by James Craig
‘I’m just saying. I know that I’m asking for a big favour.’
‘Not the first, is it?’
‘No,’ Carlyle admitted, ‘and probably not the last. Then again, I’ve done my share of favours for you, over the years.’
Dom gave a grunt of acknowledgement.
‘Under the circumstances, what I am looking for doesn’t seem that unreasonable. You were very good at what you did. You can sort us out.’
‘I was always professional,’ Dom agreed. ‘But when you’re out of the game, you’re out. This is my world now.’
‘You must still have plenty of contacts from the old days.’
‘A few,’ Dom conceded, ‘but it’s been more than a couple of years now. As you know, not many people survive for long—’
‘You were the exception.’
‘That’s right, I was the exception.’ Shifting in his seat, Dom glanced nervously at the door.
Not so much at the door, Carlyle realized, but at what was behind the door. Or, rather, who was behind it. This guy Spargo, he wondered, why is he freaking you out so much?
‘I had a good run, hell, I had a great run and I got out on my own terms. I wanted to make a clean break and I made a clean break. It’s different now.’
‘I know, I know. But my old fella really needs some help.’ The inspector gestured towards the gallery proper with his thumb. ‘A photograph or a painting isn’t going to be much use to him.’
‘I’ve got to get on.’ Dom pushed himself out of his seat. ‘Does Helen know you’re here?’
Carlyle nodded. ‘It was her idea.’
Standing upright, Dom raised an eyebrow. ‘Yeah?’
‘It’s true. She said it was the obvious solution to the problem.’
‘Your wife,’ Dom grinned, ‘is a very smart woman.’
‘She is that,’ said Carlyle, with more than a hint of pride. ‘And she said that if you don’t sort us out, she will take it to Eva.’
‘Unfair!’ Dom protested.
‘I know. But what can I do? Helen calls it the hegemony of the matriarchy. We do what we’re told, or else.’
‘Okay, okay,’ Dom sighed. ‘If that’s the way it’s gonna be, let me make a few enquiries.’
‘Thanks.’ Carlyle got to his feet.
‘How much will Alexander need, d’ya think?’
The inspector stared at his hands. ‘No idea. Enough pain relief for maybe three to six months. How much would that be?’
‘How the hell should I know? Apart from a couple of the dope smokers, my clients tended to be recreational rather than medicinal users.’ A thought popped into Dom’s head. ‘By the way, dope will be easier to get, and cheaper.’
‘No, no, no.’ Carlyle realized he hadn’t even considered the question of cost; he would worry about that later. ‘We are talking about terminal cancer here. This is no time to be fucking about with soft drugs. It’s only the best quality Class A we’re interested in. He’s not going to be spliffing up here for a casual smoke. As the bitter end approaches, I want him coked up to the eyeballs with a smile on his face.’
‘Heroin’s probably better than coke,’ Dom mused. ‘Opiates are your best bet for pain relief.’
‘Heroin?’ That was a bit of a shock. ‘I can’t really see the old man chasing the dragon.’
‘No need. We can probably do tablets.’
Carlyle thought about it for a moment. ‘Tablets would be good. Easier for him to take.’
‘You really are the dutiful son,’ Dom observed.
‘Yeah, I think I am. Under the circumstances, isn’t this precisely what a dutiful son should do?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Isn’t it what you would do?’
Dom stared at a point on the wall above Carlyle’s head. ‘My dad’s dead.’
Ah. ‘Sorry.’
‘You knew that, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, sorry,’ Carlyle groaned. ‘Me and my big mouth.’
‘Don’t worry. It was a long time ago now. He wrapped his Lancia around a lamppost in Brixton. It was a shock at the time but at least it’s saved me from the type of situation you’ve got now.’
‘There’s no good way to go,’ Carlyle mused.
‘No. And you’re right, I should help. Let me see what I can do.’
‘Okay.’ Carlyle exhaled, relieved. ‘How much do you think he could get through in six months?’
‘How long is a piece of string?’ Dom headed for the door. ‘We’ll get him started and take it from there. Apart from anything else, you don’t want him sitting on a big stash,’ he giggled, ‘just in case the police were to come calling.’
