by James Craig
Trying to appear as casual as possible, Carlyle looked around slowly for the CCTV. From where he was sitting, he could see three cameras fixed to the columns in the Palm Court. There were bound to be more in the lobby, so there would be plenty of images of all three of these guys. Maybe they were getting sloppy. He reached for his phone and, watching out for officious waiters, began surreptitiously typing a text to Joe under the table.
Possible situation here. Wait for me in lobby. Check availability of back-up.
After pressing Send, he looked back towards the lobby in time to see a middle-aged couple, laden with shopping bags covered in designer logos, coming in through the entrance. The businessman type said something further on his mobile, ended the call and fell in behind them. The two men sitting in the Palm Court got up from their table and headed for the lobby. One of them was still holding his napkin, and Carlyle thought he detected something black wrapped inside it. Could it be a handgun? He frowned. As far as he could remember, no weapons had featured in the earlier robberies. Then again, he reminded himself, things change.
Standing up, he let the men disappear through the intervening arches and counted to three. Then he followed.
‘Sir?’
Carlyle had barely gone two steps when he was stopped by his ever-so-friendly waiter.
‘Is everything all right? Are you finished with your table?’
‘No,’ said Carlyle hurriedly. ‘My mother will be back in a second.’ He pulled a business card out of his pocket and thrust it into the man’s hand. ‘Police,’ he said quietly. ‘Is Edwin around?’
Edwin Nyc was the hotel’s Head of Security. Carlyle had met him a couple of times over the years. Presumably he would have been briefed about those recent robberies, along with his equivalents at the other big hotels.
The man looked at the card and nodded. ‘Yes, I think so.’
‘Good. Get him to meet me by the concierge’s desk in ten minutes.’ He gestured back to his table. ‘And tell my mother I won’t be long.’
‘What’s going on?’ the waiter asked, not sure whether he should feel excited or worried.
‘I don’t know,’ replied Carlyle, striding away.
TWO
Making his way out of the Palm Court, Carlyle forced himself to slow down and stick his hands casually in his pockets. Eyes to the floor, he took a left and headed towards the bank of three lifts at the rear of the hotel lobby. As he approached, he heard a bell signal that one had arrived. Looking up, he saw the doors of the middle lift open and the couple with the shopping get in, followed by a large guy wearing jeans and a pink shirt, open at the neck, and a navy blazer with gold buttons. Was this the fourth member of the crew?
The man had his back to Carlyle, who therefore couldn’t get a proper look at him. He peered around for the other three, but they had disappeared. He wondered if he was letting his imagination get the better of him. ‘Bollocks,’ he muttered. ‘In for a penny, in for a pound.’ Jogging forward, he stepped into the lift just before the doors closed, lifting his gaze to the ceiling.
The guy in the blazer pressed the button for the third level and then looked at Carlyle.
‘Which floor?’
Carlyle checked the panel, noting that five was also lit up. He smiled at the man. ‘Five’s fine, thanks.’
The other man nodded, silently. He looked to be in his fifties, balding, overweight, of Middle Eastern appearance. Maybe, the inspector thought, a rich Arab with a taste for losing ridiculous amounts of money in London casinos. Carlyle again wondered about the scenario that he’d been so quick to pull together in his head. This guy just didn’t look like he belonged with the other three.
The lift shuddered into motion and began its slow journey upward. When they reached the third floor, the Arab type got out, leaving Carlyle alone with the shoppers. In the silence, Carlyle eyed the pair’s reflection in the lift doors. The husband was wearing a Dallas Cowboys jacket, so presumably they were American. He thought back to the operations note: in the previous robberies, two of the victims had been Chinese couples, the other a French businessman. All the victims had been super-rich. The couple in the lift looked well off – maybe the guy was a dentist from Texas or something – but not the kind of folk who would have a hundred grand or more in cash lying about in their hotel room.
Sighing, he felt his analysis completely unravelling before his eyes. He shook his head. John bloody Carlyle! All this running around just to get out of having a difficult conversation with your mum!
