by James Craig
‘Why not?’ Getting to his feet, Carlyle asked the girl at the till for a couple of doughnuts and a black coffee for himself.
Returning to the table, he placed the food down and took a mouthful of his coffee. ‘Urgh.’ It was truly terrible, but he knew that it would complement the sugar rush well enough. Grabbing his doughnut, he took a large bite and watched his father do the same. For several minutes, they ate together in companionable silence.
All too soon, the doughnut was nothing but a guilty memory. Carlyle was wiping the crumbs from the corner of his mouth when his phone started ringing in his pocket. With some reluctance, he pulled it out and looked at the screen. SIMPSON. With a grimace, he dropped the handset back into his pocket.
‘Don’t you need to get that?’ Alexander asked through a mouthful of saturated fat.
Finishing his coffee, Carlyle shook his head. ‘It can wait.’
‘I suppose you’ll need to be getting back to work.’ Gazing out of the window, Alex tracked the progress of a well-fed young baby as it made its way backwards down the street strapped to the chest of its exhausted-looking mother.
‘Yes.’ Carlyle made a determined attempt to study his father’s face. The old bugger looked in decent shape, all things considering. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Fine,’ Alex said, ‘that food’s set me up nicely.’
‘No, you know what I mean.’ Even though no one else in the café was remotely interested in their conversation, he lowered his voice. ‘How do you feel in general?’
‘Ach.’ Folding his arms, Alex did his best Grandpa Broon impersonation. ‘I’m fine, son. More or less.’
Feeling Helen’s presence at his shoulder, Carlyle continued to press. ‘But are you worried about . . . you know?’
‘Look,’ leaning forward, Alexander smiled at his son, ‘it’s going to be bad news. There’s no two ways around it.’
‘You don’t know that,’ Carlyle said stiffly.
‘Son,’ Alex gestured back down the road, in the direction of the hospital, ‘we wouldn’t have been in there for all that time if they didn’t think there was something wrong.’ He clutched Carlyle’s hand. The inspector was so surprised that he had to stop himself from pulling it away. ‘Something seriously wrong.’
‘And I thought I was the pessimist.’ He tried to make it sound like a joke but the words crumbled as they came out of his mouth. The doughnut was settling in his stomach and he felt a little sick.
Alexander patted his hand. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll deal with it.’
‘Scottish grit.’
‘Aye.’ A flicker of amusement appeared in the old man’s eyes. ‘This is one of those times when some good old Presbyterian stoicism comes in useful.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘I’m just glad your mother isn’t here to see this,’ Alex chuckled. ‘Could you imagine the fuss she’d make?’
Carlyle nodded. His late mother had always been very intolerant of anything that smacked of weakness. ‘She’d be giving us both a kick up the backside right now.’
‘That’s one thing we don’t have to worry about, at least.’
‘Yes.’
‘I have to say though, I’m very grateful for all your help and support, son.’
What support? Carlyle wondered guiltily. In his head, he could hear Helen laughing. ‘Me? I’ve done nothing.’
‘Just being there, son. Just being there. It means a lot.’
‘Good,’ was all he could think of to say by way of reply.
‘A lot of people, they’d run a mile.’
‘Hm.’
‘I feel a lot better knowing that you are with me on this. Every step of the way.’
‘Of course.’
‘So now, we just have to get on with it, one thing at a time. No need to panic. Let’s just wait and see what the results say.’
‘OK.’ Clearing the lump in his throat, Carlyle tried to smile. ‘That sounds like a plan.’
‘It’s the only one we’ve got.’
‘That’s right,’ he gave his father’s hand a squeeze. ‘I suppose it is.’
‘You’re a good lad,’ Alexander smiled. ‘But then you always were.’
THIRTY-TWO
It was as if he was on a runaway train that would never stop until it crashed into the buffers at the end of the line, killing everyone on board. The fact that he had been sitting in a first-class compartment all the way would not save him. How could he get off the train? How could he jump to safety?
