by James Craig
If it was me, I’d have just shot the bastard. Keeping his thoughts to himself, Carlyle nodded.
‘Good,’ the old man smiled. ‘Thank you. Now, I think I need that drink. A large one, too.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Carlyle took another glass and half-filled it with whisky. ‘Good job the safety was still on.’
‘Indeed,’ Sir Michael agreed. ‘The Glock is an outstanding weapon, altogether a fantastic piece of craftsmanship. And it has multiple independent safety mechanisms in order to prevent accidental discharge.’
Carlyle turned back to face his host, holding a glass in each hand.
‘I was in the Household Cavalry before I joined the Civil Service,’ Sir Michael explained. ‘And then, after that, I was in the Territorial Army for more than twenty years. As a result, I know my weaponry quite well.’
‘Mm.’
‘You have to pull the trigger properly or it won’t fire.’ The old man slowly brought the barrel of the Glock up to Trevor Miller’s chest. ‘Like this, in fact.’ Squeezing off three rounds, he watched impassively as Miller keeled forward.
For a moment, there was silence. No one looked at each other as they all contemplated the body at their feet. Carlyle fleetingly wondered if he should check Miller for a pulse, but he knew it would be pointless. The man was dead. Taking another mouthful of whisky, his thoughts turned to what would happen next. Despite his alcohol intake, he felt reasonably alert; as long as he kept his account of Miller’s death simple and broadly accurate, Forensics would join the dots and there should be no problem with Commander Simpson, or with the Met’s internal investigators.
‘As they say in America,’ Sir Michael said airily, ‘you have to keep your Glock cocked. Otherwise you won’t be able to shoot it.’ Sidestepping the advancing puddle of blood spreading across the carpet, he carefully placed the pistol on the dining-room table before accepting his drink from the inspector.
Gideon gestured towards the body. ‘And what are you going to say about what happened here?’
‘In situations like these, I find that it’s always easiest to stick to the truth.’ Sir Michael took a large mouthful of whisky and gave an appreciative sigh. ‘At least some of the truth.’ From the sofa, Veronica eyed him with wifely pride.
In situations like these? Carlyle wondered just what exactly the old boy had got up to during his cavalry days.
The old man gestured at Miller with his glass. ‘He’s not the first man I’ve killed, you know. Anyway, I want people to know that I killed that bastard. I’m not ashamed of it, not in the slightest.’
‘Okay.’ Carlyle placed his now empty glass back on the sideboard. ‘We’ll go with the truth, then.’
‘Good.’
‘Just not the whole truth.’ The inspector gestured towards the kitchen. ‘Is there a back way out of here?’
‘So long as you don’t mind jumping a few fences,’ Sir Michael told him.
Gideon nodded. ‘No problem.’ Without another word, he turned and started off down the hallway.
‘I’ll wait five minutes, then call it in,’ Carlyle shouted after him. Turning to Veronica, he smiled. ‘If you don’t mind, I’ll just go and put the kettle on. It’s going to be a long night and I think we will all need some strong coffee.’
Standing under a sickly-looking tree, Commander Carole Simpson sucked down a latte as she watched a couple of uniforms struggle to control the rapidly growing press pack behind the police tape twenty yards along the road. ‘What am I going to tell that lot?’ she asked, looking round for somewhere to toss her empty cup.
‘Just tell them Miller was a total bastard who got what he deserved.’
‘Helpful as always, John.’ Unable to dispose of the cup satisfactorily, she stopped a passing WPC. ‘Get rid of this for me, will you, please?’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ the WPC nodded, grabbing the cup and heading on towards the tape.
Carlyle watched in amusement as, little more than three yards further down the road, the WPC simply tossed the cup into the gutter. ‘Kids today,’ he laughed. ‘I thought they were supposed to be into saving the environment.’
Simpson shook her head in disgust.
‘Why don’t you just tell them that a man in his fifties has been shot and killed,’ Carlyle suggested, trying to bring things back to the matter in hand, ‘and that the investigation is ongoing.’
‘That’s a bit bland, don’t you think?’
‘It’s all they’ll be expecting. Anyway, they probably already know more about what’s going on than you do.’
‘I suppose so,’ said Simpson gloomily.
