Then We Die

by James Craig

  ‘Oi!’ Dom shouted angrily. ‘Watch the motor!’

  Ignoring him, the woman gamely kept going. I hope your life insurance is up to date, love, Carlyle thought. Only an idiot with a death wish would get on a bike in London. There should be a law against it.

  Yawning, he turned to Dom, who was still fretting about the possibility of someone crashing into his precious car. ‘So, where are we going, then?’

  ‘Where do you think, Mr Policeman?’ Dom said, still keeping his eyes peeled for dangerous road-users. ‘Back to the scene of the crime, of course.’

  It took almost exactly an hour for them to reach Peel Street, and then find somewhere to park. Getting out of the car, Carlyle estimated that the tube could have got them here in less than half the time. Keeping that thought to himself, though, he followed Dom along the road.

  The police tape had gone from outside number 17 now and the house looked completely normal.

  ‘They got the place back quickly,’ Carlyle said, as much to himself as to Dom.

  ‘The police had no reason to keep holding it,’ Dom replied. ‘Sol’s lawyer – or rather a lawyer for the shell company that nominally owns the property – gave a statement saying that the place was not being occupied by the owners at the time of the murder, and that the corpse was inside illegally.’

  ‘How convenient.’ Standing on the pavement while Dom rang the doorbell, Carlyle hoped that their arrival would not be noticed by any of the neighbours. At this time of the day, however, there seemed little to worry about. The street looked deserted.

  Dom smirked. ‘Happily the rule of law still applies in this country – some of the time, anyway. Once Forensics had finished with the place, the police handed back the keys and Sol was free to move back in. He had the place thoroughly cleaned, of course, first.’ The door was finally opened for them, and Dom slipped inside first. Carlyle quickly skipped up the steps and went after him.

  In the hallway, as the front door closed behind him, Carlyle turned to be confronted by one of Sol Abramyan’s Somalian bodyguards, a giant who was at least six inches taller than the inspector and almost as wide as the passage. In silence, he submitted to a thorough search of his clothing before being shown towards the back of the building.

  Apart from an absence of blood on the floor, the kitchen looked the same as Carlyle remembered it. Sol Abramyan sat at the far side of the table, nibbling at a cheese sandwich, with an open can of Diet Coke standing next to his plate. Another massive bodyguard lounged beside the back door. Still chewing, Sol invited his visitors to sit. Swallowing, he took a long swig from his can. ‘There’s more Coke in the fridge,’ he said. ‘It’s nice and cold. Help yourself.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Dom jumped up and fetched a couple of cans. He handed one to Carlyle, who pulled the ring and took a mouthful. It tasted good.

  Sol dropped his sandwich back on the plate and looked up. ‘You pair took your time?’

  ‘The traffic,’ Dom shrugged. ‘It’s terrible.’

  ‘The traffic in London is always terrible,’ Sol said. ‘Even I know that. You live here. You should know better.’

  Dom bowed his head. ‘Yes, sorry.’

  The inspector looked on, bemused. He wasn’t used to Dom appearing so meek. Then, again, he didn’t usually sit in on meetings with the guy’s clients.

  ‘So,’ Sol eyed Carlyle, ‘I have what you want.’

  Jesus, Carlyle thought testily, get to the point, why don’t you? He glanced at Dom, but his friend’s expression gave nothing away. He turned back to Sol Abramyan and said, ‘Okay. Good.’

  Sol took another slug from his can and let out a small burp. ‘So, if I hand it over, what do I get?’

  Carlyle forced himself to maintain eye-contact. ‘What might you want?’

  ‘I have some business deals to conclude here.’

  You now want me to sanction your arms sale? Carlyle thought. You have to be fucking kidding. ‘What are you selling?’ he asked, as if it made much of a difference.

  ‘Just cheap crap that no one else wants,’ Sol replied airily. ‘These guys have no fucking money whatsoever. Even the Somalis can afford better stuff.’ He grinned at the bodyguard, who gave no reaction.

  Carlyle glanced again at Dom. This time, Porsche Man gave him a look that said, It’s nothing to do with me.

  Sol was watching Carlyle expectantly. ‘Well?’