‘Sounds like a plan,’ said Carlyle, happy that his friend had finally stepped up to the plate. ‘Thanks.’
‘No problem,’ Dom smiled as he reached for the door handle. ‘I’m sure we can sort something out. Just leave it with me.’
FOUR
Carlyle emerged from the back room to find two men standing in the gallery, one towering over the other. They were inspecting one of Dom’s photographs in silence. The black and white image showed a small group of people watching impassively as a trio of bulldozers went about demolishing a row of houses. In the foreground, a small child waved a stick while it chased after a dog. Overhead, dark rain clouds gathered ominously.
Fiona had made good on her promise to bolt for lunch, which presumably meant that the two men were not clients or otherwise deserving of her continued attention. The tall guy looked up as the inspector approached. Wearing black jeans and a long leather coat, he had a shaven head and the square frame of a bodybuilder. His expression oozed malice.
Muscle.
Keeping his gaze on the picture, the second man took a step backwards. He was obviously the boss; squat, overweight and balding. He wore a creased, navy pinstripe suit and a cream shirt. A grey tie hung limply around his neck. Even from the best part of six feet away, Carlyle could see that it was badly stained.
Mr Spargo, I presume.
The man yawned as he turned to face Carlyle, inspecting him for a moment before deciding that he was a nobody, unworthy of any further attention.
Dom appeared at Carlyle’s shoulder. ‘Mr Spargo. Sorry to keep you waiting.’
Spargo lifted a meaty finger and pointed at the photograph he had been inspecting. ‘How much is this one?’
‘Er,’ Dom seemed momentarily thrown by the question. ‘Which one is that?’
The bodyguard stepped forward and bent down to read the description on the wall. ‘Relocation of Residents on the Golden Sands River.’ Carlyle was surprised to hear a West Coast accent. London seemed so full of Chinese, Russians and French these days that Americans seemed almost exotic by comparison.
‘How much?’ Spargo repeated.
‘Well . . . it depends on the size.’
Spargo pointed again. ‘That one.’
‘Well, er . . .’ Dom grabbed a catalogue from the desk and began flicking through it. There was an awkward pause while he tried to find the correct page. ‘Ah, yes, right, Golden River—’
‘Golden Sands,’ the American heavy corrected him.
‘Golden Sands, yes, right.’ Irritated, Dom glanced up at the image. ‘So . . . the one on the wall there is £12,300 plus VAT.’
Spargo let out a low whistle. ‘And people pay that? For a photo?’ He shot an ironic glance at the bodyguard.
‘That’s what,’ the American mused, ‘twenty thousand bucks?’
‘Something like that,’ Dom agreed.
‘That’s a lot of cash.’ Stepping past Carlyle, Spargo gave Dom a pat on the shoulder. ‘Business must be good.’
‘The exhibition has been a great success.’ The way in which the words came out, Dom sounded almost embarrassed by the admission.
What is going on here? Carlyle shot his friend a quizzical look but Dom, focused on the man in the suit, didn’t respond.
‘Are you ready for me now?’ Spargo asked.
Dom gesture
d towards the office. ‘Please, come in.’
With a grunt, Spargo marched past Dom and into the office. Watching his boss disappear, the bodyguard moved on to inspect the next picture.
A weary look passed across Dom’s face. ‘I’ll see you later, John.’
‘Yeah. Thanks for your time.’
‘Why don’t you take this?’ Dom handed over the catalogue. ‘Helen might be interested. Alice too, for that matter.’
‘Thanks.’ Taking the book, Carlyle was surprised by its weight.
‘Tell them to come in and say hi sometime. I’d be very interested to see what they think.’
‘I will.’
‘Good. And I’ll be in touch soon over the other thing. I’m sure we can get it sorted out quickly.’
‘Okay.’ Carlyle watched his friend slip into the back room, closing the door behind him. Opening the catalogue, he checked the price printed on the inside front cover. £40. ‘Forty quid,’ he muttered. ‘Bloody hell!’ Shoving it under his arm, he headed for the door. The bodyguard, still engrossed in the exhibition, paid him no heed.
