All Kinds of Dead

by James Craig

  ‘He could have done it,’ Ward muttered, speaking more to herself than anything.

  ‘Don’t be stupid!’ Carlyle exploded. ‘I was with him all morning. I was here when he found them, for God’s sake!’

  ‘You can’t be sure though, can you? The time of death won’t have been established yet. Maybe—’

  ‘Maybe what?’ His patience exhausted, Carlyle sprang to his feet. He could feel his eyes tearing up again, his hands balling into fists. He wanted to smack the moronic, do-it-by-the-numbers, box-ticking drone so that she bounced all the way back down the stairs to the ground floor and out into the street. ‘You know what, Ward? I’ve come across some really fucking stupid coppers in my time, but you—’

  ‘John! That’s enough!’ Out of the gloom of the stairwell, Commander Carole Simpson appeared at Ward’s shoulder. Behind her was Alison Roche. ‘Sit back down,’ she instructed him.

  Meekly, the inspector did as he was told.

  The Commander placed a guiding hand on Ward’s elbow. ‘Why don’t you go and take a look inside, Inspector?’ Her polite tone underlined that it was an order, rather than a question. ‘Let me deal with . . . this.’

  With a curt nod, Ward skipped past Carlyle and disappeared into the flat.

  ‘I would like a full report on my desk by close of play today,’ Simpson shouted after her. Lowering her voice, she turned to Carlyle. ‘That should keep her busy for a while.’

  ‘I’d like to—’

  ‘Enough. You’ve had a terrible shock. You just need to calm down for a while.’

  ‘You look terrible,’ the sergeant chimed in. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Better than Daniel Hunter,’ Carlyle said. Belatedly he remembered what his sergeant had been through herself. The last time he had seen her, she had just been in hospital. ‘How are you?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Roche reassured him, ‘and so’s the baby. When I went back for a check-up, the doctor said I was fit to come in to work.’

  ‘Good.’ Fresh-faced, without any make-up, he realized that she looked lovelier than ever. The thought almost prompted another set of tears.

  Get a grip, for fuck’s sake!

  ‘You need to explain what exactly you were up to this morning,’ Simpson said, gently muscling in on their little catch-up. ‘I’ve had a Colonel Naylor on the phone – Hunter’s CO. He’s after an update.’

  Carlyle rolled his head, trying to release the trauma from his brain. Then, quickly and quietly, he explained everything that had happened since he had first come into contact with Hunter in Dr Fry’s office at the school.

  When he had finished, Simpson gave him a thoughtful nod. ‘Same old John Carlyle, eh? Tilting at windmills as usual.’

  ‘I was just trying to help a fellow officer,’ Carlyle protested.

  ‘Well, you did what you could.’ Simpson stepped aside to allow a young officer to make his way down the stairs. ‘I know I set all this in motion by sending Roche to that school, but this was always Ward’s case. I think you should leave it to her now.’

  ‘She’s not up to it,’ Carlyle argued.

  ‘Yes, she is,’ Simpson countered. ‘Sarah is a very competent officer. And the fact that she is very different to you is a positive – a big positive – in the eyes of the brass. She will go far.’

  For the record, Carlyle grunted his disagreement.

  ‘Go home and get some rest. You can give your statement later.’

  Wearily, Carlyle got to his feet.

  ‘Let me buy you a coffee first,’ Roche offered. ‘And maybe a Danish.’

  ‘Nah.’ Carlyle shook his head. ‘I couldn’t face anything at the moment. I think I need to lie down for a bit.’

  ‘Good idea,’ Simpson said kindly.

  ‘Thanks, boss.’ Starting down the stairs, he remembered her residential course. ‘By the way, did you learn the secret of eternal happiness?’

  The smile withered on the Commander’s face. ‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘If you want to be happy, don’t be a cop.’

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Escaping the prying eyes of his colleagues, the first thing he did was to drop Hunter’s gun down a storm drain in an alley off Compton Street, before heading back to the Silicon Roundabout Lettings Agency. The office was empty apart from a young guy in a crumpled suit who was changing some of the advertisements in the window.

  ‘Where’s Caroline?’ the inspector asked, without preamble.