  ‘Well . . .’ Carlyle didn’t have the remotest fucking clue what to say next. ‘This puts me in a very delicate position,’ he stammered.

  ‘You’ve put yourself in this position,’ Sol shot back. ‘So what are you going to do?’

  Carlyle took a deep breath. All he could do now was play for time. ‘I need to check a couple of things first. I will get back to you, via Dominic, within the next six hours.’

  Sol glanced at his Patek Philippe Aquanaut. ‘You have three hours. After that, what you want is no longer available.’

  Carlyle got straight to his feet. ‘Thank you.’

  Sol extended a hand and they shook. ‘One other thing . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  Sol picked at his sandwich. ‘That man who died under my kitchen table.’

  ‘The guy with a German passport . . .’

  ‘He was travelling under the name of Lefter Sporel, but his real name was Jamal Al Amour. His family should be informed.’

  Carlyle nodded. Taking a small piece of paper and a pen from his jacket pocket, he copied down the name as Sol spelled it out. ‘I will make sure that the family are told,’ he said. ‘And we will get the body repatriated as soon as possible.’

  ‘Good, good,’ Sol nodded. ‘That is as it should be.’

  A thought popped into Carlyle’s head. ‘I am assuming that there are still members of the Hamas team here in London, in order to conclude your business?’

  ‘Don’t push your luck,’ Sol grunted, returning to his sandwich. ‘You have three hours.’

  Declining Dom’s offer of the chance to fritter away his precious time sitting in another traffic jam, Carlyle headed for the tube. On the way, he phoned the number that he had for Fadi Kashkesh.

  ‘Hello?’

  Somewhat taken aback that the young man had answered on the first ring, Carlyle gave his name.

  There was a pause while Fadi thought about hanging up. ‘What do you want?’ he asked finally.

  ‘You were supposed to contact me,’ said Carlyle brusquely, striding down the road and almost walking into a woman pushing a baby in a pram. Glaring at the poor woman, he hissed into the phone, ‘So why didn’t you give me a call?’

  ‘I am still making my own investigations,’ Fadi replied defensively.

  ‘Time has run out, Fadi,’ Carlyle almost shouted as he stepped off the pavement to avoid another pedestrian and landed straight in the path of a number 31 bus. ‘Shit!’ He jumped quickly back onto the pavement, and raised his voice another notch. ‘I need something, and I need it now.’

  ‘I am still trying,’ the youth pleaded.

  ‘Fuck that,’ Carlyle snarled. ‘I know where you live and I know where you work.’ That wasn’t technically true, but he could easily find out. ‘You meet me in the next hour, with some useful information, or I will have you fucking deported by teatime.’ As idle threats went, it was fairly lame, but he suddenly felt desperate.

  ‘Louisa says that you cannot do that.’ Fadi sounded like he was on the brink of tears.

  ‘I’ll have her fucking deported as well,’ Carlyle told him, on a roll now and almost giddy with the nonsense he was talking. He named a café in Soho, near to where they had last met. ‘Be there in one hour. Don’t make me come and find you.’

  Ending the call, he burst out laughing and disappeared into the depths of the tube station.

  Two hours and three espressos later, Carlyle was feeling extremely wired but far less clever. Fadi Kashkesh hadn’t showed up, his mobile was switched off, and the clock was well and truly ticking for Sol Abramyan’s deadline. Looking at his ow
n phone sitting in front of him on the table, Carlyle issued a slew of expletives, to the obvious dismay of a woman sitting nearby. Staring her down, he grabbed his mobile and stood up, cursing his own stupidity and wondering what the hell he should do next.

  Just as he reached the door of the café, the phone started vibrating in his hand. Carlyle clamped it to his ear. ‘Where the fucking hell are you?’ he hissed.

  ‘Inspector?’ The woman on the end of the line was clearly disconcerted by his sophisticated opening gambit.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Is this Inspector Carlyle?’

  Carlyle stopped under the shade of a tree at the north-east corner of Soho Square and took a deep breath. Calm down, he told himself. Just calm down. ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘Inspector,’ the voice purred, ‘this is Sylvia Swain.’

  Swain? The name didn’t register. ‘What can I do for you?’ he said cautiously.

