All Kinds of Dead

by James Craig

‘No,’ Carlyle replied. ‘Not that it’s any business of mine.’ Or yours. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Just making conversation, son. Just making conversation.’ The girl finally gave up on her gambling spree and slouched back to the bar. ‘Maybe that’s why she doesn’t trust you.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘That business with her man. That kind of thing would leave you suspicious of anyone.’

  ‘She trusts me,’ Carlyle said defiantly, ‘professionally speaking.’

  A flicker of amusement spread across Alexander’s lips. ‘Hardly. Not if she’s checking up on you in the pub.’

  ‘I rang her earlier. She was just returning my call.’ Feeling his hackles rising, Carlyle glanced at the newspaper. It took considerable force of will not to pick it up and start reading.

  ‘Mm.’ The dark rings under his father’s eyes glowed with malevolence. The eyes themselves, however, seemed almost to have disappeared into their sockets. Carlyle always remembered his father’s eyes as sparkling with possibilities; now they appeared to have closed down. The lights were off, even if someone was still home.

  What’s more, Alexander’s traditional dress sense seemed to have deserted him. Under a suit jacket he was wearing a grubby grey sweatshirt, with a couple of large sauce stains prominently displayed on the front. Carlyle had to admit that the old fella didn’t smell too good, either. How long was it since he’d taken a shower? The inspector knew that he should say something but couldn’t quite bring himself to offer any advice on personal hygiene.

  Uncomfortable with his son’s scrutiny, Alexander reached for the untouched pint of Guinness in front of him. It took an eternity for him to grasp the pint and lift it to his lips, taking a sip that barely made a dent in the head.

  ‘Not fancy it tonight?’ Carlyle asked, nodding at the pint.

  Placing the glass carefully back on a beermat advertising a pole-dancing club that had recently opened up down the road, Alexander made a face. ‘Ach, you know how it is.’

  ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘I know I look like death warmed up but the last couple of days have not been so bad,’ he answered, his voice so low that Carlyle had to lean almost all the way across the table to make out what he was saying. It wasn’t just the rasping whisper. His father had lost his Scottish accent decades ago, soon after arriving in London; it only reappeared on the few occasions when the old man took too much drink. Now, however, it was making a comeback – or, at least, a cod version of it, mutated by fifty years of living in London – as he stared death in the face. Carlyle couldn’t help but be amused.

  Alexander noted the stupid look on his son’s face. ‘What’s so funny?’

  ‘Nothing.’ A moment passed. ‘Do you want to go home?’

  ‘Eh?’ Alexander pointed at his pint. ‘I’ve still got my drink.’

  ‘No, not back to the flat. I mean back to Scotland.’

  ‘Scotland?’

  ‘Yes, you remember. The country of your birth. Rains a lot.’

  ‘Why would I want to go back there?’

  ‘I just wondered.’

  Alexander looked at him. ‘D’you mean before I check out? Or after?’

  Carlyle shrugged.

  ‘Why would I want to go back?’ Alexander repeated, signalling the end of that particular topic of conversation.

  ‘So you’re feeling a bit better?’ Carlyle asked, returning to less controversial ground.

  ‘A bit. The pain comes and goes but most of the time it isn’t so bad. There have even been a couple of days this week when I’ve been able to forget about it altogether.’

  ‘That’s good,’ Carlyle said, and he meant it.

  Alexander stared him in the eye. ‘For a while, anyway. It’s not going to go away, is it?’

  ‘No, it’s not.’

  ‘I spoke to the GP again yesterday. He’s a nice lad. Originally from Swansea. Very young.’

  ‘They all are, these days. Just like coppers.’

  Alexander raised an eyebrow. ‘Some coppers, at least.’

  ‘Aye, well.’ Fuck, where had that Scottish accent come from? Stop sounding like a dick, Carlyle admonished himself.

  ‘He’s still trying to find me something better for the pain.’ The old man gestured towards the unsupped pint on the table. ‘Says I need to give up the drink though.’

  Carlyle was baffled. ‘What’s the point of that?’

  ‘You can’t mix the drink and the drugs.’

  ‘Bollocks.’

  ‘That’s what he says. But I need something, son. When it’s bad . . .’ His voice trailed off, making Carlyle recoil in shame.