  ‘Fuck me,’ the kid mumbled, ‘she’s popular today.’

  ‘I just need a quick word with her.’

  The youth removed a set of particulars from the display and tossed them on the floor. ‘Like I told the other guy, she’ll be in Tommy’s Wine Bar. She’s turning into a right dipso these days. Drinking at lunchtime.’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘It’s so old school. You just can’t do that these days.’

  ‘Where is it?’ Carlyle demanded, not interested in the social commentary.

  ‘It’s just down the road.’ Pointing out of the window, the boy gave him directions. ‘If you see her, remind her that she’s got a two-thirty and she needs to come and collect the keys first.’

  ‘Will do.’

  Arriving at the wine bar, he found Caroline Batting sitting alone at a table, playing a game on her mobile phone. In front of her was a large glass of white wine. The bottle next to it was already three-quarters empty. She didn’t look up as he pulled up a chair and sat down.

  ‘Your partner’s been here already.’ she said. She tipped the phone towards the bottle. ‘Wanna drink?’

  Carlyle remembered an article he’d read recently on excessive drinking by female professionals. Batting could have been a case study. You’re not going to get much work done this afternoon, he thought. ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘Shit!’ Batting placed the mobile on the table. ‘I can never get past the Gates of Sodor. At this rate, I’m never gonna get to level forty-seven.’

  Not having the remotest clue what she was talking about, Carlyle watched her take a gulp of her wine.

  ‘Joseph Isaacs paid for the rental of Falstaff Court in cash, up front,’ she said, pre-empting his question. ‘I checked with the office for the other guy who asked me. That’s what you wanted to know, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Batting held the wine glass close to her mouth. ‘Your mate seemed very . . . agitated. Like he was totally stressed about something.’

  ‘It’s been a tough morning.’ Contemplating his next move, Carlyle dived into the depths of understatement.

  ‘Tell me about it. I had Mrs Salamander on the phone for more than half an hour, shouting and swearing, threating to sue the agency and all sorts.’

  ‘Mrs Salamander?’

  ‘The woman you walked in on, in the bath.’ Batting grinned.

  ‘Ah, yes.’

  ‘She’s a lawyer.’

  ‘I think she mentioned it as we were leaving.’

  ‘Probably the only client we’ve ever had who has actually read her tenancy agreement. Even the small print. She certainly knows her rights.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Don’t worry. It’ll blow over. I think it’s more excitement than she’s had in years. I know for a fact that she only moved into the place after her husband dumped her and ran off with her sister. I don’t imagine she’s had a decent shag in at least a decade.’

  Carlyle raised an eyebrow.

  ‘You see all sorts in this job,’ she added.

  ‘I can imagine.’ Surprised to find himself welcoming the warm embrace of idle gossip, the inspector tried to return to the matter in hand. ‘My, er, partner – you don’t know where he went off to, by any chance?’

  Putting her glass back on the table, Batting gave him a quizzical look. ‘You’re asking me? Don’t you two talk to each other?’

  ‘I think his mobile died,’ the inspector lied. He had tried Hunter several times on his way over, but the captain was not answering his phone.

  ‘He’s quite a goo
d-looking bloke.’ Batting blushed slightly. ‘Is he married?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Just asking,’ she said defensively. ‘There’s no point in being shy these days. You have to put yourself out there.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Let him know he could give me a call, if he wanted to.’

  ‘He’s married,’ Carlyle said flatly. ‘Two kids.’

  ‘Oh, well, he could still give me a call.’ Grabbing the wine bottle, Batting topped up her glass.

  ‘I’ll let him know.’ Carlyle pushed back his chair and got to his feet. ‘Sorry for all the hassle this morning.’

  She raised her glass in mock toast. ‘Joseph Isaacs paid in cash, but we insisted on a credit card for the security deposit and also for ID purposes.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I remember he made quite a fuss about it before finally handing it over. It was a corporate card for a company called MCS. Billing address in Docklands. Number One, Thatcher Towers.’

  ‘You gave Hunter this?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Okay.’ Carlyle started towards the door. ‘Oh, and your colleague in the office asked me to remind you of your two-thirty. You still need to pick up the keys.’

