Shoot to Kill

by James Craig

  The Mayor glanced at his expensive watch and groaned – he wasn’t supposed to see Abigail for another three hours. How could he subdue his ridiculous boner? He wondered if a quick hand job might relieve the situation; maybe he should call Dino and ask.

  ‘You realize what time it is?’ Clara Hay, his hot new assistant, stuck her head round the door of his office.

  Go away, woman! Holyrod pulled his chair in as far as he could, lest she catch a glimpse of his problem. ‘I do,’ he nodded, trying to smile.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Clara stepped into the room and, despite everything, he was compelled to gaze into the possibilities that lay beneath her ruffle blouse.

  ‘I’m fine.’

  Standing in front of the desk, hands on hips, she gave him a funny look. ‘We have to get going.’

  ‘Mm.’ He caught a whiff of her perfume – Blossom Bomb – mixed with just the merest hint of perspiration.

  ‘The reception for the Women’s Institute,’ Clara persisted. She waved the papers she had been holding in front of his nose. ‘You’re giving a speech on City Hall’s commitment to sexual equality in the twenty-first century. It’s called Smashing the Glass Ceiling for Good.’

  ‘I can’t,’ Holyrod moaned. Then a thought crept very slowly across his addled brain. He gestured at the speech. ‘Is it any good?’

  ‘Very,’ Clara beamed, ‘I wrote it myself. We are a best practice thought leader, striving for three hundred and sixty-degree transparency and continuous improvement.’

  ‘Good, good,’ the Mayor nodded, not having the remotest clue what she was talking about. ‘In that case, I want you to give the speech.’ He smiled slyly. ‘It will be a definitive proof point of our good intentions.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Yes,’ Holyrod continued, on a roll now, ‘you are a role model for those who want to smash the, er, glass ceiling and ensure that London is a beacon in the ongoing fight for gender equality.’ It was amazing how easy it was to churn out this verbiage once you got started. He gestured at the door. ‘Send my apologies to the ladies for being unable to make it. And tell the girls outside that I am not to be disturbed. I need to get on with some very pressing work.’

  Undecided, Clara stood for a moment before turning and heading out of the room. As the door clicked behind her, Holyrod pushed his chair back from the desk and unbuttoned his trousers. Opening the bottom drawer of his desk, he pulled out a well-thumbed copy of Readers Wives and gave it an appreciative sniff. Now it really was time to deal with the matter in hand.

  Behind the bar at Zatoichi, Michela was in good form. She was still in the black vest Carlyle remembered from last time, but her orange hair was now platinum blonde. Chatting up a couple of awestruck boys while pouring bourbon into outsized shot glasses, she seemed in her element. As he headed for the stairs, Carlyle tried unsuccessfully to catch her eye. He fancied a drink; hell, he fancied several drinks, but doubtless he could get them upstairs.

  When the inspector burst into his office, Dom tried to look surprised, failing miserably. Lounging on the sofa under the screen print of The Island was Gideon Spanner. Carlyle nodded at Gideon and threw himself into the armchair between the two men.

  ‘We’ve got a few things to talk about.’

  ‘Want a drink?’

  Carlyle nodded. ‘Maybe you could see if Lisbeth Salander could bring up a bottle of Jameson’s.’

  ‘He means Michela,’ Dom explained.

  Gideon almost laughed. ‘I see her more as Charly Baltimore.’ Sliding off the sofa, he headed for the door.

  Carlyle was so shocked by Gideon’s reaction – the man rarely spoke and he certainly never smiled – that it took him a moment to recall Charly Baltimore, the CIA assassin played by Geena Davis in The Long Kiss Goodnight. As it happened, it was one of his favourite films. He remembered that he had the DVD at home and, with Helen and Alice away, there was no one to stop him from watching it. He looked at Dom. ‘We could do with Charly Baltimore now. Or,’ he laughed humourlessly, remembering Samuel L. Jackson’s useless sidekick, ‘even Mitch fucking Henessey.’

  ‘Bad day?’

  Carlyle talked him through the bomb problem. The drugs problem could wait until after he’d had a drink.

  ‘Tuco?’ Dom asked.

  ‘The so-called Samurai.’ Carlyle made a face. ‘Who else could it be?’

  ‘I dunno.’ Dom decided to make a joke of it. ‘The possibilities are endless. You have always been quite good at pissing people off.’

