All Kinds of Dead

by James Craig

  ‘And they’re free.’

  ‘Let’s hope so.’

  On that basis, maybe you should just let it run its course. Don’t give these guys any excuse to do something stupid. Leave this one to the police. You can reacquaint yourself with these gentlemen once Melanie and the children are safely accounted for.’

  ‘With all due respect, Sir, you know that’s not my style. Anyway, the local plod have been less than impressive so far.’ Hunter quickly recounted his run-in with Inspector Sarah Ward of West End Central. ‘She was so convinced I’d kidnapped my own family that she interviewed me under caution.’

  ‘She’s only doing her job,’ Naylor observed. ‘If you plan to stay on the case you’re going to have to build bridges with these people, whether you think they’re half-decent or not.’

  ‘There was another inspector who seemed quite on the ball. But he doesn’t answer his bloody phone.’ Hunter watched as the Crew Manager, Fitton, reappeared, a paper cup full of steaming coffee in his hand. Ignoring the Colonel, he stepped up to Hunter, the dismay at being stuck in the middle of this mess clear in his eyes.

  ‘Are you the Army guy?’

  ‘I am.’

  Fitton gestured towards the wreckage with his cup. ‘The cops say those bastards have got your family.’

  Hunter nodded. ‘That’s right.’

  Looking around to check that no one was watching them, Fitton jerked out his free hand. ‘Here.’

  Hunter took the business card, closing his fist around it.

  ‘One of my guys found it on the driver,’ Fitton said quietly. He took a sip of his coffee. ‘It might be of some use.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Good luck. I hope that everything turns out okay for you and yours.’ Turning away, Fitton emptied the contents of his cup on to the cracked tarmac before tossing it towards the gutter.

  Watching him head back to work, Hunter finally inspected the card.

  ‘What is it?’ Naylor asked.

  ‘A lettings agency.’ Hunter gestured back in the direction of the City proper. ‘An address in Old Street.’ He was still a relative newcomer to London but he knew that Old Street was located somewhere close to Liverpool Street station and the City of London.

  ‘A lead?’

  ‘I bloody hope so.’ Hunter looked at his CO. ‘Do you think you could give me a lift back into the centre of town?’

  In the chill of the early morning gloom, Andy Carson stood by the open window, sucking down on a Marlboro as he listened to the sound of his own breathing. Uneven and rasping, it made him sound like a little old man. On the plus side, it was a reminder that he was still alive.

  A police helicopter scudded past on the horizon, heading west. Carson gave them a cheery wave. ‘Happy hunting, you wankers!’

  Holding the smoke down deep in his lungs, he casually flicked some ash out of the window. At this hour, there was almost no traffic on the roads below. Carson was surprised to hear the sound of birdsong coming from the rooftops. That was an interesting thing about cities, he mused. However hard people tried, they never managed to obliterate nature completely.

  Looking out over the derelict patch of ground on the far side of the Clerkenwell Road, towards the Golden Lane Estate, he shook his head in disgust. London was a dirty city. This part of the metropolis had been heavily bombed during World War Two and even now it had the ramshackle air of a district awaiting proper redevelopment. His parents were genuine Cockneys. They had grown up little more than a mile from where he was standing, moving out to Milton Keynes – before Andy and his brothers were born – in search of cheap housing and green space. Forty years later, it still wasn’t home. They never managed to get over leaving the East End.

  Andy himself failed to see the attraction.

  ‘What a dump.’ Taking a final drag of his smoke, he flicked the butt out of the window, into the garden below. After today, he wouldn’t see London again; he wouldn’t miss it.

  The safe house was an unfurnished warehouse apartment at the top of a former pickle factory. Carson had made it back with Fortune just before dawn. Still buzzing from his latest escape from the forces of law and order, he felt invincible. It was like the best 3D game ever. Grand Theft Auto on acid. He was Michael De Santa made flesh. Lighting another cigarette, he ran through the highlights of the last few hours.

  As it turned out, Adrian Colinson hadn’t been as good a getaway driver as they had imagined. He also made the schoolboy error of not wearing a seatbelt, which meant he was halfway through the windscreen before his airbag had the chance to deploy. After his argument with the concrete pillar, even his own mother wouldn’t have recognized him.