‘Cheer up.’ The adrenalin from the stand-off with Miller was still running round Carlyle’s system. Mixed with the euphoria of Miller’s execution, the whisky, and two cups of Veronica Snowdon’s excellent Java Santos blend, it was enough to make him feel quite giddy.
‘Christ!’ Simpson’s face fell even further. ‘John Carlyle is telling me to cheer up. Things must be bad.’
‘This is going to clear up a lot of mess.’
‘Oh?’
‘For a start,’ Carlyle explained, ‘I expect that they’ll find that Miller’s Glock was used to kill Simon Shelbourne. We already know that he killed both Hall and Snowdon. And he was also involved in the deaths of both Duncan Brown and Anton Fox. That’s a lot of cases to clear off anyone’s plate.’
‘I suppose so.’ But Simpson seemed strangely unenthusiastic.
‘All in all, this is a major result.’
‘How do you feel yourself?’
‘Me? I’m buzzing.’
‘You must be pleased, having finally got your man.’
Carlyle looked back towards the Snowdons’ building and said savagely. ‘Fuck him, he got what he deserved. Shame it took so long.’
‘I spoke to Fulham, by the way. They’re not happy about developments regarding Rosanna Snowdon. In fact, they’re bloody furious.’
‘Tough shit,’ Carlyle growled. ‘They shouldn’t have been so keen to put that poor mug Simon Lovell in the frame.’
‘We’ve all been there,’ Simpson reminded him.
‘Speak for yourself.’ Along the road, a TV crew had now arrived, their lights illuminating the entire street. Carlyle jerked a thumb towards the growing throng. ‘Your audience awaits.’
‘What about Charlie Ross?’ Simpson asked, clearly reluctant to move.
‘Good question. I’m sure our friend Charlie is in it up to his neck. When it comes to Wickford Associates, he would be the brains of the operation. Although when it comes to working with Trevor Miller — RIP — an amoeba could be the brains behind the operation.’ Carlyle stopped to chuckle at his own joke. ‘Charlie Ross will no doubt have covered his tracks well. And even if we ever managed to get him into court, he would play the frail-old-man card, even though he’s clearly as fit as a butcher’s dog.’
‘What about Sir Michael Snowdon? Won’t he do basically the same thing? Claim some kind of diminished responsibility?’
‘Maybe,’ Carlyle said, ‘maybe not.’ He thought about it for a moment or two. ‘But even if he did, why not?’
‘Isn’t that double standards?’
Carlyle grinned. ‘I’m a pragmatist. The old bugger deserves a medal for what he did. He brought down a cop killer and saved the public a fortune in the process.’
Simpson shot him a sideways glance. ‘And he did it all on his own, did he?’
‘I did my bit,’ said Carlyle defensively, ‘as far as I could.’
‘But you left it to a pensioner to rush an armed killer, grab his gun and shoot him dead?’ The mixture of amusement and cynicism in her voice was unmistakable.
‘Stranger things have happened.’ Carlyle looked his boss straight in the eye. ‘I didn’t shoot Trevor Miller. But I would tell you if I had.’
‘Okay,’ the Commander nodded. ‘I suppose I should just be grateful that Miller didn’t end up shooting himself three times.’
‘Are you taking the piss?�
� A look of mock consternation flitted across the inspector’s face. ‘After the traumatic experience I’ve just had? Maybe I should call my Rep. After all, shouldn’t I be getting counselling or something?’
A broad grin spread across Simpson’s face. ‘You want counselling?’
‘No, no,’ said Carlyle quickly, ‘I’m in a happy place. I’ve got all the closure I need.’
‘Good for you.’
‘Hopefully the Snowdons feel a bit better too.’
‘Yes.’ Simpson pointed along the road towards the media scrum. ‘Whatever the law might think, Sir Michael will become a hero once the media get hold of him.’
An idea of how to gain further credit with Bernard Gilmore suddenly popped into Carlyle’s head, and he chuckled. ‘Think of how Bernie will write it up.’
‘I’d rather not,’ said Simpson tartly. ‘And I don’t want you leaking anything about this to him either.’
Carlyle looked down at his shoes. ‘Not my style.’