Ren Qi sipped his orange juice and stepped out on to the terrace. Under the shimmering blue sky, the Mediterranean stretched out in front of him. Reaching for the expensive sunglasses on the top of his head, he slipped them on. A private jet, just taken off from the airport at Mandelieu, was making a steady ascent, heading east, the vapour trail showing its serene progress. Lowering his gaze to sea level, he counted three, four, five superyachts lazily making their way towards St Tropez for lunch. On shore, off to his right, the ordinary people of Cannes went about their desultory business.
Ren wondered about the wisdom of operating his retirement fund out of grey, dreary London. No one in their right mind would set up their operations in France, especially not with the current President in situ, but Monaco was just down the road and, well, there were many quality of life issues to consider.
Trying to focus on the matter in hand, he ran through the events of the last thirty-six hours. Leaving the drugged policeman in the apartment, they had driven from London to Manston airport in Kent. From there, a private jet had taken them to Milan. After an extended argument, Wang Lei and Ren Junior had been placed on a commercial flight from Malpensa to China, accompanied by Guo Miao. The major would have several colleagues meet them on arrival at Beijing International airport. Wife and son would then be whisked off to effective house arrest at a discreet location until Ren Senior had decided how best to stop the pair of them damaging his political career any further.
Ren fretted over his decision to send them home. After all, what kind of man effectively kidnaps his wife and son? On the other hand, leaving them to their own devices in England was not a realistic option. How could a man unable to rule his own family ever hope to rule his country?
Getting them back to China, however, was the easy bit. What to do with them once they were repatriated would be far less straightforward. Ren knew that he needed time and space to come up with a sustainable plan for his unruly family, as well as a strategy for restoring his political fortunes. Fortunately, he had the perfect place where he could hunker down and clear his mind.
The Chemin des Collines villa had been a ‘thank you’ from a business associate following the completion of an extremely lucrative business deal. The property, done out in what the locals on the Côte d’Azur liked to call the ‘English style’, was worth something like €25 million. If things were to go badly for him back home, this place would doubtless feature prominently in any show trial cooked up by the Politburo.
For the hundredth time in the last week, Ren tried to calculate the chances of that doomsday scenario coming to pass. As always, the conclusion was simply that there was no way of knowing. The longer he spent out of the country, the less attuned his political antennae became. And yet something deep in his gut warned him not to go back. After the debacle of his London trip, Ren knew that he was more vulnerable than ever.
He was distracted from his thoughts by the vibration of his mobile phone. Pulling it from the pocket of his shorts, he glanced at the screen and groaned. Baldwin-Lee. Another desperate plea for cash, no doubt. He should never have given his number to the wretched club-owner. Despite everything, Ren had to smile. According to his London accountant, the Racetrack was still losing cash at a steady rate. The expectation was that its investors would lose patience and pull the plug in less than a year – maybe even nine months. At that point, the place could probably be snapped up for something less than a third of the price of the debt. That would be the time to step i
n.
Always assuming that he wasn’t languishing in jail by then.
The phone kept vibrating. Raising his arm, Ren threw it into the swimming pool.
‘Hey,’ said an amused voice. ‘Watch what you’re doing. That nearly hit me.’
Ren observed the girl pull herself out of the water. It took him a moment to recall her name: Cordelia. Drops of the heavily chlorinated water exploded across the concrete, evaporating almost immediately in the glare of the sun. Slowly, he let his gaze move up her naked body, taking in the smooth tan, no lines, no hint of a blemish of any sort. Perfection. Knowing what he liked, Madame Lee at the Golden Chrysanthemum, his preferred agency in these parts, had chosen well. Then again, she always did. Along with everything else, the prostitutes here were several notches above their London counterparts. Quality of life issues.
Hands on hips, she looked at him provocatively. ‘Do you want to party now?’
Yes, said his head. No, his groin responded dolefully. Ren glanced at his shorts. The stress is getting to me, he thought. I can’t even get it up any more. Wang Lei would laugh her head off if she knew how limp my dick was right now.
‘I’ve got some Viagra,’ Cordelia offered, sensing his despair. Walking past him, she plucked a towel from the sun-lounger and began drying her coal-black hair. ‘That will solve any problems, guaranteed.’