  ‘We met in the pub,’ she said, picking up on his confusion. ‘I write for the Toronto Globe and Mail.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ he said, annoyed now at having taken this call. ‘I remember.’

  ‘I’m still working on my story about your partner,’ Swain said, ‘and I was wondering if we could have another chat.’

  Not a fucking chance. ‘To be honest,’ Carlyle told her, ‘I don’t really think I can add anything to what I said last time.’

  It was not the kind of brush-off to deter an experienced journalist. ‘I realize that you must be incredibly busy,’ she replied evenly, ‘but I have some information that you might find useful. I was wondering if maybe we could trade.’

  ‘What kind of information?’

  ‘Meet me at my hotel tonight and I can show you what I’ve got. I’m staying at the Garden on St Martin’s Lane. Do you know it?’

  ‘Yes,’ Carlyle sighed, ‘I know it well.’ The Garden was near the police station, so if this was a wild-goose chase at least it wouldn’t be wasting too much of his time. They agreed a time and he abruptly ended the call.

  Walking down Frith Street, he tried Fadi’s number again, gritting his teeth as once again it went straight to voicemail. Hanging up without leaving a message, he sidestepped a pile of desiccated dog shit and dropped the handset back in his pocket. Reaching into the other side of his jacket, he pulled out his private, pay-as-you-go mobile. Looking up the calls list, he hit the number at the top.

  Dom answered on the third ring. ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘Tell Sol that he’s got a deal,’ said Carlyle wearily. ‘Let me know when I can pick up my package.’

  FORTY-FOUR

  The inspector was almost an hour late by the time he walked into the Garden Hotel. Hurrying through the lobby, he nodded to Alex Miles, the chief concierge, who was talking to a stunning blonde in a silver dress, and headed for the Light Bar at the rear. The place was pretty full and it took several moments for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. He found Sylvia Swain sitting at a table in the corner. Peering over her reading glasses, she was looking through a draft of what was presumably her news story, typed neatly on several sheets of A4. As he approached, she crossed something out, then made a note in the margin with a pencil. On the table stood a very large martini.

  ‘Sorry I’m late,’ he lied, approaching her.

  Swain made another mark on her copy before looking up. ‘Inspector, how nice to see you again,’ she smiled, slurring her words ever so slightly.

  I wonder how many of those you’ve had already, he wondered, glancing at the three-quarters-empty glass.

  ‘Would you like a drink?’ she asked, waving to a waiter, who came skipping over to their table.

  ‘A beer would be great, thanks,’ Carlyle said, wondering how she managed to get such quick service. In smart places like this, it always took him forever to get served.

  The waiter looked him up and down, making it clear that he was not impressed by what he saw. ‘What kind would you like, sir?’ he said threateningly, before reeling off a list of brand names, most of which meant nothing to Carlyle.

  ‘Any of those will be fine,’ Carlyle replied testily.

  Sylvia ordered another cocktail and asked the waiter to put them on her tab. Nodding politely, he retreated behind the bar.

  ‘How’s your story going?’ Carlyle asked, sinking into the soft leather armchair.

  ‘We’re getting there.’ Swain gave him a crooked smile and dropped the sheets of paper into the shoulder bag resting at her feet. Unlike Carlyle, she was sitting on a regular wooden chair, giving her a height advantage of several inches. This allowed him an extremely good view of her legs, which were long and slim, and her skirt, which was exceedingly short.

  The waiter quickly reappeared with their drinks and Carlyle took the opportunity to check out the rest of her. Her hair was kept in place with an Alice band and, along with the glasses, it added up to a rather stern librarian look. However, the flimsy-looking blouse suggested something else entirely. So too did the obvious absence of a brassière. Trying not to stare, Carlyle daintily sipped at his beer while Swain finished off her previous drink. Handing the empty glass back to the waiter, she immediately took a sip from the fresh one. She noticed him watching her. ‘I know, I know,’ she sighed, ‘but it has been a long day. And this is only my fourth . . . so far.’

  Perching on the edge of his seat, he focused on trying to maintain eye-contact. ‘You said that you had something for me to look at?’

  ‘Yes,’ Swain murmured, eyeing him over the rim of her glass, ‘but stupidly, I’ve left it up in my room.’ Casually shifting in her seat, she opened her legs just wide enough to show Carlyle that she wasn’t wearing any knickers either.