  Fortune had been cursing and blinding at Colinson but it was just a reflex; their comrade had been dead even before they had exited the vehicle. This was real life, not some crappy Army-sponsored movie, and there was no way they were going to try and uphold the bullshit ‘no man left behind’ code.

  ‘Clunk click, every trip.’ Wasn’t that what that old perv Jimmy Savile had always said? This time the advice had paid off, big time. After a combination of the seatbelt and the airbag had done their job, Carson had walked from the wreckage of the Range Rover, dazed but essentially unhurt.

  Clearing his head, he recovered the bolt-cutters from the boot. Pulling open the back passenger door, Carson saw the security guard slumped forward, clearly dead, his neck having been broken when the impact of the crash threw him against the headrest of the front seat. Pushing the corpse back into something approximating a seated position, Carson cut the chain of the handcuffs with the clippers. Grabbing the case, he wheeled away, ready to take his leave.

  ‘Hey!’

  Looking round, he found Fortune standing in a storm ditch ten metres or so away, the top of his head barely visible.

  ‘This way.’

  Carson hesitated.

  ‘Hurry up!’

  Off to his left, he could make out a police helicopter heading towards them, its spotlight jerking over the open ground. Needing no further encouragement, Carson ran to the ditch. Diving into it, he was pleased that it was dry. Checking his footing, he chased after Fortune, who was already the best part of 100 yards further on, moving at an impressive lick.

  Fucking hell, Carson thought. If he doesn’t slow down, I’m gonna have a heart attack.

  Reaching the end of the drainage system, they emerged into a small housing estate, populated with the kind of starter box homes that looked like they’d fall over if the wind reached Force 6. Looking back over his shoulder, Carson was amazed that no one seemed to be following them. The helicopter remained hovering over the crash scene and the sirens of the emergency service vehicles were moving further away, rather than towards them. Taking a moment to catch his breath, he reflected that it looked like they’d made good their escape, even if things hadn’t quite gone according to plan.

  Fortune headed directly to the parking lot of a boarded-up pub. By the time Carson had caught up, he was sitting behind the wheel of an ancient, rusting black cab. Coaxing the engine into life, he flicked off the ‘For Hire’ sign and invited Carson to jump in the back. Heading out of the estate, they set off on a tour of the back streets of East London, arriving on Old Street just before dawn. Dumping the taxi in an underground car park, they had travelled the last few blocks to the apartment on foot.

  ‘Stop daydreaming,’ Ryan Fortune appeared at the edge of his peripheral vision. He was stuffing clothes and weapons into a kitbag. ‘We need to get out of here.’

  Carson glanced down at the case sitting on the wooden floor between them, a single handcuff still locked around its handle. ‘How do we get this thing open?’

  ‘Not our problem,’ Fortune said tersely. ‘Other people will deal with that.’

  Carson stepped forward. Picking up the case, he gave it a shake. A stupid grin spread over his face as he listened to the diamonds bouncing around inside. ‘Don’t you want to take a look?’

  ‘Andy,’ Fortune s
aid tightly, ‘put that down.’

  Reluctantly, Carson did as he was told.

  ‘You need to focus.’

  Retreating to the window, Carson folded his arms. ‘You sound like my mum.’

  ‘Your mum’s right.’

  Jerking a thumb over his shoulder, Carson gestured towards the door in the far corner of the room, the key in the lock. ‘Okay, so what do you want to do with them?’

  Them. Mel Hunter and her kids. The Get Out of Jail card they no longer needed.

  ‘Just leave them.’ Closing the kitbag, Fortune hoisted it over his shoulder. ‘We clear out and then someone can come and get them later.’

  Carson caressed the semi-automatic in his jacket pocket. ‘Surely we don’t want any witnesses?’

  ‘Enough people have died already.’

  ‘So what’s a few more then?’

  ‘Andy, Christ! That’s a woman and her kids you’re talking about, not some little Taliban wankers who were trying to shoot your nuts off ten minutes before you wasted them.’