  ‘I know, Dad. I know.’

  Alexander gave him a look that challenged the veracity of that statement.

  ‘It’s just that dealing with the NHS is so bloody annoying,’ Carlyle said, relieved that his mouth had reverted to using the Queen’s English. ‘Pain relief is the one thing that they can do. Why don’t they just give you the strongest stuff available? It seems crazy that they make it all so complicated.’

  ‘What are they going to do?’ Alexander coughed. ‘Give me a big bag of smack and send me off down the road?’

  Funny you should mention that. ‘I’m trying to sort something out,’ Carlyle whispered. ‘You can’t just sit back and accept what you’re given, or not given.’

  ‘I’ve no complaints.’

  ‘If you don’t stand up for yourself, they’ll just fob you off with any old rubbish. That’s the way it works.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it.’

  Carlyle felt miffed at his father’s lack of enthusiasm for his efforts. The blue-collar stoicism was irritating. The inspector himself had effortlessly slipped into the ranks of the moaning middle classes over the years. That meant playing the game, stamping your feet, knowing your rights, exploiting your contacts. That was what it was all about. ‘No,’ he persisted, ‘seriously. You should be getting more help.’

  ‘You get what you get,’ Alexander responded philosophically.

  ‘There’s no harm in asking.’

  A flicker of curiosity passed across the old man’s face. ‘Asking who?’

  ‘I have contacts.’

  ‘Mm. I hope you’re not discussing my business with the world and his wife.’

  ‘I’m just seeing what might be available,’ Carlyle said firmly. In truth, he was fed up with the whole business. As well as being irritated by his father’s passivity, he was annoyed that Dom had not yet been in touch. With Lucio Spargo in his face, the art dealer no doubt had a lot on his plate. But even so, it was just a question of a couple of phone calls. Dom was a very organized and focused kind of guy; the whole thing should have been sorted out in less than ten minutes.

  ‘You do that,’ said Alex gruffly, as if nothing his son could get up to could in any way have an impact on the short-term suffering that was inevitably heading his way.

  No need to say ‘thank you’, thought Carlyle peevishly.

  Alexander stared into his pint but made no effort to pick up the glass. Instead, he shoved a hand inside his jacket and pulled out a tattered manila A5 envelope. Placing it on the table, he turned it around so that Carlyle could read the spindly scrawl on the front: Inspector J. Carlyle.

  ‘It’s for you.’

  ‘I can see that,’ said Carlyle, making no effort to pick the envelope up. ‘What is it?’

  ‘The arrangements.’

  Oh fuck. Carlyle’s heart sank. Here we go. He braced himself for yet another unwelcome conversation. ‘What arrangements?’

  ‘The arrangements,’ Alexander snapped, swatting away his son’s obtuseness as best he could. ‘Everything you will need when the time comes is in there. Take a look.’

  Still Carlyle sat back.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Jesus, Dad.’

  ‘Don’t be such a big Jessie. I’m saving you a load of aggravation here. Your mother was always the one for forward planning. Well, this time, I’ve taken a leaf out
of her book. You should be chuffed.’ He picked up the envelope and offered it to his son. ‘Take a look and see.’

  ‘Fuck!’ Reluctantly, Carlyle took the envelope. Carefully tearing it open with his thumb, he pulled out a sheaf of papers which had been folded in two. Straightening them out, he began sifting through the pile: utility bills, tax statements, pension details. All the necessary bits of paper required to officially close down a life; or, rather, to close down a former life. At the bottom was a receipt from V&H Hannah on the Fulham Palace Road. Blinking, Carlyle stared at it for several moments before looking up at his father. ‘Christ Almighty,’ he said. ‘What have you done?’

  For the first time that evening, Alexander looked vaguely apologetic. ‘I know it seems a bit strange—’

  ‘I’ll say,’ Carlyle cut him off. ‘Organizing your own funeral? What kind of weirdo does that?’

  ‘Lots of people do it, apparently. So the undertaker said.’

  ‘Yes, the kind of bampot who wants to have a vegan funeral and a cardboard coffin.’

  ‘Folk who want things sorted out.’ Alexander pointed at the bill. ‘See there, down at the bottom. Says “paid in full”.’