  Batting made a face that suggested it wouldn’t happen. ‘Don’t forget to tell your partner he can call me,’ she shouted after him, reaching for her phone. ‘Any time.’

  ‘So this is your office?’ Bob Biswas eyed his host suspiciously as he weighed a large glass of fifteen-year-old single malt in his hand. ‘Very nice.’

  Gerry Durkan gave a modest shrug. ‘It’s relatively cheap by London standards, and it’s very convenient for the airport.’

  ‘You must be doing well.’

  ‘Well enough,’ Gerry said, taking a sip of his own Scotch.

  Biswas gestured towards the painting hanging on the wall, above the drinks cabinet. ‘Is that an original?’

  ‘The Monet? Yes. It was part of a hoard of art stolen by the Nazis that was found in some old guy’s apartment a few years ago. It took almost a year to restore it, apparently.’

  ‘Must be worth a fortune.’

  ‘I’m sure. But we don’t own it.’

  ‘No?’ An amused grin played across Biswas’ lips. ‘You didn’t steal it too, did you?’

  ‘No, it’s rented. Just for show. You know, keeping up appearances and all that. Always a talking point for the clients.’

  ‘I should imagine so.’

  ‘Anyway, what can I do for you, Bob? I don’t think you came here to talk about art.’ The arrival of his erstwhile business partner had been unannounced but it was hardly unexpected. Sitting behind his desk, Durkan stole a glance at the middle drawer on the left. He was confident he could handle their meeting, but if the worst came to the worst, he would let the Walther PPK do the talking. If the weapon was good enough for bloody James Bond, it was good enough for Gerry Durkan.

  On Her Majesty’s Secret Service!

  Well, not exactly.

  He couldn’t quite manage to suppress his smirk.

  ‘Something funny, Gerry?’ Biswas sat up in his chair and crossed his legs. With his carefully manicured beard and three-piece checked suit, he was clearly striving for the Bollywood A-Lister look. Unfortunately, he was at least twenty years too old and ten kilos too heavy to have any hope of carrying it off.

  Durkan adopted a more serious expression. ‘It’s good to see you, despite the circumstances. How can I help?’

  ‘What do you know about the robbery?’

  ‘Only what I’ve seen in the media. Haven’t the police given you a briefing?’

  ‘Ha!’ Biswas jerked back his hand in a gesture of frustration which sent most of his Scotch spilling over the arm of the chair. ‘The British police are supposed to be the best in the world, yet they make the Mumbai Crime Branch look like world-beaters.’ With his free hand, he tugged at the whisky-infused cuff of his shirt, pulling it down over the chunky gold chain on his wrist. ‘They have more resources than a small army and still they manage to stand back and let a robbery take place right outside one of London’s major airports. And then – then! – they manage to lose the crooks who stole my diamonds, even though they crashed their bloody getaway car into a concrete pillar.’

  Durkan gave a sympathetic moue. ‘That’s what happens in this country.’

  ‘It’s shit.’

  ‘It’s democracy.’

  ‘Democracy? Don’t talk to me about democracy, you bloody terrorist! India is the biggest democracy in the world. Even so, if this had happened at home, everyone involved in this crime would have been shot and unceremoniously left bleeding to death in the gutter.’

  ‘That’s one way of dealing with it,’ Gerry agreed.

  ‘It’s the only way,’ Biswas huffed.

  ‘I’m sure that the police will catch them.’

  ‘They didn’t catch you, did they?’

  Gerry bridled at the reference to his past life. ‘They did in the end.’

  ‘In the end,’ Biswas thundered, ‘in the bloody end! How long were you on the run?’

  Gerry made a face. He hadn’t thought of those days in a while. ‘Just shy of a couple of years, something like that.’

  ‘And you were just about the most wanted terrorist in the UK at the time.’ Biswas turned to his bodyguard, standing by the door. ‘This guy, he was a real hard bastard back in the day.’

  The bodyguard said nothing. The look on his face suggested that what might have happened ‘back in the day’ was of little relevance to the here and now.

  ‘Even then, it was only by accident, was it not?’

