by James Craig
The man shook his head. ‘Is this how you repay me for saving your life?’ He frowned. ‘Don’t be stupid. I am going to walk away now. If you take one step further, I will shoot you in the head.’ He grinned. ‘Maybe in the balls first.’
The sirens were getting louder.
‘Where are you going to go?’ Carlyle asked. ‘There’s nowhere to hide.’
‘Home.’ The man shrugged. ‘My job is done. Now I’m going home.’
Carlyle felt someone at his shoulder.
‘The cavalry will be here in about one minute.’ His sergeant stepped past him, brandishing a pair of plastic handcuffs.
‘Joe . . .’
‘What the fuck is this?’ The man pulled the gun from the waistband of his trousers and shot twice.
Joe Szyszkowski hit the ground before Carlyle had a chance to move.
FOUR
‘Are you going with him?’ Ashen-faced, Edwin Nyc scanned the lobby. The guests had been evacuated, to be replaced by a growing number of emergency services personnel methodically going about their business. Perched on the arm of a chair, Carlyle watched as Joe was carefully stretchered into the back of the ambulance outside. He knew that he should be out there with his friend and colleague, but an overwhelming sense of uselessness washed over him. He tried to stand up but found that he lacked the energy to move.
‘Where are they taking him?’
‘St Thomas’, I think.’
‘I’ll make my own way over there.’
‘How bad is it?’
‘No idea,’ Carlyle said listlessly. ‘Pretty bad, I suppose.’ A reasonable assumption, given the two bullets lodged in his sergeant’s chest.
In silence, they watched Joe disappear inside the ambulance. The doors closed and the vehicle edged out into the traffic, its siren blaring. After watching it depart, the technicians quickly got back down to business. All around them, life was effortlessly returning to normal. Few people in the city had time to stop and gawp.
Nyc disappeared into the Rivoli Bar, returning almost immediately with a bottle of whisky and two glasses. He handed Carlyle one empty glass and poured him a triple measure. Then he poured an equally large one for himself.
Gesturing for Nyc to hand it over, Carlyle inspected the bottle: Caol Ila, an eighteen-year-old Islay malt. Nice. He studied the label:
Caol Ila (Gaelic for ‘the Sound of Islay’, which separates the island from Jura in one of the most remote and beautiful parts of Scotland’s West Coast) was built in 1846 by Glasgow businessman Hector Henderson. The barley used is still malted locally at Port Ellen and the pure spring water it contains still rises from limestone in nearby Loch nam Ban, then falls to the sea at Caol Ila in a clear crystal stream, just as it always has. Their offspring is a fine-ageing malt reserved in oak casks for up to eighteen years.
And, best of all, it was 43 per cent proof. I’ll drink to that, Carlyle thought grimly. Taking a small mouthful, he let the golden liquid soothe his throat if not his soul. Placing the bottle carefully on the floor, he slithered into the armchair. Nyc plonked himself down in the one opposite. Both men drank steadily, in silence, for several minutes.
Still without saying anything, Nyc disappeared for a second time. When he came back, he was carrying a damp hand towel in one hand and a clean white shirt in the other.
He handed Carlyle the towel. ‘Here, tidy yourself up.’
‘Thanks.’ Getting to his feet, Carlyle walked across the lobby, positioning himself in front of a full-length mirror next to the concierge’s desk. Tentatively dabbing at the cut above his eye, he winced.
Arriving at his shoulder, Nyc held up a large fabric plaster. ‘Use this.’
‘Thanks.’
His wound now bandaged, Carlyle tossed his jacket onto the chair and pulled off his tie. As he began undoing his shirt, he realized it was splattered with Joe’s blood. He instantly felt woozy and began to sway.
Nyc placed a hand on his elbow. ‘Are you all right?’
‘I’m fine.’ Carlyle took off the ruined shirt and bundled it into a ball, tossing it onto the floor. ‘Bin that for me, will you?’
‘Of course,’ Nyc nodded.
* * *
After putting on the fresh shirt, Carlyle rang home. To his relief, the call went straight to voicemail. After the beep, he gave the briefest summary of what had happened, stressing that he himself was completely okay but explaining that he might not get back to the flat until well into the wee small hours. With that minor but important task achieved, he went back to his whisky.