On the fifth floor, Carlyle stepped out onto the landing. Feeling rather embarrassed, he fiddled with his BlackBerry while he watched the middle-aged couple make it safely to their room.
Waiting for the lift to take him back down to the lobby, he sent Joe another text: False alarm. See you in a minute.
Heading down, the lift stopped again at the third floor. Carlyle stood aside to let a couple of Japanese girls enter. Both of them were dressed like faux punk rockers with spiky hair and purple eyeliner. It’s like the bloody United Nations, he thought. Distracted by their giggling, not to mention their short skirts, he didn’t see the man with the tweed jacket and crew cut hovering outside until the doors had almost shut.
‘Shit!’
The girls looked at each other and giggled some more.
Reaching across them, Carlyle hit the button for 2.
The lift slowly trundled away from where he wanted to be.
‘C’mon! C’mon!’
It took maybe twenty seconds for the lift to move down one floor and the doors to open. Jumping out, Carlyle took a left, following the signs for the emergency exit, cursing until he found a small door leading to the stairs.
Bounding up two steps at a time, his heart was racing by the time he reached the third floor. Taking a moment to calm himself, he stepped as casually as he could into the corridor and headed back in the direction of the lifts, adopting the air of a guest having difficulty in locating his room.
When he reached the lifts, the man in the tweed jacket was still standing there, staring aimlessly at a print hanging on the wall. There was no sign of his twin or of the third man, the one in the suit.
As he approached, Carlyle could see that this guy was at least six inches taller – and probably a good 20 kilos heavier – than himself.
What are you going to do now, genius? he wondered, now bitterly regretting his rather premature text to his sergeant.
The man turned to face Carlyle, his expression hidden by the sunglasses. Carlyle nodded politely and made to walk past.
‘Excuse me, sir,’ the man said, ‘do you have the time?’
His English had a slight accent, but Carlyle couldn’t place it. He checked his watch and smiled. ‘Almost exactly five.’
‘Thanks.’ The man gestured towards the print. ‘Nice picture, don’t you think?’
‘Very nice,’ said Carlyle, quickening his pace in order to avoid being caught up in any more chit-chat. ‘Very nice indeed.’
He sensed the man hesitate, before making a decision not to follow. As he turned the corner, the inspector heard the guy say something in a language that certainly wasn’t English. Carlyle continued walking down a long, gloomy, curving corridor, with doors on either side, but empty of any other people. Gritting his teeth, he hoped this didn’t lead to a dead end. Pulling out his mobile, he again called his sergeant. When the call didn’t go through, he studied the screen and was dismayed to realize that he had no signal. ‘Fucking hell!’ he hissed. ‘The middle of London and there’s no bloody signal. How the hell can that be possible?’
Ten yards along the corridor, Carlyle came to a room-service tray deposited outside one of the guest rooms. On it stood an empty bottle of Cuvée Dom Perignon 2000. Might be handy, he thought, picking it up by the neck and weighing it in his hand. Looking up again, he spotted the second tweed-jacketed jerk from the Palm Court coming out of a room ahead of him. Game on! With one guy in front and one behind, there was no chance of backing d
own now. Carlyle strode forward, smiling inanely.
Tweed jacket number two was also clearly bigger and heavier than Carlyle himself. Still wearing his sunglasses in the semidarkness, he held up a hand, like a traffic cop directing traffic.
‘Hotel Security.’
Carlyle nodded politely, but said nothing. The man in front of him was wearing surgical rubber gloves, of the kind doctors used. Carlyle felt a wave of relief pass over him, mingling with the adrenalin that was coursing nicely through his veins. This must definitely be the crew that was hitting London hotels. He might be about to get his head kicked in, but at least he wasn’t going to end up looking like a paranoid idiot.
The man frowned when he realized that Carlyle wasn’t backing off. ‘Can I help you, sir?’
Another accent he couldn’t place.
‘No, I’m fine, thank you,’ said Carlyle, moving closer.
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ the man smiled malevolently, ‘but I’m going to have to ask you to return to the lobby.’
‘Uh-huh.’
Carlyle kept coming.
