All Kinds of Dead

by James Craig

  ‘It’s breaking the law.’

  ‘I’m perfectly well aware of that.’

  ‘We’re outlaws.’ Alexander chuckled suddenly. ‘Like Audie Murphy. Or John Wayne.’

  Carlyle tried to recall the name of another sixties cowboy actor. ‘Jack Palance.’

  They grinned at each other.

  ‘Outlaws,’ his father repeated.

  ‘Think of it as father-son bonding.’

  ‘We didn’t have that in my day either.’

  Tell me about it, Carlyle thought. ‘There’s lots of things they didn’t have in your day.’

  ‘Aye, right enough.’

  ‘We did okay though.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘Sure.’ Closing the cupboard door, the inspector caught a glimpse of a half-full bottle of Bell’s, hiding behind the bread bin. Not as much to his taste as Jameson’s but perfectly acceptable. For the second time this evening, he desired a drink. Equally, he knew that he would regret it come the morning. Resisting temptation once again, he took a seat opposite his father.

  ‘Is it a regret?’ Alexander asked out of the blue.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Not having a boy.’ A serious note entered the old man’s voice. ‘Do you regret not having a son?’

  Carlyle shook his head. ‘No, not at all. I’m very happy with my lot.’ It was true. From the moment his daughter had been born, he had felt his life was complete; it had never crossed his mind that he might want a boy.

  ‘Aye. Alice is a grand girl, right enough.’ Alexander took a slurp of his tea. ‘What if I’m raided?’

  Carlyle was beginning to feel dizzy at the zigzags in the conversation. ‘Why would you be raided?’

  ‘It happens.’

  ‘Not to terminally ill pensioners with no criminal record to their name.’ Carlyle gave his father a pleading look. ‘It’s there,’ he said quietly, ‘if . . . when you need it. Just give it a go. If it works, we can get you some more, just so long as you don’t go blabbing to anyone about it.’

  A thought popped straight out of his father’s mouth. ‘You’re not stealing it from the police station, are you?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Where did you get it from then?’

  ‘You don’t need to know.’

  ‘It might not be safe,’ the old man reflected. ‘This kind of thing can be adulterated, can’t it? You read about it in the papers, don’t you?’

  Carlyle threw up his arms in exasperation. They could go round in circles like this all night. ‘You’ve got more pressing things to worry about, don’t you think?’

  ‘You don’t know what goes in those pills,’ his father said stubbornly.

  Carlyle gestured towards the cupboard. ‘This is good stuff. Dom got it for you. It’ll get you high – that’s the whole point. Pain relief. It’ll only kill you if you take it all at once.’

  A thoughtful look passed across his father’s face.

  ‘Do not go there,’ Carlyle admonished him. ‘Don’t even think about it.’

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Monkey Beach had history. The place got its name from an incident in the Napoleonic Wars when a French ship was wrecked off the coast. A monkey who survived the wreck was washed up on shore, only to be hanged by the locals who feared it was an enemy spy. It was a local legend that was repeated in various places along the east coast, all the way up to Peterhead in the north of Scotland. However, the good people of Essex were the first to name a beach in honour of the luckless primate.

  Around 150 yards or so from where the hapless chimp allegedly met its fate stood Andros Cottage. Originally built for local farmworkers, it now served as a holiday home for Londoners who couldn’t be bothered to schlep over to Brittany. Before leaving London, Hunter had checked on its availability online. According to the owner’s website, the property was currently vacant, on offer for a rental of £750 a week. Three hours later, sitting in the darkness of his rented Ford Fusion, the captain contemplated the light coming from one of the ground-floor windows. ‘Looks like Becky was telling the truth,’ he said to himself as he slipped on a pair of latex gloves.

  Outside, the air was decidedly chilly. After his time in London, the sea breeze was fresh and invigorating. Closing the car door gently, not bothering to lock it, Hunter looked around. On one side of the single-track road was pasture, on the other scrubland, leading down to the beach. A couple of cars were parked down the road but, otherwise, the place appeared deserted. Aside from the cottage, there were no other properties within half a mile. Nor was there any street lighting on this stretch of road.