Muttering to herself, Becky Carson inspected her nails, wondering if she might be able to fit a manicure in before her trip to the airport. It was just one more thing to add to her ‘to do’ list. Becky bridled at the thought of the rising levels of stress she was enduring; life was spinning out of control and she didn’t like it. Five yards away stood the person responsible. Hands in pockets, head bowed, Andy Carson stared at his trainers, oblivious to his wife’s withering glare.
What a useless lump, Becky thought bitterly. It would have been better if those bloody terrorists had shot you, rather than the other way round. Playing the role of the grieving widow for a couple of months would have been a doddle, compared to this.
My husband, the killer.
Wasn’t killing people what soldiers were supposed to do?
It wasn’t shame she felt, exactly, having her old man banged up for shooting some blokes in cold blood, more a sense of profound annoyance. It was a feeling that had been impossible to shake, ever since that Army cop, Daniel Hunter, had arrived at the house and taken Andy away in handcuffs. The kids had watched in stony silence; Becky had been profoundly pissed off. Walking out of the door, Hunter had handed her a business card, like he was a bloody double-glazing salesman or something. She had wanted to slap him; she had kept the card though. Right now, it was nestling in the bag at her feet. Just in case she ever needed it.
Taking a drag on her Benson & Hedges, Becky tipped back her head and sent a stream of smoke into the dull, grey sky. A hundred yards off to her left, the solitary guard on duty waved a woman in a red hatchback through the gate and into the camp. ‘You could probably walk right out of here if you wanted to,’ she mused.
‘What’s the point of that?’ Lifting his gaze from his feet, her husband scowled. ‘I would get maybe a mile down the road and then they’d pick me up, still stuck in the middle of nowhere. Anyway, they know I won’t try anything while you’re here. That’s why they let us come outside.’ He looked around as if enjoying the view. ‘Nice to get a bit of fresh air.’
‘It’s going to rain.’ Becky watched the woman pull into the car park and bring the vehicle to a halt. ‘You sure you don’t want a smoke?’
‘Nah.’ Andy Carson shook his head. Even though there was no one within fifty yards, he lowered his voice. ‘I wouldn’t mind a quick shag though.’
Becky made a gagging sound. ‘Don’t be stupid.’
‘We could go back to the cell,’ he ventured.
‘Dream on.’ She ended his faint hopes with a dismissive wave of her nicotine wand.
Carson’s face crumpled like a six year old who’d just seen his ice cream fall on to the pavement. For a moment, Becky thought he might actually start to blub, which only made her hate him more.
After a couple of moments, however, he managed to compose himself. ‘How are the kids?’
‘They’re fine.’ Becky took a final drag on her cigarette before tossing the stub away. ‘Lucinda says my mother is driving her up the wall, which I can well believe. But Liam seems happy enough. I think he’s hooked up with that local girl again, so he’s not been around the house that much.’
I bet he’s getting his end away, Carson thought enviously, the little bugger.
‘Mum says it’s all fairly quiet.’
Carson nodded. His mother-in-law had taken the children to the family holiday home, near Sitia on the island of Crete, weeks ago now. Even there it was hard to get them away from all the publicity of the court-martial but at least they didn’t have a bunch of tabloid hacks standing on their doorstep. The headmaster of their school wasn’t very happy about the kids going AWOL, but it wasn’t like he could just nip over there and bring them back. ‘When are you going over there?’
‘I already told you,’ Becky said irritably. ‘You never bloody listen, do you?’
‘I have got rather a lot on my mind at the moment,’ he snapped back.
‘Jesus!’ Becky stomped her foot. It was at times like these that she seemed more like a teenager than Lucinda, her husband thought. ‘I leave Gatwick at ten tonight; get in to Heraklion at four in the morning.’
Carson winced. ‘Killer.’
‘It was all that was available. I need to get out of there or I’m gonna go mad.’
‘Yeah.’ His attempt to sound sympathetic was feeble, at best. ‘Did you speak to the Commander?’
‘Yeah.’ Becky smiled lecherously. ‘I think he fancies me.’
Don’t flatter yourself, Carson thought.
‘He kept talking to my chest.’
You should stop wearing those push-up bras then. ‘What did he say about my request?’