  ‘They could finger us.’

  ‘Use your noodle.’ Fortune tapped his temple with a forefinger. ‘It doesn’t matter. What can they tell the police or the Redcaps that they don’t already know? We’re well in the frame for all this already. Plus, you were number one on the Army’s Most Wanted list to start with, don’t forget. You don’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to work out who did it. There’s no point.’

  ‘I don’t like loose ends.’

  ‘I can understand that,’ Fortune said sarcastically, ‘what with you being so good at tidying them up and all. Maybe you want me to video it for you as well – add it to your collection? The idea popped into his head that maybe he himself should drop Carson here and now. He wasn’t really one for improvising but he could see the attractions. The guy had served his useful purpose. From now on, he was only going to be a liability. He felt the grip on his gun tighten. ‘Just leave them alone.’

  As if reading his mind, Carson backed off. ‘Makes sense,’ he conceded. ‘And, anyway you’re the boss.’

  ‘Good,’ Fortune walked over to the door. ‘I’ll just check on them and then we’re out of here. I’ll call the lettings agent tonight and she can come and get them.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s the best way.’ Carson watched Fortune turn the key in the lock before disappearing down the hallway. Flicking off the safety on his own weapon, he slowly counted to five and followed after him.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Refusing to believe the evidence of his own eyes, the inspector stared blankly at the empty cupboard. ‘Where’s the muesli?’

  ‘It was past its sell-by date,’ Helen said blithely, gently blowing on her white tea as she leaned against the sink, ‘so I threw it out.’

  ‘Past its sell-by date?’ Telling himself not to panic, Carlyle smacked the cupboard door shut and scowled at his wife. ‘What the hell’s that got to do with anything? Don’t you realize sell-by dates are just a massive conspiracy to get people to throw out perfectly good food?’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Helen said evenly, ‘I’ll get some more on my way home tonight.’

  ‘That’s no fucking good, is it?’ Carlyle felt the vein in his temple begin to throb. He could feel himself coming over all Basil Fawlty.

  ‘What do you care?’ Helen, his very own Sybil, retorted, her patience beginning to wear thin. ‘You never ate the stuff before.’

  ‘Because I had stashed my dad’s drugs in it.’

  ‘Ah.’ Helen rapidly recalibrated her assessment of her husband’s sense of humour failure.

  Opening the cupboard under the sink, Carlyle contemplated the rubbish bin, a bucket lined with a bright orange plastic bag from the supermarket close to the tube. It was empty. Now was the time to panic. He shot his wife a pleading look. ‘Where’s the rubbish?’

  ‘Alice took it out when she went off to school,’ Helen said meekly.

  ‘Shit!’ Carlyle glanced at his watch.

  ‘It was only five minutes ago,’ Helen pointed out. ‘Hopefully it should still be there.’

  Please, God, let the woman be right.

  ‘If the bin men haven’t been.’

  ‘Aaargh!’ A surge of adrenalin sent the inspector hurtling through the door and down the hallway. On the landing, he decided against waiting for the lift, instead taking the stairs, three at a time. Reaching the first floor, he hurtled past Mrs Andrews from 2B, almost knocking the pensioner on her backside as he flew past.

  ‘Where’s the fire?’ she shouted after him.

  ‘Sorry!’ Carlyle shouted back over his shoulder, almost tripping and breaking his neck in the process. ‘I can’t stop.’

  ‘I can see that,’ the woman said cheerily. ‘Chasing a criminal?’

  ‘Something like that,’ the inspector wheezed as a last burst took him down to the ground floor. Heaving at the front door to the building, he dragged himself out on to the pavement. As his eyes adjusted to the glare of the morning sun, his heart sank. ‘What a tip!’ An unappealing selection of discarded newspapers, food waste, plastic bottles and other domestic rubbish was strewn all over the place, shifting up and down the street with the eddies of the breeze. The local tramps had been out again – a regular occurrence – slitting open the waste sacks that had been left out overnight, filleting them for whatever choice morsels they could find. Everything else was left to spill out on to the road, waiting for some poor sod with a cart to come along and clean it up.