  ‘Ha fucking ha.’

  Gideon reappeared with the whiskey, three shot glasses and three open bottles of Peroni Red. Placing them all on the desk, he helped himself to a Peroni and repaired to the sofa. Ignoring the beer, Carlyle reached over, poured himself a double and took a mouthful. Immediately, he felt a little better.

  Dom took one of the beers. ‘Cheers.’

  ‘By the way,’ Carlyle asked, ‘what did you do with Tuco’s coke?’

  Dom took a long drag on his beer. ‘Your people got there too late.’

  You fucking nicked it, is what you mean, Carlyle thought. ‘I gave them the tip-off; I need to be able to deliver something to justify the cost of the operation.’

  All Dom offered him was a non-committal shrug.

  Carlyle changed tack. ‘So what are you going to do about Tuco now?’

  A look of annoyance flashed across Silver’s face. ‘Just leave him to me.’

  ‘How can I do that?’ Carlyle shot back. ‘He blew up a fucking pensioner with a bomb meant for me. EOD are all over it.’

  ‘Explosive Ordnance Disposal?’ Dom glanced at Gideon. ‘What did you tell them?’

  Carlyle drained his glass. ‘I haven’t spoken to them yet.’ With some reluctance, he put the empty glass back on the table and sat back in his chair, resisting the siren call of the whiskey bottle.

  ‘Good,’ Dom nodded. ‘Keep it simple. Don’t speculate. Wait and see how the investigation progresses.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Dom.’

  ‘Just leave Tuco to me,’ Silver repeated firmly.

  ‘Okay,’ Carlyle sighed.

  ‘Thank you.’ Dom finished his beer and started on a second one. ‘Now,’ he said briskly, as if he was moving quickly through the agenda at some boring business meeting, ‘Gideon has something he wants to ask you about.’

  Gideon? Carlyle frowned, turning in his seat to eye the henchman. ‘Fire away.’

  Avoiding eye-contact, Gideon bounced his beer bottle on his knee. ‘Adrian Gasparino.’

  Carlyle’s frown deepened. ‘What about him?’

  ‘He served with my brother in Afghanistan.’

  ‘Okay . . .’ Carlyle looked at Dom.

  Silver shrugged. ‘It’s a small world.’

  Sometimes too small for my liking, Carlyle thought.

  Gideon fixed him with a blank stare. ‘They were good mates. Adrian was with Spencer when he died.’

  Way too fucking small.

  ‘I want to know who killed him.’

  Reaching for the Jameson’s, Carlyle knew better than to ask why.

  THIRTY-SIX

  Enveloped in the warm embrace of Dom’s whiskey, Carlyle picked up his own bottle of Jameson’s from Gerry’s Wines & Spirits on Old Compton Street on his way back to the flat. Crossing Shaftesbury Avenue, he tried Helen’s mobile but was unable to get through. Then he tried calling Umar. The call went to voicemail. Picking his way through the late-evening crowds, Carlyle left a curt message telling his sergeant to call him back.

  Turning into Macklin Street, he grimaced at the strong smell of cooked meat coming from the kebab shop as he approached the entrance to Winter Garden House. Inside, unable to take the lift, he slowly slogged his way up the stairs, pausing on the eighth-floor landing to survey the deserted crime scene. The last remains of Harry Ripley had been removed and a sheet of opaque plastic stood across the open doors of the ruined lift. The unhappy realization dawned on the inspector that it would probably be weeks
, if not months, before the lift was working again. With a heavy sigh, he continued upwards.

  Outside the flat, Carlyle fumbled in his jacket pockets for his key. It was only when he went to place it in the lock that he realized that the door was already open. Taking a firm grip of the neck of the whiskey bottle in his right hand, he pushed the door slightly ajar with his left. Listening intently, he thought that he could make out noises coming from inside. Bemused, he opened the door just enough for him to step inside.

  Standing in the hallway, he listened carefully for five, six, seven seconds. The sounds were coming from the living room. Animal grunts, followed by extended female moans that were obviously fake. His head felt thick and he couldn’t make sense of what he was hearing; it sounded like someone was watching a porn movie on his TV. Carlyle tiptoed down the hall and stepped into the doorway, bottle raised to shoulder level.

  ‘What the fuck?’