The man nonchalantly moved his feet apart, adopting a lower centre of gravity. ‘We have a small issue here that we need to deal with,’ he said flatly. ‘It is nothing serious and you will be able to access your room very shortly.’
‘I understand,’ Carlyle nodded. ‘Edwin Nyc is on his way up.’
The name of the hotel’s Head of Security garnered no response from behind the sunglasses.
Big surprise.
Carlyle tightened his grip on the neck of the champagne bottle. For a split second he considered smashing it against the wall and glassing the overgrown shithead in front of him. He discarded the idea immediately. Too messy, and it would raise the stakes too high. No one needed to get seriously hurt here.
Carlyle kept advancing, speeding up slightly to gain the extra momentum. He was almost on top of the bastard now.
‘Sir!’ The man’s voice jumped an octave. He looked past Carlyle, clearly wondering where his back-up was. ‘I have to insist that you go back downstairs. Now!’
‘Like fuck,’ Carlyle grinned. With a skip in his step, he lifted himself a couple of inches off the ground, took the bottle in both hands, and in one smooth arc, smashed it as hard as he could into the guy’s face.
There was a dull thud and the crack of plastic as the sunglasses disintegrated and the man crumpled to the carpet. Surprised that the bottle didn’t break, Carlyle tossed it further down the corridor and moved quickly to the door of the room from which the fellow had recently emerged.
In the comparative gloom, it was only when he pressed the handle that he realized that the lock had been forced. Pushing open the door, he stepped inside.
‘Police!’
He was standing in a small sitting room. It was empty. On first glance, the room hadn’t been tossed and nothing seemed out of place. To his left was a half-open door leading to a bedroom. Behind it he could see signs of movement. Carlyle stepped over and kicked the door open wider.
‘Police!’ The shout died in his throat as Carlyle took a moment to process what he was seeing. The Arab guy from the lift was lying face down on the bed, out for the count. His blazer had been tossed on the floor and his right shirt-sleeve rolled up past his elbow. There was a large hypodermic needle sticking out of his arm. Pressing down on the plunger was the ‘businessman’ from the lobby. His red tie loosened, sweat beading on his brow, he too was wearing a pair of surgical gloves. He carefully finished administering the injection and looked up at the inspector.
This guy is more my size, Carlyle decided, licking his lips. His blood was up now and he had a taste for action. ‘Step away from the bed!’
The man frowned but did not move.
‘I said—’
‘I heard you,’ the man smiled.
What’s he got to smile about? Carlyle wondered.
Then he heard the sound of a safety-catch being released behind his ear.
Oh, shit.
Everything was happening too fast.
Far too fast.
Out of the corner of his eye he could just make out the muzzle of a semi-automatic with a silencer attached. There was a whiff of body odour and a malicious whisper in his ear: ‘On your fucking knees, copper. Hands behind your head.’
Slowly, Carlyle did as he was told. Lifting his eyes to the ceiling, he thought of Lorna Gordon abandoned downstairs and cursed himself. Maybe there were worse things than discussing your mum’s divorce, after all.
He took a couple of quick slaps to the back of his head; nothing serious. Hands went through his pockets until they found his warrant card.
‘Metropolitan Police,’ announced the voice behind him – one of the tweed jackets, he assumed. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘My colleagues are on the way,’ Carlyle said quickly. It was worth a try.
‘Unlucky for them if they are,’ the voice behind him laughed. ‘Unlucky for you, my friend, either way. You are playing with the big boys now.’
‘What shall we do with this one?’ the businessman asked, pulling the needle out of the Arab’s arm.
Carlyle looked over at the man lying on the bed, his eyes half-closed, his breathing laboured. The guy in the tweed jacket stepped past Carlyle and prodded the body on the bed with the silencer of his semi-automatic. Without his sunglasses, Carlyle could make out the dark rings under his brown eyes. He had a large bruise rapidly developing on the side of his face. Carlyle wished he’d kept hold of the champagne bottle, so that he could at least fight back; try and give him another whack, put him down properly this time.
The gunman gave the body on the bed another prod. There was no response. ‘How long?’
