All Kinds of Dead

by James Craig

  ‘What difference will that make?’

  ‘Two more minutes,’ the inspector repeated, playing for time.

  Hunter gave a dissenting snort but stayed in his seat. Carlyle offered him the BlackBerry. ‘Macroom Castlebar Salle – MCS – do you know whose company it is? I Googled it on the way over here.’

  Staring angrily into the middle distance, Hunter ignored the machine. ‘Nope.’

  ‘Gerry Durkan,’ said Carlyle.

  ‘And who is Gerry Durkan?’

  ‘He was an IRA terrorist, back in the 1980s. One of the Brighton bombers who tried to take out Thatcher at the Conservative Party Conference – in eighty-four, I think it was.’

  ‘I would have been in junior school,’ Hunter said in a dead voice. ‘Are you sure it’s the same guy?’

  ‘How many Gerry Durkans can there be?’ Carlyle responded. ‘Anyway, according to Wikipedia, he founded MCS, his investment business after getting out of jail.’

  Hunter ran his tongue along his lower lip. ‘At least he’ll be used to someone trying to beat a confession out of him.’

  ‘I’m sure that won’t be necessary,’ Carlyle said stiffly. ‘He’s a respectable businessman these days.’

  ‘ “Respectable businessman”,’ Hunter said bitterly. ‘That’s a term you don’t hear much these days.’

  ‘Respectable or not, it’s been quite the personal journey for old Gerry. It’s a long way from the IRA to MCS, whichever way you look at it.’

  ‘He should still be behind bars,’ Hunter offered.

  ‘Maybe.’ Not being a forgive and forget kind of guy himself, it was a point of view Carlyle had a lot of sympathy for. On the other hand, letting a few dirty little scrotes out of prison early seemed a not unreasonable price to pay so that the rest of the world could forget that Northern Ireland even existed.

  ‘How long was he inside?’

  ‘Fifteen years, something like that.’

  ‘Not a lot, is it?’

  ‘I suppose that it depends on whether you’re the one that’s locked up,’ Carlyle mused.

  Hunter got back to his feet. ‘We should be grateful that they managed to catch him, at least.’

  ‘He was on the run for quite a while. There was a fiasco where he managed to walk out of a Kilburn pub that was surrounded by coppers.’ Carlyle omitted to mention that he was one of the coppers in question.

  ‘C’mon.’ Hunter gestured for Carlyle to get up. ‘We’ve been more than polite.’

  Doing as instructed, Carlyle eyed a stressed-looking man who appeared from behind the Integrity logo and walked towards him, hand outstretched. ‘Captain Hunter?’

  ‘That’s me.’ Hunter stepped in front of the inspector, his stance more suggestive of a right hook than a handshake.

  ‘Ah, yes.’ The man let his hand fall to his side.

  ‘I’m just his sidekick,’ Carlyle quipped.

  The man focused his gaze somewhere between the two of them. ‘Balthazar Quant, MCS. Our sincerest apologies for keeping you waiting but Mr Durkan has been stuck in a very important meeting.’

  Hunter started to say something, but Carlyle jumped in before him. ‘I can assure you, Mr . . .’

  ‘Quant,’ the man repeated almost apologetically. His suit looked expensive, but his shirt was as rumpled as his hair and he wasn’t wearing a tie. There were dark rings under his eyes and his tan needed a top-up.

  You look like you’re having a hard day yourself, Carlyle thought. ‘I can assure you, Mr Quant, that we are here on a very serious matter. And we are under some very serious time pressure.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course. My apologies again. Anyway, Mr Durkan can see you now. Let’s go up.’ Quant turned and led them towards the turnstiles. Letting Hunter follow on, Carlyle brought up the rear.

  Finally reaching the thirty-first floor, Hunter barrelled out of the lift, almost knocking over a dapper Asian guy who was waiting to go down. Running a hand across his beard, the Indian leaped out of the captain’s way like a startled cat. Glaring at Hunter, he said something under his breath. Standing a yard or so further back from the lift doors, a much larger Indian bloke allowed himself a small smile. The amused look on his face did not detract from his extremely muscular presence, which seemed rather out of place, given the surroundings.

  Together they made an interesting pair. The inspector’s immediate thought was that the big guy was a bodyguard. But who would bring muscle to a meeting in a place like this? Maybe Gerry Durkan’s ‘personal journey’ hadn’t taken him as far as it had first appeared.