  Thank God for that, Carlyle thought. Funerals were expensive these days and his savings, last time he’d dared to look, barely made it into four figures. ‘How much was it?’

  Alexander reeled off the figure, down to the last penny.

  ‘Bloody hell!’

  ‘Comes out of your inheritance, of course,’ Alexander reflected, ‘but there’s nothing I can do about that.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Carlyle chuckled. ‘I wasn’t expecting anything.’

  ‘When the time comes, you just call them up and quote the reference number on the invoice and they’ll come right round.’

  How efficient.

  ‘I’ve known Vincent Hannah since before you were born. We used to go to Fulham together in the sixties.’

  Carlyle made a face; he didn’t remember the guy.

  ‘He died about seven years ago. His son, Henry, runs the place now. Nice lad. Younger than you.’

  A thought popped into Carlyle’s head. ‘We should go and see a game.’

  ‘Yeah. Why not?’ Alexander smiled, but his voice betrayed his lack of interest.

  ‘I’ll see what’s coming up.’

  ‘Okey dokey.’

  As the conversation waned, Carlyle flicked through the papers a second time.

  ‘Everything’s there,’ Alexander repeated. ‘Bills, rent agreement. There’s even a council number you can ring – a kind of one-stop shop. They’ll cancel my pension an’ all that.’

  ‘Handy,’ Carlyle nodded.

  ‘And the will, of course.’

  ‘Yes.’ Carlyle found the relevant document.

  ‘There’s not much left after paying for the funeral and stuff,’ the old man explained, ‘but there’s a few bits and pieces I’d like to leave to Alice and I thought Helen might sort out the rest for me.’

  ‘Helen?’

  ‘Yes, well. She’s good at that sort of thing, isn’t she?’

  And I’m not? ‘Yes.’ Folding up the papers, Carlyle forced them back into the envelope. ‘That’s a good effort, well done.’

  ‘Thanks. Of course, I knew the drill from when your mother died.’

  ‘I suppose,’ said Carlyle stiffly.

  ‘It’s interesting, sorting out all the papers and stuff. I found the whole thing quite comforting really. It gave me something to do. It’s just a shame that there are some things that’ll have to wait until I’m, you know . . . well, dead.’

  ‘That’s bureaucracy for you,’ was all Carlyle could stammer. Placing the envelope back on the table, he scooped up the change. ‘Well, I certainly need another drink after that.’ He gestured towards Alexander’s largely untouched pint. ‘I’m assuming you’re okay?’

  ‘Fine,’ the old man nodded. ‘Perfectly fine.’

  FIFTEEN

  ‘Jesus, woman! You really know how to wind me up!’ Ignoring the stream of invective coming from the handset, Gerry Durkan hurled his mobile at the window. The handset bounced off the reinforced glass and landed on the carpet, apparently undamaged.

  How was it that he was still tied to Rose Murray? Shouldn’t he be on his third wife by now? Or even his fourth? Instead, Rose had been driving him insane for more than three decades. While Gerry had been on a long and winding personal journey that had taken him from administering kneecappings on the Falls Road in Belfast to dishing out the Dom Perignon in Docklands, Rose had essentially remained unchanged, a gangster’s moll. Her total inability to evolve as a person was something that pained Gerry greatly. Over the years, he had bought into the idea that personal growth was an essential component of a life well lived; it was an idea he embraced as fervently as the Fenian shibboleths of his youth.

  Taking a succession of deep breaths, Gerry stared into the night sky, trying to remember exactly what it was that they had been arguing about. With Rose it really didn’t matter. For something like the ten-thousandth time in his life, he made a vow that he would finally bring the world’s most dysfunctional relationship to an end; trade in his own Bonnie Parker for a nice Sloaney girl with an easy smile and not an idea in her head.

  Or maybe a Russian hard body. The kind of girl who took no shit and could siphon £5k from his credit card in Typhoon Joe’s in less than an hour.

  No, no. Definitely the Sloane.

  Thinking through the possibilities for Mrs Durkan number two calmed him considerably. Walking over to the window, Gerry recovered his phone and checked that it was indeed still working. Giving heartfelt thanks for the wonders of modern technology, he made another call.

  After several rings, he got a reply.

  ‘What?’

  What do you fucking think? Gerry thought crossly. Why was it that everyone was so focused on giving him shit? ‘Is it done?’