  Hunter stepped off the tarmac to take a piss. That done, he took a short stroll along the road, away from the cottage, and then back again, in order to shake some of the stiffness from his legs. In the distance, behind the cottage, the lights of West Mersea Yacht Club twinkled serenely. Hunter checked his watch. It was almost 4 a.m. There would never be a better time for him to do the job. Removing the SIG Sauer from his pocket, he released the safety and began walking towards his target.

  From the front room came the sound of an explosion, followed by the staccato stutter of automatic weapons fire. Standing in the hallway, Hunter watched Carson sitting on the floor, with his back to the half-open door. Hunched in front of the TV, ‘Soldier A’ grunted as he shot a succession of alien invaders coming at him on the screen.

  Lifting his arm, Hunter pointed the semi-automatic at the back of Carson’s head. Wrapping his finger around the trigger, he steadily increased the pressure.

  Grunting, Carson continued to pound the game controller with his thumbs. On the screen, another attacker came towards him, only for Carson to remove his head with a spray of bullets. ‘Shuffle off this mortal coil, you wanker!’

  ‘Hello, Andy.’

  Still playing the game, Carson looked over his shoulder. ‘Oh fuck!’ Letting the console slip from his fingers he pushed himself up and threw himself towards Hunter. It was a hopeless gesture; his arse was barely a foot off the floor by the time the first bullet slammed into his face.

  For a split second, it was like Carson was hanging in mid-air, then the next shot sent him tumbling backwards, taking the TV with him as he crashed to the floor.

  Stepping over the body, Hunter watched the aliens swarming across the screen, now covered in the remains of Carson’s head.

  ‘I guess that’s game over.’ Putting the gun back into his pocket, he began searching the room.

  It took him less than five minutes to find the diamonds, sitting in an open holdall on a bed in one of the upstairs rooms. ‘Time to leave,’ he muttered to himself. Dropping the SIG Sauer inside, he clasped the handles and turned for the door.

  ‘I think I’ll take that, if you don’t mind.’

  Hunter recognized the smile immediately. This time, however, the man from the Arcade Café had a gun in his hand.

  ‘Toss the bag over here.’

  With a rueful shake of the head, Hunter did as requested. ‘I guess this really is game over.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing. I suppose you must be Isaacs.’

  ‘Very good, very good.’

  ‘How did you find me?’

  ‘It wasn’t that difficult.’ With his free hand, Isaacs fished a couple of scraps of brown paper from his jacket pocket and waved them at Hunter. ‘After all, you very kindly wrote the address down for me.’

  Hunter sat down on the bed. To his surprise, looking down the barrel of Isaacs’ gun, he experienced what could only be described as a moment of euphoria. In a few seconds, all of his problems would be over.

  ‘That was an unfortunate mistake in what has otherwise been an impressive performance.’ Isaacs shoved the scraps of paper back into his pocket. ‘I have to say, Captain Hunter, you are one hell of an operator. I wish I’d come across you when I was working in Basra. You could have made my life a lot easier, back then.’

  ‘I’ve made your life easier now,’ Hunter smiled, ‘haven’t I?�
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  ‘Yes, you have indeed. The Army will be much the poorer for your . . . departure.’ Keeping the gun trained on the Redcap, he carefully guided the bag towards the door with his foot. ‘Are all the stones in there?’

  ‘As far as I know,’ Hunter replied.

  ‘Excellent.’

  ‘I’ve been through the house. It’s not like Andy was hiding anything.’

  At mention of Carson’s name, Isaacs’ face clouded. ‘We should never have got involved with that useless little shit. I’m genuinely very sorry about what happened to your family. It was completely unnecessary. Totally unprofessional.’

  Hunter shot him an empty look. ‘At this stage of the game, an apology makes fuck-all difference, as I’m sure you can imagine.’

  ‘I know.’ Isaacs sighed as he bent down to pick up the bag. ‘But I truly am sorry. It was inexcusable. Base criminality of the worst kind. If I’d had the chance to intervene, I would never have allowed it.’

  Listening to the older man’s knees crack, it crossed Hunter’s mind that if he launched himself from the bed he could drive Isaacs through the door and send him tumbling back down the stairs before he had the chance to get a shot off. But what was the point? Sitting back on the bed, he watched the man straighten up, the gun still aimed at his head.

  ‘Get on with it.’

