautiously moved through the door.

  Just as long as I don’t shoot myself, Carlyle thought, following on behind.

  Standing in the middle of the room, Carlyle carefully took his finger from the trigger of the gun. ‘Whoever was here, it looks like they’re long gone,’ he said hopefully.

  ‘Just keep your eyes on that door.’ Hunter made his way over to the empty case. Battered and twisted, there was a large hole where it looked as if someone had shot at it. With his toe, he gestured towards the remains of the handcuffs still attached to the handle. ‘The diamonds were in here,’ he said. ‘The stupid bugger must have shot it open.’

  Stepping forward, Carlyle felt something under the sole of his shoe. Bending down, he picked up a small stone about the size of a pea. It resembled a piece of glass. ‘They missed one – look.’ He held it up for Hunter to inspect. ‘God knows how much that’s worth.’

  ‘Fingerprints,’ Hunter grunted.

  ‘Too small,’ Carlyle observed, irritated at being pulled up on procedure by a bloody soldier. ‘They’ll never get anything off that.’ Placing the tiny diamond well down in the front pocket of his jeans, he moved towards the door.

  Not wishing to argue the point, Hunter sniffed the air. ‘Can you smell that?’

  With a terrible sinking feeling in his stomach, Carlyle manoeuvred himself in front of the Redcap. The odour was faint but nonetheless unmistakable: a mixture of shit and blood, the smell of death. ‘Let me go first.’

  Hunter tried to protest, but the words wouldn’t come. The tension that was so deeply etched on his face had rendered him mute. This was a man steeling himself as he prepared to step into Hell. His breathing was shallow and irregular. Carlyle wouldn’t have been at all surprised if he suddenly keeled over, clutching his chest.

  The inspector’s brain was screaming at him to call for back-up before they proceeded any further. But if they didn’t go through that door right now, their legs might fail them entirely. ‘I go first. You come when I give the all clear.’

  Hunter gave the slightest of nods.

  ‘All right.’ Bracing himself, Carlyle raised his gun, trying to ignore the all-too-obvious tremors in his hands as he reached for the door handle.

  The bodies were in the final room. Two adults and two children. Each one had been shot at least twice. Carlyle made a half-hearted attempt to block Hunter’s access to his family before quickly retreating from the poor man’s howls of anguish. Leaving the flat altogether, he sat on the stairs, tears in his eyes, as he called it in.

  *

  An hour later, he was still sitting, dazed, on the same step. He listened to the buzz of activity inside the flat behind him, the short verbal exchanges between colleagues who were going about their assigned roles, trying to take some comfort from the knowledge that the machine was swinging into action. His machine. The machine that would bring some justice for the victims; and closure for Daniel Hunter.

  Or maybe not.

  Was he just being a voyeur? Shifting on the cold stone, he knew that he wore the man’s pain like a stink. People moved up and down the stairs, giving him a wide berth, lest his smell attacked their nostrils. Even those who did not have any idea who he was knew well enough to leave him alone.

  The inspector had long since staunched his tears, wiping his eyes before the first uniforms had come running up the stairs, but still he felt unable to move. Juggling his phone aimlessly, he stared at the blank screen. The overwhelming need to speak to his wife would not go away. For the fourth or fifth time, he
tried to ring Helen. For the fourth or fifth time, the call went straight to voicemail. She would be in a meeting, or something. He thought about calling Alice, but she would be in a class. That was okay. He would go home tonight and hug his family. After the horrors he had seen, he would count his blessings, down a couple of large glasses of Jameson’s and hope that sleep would come. Tomorrow would be a new day, for him, if not for poor Daniel Hunter.

  ‘Where is he?’

  Carlyle broke off from his random musings to watch Inspector Sarah Ward come to a halt on the half landing below him. Dressed in black leather boots, skinny jeans and a battered leather jacket over a figure-hugging grey T-shirt, West End Central’s finest looked like she was auditioning for one of those flic dramas so beloved by BBC 4. For once, her hatchet-faced demeanour was fully justified by the scene inside.

  ‘He left.’

  ‘And you let him go?’

  ‘He had a gun, what was I supposed to do?’ For the purposes of this conversation, the inspector ignored the weapon Hunter had given him, currently nestling in his jacket pocket. ‘I couldn’t really stop him, could I?’

  The unsatisfactory nature of this reply was written all over Ward’s face. Somehow she managed to make her scowl even deeper.

  The woman couldn’t look any more pissed off if someone chopped her head off, Carlyle thought.

  ‘Where was he going?’

  ‘How the fuck should I know?’ Carlyle snapped. ‘Off to get shitfaced, probably. I know I would.’

  ‘You seem to be forgetting that he’s still a suspect.’

  ‘This is not your average domestic.’ Carlyle gestured over his shoulder. ‘Go and have a look.’

  Ward stood her ground. ‘I don’t need you to tell me how to run my investigation.’

  ‘Wouldn’t dream of it,’ Carlyle responded prissily.

  ‘You could have made an effort to follow him.’

  And you could make an effort to fuck right off, the inspector thought, struggling to keep a hold on his temper.