  ‘Not yet. The flight was delayed. Don’t piss yourself. I’ll call you when it’s done.’

  The line went dead. ‘Yeah,’ Gerry spat at the handset. ‘And fuck you too.’ Maybe, when the job was done, he should give these boys a taste of what the old days were like. See how hard they were with a gun stuck in their faces. But his anger quickly passed. Putting the phone back in his pocket, he caught a glimpse of himself in the window. He had to acknowledge that it wasn’t a pretty sight. ‘The good old days are long gone,’ he told his reflection, ‘and don’t you forget it. You don’t want to be goin’ round makin’ a fool of yerself now.’

  ‘Who was that?’

  ‘The boss.’

  Andy Carson grinned. ‘Tense, is he?’

  Lifting his eyes to the arrivals board at London’s City airport, Ryan Fortune said nothing.

  ‘I still want to know who we’re working for,’ Carson continued. He had a QPR baseball cap pulled down low over his eyes. That, along with a day’s stubble and a pair of rimless glasses offered a fairly effective disguise. In the forty minutes they had been hovering around the terminal, no one had given Britain’s Most Wanted a second glance, not even when his ugly pixilated mug appeared on the large screens showing the Sky News Feed. According to the ticker, police believed that Carson had fled the country. Fortune allowed himself a chuckle at that one; hiding in plain sight had a lot to commend it.

  ‘It’s a perfectly reasonable question,’ Carson whined.

  Fortune shook his head in exasperation. When was this fucking plane going to land? He was beginning to think that the job might be cursed. But if it got called off, that would leave everyone in a bind, not least Durkan. Ryan had worked with Gerry Durkan on half-a-dozen jobs over the last four years and had always found him to be reliable, professional and, above all, a man of his word. This time, however, things were different. Gerry had seen some investments go tits up and now he was desperate for a quick cash injection. Desperate was not good. Desperate was what led you to spring Andy Carson from jail because you didn’t have time to find anyone else.
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  ‘What does it matter who he is?’

  Carson scratched his head under the baseball cap. ‘Maybe we should just do him.’

  Fortune watched as an armed police officer strode slowly past, cradling a machine gun in his arms. He tried to ignore the signals from his brain inviting him to turn round and just walk out of the arrivals terminal, slip into the Range Rover stolen from long-term parking, and tell Colinson to drive them into the night. If only. ‘Will you shut up, you total scrote?’

  ‘Why not?’ Carson grinned. ‘It’s an idea; save the whole score for us.’

  ‘And who would fence the gear?’

  ‘How hard can it be?’

  ‘Everybody has their jobs to do. That’s his. Anyway, he’s no mug. I wouldn’t fancy your chances if you went up against him.’

  ‘I very much doubt that,’ Carson harrumphed. ‘Apart from anything else, the bloke’s too scared to let me to know who he is.’

  Fortune turned to face his mate. ‘Andy, for the last time, you don’t want to possess that information. And that’s me talking. The man himself couldn’t give a flying fuck whether you know who he is or not. I’m not tellin’ you his identity for your own good. The less you know, the better.’

  ‘Stupid cunt,’ Carson snorted.

  Fortune looked like he was about to give him a smack.

  ‘Not you,’ Carson said hastily. ‘Our Mr Big.’

  ‘There’s nothing stupid about him,’ Fortune informed Carson. ‘And he’s not the kind of bloke who scares easily. Back in the day, he was quite the man.’

  ‘Back in the day?’

  ‘In the seventies and eighties.’

  ‘That’s a long time ago. Was he in the Army?’

  Fortune chuckled. ‘Not exactly. Take it from me though, he still has it. And he’s not a bloke you should mess with. He’s put far more people in the ground than you have – and none of them were illiterate sheep-shaggers who had already surrendered.’ Once again, he looked up at the arrivals board. ‘Thank fuck for that.’ The Antwerp flight had finally landed. He gave Carson a gentle punch on the shoulder. ‘Game on, my son. The fun’s about to start.’

  Trying to look as casual as possible, they positioned themselves at the front of the Essex Pasty Company franchise, just two regular guys waiting for the return of friends or relatives. While Fortune scanned the terminal building for another of the sporadic police patrols, Carson consulted the menu.