  ‘You think I’m going to kill you?’ Isaacs frowned. ‘Why would I do that?’

  ‘Do it.’ Hunter licked his lips. His mouth was dry and there was a buzzing noise in his head which was getting louder. ‘Do it now, or I’ll come after you. Track you down, like Carson. Wherever you go, I’ll find you.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ The smile returned to Isaacs’ face. ‘With that body downstairs, you’ve crossed the line. You can’t go back. I know that better than anyone. We’re both outlaws now.’

  Hunter stared at his gloved hands.

  ‘However painful it may be,’ Isaacs continued, ‘you have to move on to the next stage of your life. And take my advice – go somewhere warm.’

  *

  Listening to Isaacs retreat down the stairs, Hunter closed his eyes and fell back on the bed. As the footsteps faded away, he felt his chest heave but the sobs would not come. In the distance, he heard the sound of a car engine start up, before slowly disappearing into the night.

  Pushing himself off the bed, he waited for the dizziness to clear before slowly heading for the door. Apparently, there were different kinds of dead. For better or worse, it looked like it wasn’t game over, after all.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Yawning, Carlyle watched as a pair of workmen struggled to remove one of the mega-dams prints from the wall of the gallery. Lowering it to the floor, they quickly swaddled the frame in bubble wrap before moving on to the next one.

  An elegant middle-aged woman appeared at his shoulder. ‘What do you think? This is your last chance to buy one.’

  ‘Eva.’ Quickly composing himself, he turned to give Dominic Silver’s wife a peck on the cheek. ‘Good to see you.’

  ‘Put her down,’ Dom instructed as he walked through the door. ‘She’s here to work.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Eva groaned. Dropping her bag on the desk, she took a drink from the outsized coffee cup in her hand before adding: ‘Fiona quit last night.’

  ‘Apparently her tutor left his wife,’ Dom chuckled, ‘and they’ve run off to Marrakech.’

  Eva shot her husband a dismayed look. ‘Middle-aged men can be so embarrassing.’

  ‘You have to say though,’ the inspector ventured, ‘as mid-life crises go, it’s fairly impressive. Better than buying a sports car, at least.’

  ‘I’m not sure Helen would find that a particularly impressive take on the situation,’ Eva observed.

  ‘Helen has nothing to worry about on that score,’ Carlyle said hastily.

  ‘Anyway,’ Dom went on, ‘it’s bloody inconvenient. The timing couldn’t be worse.’ He gestured around the room. ‘We have this lot to get out and then the bloody Jankowski exhibition is due to open in a fortnight.’

  Carlyle knew better than to ask about the Jankowski exhibition.

  Eva took another sip of her coffee. ‘Just as well then you have muggins here to stand in until you find another receptionist.’

  ‘I’m sure it won’t take too long.’ Stepping between them, Dom placed a hand on Carlyle’s shoulder. ‘At least we’ve got Lucio Spargo off our back,’ he said quietly. ‘That is a big help. Thank you.’

  Eva murmured her assent.

  ‘Me?’ Carlyle made a mime of his modesty. ‘I did nothing. The guy just pushed his luck too far and got caught. Happens all the time.’

  ‘And you just happened to be there to catch him,’ Dom mused.

  ‘Anonymous tip-off.’

  ‘I read in the paper,’ said Eva, ‘that some of Mr Spargo’s backers have pulled out of the development next door following his rather unfortunate arrest.’

  ‘Apparently so,’ the inspector replied. ‘I think he’ll probably escape jail but perhaps retirement beckons. At the very least, the Cork Street development looks to have stalled for the foreseeable future.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Dom repeated. ‘I owe you one.’

  ‘Hardly,’ Carlyle countered. ‘Not after your help for my dad.’

  ‘And how is Alexander?’ Eva asked.

  ‘It is what it is.’ Carlyle bit his lower lip. He had already explained to Dom that not all of the drugs had been planted on Spargo and that some tablets had been kept back for his father’s medicinal use.

  There was a crash, followed by the sound of broken glass.

  The workmen stood, matching horrified looks on their faces, contemplating a frame – which lay face down on the floor.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ Eva squawked as she rushed over to inspect the damage. ‘That’s already been paid for.’

  ‘We can get it fixed,’ Dom pointed out. ‘Don’t worry.’