  Ignoring both men, Hunter veered left, heading for the brass name-plate that indicated the offices of Macroom Castlebar Salle. Following in his wake, Carlyle nimbly stepped aside, in order to let the duo from the sub-continent enter the lift. He waited until the doors had closed and they were hurtling groundward before turning to Quant, who had started fumbling in his jacket pocket. ‘Were they Mr Durkan’s important meeting?’

  ‘Huh?’ Quant retrieved a keycard and placed it on an electronic pad by the doors next to the name-plate. The lock released and he pulled one of the doors open, gesturing for them to head inside.

  ‘Those two guys.’ Carlyle jerked a thumb back towards the lifts. ‘Are they clients?’

  ‘Er, yes.’ Following them through the door, Quant nodded at the receptionist as they swept along the lobby. ‘At least, Mr Biswas is. He’s a longstanding business partner, a good friend of the firm.’

  Pushing out his bottom lip, the inspector tried to look impressed. ‘You do business in India?’

  ‘Our clientele tends to be international.’ Quant stressed the word as if he felt that the concept would be difficult for a humble policeman to understand. ‘We operate very much in the wider global economy. Geography is just one of many different considerations when it comes to decision-making and priorities.’

  Thank you for the business lesson, Carlyle thought sourly as his expectations of what was to come took a lurch downwards. Durkan himself would need to have a better line in straight talking or Hunter would knock him right into the middle of next week.

  ‘As it happens, Mr Biswas is based in Antwerp, but it could just as easily be Mumbai, or New York, or Beijing.’

  Antwerp. What the hell do people do there? Carlyle wondered. ‘What does he do?’

  Quant’s mouth visibly twitched, as if his brain had started signalling that he had already said rather too much ‘He’s a client.’ He hurried to catch up with Hunter, who was waiting impatiently at the next door. Once again, Quant slapped his card on a pad, pulled the door open and invited them inside. ‘Go all the way down. Mr Durkan’s office is at the far end.’

  Sandwiched between Hunter and Quant, Carlyle marched down the central aisle of an open-plan space that was maybe the size of two football pitches. On either side of them, unbroken rows of desks ran next to the floor-to-ceiling windows, which offered a panoramic view of East London, both north and south of the river. A quick calculation suggested workstations for more than three hundred people. The atmosphere on the two sides, however, was completely different. To his right, almost every seat was taken; young men and women sat looking up at as many as six different monitors, let their glaze flit from one to another while talking into their headsets and tapping away at their keyboards at the same time. The low rumble of their conversations suggested a relentless determination to make money. No one looked up from their screens as the visitors walked past.

  By contrast, at least half of the desks off to his left were deserted, and most of the people tentatively poking at their keyboards did look up to watch the process towards the boss’s office. The inspector caught a glimpse of at least two screens that were given over to games of online poker.

  Quant appeared at his shoulder as they endeavoured to keep up with the captain. He was sweating heavily and the inspector caught a whiff of his rather strong body odour. As Carlyle turned his head, trying to locate some fresher air, Quant started waving his arms about like an
airline hostess giving the safety demonstration before take-off. ‘On the left is research; on the right are our trading desks.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘Overhead and profit centre.’ With a skip and a jump Quant left Carlyle behind, swerving past Hunter as they bore down on another set of doors. ‘This is the executive suite,’ he puffed, pushing open the doors and leading them past yet another receptionist and, finally, into Durkan’s office itself.

  ‘Gentlemen, welcome.’ The small balding man who approached them with a smile as fake as Hitler’s Diaries looked nothing like the little hoodlum that Carlyle remembered. Then again, they had both changed a lot over the last thirty-odd years. ‘I am Gerry Durkan. My most sincere apologies for keeping you waiting. Did Balthazar explain?’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’ Carlyle was relieved that Hunter seemed happy to leave the small talk to him. While introducing them both, the inspector quickly scanned the room, taking in the tumbler lying on the carpet by the window as well as the bottle of Scotch, minus its cap, on the sideboard.

  It’s a bit early to be starting on the hard stuff, the inspector reflected.

  Durkan gestured towards a pair of chairs that stood in front of his desk. ‘Please, gentlemen, take a seat. Would you like a drink?’