A fifteen-second snatch of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata echoed throughout the house. Ren sighed. Someone was at the door. The housekeeper would be at the market, choosing some fish for dinner. He watched as Cordelia began running the towel across her stomach, feeling the faintest stirrings of his own as she did so. Maybe I won’t need the Viagra, after all.
The bell rang again. Still drying herself off, Cordelia looked at him expectantly. ‘It looks like they want you to go and answer it,’ she smiled.
‘Yes.’
She gave him one of her trademark dirty grins. ‘Do you want me to go? I could give them quite a surprise.’
‘No, no,’ Ren sighed. ‘You stay here. I’ll go.’
Striding into the hall, he stopped to check the rather obtrusive CCTV monitor that had been installed by the previous owner, a waif-like Russian singer who, in best rock star tradition, had been found one morning face down in the pool. Standing at the door was a familiar figure. Xue Xi stood tall and erect, eyes front, paying no heed to the watchful eye of the CCTV camera above the door. Ren frowned. He had assumed that Xue would have taken the flight back to Beijing with his family and Guo Miao. Presumably Guo had decided that she should stay behind, on the basis that his boss required some close protection capability while ensconced in his French haven. Ren’s frown slowly morphed into a smile. Sometimes Guo’s paranoia knew no bounds. That was one of his many positive attributes.
Even with the crappy resolution of the security camera image, the woman cut an impressive figure. His mind drifted off to thoughts of Xue, frolicking by the pool with Cordelia, and there was a definite twitch in his shorts. His smile grew wider.
His mood was spoiled by the appearance of a second woman, one whom he didn’t recognize. She glared at the camera with the stone-faced expression that had been patented by the MSS. It was as if she knew he was watching her at that very moment. After a few seconds, the woman ducked out of shot and, once again, he had to endure another short burst of Beethoven. Ren threw back his shoulders and took a couple of deep breaths. If the Ministry of State Security wanted to spy on him, that was fine; however, there were limits. He would be having strong words with Guo Miao about this. And, if these two overstepped the mark, he would have them immediately redeployed to Tibet, where they could eke out the remainder of their so-called careers dealing with self-immolating monks and other enemies of the state. ‘Remember who you are,’ he told himself. ‘You are one of the most powerful men in the country. Act like it.’
Striding through the hallway, he pulled open the heavy door and stood in front of the two women, focusing his attention on the creature standing next to Xue Xi. Barely five feet tall, the unknown woman wore her hair short and had a deeply lined, tanned face. Ren tried to put an age on her but it was impossible; the woman could have been anything between fifty and seventy-five.
Meeting his gaze, she made no attempt to hide her contempt.
‘Ren Qi, I am Commissar Zhou Xiaolan of the MSS.’ She tapped the breast pocket of her tunic. ‘I have papers here authorizing your arrest and immediate repatriation to the People’s Republic.’
So soon? Stifling his surprise, Ren glanced at Xue but the young officer simply stared off into the middle distance. Sweat began beading on his brow and he pushed his sunglasses back up to the bridge of his nose.
Zhou gestured down the driveway, towards a black limousine waiting by the front gate. ‘You must come with us.’
Ren’s stomach did a somersault. Remember who you are! his brain screamed. Taking a step forward, he thrust out a hand. ‘Show me the warrant.’
Moving slowly and mechanically, Zhou did as requested. ‘It is all perfectly legal,’ she intoned, ‘having been drafted by the proper authorities, in line with the relevant legal statutes.’
Spare me the window-dressing. Slowly, Ren unfolded the sheet of thin paper. Under the stamp of the Judicial Affairs Department of the Supreme People’s Court was a list of the charges against him: graft, bribery, abuse of power. If nothing else, his colleagues were predictable to the last.
Ren thought of Cordelia drying herself by the pool. Suddenly, he felt a vigorous erection in his shorts. He smiled.
‘What’s so funny?’ Zhou demanded.
Ren glanced again at the inscrutable Xue. ‘You would not understand.’
Zhou folded her arms. ‘No?’ This was the part of the job she liked the best – denial; when the guilty still thought that there could possibly be some way out, some means of escape from the firing squad or the prison cell.