  Taking another mouthful of beer, he lifted his gaze to the ceiling. For a moment, he was convinced that he could actually smell her sex and he inhaled deeply. You are not following her upstairs, his brain screamed. The message from his groin, however, was rather more ambivalent. Finishing his beer, he looked around for the waiter to rescue him. The guy was, of course, nowhere to be seen.

  Swain drained her glass and, reaching over, she placed a hand on Carlyle’s knee. ‘Come on,’ she purred, breathing alcohol fumes over him. ‘I think you’ll be very interested in what I’ve got to show you.’

  As Carlyle struggled out of his armchair, one of the mobiles started ringing in the breast pocket of his jacket. He looked at the screen: Helen. Saved by the bell, he decided as the spell was broken. Turning to Swain, he held up a hand. ‘Excuse me for a moment,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to take this.’

  Swaying slightly, the journalist nodded.

  Carlyle stepped back towards the lobby of the hotel.

  ‘Where are you?’ Helen asked by way of introduction.

  ‘Work.’

  ‘Sounds like you’re in a bar.’

  ‘I am in a bar. For work.’

  ‘When will you be back?’

  He exhaled deeply. ‘I’m just leaving now. I’ll be fifteen minutes, max.’

  ‘Good,’ she replied, ‘we need to have a chat about Alice.’

  ‘What’s happened?’ Carlyle asked, worried.

  ‘It can wait till you get home. I’ll see you soon.’ She hung up before he had the chance to reply.

  Seeing that he had finished his call, Swain veered across the lobby towards the lifts. He walked over as she hit the Call button.

  ‘That was work,’ he lied. ‘I’ve got to go.’

  She took him gently by the arm and whispered, ‘I only need five minutes.’

  Carlyle heard the lift arrive and the doors open. Walking her into the lift, he removed his arm and jumped back out. ‘I really have to go,’ he said firmly, ‘but I will call you in the morning. Or maybe you could drop whatever you have off at the police station. It’s just round the corner; the concierge will be able to point you in the right direction.’ He nodded at the papers sticking out of the top of her bag. ‘And don’t forget to send me a copy of your story.’

  ‘But—’

  �
�Thanks for the beer, by the way.’

  Before she could protest any further, Carlyle stepped aside to let another hotel guest enter the lift. Then he turned away and headed for the main door at a brisk pace.

  FORTY-FIVE

  Arriving home, Carlyle looked in on Alice. Seeing his daughter sleeping the sleep of the just, a wave of serenity washed over him. Gently closing her bedroom door, he tiptoed back down the hallway. After making himself a cup of green tea in the kitchen, he wandered into the living room. Dropping onto the sofa, he kissed Helen on the cheek before stretching out with his head against her shoulder.

  Helen muted the cookery programme she had been watching on TV and tapped him gently on the head with the remote control. ‘Have you been drinking?’

  ‘I had a beer,’ he yawned. ‘What’s the story with Alice?’

  ‘Well,’ replied Helen, adopting the perky tone of one with special news to impart, ‘I had a call today.’

  Carlyle’s heart sank. ‘Oh, yes?’ He took a slurp of tea.

  ‘From Julie Wark, Stuart’s mum.’

  ‘Interesting.’ Carlyle smiled at the thought of young love’s worst nightmare: their respective mothers hooking up and meddling in their budding romance.

  ‘She just wanted to introduce herself and tell me what a nice young lady they think Alice is.’

  Carlyle took another mouthful of tea. ‘And how do they know this?’

  ‘Apparently she’s been over there for tea a couple of times.’

  ‘Oh, has she now?’ exclaimed Carlyle in mock indignation. ‘Did you know about this?’

  ‘No,’ Helen admitted, ‘but it’s not such a big deal.’

  ‘I suppose not,’ he said grudgingly.

  ‘Anyway, I agreed to meet Julie for a coffee next week, so I’ll doubtless find out more then.’

  ‘Good idea.’ Having Helen on the case made Carlyle instantly feel a lot better.

  ‘And I’ve invited Stuart round here for tea, too.’

  ‘When?’ he asked warily.