  The television was turned off. Instead, he was confronted with a small, white-haired man, who looked like he was no stranger to a tanning bed, grappling with a voluptuous black woman who was bent over Carlyle’s sofa.

  Both of them were completely naked. How, in the name of God, he wondered, was he going to explain this to Helen?

  Acknowledging the inspector’s arrival with a grin, the man slapped the woman hard on her right buttock and upped his tempo.

  ‘What the hell is going on here?’ Carlyle asked, somewhat redundantly.

  ‘Viagra,’ the man panted. ‘Good stuff, no?’ His face was going a deeper shade of orange by the second and his brow was bathed in sweat. ‘The only problem is when you want to stop.’

  ‘Tuco,’ the woman said tiredly, ‘enough!’ She stood up and thrust her pelvis backwards, sending her diminutive lover into space with such force that he almost fell over the coffee table.

  Carlyle felt his jaw drop at the sight. Then he recalled what the woman had said. ‘Tuco?’ He frowned. ‘You’re . . .’

  ‘That’s right,’ the man smiled.

  From down the hall, Carlyle heard the sound of the toilet being flushed. Out of the bathroom came a much younger man. Realising that the master of the household had returned, he casually pointed a pistol at Carlyle’s head.

  ‘Take a seat, Inspector.’ Tuco Martinez picked up a pair of trousers from the floor and pulled them on.

  After what he’d seen, Carlyle decided to sit in one of the armchairs. Placing the bottle of Jameson’s on the floor beside him, he watched as the woman picked up a pile of clothes from beside the sofa and headed for the door.

  Tuco followed his gaze. ‘Quite a woman, my Monica, don’t you think?’

  Carlyle tried to regain his composure. ‘Why were you having sexual intercourse in my home?’

  ‘These things happen.’ Tuco tugged a powder-blue sweater over his head. ‘I took the pill and was ready to go.’

  ‘Mm.’ Carlyle wanted to be outraged at the intrusion but, somehow, couldn’t quite manage it.

  ‘C’est génial. It’s really something.’ Tuco ran a hand through his hair. ‘Have you ever tried this stuff?’

  Carlyle shook his head.

  Tuco looked him up and down. ‘Everyone is using it these days.’

  ‘I don’t need it,’ Carlyle mumbled, somewhat defensively. Why the hell was he having this conversation?

  ‘People use it whether they need it or not,’ Tuco informed him. ‘It’s like a . . .’ he groped for the word, ‘a social thing. Very common. You should give it a go. Maybe I could send you some samples.’

  ‘I don’t need it,’ the inspector repeated.

  Tuco gave him a thoughtful glance. ‘Well, a man like yourself, at your stage of life, I suppose that you are not quite there yet.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But soon . . .’ Tuco smiled sadly. ‘It’s embarrassing to have to use it, but trust me – it works. The only problem is that you can’t exactly switch it on and off quite as easily as you might want.’ He patted his trousers, which were still showing a massive bulge. ‘This thing will last for hours and hours.’

  ‘You’re called the Samurai,’ Carlyle said, trying to move the conversation on.

  Tuco smiled. ‘Dominic Silver told you about that?’ Then his face darkened. ‘I see that you two have been busy conspiring against me.’

  ‘Hardly,’ Carlyle snorted. He gestured at the young guy, who was now leaning against the door with the gun dangling at his side. ‘I presume he’s the guy who was at my daughter’s school.’

  Tuco nodded.

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘Just a footsoldier. Not on your records. Never will be. Not someone you have to worry about.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  Tuco slipped into a pair of black Gucci loafers. ‘Inspector,’ he said, ‘you know me well enough by now. You have even seen me naked.’

  ‘You don’t want to fuck me, too?’ Despite the circumstances, Carlyle’s grin was genuine enough.

  ‘No,’ Tuco laughed. ‘You are not my type. What I am saying is that we are both intelligent men.’

  Carlyle did not demur.

  ‘So let’s not pretend you don’t know what I want.’

  ‘I can’t do anything about Alain Costello,’ Carlyle said. ‘Your son is in the system. His trial is being fast-tracked on the grounds that the outcome is inevitable.’

  Tuco looked at him expressionlessly. He said, ‘You don’t seem to understand.’

  ‘Understand what?’