‘He says you’re allowed your right of . . . whatchamacallit . . . religious expression the same as everyone else, and he’ll see what he can do.’
‘Good,’ Carson nodded. ‘Glad to hear it.’
Sergeant Kelvin Smith stood by the dirty window, a clipboard in one hand, a badly chewed biro – attached to the clipboard by a length of string – in the other. Outside, a group of squaddies wandered past, laughing and joking about something. In the distance, at the entrance to the facility, a freshly laundered Union Jack waved frantically in the strong wind. He had been here almost ten years now. The place never changed; he liked that.
Most of the time.
Extending his arm, Smith tapped a cracked windowpane with the nib of the biro. ‘Shouldn’t someone have washed these?’
‘What?’ Private Anastasia Harries stopped picking her nose and frowned.
‘The windows.’ Tap, tap, tap. ‘They’re a bloody disgrace. Someone should have been round here with a bucket of water and some shammy leather.’
Harries looked at him blankly. ‘Dunno, Sarge, were they supposed to?’
Smith tried not to wince at his colleague’s adenoidal Black Country accent. ‘Yes, they bloody well were.’
Harries shrugged.
Tutting to himself, Smith turned his attention to the timesheets attached to the clipboard. ‘Nothing gets done around here, does it?’
‘No, Sarge.’ Feeling vaguely guilty, Harries blushed. Staring at the floor, she had a flashback to her not so distant days at Cyril Regis High School in Smethwick; being carpeted by Mr Douglas for smoking in the Rec Room. Mr Douglas had been quite dishy, only twenty-five or something. Old, but not that old. All the girls fancied him, including Anastasia herself. Still, she’d had the shock of all time when she’d seen him on the telly, large as life, earlier in the year. The silly sod had run off to Bulgaria with one of the fifth-formers. End result: two years in jail and a listing on the Sex Offenders Register. His wife must have been hopping mad.
‘Harries!’
She looked up to see Smith smear his scrawl across the page. ‘Sarge?’
‘Wakey, wakey, girl.’ The sergeant gestured towards the metal door at the far end of the corridor. ‘Have you checked on our special guest?’
/> Harries nodded. ‘Yeah. He’s fine, Sarge. Seems to be very relaxed, all things considered. He’s treating the place as a holiday camp, if you ask me. Asked could I get him a copy of Top Gear magazine.’
‘And you told him to fuck right off, I hope.’
Not exactly. ‘Yes, Sarge.’
‘Good.’ Smith carefully hooked the clipboard on to the nail that protruded from the brickwork and checked his watch. ‘Where’s young Turpin – any idea? Run off to join the circus, or the Foreign Legion perhaps? I know which I think would be the most appropriate, given his so-called skill set.’
Harries raised her eyes to the ceiling. Once the sergeant got started, he could go on a bit. ‘Rob might be running a bit behind schedule,’ she ventured. ‘You know what he’s like.’
‘Always bloody late,’ Smith harrumphed. ‘Why he ever joined the Army I’ll never know.’
‘No, Sarge.’
‘He’d be better off stacking shelves in Aldi.’
‘Yes, Sarge.’
‘Anyway,’ Smith belatedly realized he was sounding like an old fart, ‘you go and get a cuppa. I can hold the fort until the useless sod turns up.’
‘Thanks. It’s been like Piccadilly Circus in here today.’ Harries gestured back down the corridor. ‘The guy has been holding court. People coming in and out all the time.’
‘With the press all over it, the brass are scared of him. For the moment, he can have all the visitors he wants.’
‘More work for us.’
‘Not for much longer. Mr Carson should be out of here in a couple of days. We’ll get him off our hands for good this time.’
Harries scratched her nose. ‘Won’t he be back here to do his sentence?’
Once again, Smith tried not to cringe at his colleague’s whining Birmingham accent. ‘Nah. The MCTC only takes people doing a stretch of two years or less. He’s going to get a lot more than that – life maybe – so he’ll be straight into a regular prison. Once that happens, and the media interest dies down and life around here goes back to normal, no one will give much of a fuck about Andy sodding Carson when he’s sitting in a prison in bloody Wales or somewhere.’
‘His wife isn’t going to like that,’ Harries observed.