‘No.’ Ren tore up the paper and the scraps fell at his feet. ‘I will not go.’
Quality of life.
The Commissar was unmoved. ‘I’m afraid, Ren Qi, that you have no choice in the matter. The court has issued the warrant. You must come with us.’
‘There is always a choice.’ Ren gestured over his shoulder. Whatever crimes he had had to commit, in order to get his mansion, whatever misdeeds had been required, in order to install his €1,500-an-hour German escort by the pool, they had all been worth it. ‘Look around you,’ he said, the pride clear in his voice. ‘Look at what I have here. Why would I go back?’
‘Because,’ said Zhou slowly, ‘as I said, you have no choice.’ She watched impassively as Xue administered a swift kick to Ren’s groin, sending the politician sinking to his knees.
‘I . . . will . . . not . . . go.’ Through tear-filled eyes, Ren watched as the young MSS killer stepped forward and placed a boot on his chest. A gentle push sent him sprawling backwards. Fighting for breath, Ren could only look up at the blue sky and repeat his desperate mantra. ‘I . . . will . . . not . . .’
A shadow passed across his face as Xue Xi hovered over him. In her hand was a hypodermic needle. Effortlessly, she found a vein and pushed down on the plunger. Almost immediately, the sky began to darken.
Quality of life, Ren thought dreamily. Quality of life.
THIRTY-THREE
Walking along Maiden Lane, on the south side of the Piazza, Carlyle watched a rickshaw driver pull his vehicle up on to the pavement and take a small prayer mat from under the front seat. On the side of the dirty vehicle was an advert for a strip club called Everton’s which had recently been closed down by the council. Umar’s wife, Christina, had worked there; that was where the two of them had first met. With some embarrassment, the inspector realized that he had yet to enquire about his colleague’s recovery from the unfortunate gunshot wound inflicted by Sebastian Gregori. Pausing to reach for his mobile, he pulled up Umar’s number, then thought better of it.
Putting the phone back in his pocket, he watched as the rickshaw d
river carefully placed his mat on the pavement. The guy, a spotty-looking white boy with a fine coating of bum fluff on his chin, dropped to his knees and began rocking gently backwards and forwards. Carlyle watched, bemused, as a steady stream of pedestrians stepped off the pavement and into the road, giving the boy sufficient space to continue with his prayers undisturbed. Aside from one woman who did a theatrical double take, no one seemed perturbed in the slightest.
Watching this performance, Carlyle calculated that the boy was praying towards Waterloo Bridge. Is that really the direction of Mecca? he wondered, as he continued on his way.
Approaching the police station, he was intercepted by Amelia Elmhirst. ‘Where have you been?’ the sergeant demanded, grabbing his arm and marching them both off in the direction of Chandos Place. ‘Commander Simpson has been calling me every ten minutes demanding to know why we haven’t left on our hunt for Gregori yet. She says you’ve not been answering your phone.’
‘I had stuff to attend to.’ The inspector did not feel the need to share the details of his father’s medical adventures with his colleague. Apart from anything else, the hospital visit seemed already to have been relegated to a distant memory. It was barely forty minutes since he had said goodbye to Alexander but, arriving back in Covent Garden, Carlyle had immediately been swallowed up by the relentless energy of the city and transported to a totally different world.
‘That’s what I told her. She didn’t sound very impressed.’
Tough. Carlyle looked at his watch. He wanted to go home, pour himself a stiff drink and watch some football on the TV.
That’s what he wanted to do.
‘We’re going to get caught in the rush hour,’ Elmhirst said grimly.
‘It’s always the rush hour,’ Carlyle pointed out. Why anyone tried to go anywhere by car in London was beyond him; it was the constant triumph of stupidity over bitter experience.
Slipping through a side door, Elmhirst led him into the cramped police garage. ‘C’mon, Joel’s waiting for us.’ Once in the courtyard, the inspector was dismayed to find that Gapper was sitting behind the wheel of the same crappy green Astra that they’d been given last time. Through the open window came the sounds of some over-strenuous rap song that he didn’t recognize.