‘I’m not aware that you have a style,’ Simpson quipped, pulling out a BlackBerry from her jacket pocket and hitting a few keys. ‘And I don’t suppose you know anything about this?’ She handed him the machine. On its screen was a newspaper story headlined TOP COP’S THIRTY GRAND FREEBIE.
‘News to me,’ Carlyle mumbled, making a show of slowly scrolling down through the piece to read it carefully. ‘That seems a lot of money for a couple of days in a health farm.’
‘So you didn’t give Bernie this information?’
Carlyle looked her in the eye as he handed back the smartphone. ‘Nope.’
‘Glad to hear it.’
‘It would seem a bit of a risky thing for anyone to do, under the circumstances,’ Carlyle mused. ‘And anyway, being a whistleblower is a mug’s game.’
Putting the BlackBerry away, Simpson started heading towards the police tape and the press waiting beyond it. ‘Whoever the source was, let’s hope that such irresponsible behaviour doesn’t come back to haunt him.’
‘Or her,’ Carlyle added hastily.
Shaking her head, the Commander said nothing further as she stalked away.
While Carlyle watched his boss’s press conference from a safe distance, Joe Szyszkowski appeared at his shoulder.
‘I thought she didn’t like dealing with the media any more; not since her old man — well, you know.’
‘Not since her old man got done for massive fraud, you mean?’
‘Quite.’
‘You’re right, she doesn’t. But someone’s got to feed the beast.’
‘I suppose so. I hear you’ve been having a busy day?’
‘Yes, I have. Thank you for asking,’ Carlyle said sarcastically. ‘By the way, where the hell have you been?’
‘Monty Laws wrapped his car round a lamp-post near Hampstead Heath at six o’clock this morning,’ Joe replied evenly, clearly not rising to the bait. ‘He had Hannah Gillespie’s ATM card in his pocket.’
Carlyle raised his eyes to the heavens. ‘Jesus, it really is my lucky day.’
‘Looks like it,’ Joe agreed. ‘By the time I got up to the Rosslyn Hill station, he’d already confessed to killing her.’
The inspector suddenly felt his energy levels plummet as he was gripped by a grim despair. ‘And why did he do it?’
‘No particular reason.’
‘Great.’ Sticking his hands in his pockets, Carlyle began walking along the road, heading away from the media scrum.
‘You off, then?’ Joe shouted after him. ‘Seeing as I just got here?’
‘That’s right,’ Carlyle replied, not bothering to look back. ‘It’s time to go home.’
* * *
‘You fucking idiot!’ Charlie Ross sipped at his tumbler of Scapa Orkney single malt as he watched Trevor Miller’s face on the flickering TV screen. On the floor nearby was scattered a selection of travel brochures. It was time to take a trip. His bag was already packed. He had known for some time that this day would come, and he was ready for it. Reaching forward, he picked up the nearest brochure — Mexico. The strains of Frank Sinatra singing ‘Come Fly With Me’ briefly drifted through his head. As Frank ebbed away, Charlie frowned. Wasn’t there some kind of civil war going on over there right now? The army fighting against the drug cartels; corpses hanging from motorway bridges, headless bodies dropped down wells? Things that made his adventures look like nothing more than silly games played by five year olds.
Maybe he should check out one of the alternative brochures?
Fuck it, it wasn’t such a big deal. Mexico would do well enough.
‘Ain’t you gonna swallow?’
Ignoring her boyfriend, Melanie Henderson spat the majority of his juices into her coffee mug before wiping her chin on his jeans.
‘Hey!’ Ricky Haswell pushed her off and began folding himself away.
‘Where’s your mum anyway?’
‘Out.’
‘Urgh.’ She pointed to the TV. On the screen, a body was being wheeled into an ambulance.
‘Shooting. . happened up the road.’ Ricky gave her a sly glance. ‘You gonna stay the night?’
‘Nah, my mum would kill me,’ Melanie said. ‘After what happened to Hannah, she’s really paranoid.’
‘For someone who always thought she was so smart, that girl was dumb, dumb, dumb,’ Ricky commented.
‘Bloody police,’ Melanie extended one leg and wiggled her toes at the TV. ‘When it came to it, they weren’t much use, were they?’
* * *
‘John!’ A knee in the small of his back forced Carlyle to open his eyes.’ That’s your bloody phone!’