  ‘I will get what I want,’ Tuco said slowly, ‘or I will kill you and your family.’

  Monrovia, here I come, thought Carlyle, smiling to himself.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ Tuco demanded.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Carlyle, holding up a hand. ‘I understand what you’re saying. After all, you’ve already tried twice.’

  ‘I’m glad you noticed.’ Tuco beamed at him as the woman reappeared from the bathroom. She was wearing a pair of jeans and a grey silk blouse, and it struck Carlyle that she seemed far less attractive with her clothes on.

  ‘Tuco, où sont mes chaussures?’ Without waiting for an answer, the woman fell to her knees and began looking under the furniture.

  Tuco Martinez kept his gaze on the inspector. ‘You have one more chance,’ he said. ‘I want my boy and I want my drugs. I know that you and Silver stole them.’

  ‘Not so.’ Carlyle shook his head and tried to look surprised. ‘I don’t work with Dominic Silver.’

  ‘Voilà!’ The woman squawked, pulling a pair of studded ankle boots out from under Carlyle’s chair.

  ‘Wait outside!’ Tuco demanded, looking exasperated. ‘He turned back to Carlyle. ‘Silver told me you were a corrupt cop. He said he’d had you in his pocket for years.’

  Bollocks, thought Carlyle. ‘That’s nonsense.’

  ‘Then why have you let him operate freely all these years?’

  Carlyle said nothing.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Tuco grinned, ‘I will deal with him. Think of it as my present to you.’ He signalled to the minion who pulled an envelope out of the back pocket of his jeans and tossed it on the coffee table.

  Tuco gestured at the table. ‘Passport, cash and travel documents. Give them to Alain when you get him out. Leave the rest to me.’

  Carlyle looked at the packet then at Tuco.

  ‘This is your last chance,’ said the Samurai. ‘Or, next time, I will kill you and your family.’

  When the door slammed shut, Carlyle sat listening to the slight buzzing noise in his head. A few moments later, he got up and stepped into the kitchen. After washing his face and drying it with a tea towel, he took a small Tesco bag from under the sink. Returning to the living room, he placed Tuco’s packet in the plastic bag, careful not to get his fingerprints on the envelope. After some further thought, he stuffed the bag under a pile of magazines next to the sofa, happy to hide it in plain sight, given that it wouldn’t be there for long.

  It took him a couple more minutes to find his priva
te, pay-as-you-go mobile and ring Dom’s number. Cursing, he ended the call as it went to voicemail.

  Grabbing a directory from the hall, he was surprised to find a listing for Zatoichi and even more surprised when he dialled the number and it worked.

  ‘C’mon!’ he hissed, slumping back into his armchair.

  The number rang for what seemed like an eternity before someone picked up.

  ‘Yeah?’

  He recognized the accent immediately. ‘Lisbeth . . .’

  ‘What?’

  Oh God. What was the bloody girl’s name? He’d forgotten. ‘It’s Carlyle – the cop – I need to speak to Dom – no, Gideon.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘They’re not in the bar,’ she said.

  ‘Then put me through to the office,’ Carlyle demanded. ‘It’s fucking urgent.’

  ‘What am I,’ the girl growled, ‘your bloody personal slave or something?’ There was the sound of the phone being dropped on the bar and Carlyle’s handset was filled with the sound of background chatter. After another eternity, someone picked up again.

  ‘What’s so important?’ Gideon asked by way of introduction.

  Carlyle spoke clearly and slowly. ‘I’ve just had a visit from the Samurai. He’s coming to see you next.’

  Without another word, Gideon ended the call.

  Time for a new phone, Carlyle decided. Struggling to his feet, he removed the battery from the back of the mobile, pulled out the sim card and went in search of a pair of scissors.

  He was just about to head for bed when the front-door buzzer sounded.

  ‘What now?’ Carlyle said grumpily as he padded down the hall. Opening the front door, he found Umar grinning in the walkway outside.

  ‘What are you so cheery about?’ Carlyle asked, turning and heading back to the living room.

  Following on behind him, Umar nodded at the bottle of whiskey, which was still standing on the floor. ‘Having a bit of a session, are we?’

  ‘Haven’t even broken the seal,’ Carlyle pointed out. ‘Want some?’

  ‘Nah.’ Umar shook his head. ‘I could do with a cup of tea, though.’