The businessman type dropped the syringe into a small holdall and shrugged. ‘I have given him the full 100 millilitres,’ he said, doing up his tie, ‘so twenty minutes. Maybe twenty-five.’
‘Too long.’ The man with the gun looked at Carlyle and shook his head. ‘Anyway, we don’t have to worry about an autopsy any more. No one’s going to write this off as natural causes.’ He took a pillow and carefully placed it over the comatose man’s head. Then he shot twice into the pillow, sending down feathers flying into the air.
Carlyle winced as a feather landed on his head.
‘Like I said, Officer,’ the gunman said grimly, ‘you’re playing with the big boys now.’ Stepping back from the bed, he raised the pistol and aimed it at Carlyle.
Closing his eyes, Carlyle mumbled something that even he didn’t understand.
‘Are you sure we want to . . . ?’ The businessman’s voice trailed off into nothingness.
There was the click of the safety going back on.
Carlyle opened his eyes, relieved that he hadn’t voided his bowels – so far, at least.
The gunman laughed. Then he stepped closer to the kneeling policeman. ‘Luckily for you,’ he said quietly, ‘the big boys have fucked up more than enough for one day.’
Carlyle’s eyes widened as the gunman stepped forward and smashed the pistol down on his skull.
‘That’s for hitting me with the bottle, copper!’
There was a second blow. And a third. Carlyle swayed on his knees, and then pitched sideways into blackness.
THREE
When he came to, it took Carlyle several moments to remember where he was. The man on the bed brought it all back very quickly. The remains of his French Fancy reappeared as he vomited his Palm Court tea on to the carpet. Forcing himself into a sitting position, he put a hand to his right temple where the skin had been broken. He rubbed the blood between his fingers – sticky, but nothing too serious. The stitches could wait.
‘Oh fuck!’ His nose crinkled at a whiff of excrement mingling with the smell of vomit. He put a hand to his crotch, but there was no sign of any accident. A dark stain on the dead man’s jeans confirmed the source of the odour. Carlyle let out a relieved sigh. ‘Thank You, God,’ he said out loud. In the Met, no one could ever recover
from getting a reputation for having shat themselves in the line of duty.
Standing up, he felt his headache spreading effortlessly to all parts of his body. Gazing at the destroyed pillow, he didn’t even bother checking the body for a pulse. He peered groggily around the room. The alarm clock on the bedside table said 5.09. Maybe he’d been out cold for only a couple of minutes. His warrant card lay on the carpet by his feet. Picking it up, he placed it back in his pocket and staggered to the door.
The sitting room of the suite was empty. Gingerly, Carlyle stuck his head out of the busted door and looked up and down the corridor. Empty.
Right, you bastards, let’s be having you! A surge of anger and adrenalin sent him running back towards the lifts.
* * *
The first person he saw as he reached the lobby was his sergeant, Joe Szyszkowski. Ignoring the look of surprise on Joe’s face, Carlyle hissed: ‘Three men, two of them with crew cuts. Wearing tweed jackets. Armed and dangerous. Call for back-up . . .’
Even as the words were coming out, he spotted the same trio casually hailing a taxi on the street outside.
‘There they are! Come on!’
Carlyle rushed across the lobby, searching in vain for Edwin Nyc as he went. He burst through the revolving doors and past a startled doorman, just as a cab pulled up at the kerb.
‘Stop!’ he yelled. ‘Police!’
The three turned to face him with the weary look of executives whose bad day at the office showed no sign of abating.
‘Police!’ Carlyle repeated, waving his warrant card above his head.
The cabbie took one look at what was transpiring and promptly switched his light back on, squeezing in front of a coach and into the middle lane as he went in search of a less troublesome fare. Disgusted, two of the men turned their backs on Carlyle and stepped out into the road to begin crossing the four lanes of slow-moving traffic on Piccadilly. The third man opened his jacket, as if to remind Carlyle that he was carrying a weapon.
The sound of sirens in the distance made Carlyle feel a little better. He just hoped that they were coming to help him. ‘Put the gun on the pavement!’