‘Okay, okay,’ he said groggily, swinging his feet on to the carpet. The radio alarm on the bedside table said 3:06. He didn’t even recognize the noise coming from his phone; obviously Alice had changed the damn ringtone again.
‘Switch it off, for God’s sake.’
‘Go back to sleep,’ he snapped. Picking his jeans from the floor, he pulled the mobile from a back pocket and stumbled out into the hallway. ‘Yeah?’
‘Are you asleep?’ By comparison to his boss, Joe Szyszkowski sounded positively wide awake.
‘Not any more, you fucking muppet. What do you want?’
‘I’m at the station.’
‘Good for you.’ Reaching the living room, Carlyle fell straight on to the sofa, trying to ignore the aching tiredness that permeated his body. ‘Why?’
‘They’ve brought in Sonia Claesens,’ Joe said cheerily. ‘She beat up her boyfriend, apparently. The call came in a couple of hours ago. He’s in A and E at St Thomas’s; she’s in a cell downstairs.’
‘Who did you say?’ Carlyle plumped up a cushion and placed it carefully behind his head.
‘Sonia Claesens — the Managing Director of the Zenger Corporation,’ Joe explained. ‘She was Simon Shelbourne’s boss, and also a mate of Edgar Carlton.’
‘Good for her.’
‘And she knew Trevor Miller.’
‘Ah.’ Now that Miller’s dead, I couldn’t really give a monkey’s, Carlyle reflected. Closing his eyes, he swung his legs up on to the sofa. It was really quite comfortable here.
‘Boss?’
‘It’s the middle of the fucking night,’ he groaned, ‘so why are you telling me all this?’
‘She’s screaming blue murder, and there’s already press gathering outside. The powers-that-be want someone senior down here right away.’
‘Well, go and find someone senior then.’
‘They want you down here right away,’ Joe persisted.
‘Okay, okay,’ Carlyle yawned. ‘Fucking hell. .’
‘Thanks, boss.’
‘I’ll be there as quick as I can.’ He switched off the phone and let the handset fall to the floor, adding to himself: ‘After I’ve had a two-minute kip.’
‘Where the hell have you been?’ It was now almost eight o’clock and Joe’s previous cheeriness was long gone.
Feeling more than a little sheep
ish, Carlyle held up a hand by way of apology. ‘Sorry, sorry.’
‘I left you loads of messages.’
‘The battery died,’ the inspector lied.
‘It’s now been five hours. I was going to call your home number.’
Carlyle gave him a surprised look. ‘Just as well you didn’t. Helen would have killed you — immediately after having killed me.’
‘That’s what I assumed.’
‘Anyway, I fell asleep again. End of. Sorry.’
Grudgingly accepting his boss’s apology, Joe gestured towards the police station entrance where a dozen or so reporters were milling about on the steps. ‘They’ve been a pain in the arse all night.’
‘Get the uniforms to handle them,’ Carlyle said brusquely.
‘It’s been all over the TV news.’
‘Why? She’s hardly a fucking celebrity, is she?’
‘You know what it’s like,’ Joe shrugged. ‘The media loves the media.’
‘I suppose.’
‘And it’s made the later editions of the papers.’ Joe handed the inspector a copy of the Daily Witness, sister paper to the Sunday edition. ‘Top of page four.’
Carlyle opened the tabloid and found himself staring at a picture of Edgar Carlton and Sonia Claesens deep in discussion at some charity reception. Briefly scanning the article, he burst out laughing. ‘Fuck me, that was quick.’
‘It’s a dog-eat-dog world,’ the sergeant shrugged. ‘Do you want to go in and see her?’
‘Not really.’
Joe shot him a look that indicated it wasn’t really a question.
‘Okay, in a minute. But first I need some caffeine.’
A double espresso had improved his mood somewhat by the time Sonia Claesens was brought into interview room seven. Dressed in black jeans and a pearl cashmere sweater over a grey T-shirt, she looked tired but composed.
‘Why am I still here?’ she demanded.
‘There are various charges-’ Carlyle began.
Claesens spoke over him. ‘I have meetings.’
Good for you, Carlyle thought. ‘Maybe when your lawyer gets here-’
Once again, she cut him off. ‘The useless sod has switched his mobile off. So, God knows when he’ll turn up.’