The more he drank, the more he thought about his responsibility for what had happened. And the more he thought about it, the clearer it became to him that he had fucked up big time.
Fucked up – and maybe got Joe killed.
As Carlyle brooded, the silence grew poisonous.
‘Has someone informed his wife yet?’ Nyc asked eventually.
‘Yes,’ said Carlyle. ‘They’ll be taking her straight to the hospital.’ He had no idea if that was true or not, but there was no way that he was volunteering for the job himself. He knew Anita Szyszkowski well enough, but they had never really established any kind of close relationship. To the inspector’s mind, Anita was always too ready to blame him for Joe’s late nights and missed family gatherings. If she got wind of what had happened here, she’d probably try and eviscerate him with her bare hands.
Above all, however, he didn’t want to have to face the kids. William and Sarah Szyszkowski were only slightly older than Carlyle’s own daughter Alice. The idea of having to tell them that their dad had been shot in the street did his head in. Someone else could take care of that.
After a while, Chief Inspector Chris French, officer in charge of the crime scene, strode through the lobby. He saw the glass in Carlyle’s hand and frowned.
Fuck off, you prick, Carlyle thought. French worked out of West End Central, on Savile Row. Carlyle knew French by sight, but otherwise wasn’t aware of much about him. He couldn’t recall having seen the chief inspector’s name mentioned on the report about the robbery crew, and he certainly hadn’t ever worked with him before. Sitting in the lobby of the Ritz, however, it took him less than ten minutes to take a profound dislike to the guy as French fussed about, wasting time on irrelevant details when he should have been out searching for the gunman and his colleagues.
Edwin Nyc cleared his throat. ‘Look, apologies for being so callous, Chief Inspector,’ he said, eyeing Carlyle, ‘but how long will it be until we can re-open the hotel lobby? We have guests using a side entrance but there are still some diners waiting outside, I believe.’
French nodded thoughtfully, like he was being asked to answer a riddle or a complicated maths puzzle. ‘I understand, Mr Nic . . .’
It’s pronounced ‘nike’, you dick, like in the shoe, Carlyle groused to himself as he guzzled some more scotch.
‘. . . I will make sure we get things up and running again as quickly as possible. However, I’m sure that you understand the seriousness of the situation.’
‘Of course. Thank you.’ Nyc gave Carlyle a pleading look and stalked off in the direction of the bar.
Carlyle watched the man go, taking the rest of the eighteen-year-old single malt with him. You could at least have left me the bottle, he thought mournfully.
French turned to Carlyle. ‘I need you to go to West End Central to make a formal statement.’
Carlyle drained his glass and stood up rather unsteadily. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘I was going to head over to the hospital first, and then I need to speak to my commanding officer.’
French thought about that for a moment. He clearly wasn’t happy with this plan, but at the same time he knew that he couldn’t object without coming across as a total arse. ‘Who’s your CO?’ he asked finally.
‘Simpson – Commander Carole Simpson.’ Carlyle made a vague gesture in a northwards direction. ‘She’s based up in Paddington.’
‘Don’t know her.’ French yawne
d. ‘Any good?’
I bloody hope so, thought Carlyle. He would need all of Simpson’s political skills to help pull him out of the shit this time. ‘Yes, not bad.’
‘Okay,’ French sighed. ‘Take your time. It’s clearly going to be a long night.’
Carlyle nodded. ‘Yes, it certainly is.’ His mobile started vibrating in his pocket. Pulling it out, he checked the screen. No number. Hoping that it wasn’t the Commander, he hit the receive button.
‘Hello?’
‘Do you know what time it is?’ Despite the background noise on the other end of the line, the inspector recognized the voice immediately. It certainly wasn’t Carole Simpson. And it certainly wasn’t happy. ‘Where the hell are you?’
Shit. Walking away from French, Carlyle took a deep breath, followed by another. His headache had returned with a vengeance and he wondered if he might be about to puke. He had completely forgotten about the evening’s planned business. Thoughts of arrests, newspaper ink and glory seemed, at best, totally irrelevant now.
‘John?’
‘Piccadilly,’ he said wearily. ‘I’m in Piccadilly.’