  ‘We’re good.’ While Carlyle sat down, Hunter stayed on his feet, taking in the view.

  ‘Not bad, is it?’ said Durkan, dismissing Quant with a wave of his hand. ‘It’s not the clearest of days, but you can still see the Olympic Stadium over there.’

  Never much interested in the Olympics, Carlyle was keen to get down to business. ‘Joseph Isaacs.’

  ‘Joseph Issacs,’ Durkan repeated. ‘What about him?’ Still smiling, he slipped behind his desk and sat down, studiously ignoring the way in which Hunter had begun prowling around the room like a caged animal.

  ‘Does he work for you?’ Hunter demanded as he inspected a range of framed antique maps hanging on the wall.

  So much for letting me take the lead, Carlyle thought.

  ‘Yes. He’s a consultant.’

  ‘What does he consult on?’ The menace in Hunter’s voice was growing. He turned away from the maps and picked up a magazine that had been sitting on the sideboard. Rolling it up in his hand, it looked like he wanted to beat Durkan around the head with it. Thank God he hasn’t got his gun, Carlyle thought.

  ‘Security matters.’ Durkan glanced at the inspector, knowing well enough that a two-word explanation would not be deemed sufficient.

  ‘Can you be a bit more specific?’ Carlyle asked.

  ‘Well, that would include anything from making sure that our IT systems don’t get hacked, through to having protection in place for executives travelling to difficult cities abroad.’

  ‘Would it include killing people?’ Hunter snarled.

  ‘What?’ Durkan’s surprise seemed genuine enough.

  Carlyle jumped to his feet, as much to be able to block a lunge by Hunter as to intimidate Durkan. ‘Where is Mr Isaacs right now?’

  ‘I would have to check.’ Shifting uncomfortably in his seat, Durkan began to wonder if he might not have been better off taking his chances with Biswas and Manny. ‘What has happened?’

  Carlyle kept it simple. ‘Isaacs rented a flat near Old Street. Four people turned up dead in it this morning.’

  Durkan took a moment to process the information he had been given . . . and the information he hadn’t. ‘Joe’s dead?’ he asked finally.

  ‘No.’ Carlyle shook his head. ‘But we need to talk to him – like right now.’

  ‘I understand that, gentlemen. But, if you don’t mind me asking, what’s all this got to do with me?’

  ‘He used an MCS credit card to rent the flat,’ Hunter advised. ‘Which means you could very well be an accessory to murder.’

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  ‘Jesus!’ Gerry Durkan leaned forward in his chair, rubbing his temples, playing for time as he tried to calculate the likely odds on the identity of the various victims. After a few moments, he reached for the sleek grey phone sitting on his desk. ‘Let me try and find out where he is.’

  ‘Good idea.’ Carlyle waited patiently while his host dialled the number.

  After letting it ring, Durkan made a face. ‘Voicemail.’

  ‘Keep it simple,’ Carlyle instructed. ‘Don’t mention that we’re here.’

  Durkan nodded. ‘Joe, this is me. I need to speak to you as a matter of some urgency. Call me when you get this.’ Dropping the handset back on its cradle, he looked at the inspector.

  ‘How long does it usually take him to respond?’

  ‘It depends,’ Durkan said airily. ‘He’s a freelancer, we don’t take a hundred per cent of his time. If he’s working for another client at the moment, he could be just about anywhere.’

  ‘Do you know who else Isaacs works for?’

  Carlyle glanced at Hunter, still gripping the magazine tightly. Focused on the financier, the captain showed no sign of acknowledging his presence.

  ‘No, sorry. Not my business.’

  ‘You’d better give me his number.’

  ‘Of course.’ Picking up an expensive-looking pen, Durkan scribbled the details on a sheet of notepaper. ‘Here you go.’ Getting to his feet, he walked round the desk and handed it to the inspector.

  Carlyle folded the piece of paper and placed it in his jacket pocket. ‘Do you know where he lives?’

  Durkan raised an eyebrow. ‘I thought you said he rented a place in Old Street.’

  ‘He didn’t live there.’

  ‘Well, whatever details we have, HR will have on file.’

  Carlyle changed tack. ‘Why did Isaacs rent the flat?’

  Durkan spread his arms wide, innocence personified. ‘You’re asking me?’