  A faint smell of decay reached his nostrils, further darkening his mood. Looking up at the sky, the inspector hoped that the promised rain would arrive to cleanse the neighbourhood. He watched as a taxi casually headed the wrong way down the one-way street, mashing an over-ripe banana into the tarmac before turning into Drury Lane.

  Another day in paradise.

  Wasn’t that a Phil Collins song?

  Bemused by the random meanderings of his own mind, Carlyle kicked an empty baked-bean tin into the gutter, careful not to get tomato sauce on to the toe of his shoe. Not for the first time, he reflected that the bin men provided the most truly essential service of anyone in the capital.

  After the best efforts of the dossers, there were still twenty or more bags waiting for collection. Grouped around three different lampposts, they were a mixture of black refuse sacks and re-purposed supermarket bags of different sizes and colours. Carlyle scratched his head. Which one was theirs?

  ‘Think!’ he muttered to himself. ‘Now is the time to work smart.’ Slowly, it dawned on him that the easiest thing was to call Alice and hope that his daughter would answer her phone. Reaching for his mobile, Carlyle belatedly realized that he had left it upstairs. Cursing, he glanced back to the entrance of Winter Garden House. Where was Helen? The least she could do was to come down and help him with his search.

  Reinforcements, however, were not forthcoming. Feeling more than a little sorry for himself, the inspector strode up to the first lamppost. Half-heartedly poking at the pile of rubbish with his toe, he tried to identify Helen’s out-of-date box of muesli inside one of the bags. As he did so, the familiar noise of a diesel engine heading up Drury Lane seeped into his consciousness.

  ‘Bollocks!’

  Looking up, the inspector saw two bin men, a young guy in his twenties and an older man, about the same age as himself, walking towards him as their rubbish truck manoeuvred its way into Macklin Street. Carlyle recognized the pair by sight, often coming across them out on their daily route on his way to work. Indeed, he was on nodding terms with one, the older guy, who lived round the corner, near Dragon Hall.

  ‘Hold on a minute, lads.’ Fumbling in his pocket, Carlyle pulled out his Warrant Card and promptly dropped it in amongst the rubbish bags. Picking it up, he let them get a good look at it before adding, ‘I’m just checking for something. Bear with me till I find it.’

  The two men looked at each other and grinned.

  ‘Police business.’

  ‘What happened?’ the older guy a
sked. ‘Your missus thrown out your gun?’

  ‘Something like that,’ Carlyle muttered, not seeing the funny side.

  ‘Want us to give you a hand?’

  ‘It’s okay, won’t be a minute.’

  The rubbish truck rolled past and came to a halt five yards further along the road. The smell coming from the loading hopper at the back of the vehicle fair made the inspector gag.

  ‘What are you looking for?’ the younger guy asked.

  Carlyle tried to smile. ‘It’s confidential, I’m afraid.’

  Mrs Andrews had appeared at the entrance to Winter Garden House. She gave him a funny look and then waved a small plastic bag at the bin men. ‘Can you take this?’

  ‘ ’Course, love,’ the older guy smiled. Jogging over, he took the old woman’s rubbish and threw it in the hopper. A silver BMW turned into Macklin Street, the driver’s face creasing in dismay as he realized his proposed short-cut was blocked by the truck. Smacking his palm against the steering wheel, he let rip with a long blast of his horn, the better to inform the world of his presence.

  ‘Chill, mate,’ the younger bin man advised, annoying the driver even more. ‘We’re only doing our job.’ His colleague gave Carlyle a look that said Get on with it.

  ‘Just gimme a second.’ The inspector picked up a green M&S bag and tore it open to discover the remains of an Indian ready meal and a copy of the Telegraph. Not sure which was the more offensive item, he threw the bag into the back of the truck. Picking up the pace, he went through the drill with a Sainsbury’s bag and one of the black bin bags.

  ‘This is great,’ the younger bin man laughed. ‘Wanna finish the round for us?’

  Carlyle caught a glimpse of the driver looking at him in the wing mirror. Only you, he thought to himself dolefully, could draw a crowd hunting for drugs outside your front door. The BMW driver let loose with another blast on his horn.