‘What the hell are you doing there?’
‘Sorry, Dom,’ he mumbled, trying to keep his voice even. ‘Something came up. Tough day.’
‘I don’t give a monkey’s about that,’ Dominic Silver snapped. ‘This is your window of opportunity here, sunshine. We are good to go. You need to get your arse over here tonto bloody pronto.’
‘But—’
‘No buts – I’ve laid out everything on a plate here for you. Not for the first time, I might add. So get your arse in a cab and get over here. Right now.’
Still holding the phone to his ear, Carlyle stepped out of the lobby and onto the pavement. Right in front of him, a cab pulled up at the kerb, disgorging a couple of hotel guests who were immediately swept up by one of the liveried doormen and shepherded to the side entrance. Grabbing the door before it slammed shut, Carlyle slid onto the back seat of the taxi and barked an address at the driver. ‘Okay,’ he said into the handset. ‘I’m on my way.’
Ending the call, he tossed the phone onto the seat, closed his eyes to stem the tears and rested his head on the cool leather. Blocking out the sounds of the city, he said a silent prayer. It was time to go to the show.
FIVE
Just how surreal could this day get? All the background noise and bustle gradually faded to the point where he was aware of nothing beyond the fantastically pretty girl standing five feet in front of him, without a scrap of clothing on. Ignoring the swaying inspector, she idly scratched her left breast, just beneath the erect nipple, as she sucked on a cigarette. Blowing smoke into the air, her eyes locked on Carlyle’s. Feeling himself redden, the inspector nervously fingered the plaster over his left eye and tried not to lower his gaze. Making no effort to cover herself, the girl took another drag on her cigarette, her grin effortlessly mutating into a sneer. ‘Rollo!’ she shouted. ‘Pervert alert! . . . Rollo!’
A small, fat, bald man of indeterminate age waddled over. Beside him was Dominic Silver. Wearing an expensive-looking navy suit with a black shirt, Silver looked like he owned the place, which, in effect, he did. The fat man, by contrast, looked like an extra from Pirates of the Caribbean, in black leather jeans and a ruffled white shirt that was unbuttoned almost to his waist. All that was missing was a parrot on his shoulder.
‘You finally made it then?’ Silver asked.
‘Yes,’ Carlyle coughed.
‘Good.’ Copper turned drug dealer, turned entrepreneur, Dominic Silver had known the inspector for something like thirty years, give or take. They had a good, if occasionally fractious relationship, which they both knew would survive this latest blip.
‘Charlotte,’ Silver’s sidekick hissed, ‘get dressed! We are starting in ten minutes.’
Rolling her eyes to the ceiling, the girl handed the fat man the cigarette, then turned and flounced off in the direction of a stylist waiting beside a long rail of clothes. Despite everything, Carlyle couldn’t help but be transfixed by the sight of her perfect buttocks as they retreated across the dressing area. He let out a deep, deep sigh.
‘And who are you?’ The fat man broke the angel’s spell by prodding Carlyle in the ribs.
‘He’s my guy,’ Dom said hastily, shooting Carlyle a look that said: be cool, stop embarrassing yourself.
‘Oh, I see.’ If anything, this news made the fat man even less happy about Carlyle’s presence.
‘Rollo Kasabian, fashion designer,’ Silver kept his voice low, trying to play the peacemaker, ‘meet Inspector John Carlyle, policeman.’
Without offering a hand, Kasabian grunted something that could not easily have been translated as Pleased to meet you.
Carlyle didn’t even bother with a response. Kasabian was Dom’s bunny, so Carlyle knew that the man would do what he was damn well told.
Another babe walked by, this one naked only from the waist down. His embarrassment waning, Carlyle smiled at Dom. ‘Are we ready to go?’
Silver looked at Kasabian, who nodded.
‘Good,’ said Silver, slapping Kasabian on the back.
The designer mumbled something about ‘last-minute arrangements’ and sloped off.
Silver took Carlyle by the arm and led him towards the curtain leading to the runway. ‘Let’s go and get our seats.’