  ‘You didn’t tell him to do it?’

  I sure as hell didn’t tell him to use the company credit card, Durkan thought. ‘No.’

  ‘He used your credit card.’

  ‘That, I have to admit, sounds like a breach of our corporate card policy. We will look into it.’

  ‘What do you think he was up to?’

  ‘You tell me.’ Resting his arse on the edge of the desk, Durkan folded his arms. He could handle this Q&A crap all night and all day. The cop would get nothing.

  ‘To hell with this!’ Hunter flew past Carlyle in a blur. Setting upon Durkan, he began smashing him around the skull with the rolled-up mag. ‘What the fuck is going on here?

  ‘Ow! Gerroff!’ Durkan tried to retreat behind the desk, covering his head as the blows came thick and fast.

  The scene was fairly comic; the inspector had to restrain a chuckle. ‘Dan!’ He placed a hand on Hunter’s arm but was shrugged off with ease. Stumbling backwards, he went sprawling across the carpet.

  ‘Tell me what you know, you fucker, or I will chuck you out the bloody window.’

  A nasty-looking gash opened up above Durkan’s left eye. Falling to the floor, he adopted a foetal position. ‘You can’t,’ he bleated, ‘it’s bullet-resistant glass.’

  Hunter gave him another smack across the shoulderblades. ‘Shall we test it out?’

  Durkan whimpered as he pulled himself into a tighter ball.

  You’re not such a hard man these days, Carlyle thought, are you? Sitting on his backside, he was vaguely aware of voices outside. As Hunter prepared to land another fierce blow, the office door few open.

  ‘What in God’s name is going on here?’ Inspector Sarah Ward stood in the doorway, her mouth agape, unable to believe the tableau in front of her.

  I never thought I’d be happy to see you, Carlyle thought. Sheepishly, he tried to keep out of her line of vision as he struggled to his feet. Standing behind Ward were a couple of uniforms. Next to them, Balthazar Quant looked rather queasy as he stood at the head of a rapidly growing crowd of gawkers.

  Even the boys and girls on the trading floor couldn’t help but be distracted by the latest developments, Carlyle observed. Always one to
dig himself deeper into a hole, particularly when there was a crowd present, the inspector couldn’t resist a quip. ‘Just like the old days, eh, Gerry?’

  ‘Shut it, Carlyle,’ Ward snapped.

  Gingerly touching his wound, Durkan said nothing.

  Taking control of the situation, Ward moved into the centre of the room. ‘Captain Hunter, put your weapon down.’

  After some internal deliberation, Hunter took a step away from his victim, keeping the magazine in his hand.

  ‘Put it down!’

  Reluctantly, Hunter tossed the magazine at Carlyle’s feet. Looking down, the inspector saw that it had landed face up, so that he could see the title: Professional Jeweller. The cover was dominated by a picture of a model wearing a diamond necklace and not very much else. Durkan’s blood was smeared across the woman’s backside.

  ‘Don’t touch that,’ Ward commanded. ‘It’s evidence.’

  ‘Wouldn’t dream of it,’ Carlyle said politely.

  Ward signalled to the uniforms who stepped forward and escorted a compliant Hunter out of the office. ‘Wait out there.’ She turned to Carlyle. The expression on her face was almost as hostile as Hunter’s had been, moments before. She pointed at the open door. ‘You too.’

  I don’t think so. The inspector stood his ground. ‘How did you know we were here?’

  ‘You’re not the only one who can follow a lead, you know,’ she replied tartly.

  Pressing a paper napkin to his forehead, Gerry Durkan was rapidly regaining his composure. ‘Bloody Met,’ he muttered, his Irish accent now considerably more noticeable than it had been when Carlyle had first walked into his office. ‘Always the same. You’ll be hearing from my lawyers.’

  ‘I am very sorry for what happened, sir,’ Ward replied, trying her best to adopt something approaching a bedside manner, ‘but that gentleman,’ she gestured in the direction of Hunter, ‘is not a policeman.’

  Not interested in the details, Durkan stalked over to the whisky bottle, pouring a large measure into a fresh glass. ‘You’re all a bunch of fuckers, so ye are.’ Gulping down the scotch in a single go, he refilled the glass and retreated behind his desk. ‘I’m gonna sue the lot of you.’