  ‘Aye, that’s right.’ Gerry was rather disconcerted by the amount of interest Biswas was taking in his previous life. ‘I was in a car with a girl and she drove through a red light; we got stopped by a traffic cop and she tried to do a runner.’ He winced at the memory of another one of Rose Murray’s gaffes. ‘After a high-speed chase through the streets of Derry, she ended up wrapping the motor round a lamppost. Once the Fire Brigade pulled us out of the wreckage and the RUC realized who we were, it was game over. Go straight to Jail, do not pass Go, do not collect your £200.’

  Biswas looked at him blankly.

  He’s obviously not a Monopoly man, Gerry thought. ‘The police are a lot brighter these days though. They’ve got much more technology on their side, for a start. You can hardly fart these days without some nerdy bastard in GCHQ monitoring its chemical composition.’

  ‘I am taking matters into my own hands,’ Biswas stated flatly, clearly not convinced by Durkan’s paen to modern policing. ‘I can’t leave something as important as this in the hands of disinterested third parties, poorly trained civil servants bobbing around on a sea of lassitude.’

  ‘That makes sense.’ Durkan effortlessly changed his tune now it was clear that the conversation was moving on. ‘In your position, I would do exactly the same. I really would, no doubt about it.’ Taking another mouthful of Scotch, he sat back, waiting for Biswas to reveal his hand.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Arriving at Thatcher Towers, Carlyle submitted himself to an airport-style security regimen, feeling smug that he had earlier ditched the gun that Hunter had given him. Being allowed to proceed, albeit under the watchful eye of a succession of security cameras, he headed towards a long reception desk populated by a row of smiling young women. The inspector counted six of them in total, all dressed in the same uniforms: crisp white blouse under a grey jacket with green piping around the lapels. It’s a bit like being in The Truman Show, he reflected, except with more CCTV.

  Three of the receptionists were busy processing other arrivals. Two of the remaining trio eyed him warily, as if daring him to step in front of their computer terminals to argue his case for being allowed access to the inner sanctum of their temple. The third girl gave him a big smile which, despite everything that had happened on this terminally shitty day, managed to momentarily lift his spirits. Carlyle smiled back, adjust
ing his feet to divert himself towards her space on the desk.

  ‘Good afternoon, sir! How may I help you?’

  ‘I’m here to see MCS, please.’ A list of tenants on the wall behind the desk told him that Macroom Castlebar Salle occupied floors 26–31; presumably, the man he wanted would be at the top. ‘Thirty-first floor.’

  ‘Very good.’

  ‘My name is Carlyle.’ A badge on the receptionist’s jacket told him that her name was Ella. Her eyes were a bright azure blue and her skin radiated youthful good health.

  ‘How do I spell that, please?’

  To his left, a pair of chisel-jawed Americans were anticipating the killing that they were going to make on something called Bruni Bonds.

  ‘Once we go into the market, those cheese-eating surrender monkeys won’t know what hit them.’

  ‘Roger that.’

  Tuning out of their exchange, Carlyle passed his business card to the receptionist. Ella made no comment as she placed the card beside her keyboard and typed in his details.

  ‘Who are you here to see?’

  ‘Mr Durkan,’ Carlyle said firmly, ‘the Chief Executive.’ Having done some homework on the way over, he was amazed to discover that Gerry Durkan – the Gerry Durkan – was still alive and well and, bizarrely, running a hedge fund in Docklands. This was one meeting he was really looking forward to.

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Ella made a few more keystrokes before pointing over her shoulder. ‘Look into the camera, please?’

  What camera? After a moment, he saw it, no bigger than the kind of thing you see on a cyclist’s helmet, attached to a pole at the back of her desk.

  Ella inspected his image on her computer screen. ‘I’m sorry, we’ll have to try again. I can’t make out your face.’

  ‘Most people would consider that a plus,’ the inspector quipped.

  Ella smiled weakly. ‘Just look straight into the camera, please.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘That looks fine.’ She hit the save button and reached under her desk. ‘Here you go.’

  Carlyle took the plastic ID card and inspected the image that had been printed on it, next to his name. It could have been him; equally it could have been a lot of other people.