  ‘But it’s supposed to go to Miami tomorrow,’ Eva fretted. ‘The shipping’s all arranged.’

  ‘We can fix it,’ Dom repeated before returning his attention to Carlyle. ‘How’s your dad getting on with the, er, stuff?’

  ‘I don’t think he’s actually used any of it yet.’

  ‘Well, if it doesn’t work, I’ve got another idea – magic mushrooms.’

  Carlyle raised an eyebrow.

  ‘I’ve been reading about doctors in America who have been testing psilocybin with terminally ill cancer patients. Apparently, it induces visions which help them rise above the illness and—’

  The inspector stopped him with a raised hand. ‘Thank you, Timothy Leary. Let’s cross that bridge if we get to it, shall we?’

  ‘It was just an idea.’

  Carlyle’s response was stifled by the phone vibrating in his pocket. Pulling it out, he hit the receive button: ‘Hello?’

  ‘Where are you?’

  Recoiling from the dour tones of Inspector Sarah Ward, Carlyle stepped away from Dom. ‘I’m in the West End.’ He braced himself for a lecture about how he shouldn’t have ventured again on to her patch; about how he should have let her nick Spargo.

  ‘That soldier has turned up,’ she said tonelessly. ‘Dead. Two bullets in the face.’

  It took him a moment to process what she was saying; another moment to frame his careful initial response. ‘Which soldier are we talking about?’

  ‘Andrew Carson. I’m standing here looking at him now. Not a pretty sight.’

  ‘No, I can imagine.’ Carlyle made a half-hearted attempt to summon up some sympathy for a fellow human being cut off in his prime. In the event, the best he could manage was to try and avoid sounding too gleeful. ‘On the other hand, it’s not the world’s greatest surprise. What else do we know?’

  Realizing that this was not going to be a quick call, Dom slipped off to help Eva clean up.

  ‘Carson. Also known as “Soldier A”.’ It sounded like Ward was reading from notes. ‘An associate of Ryan Fortune an
d Adrian Colinson, both recently deceased; both suspected of having sprung Carson from prison. All three wanted in connection with the diamond robbery at City airport. Carson is also a suspect in the murder of Fortune and also the murders of Melanie Hunter and her two children.’

  Jesus Christ, Carlyle thought, what a list.

  ‘Carson died of gunshot wounds to the head. The murder weapon has not been found. There are no witnesses.’

  ‘Sounds like a professional job,’ Carlyle decided. ‘Tying up loose ends.’

  ‘Quite. I don’t suppose you know anything about it, do you?’

  ‘No. Why?’

  ‘Because it looks very much like it was your mate Hunter who killed him.’

  Good for him, Carlyle thought. ‘What makes you think that?’ he asked. ‘Have you got him in custody?’

  ‘What did I just say?’ Ward snapped. ‘No murder weapon, no witnesses, no perpetrator.’

  You never said the last bit, Carlyle observed. He let it slide. The inspector was obviously having a bad day.

  ‘Carson was hiding out in a house on the Essex coast,’ Ward explained. ‘It’s a bit off the beaten track but not that remote. Someone must have tipped Hunter off about his location. It looks like he drove up here, popped him, and then jumped on a ferry. He rented a car in Paddington and dumped it in a car park in Felixstowe. According to Belgian Border Security he went through customs in Zeebrugge yesterday morning. Fuck knows where he is now.’

  Carlyle hesitated, unsure as to what he should say next. Stepping over to the window, he watched as a tramp shuffled down Cork Street, pushing all of his worldly possessions in front of him in a shopping trolley while eating a badly bruised banana. ‘Well,’ he said finally, ‘thanks for the heads-up.’

  ‘This isn’t a heads-up.’

  ‘Oh? What is it, then?’

  ‘It’s a warning. If I find out you had anything to do with this, Carlyle—’

  ‘Don’t worry on that score,’ he replied, surprised at how easily he was keeping control of his temper in the face of her attempts to needle him. ‘It’s nothing to do with me.’ He thought about mentioning his alibi – he was probably arresting Spargo around the time Hunter was tracking down Carson – but decided to leave it. ‘I appreciate the call,’ he said evenly, ‘but shouldn’t you be more focused on tracking down Hunter? I mean, given that he seems to be your prime suspect.’