Rollo Kasabian’s collection for London Fashion Week was being showcased on the ground floor of an empty office block in Knights-bridge, close to the Royal Albert Hall. The seats surrounding the runway were six rows deep – enough, Carlyle calculated, to accommodate maybe 200 people. As they stepped out from behind the curtain, he was pleased to see that the lighting made it impossible to see the audience from the runway. That would make his job easier when it came to effecting an arrest. Two uniforms were parked in a car outside, ready to take the suspect back to Charing Cross police station. After everything that had happened during the last few hours, Carlyle seriously doubted he would have the energy to conduct an interview this evening.
Dom led him to a pair of seats at the back, to the side of the runway. After they took their places, he pointed out a couple of celebrities and fashion editors, stern women with oversized sunglasses perched on their heads, who were sitting in the front row on the opposite side.
Carlyle grunted, unimpressed as he hadn’t heard of any of them. He jerked a thumb at a gaggle of snappers at the end of the runway, saying, ‘I don’t want any of those buggers getting a picture when I slap the cuffs on the lovely young drug-dealing model.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Dom. ‘It will all be done backstage after this has finished.’
‘The show must go on.’
‘Of course. But it makes sense for you, too. There’s half a kilo of coke in the girl’s bag.’
‘That’s handy.’
Silver ignored the insinuation.
‘How much is it worth?’ Carlyle wondered.
‘It varies,’ said Dom casually. ‘The middle-class clientele she serves more or less demand to get ripped off. Maybe quarter of a mil, give or take.’
Carlyle let out a low whistle.
‘Want to rip it off?’ Dom grinned. ‘Get me to sell it for you?’
‘Yeah, right.’ Carlyle shifted uneasily in his seat. After all these years, Dominic Silver’s willingness to dangle temptation in front of him continued to annoy and make him feel uncomfortable in equal measure.
Dom gave him a reassuring pat on the arm. ‘Don’t worry. There will be no cameras, no drama. Plenty of opportunity for you to make the collar with a minimum of fuss.’
‘No drama!’ Carlyle snorted. ‘Is that possible? With this lot?’
‘Rollo knows what he has to do. Anyway, I know that you’ve had quite your fill of excitement for one day.’
‘I certainly have,’ Carlyle replied.
‘It was all over the news. How is Joe? What’s the latest?’
‘No news yet,’ Carlyle mum
bled. The truth was that he hadn’t yet spoken to the hospital. Having allowed himself to be diverted to the fashion show, the inspector was too scared to give the doctors a call. No news, he believed, really was good news. Bad news would find him soon enough.
Dom gestured to the plaster on Carlyle’s forehead. ‘Are you sure you’re okay?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘I’m sorry I was so bolshie on the phone earlier. I didn’t realize . . .’
‘It doesn’t matter.’ Carlyle looked over at the runway. ‘You were right – we have to move on this now. Apart from anything else, Joe did a lot of work on this case.’
Dom nodded. ‘He’d want you to get the result.’
Carlyle made a face. ‘Right now, I don’t imagine he could give a toss. But I want to get a result.’ He gestured towards the empty runway. ‘This is the girl’s last show in London this week?’
‘Yeah. Then she’s booked on the lunchtime BA flight to Rio tomorrow.’
I wish I was flying down to fucking Rio, Carlyle thought sourly. He looked at his watch. ‘Shouldn’t this shebang have started by now?’
Dominic shrugged. ‘They’re always running late.’
‘Great.’ Carlyle looked at his shoes, knowing that he really should call the hospital.
He really should be at the fucking hospital.
‘How are the family?’ he enquired.
Dom turned and gave him a pained look. ‘Not great, to be honest.’
‘Oh.’ Carlyle was already wishing that he hadn’t asked that question.
‘You know we’ve had some problems with Marina?’
‘Er . . . yes.’ Carlyle vaguely remembered Helen telling him, a while back, something about Dom’s youngest child needing to go into hospital for some tests.
Dom let out a long sigh. ‘The doctors think it’s something called Cockayne Syndrome.’
‘Uh-huh?’ Carlyle murmured, clueless.
‘Type One,’ Dom continued, sounding as if the words were seared into his brain. ‘The classic form: impairment of vision, of hearing, and the central and peripheral nervous systems progressively degenerate, until death occurs in the first or second decade of life.’
