by James Craig
‘Shut up, you wanker!’ Grabbing another black bag, Carlyle ripped it open, letting out a small cry of joy when he caught sight of the familiar cereal box design inside.
‘Got it!’ Clasping the bag tightly by the neck, he quickly retreated to the door. ‘Thanks, lads. Sorry for holding you up.’
‘Good luck with the investigation!’ they chorused.
‘Thanks!’ Punching in the entry code, Carlyle pulled open the door and darted inside. In the lobby, he pressed the button for the lift, cackling like a maniac at the thought of his latest flirtation with disaster.
Leaning against the fridge, mobile clamped to her ear, Helen raised an eyebrow as her husband entered the kitchen and unceremoniously dumped the sack in the middle of the floor.
‘He’s just walked in.’ Pushing herself off the fridge, she stepped towards him, careful to give the rubbish a wide berth. ‘It’s for you.’
As she offered him the handset, Carlyle felt surprised that his wife had answered his phone.
‘It just kept ringing,’ she explained, as if reading his thoughts.
‘Who is it?’ he asked grumpily, taking the phone from her. The excitement of his drugs run was wearing off and he felt decidedly weary.
‘A Mr Hunter.’
Hunter? It took a second for the penny to drop. Given his other adventures, the military policeman had been deleted from the inspector’s cache of short-term memory. He lifted the handset to his ear. ‘Hello?’
‘Why the hell don’t you answer your phone?’
‘I’ve been busy,’ Carlyle snapped back, in no mood to take any crap from a ruddy soldier. ‘Where are you?’
Hunter mentioned the name of a ubiquitous sandwich chain. ‘I’m on Goswell Road, just north of Old Street. You need to get over here, right away.’
Oh, do I? It took Carlyle another moment to remember he had skin in the game.
‘I’ve got a good lead on these bastards.’ Hunter’s words were slightly slurred. Carlyle could easily imagine he’d been on the case all night; the guy sounded like he was running on fumes. ‘This thing could all kick off very quickly and I’m going to need some help.’
‘Okay, okay. I should be there in about twenty minutes.’ Carlyle slipped the phone into the back pocket of his trousers and fished the cereal packet from the rubbish. If Helen was as relieved as he was, she didn’t let it show. Instead, she watched impassively as her husband checked that the tablets were still inside before putting the box back in its place in the cupboard.
‘You’re not going to leave it there, are you?’
Carlyle patted the phone with the palm of his hand. ‘Duty calls. I need to go and sort something out.’
‘But I don’t want it in the house,’ Helen wailed.
Carlyle lifted a hand to the back of his neck, trying to massage away the incipient headache brewing at the top of his spine. Helen really did pick her moments. Wasn’t this whole caper her idea in the first place? Knowing better than to try and point any of this out, he opted for conciliation. ‘I’ll be back as soon as possible,’ he said gently, ‘and then I’ll take the stuff straight over to Fulham. It’ll be out of here before the end of the day. Dad needs to have it as soon as possible anyway.’
‘But what happens if someone comes round?’
‘Just don’t offer them any muesli,’ Carlyle suggested. He was halfway through the door when she called him back.
‘John!’
‘What?’
Helen gestured at the rubbish bag on the floor. ‘Don’t leave that there, at least. Take it out with you.’
Ending his call with the policeman, Hunter checked in with Naylor, who confirmed that there had been no significant developments since their parting of the ways in the early hours. Stifling a yawn, the captain looked around the cafe and returned to his superficial review of the previous day’s paper. After reading about a man released after twenty-five years on Death Row for a murder he did not commit, he was struggling to keep his eyes open, only jerking awake as he watched a tall blonde woman of indeterminate age walk along the opposite side of the road. The shiny silver trainers on her feet did not go well with the formal grey business suit she was wearing, but Hunter assumed that there would be a pair of work shoes nestling in the large bag slung over her shoulder. In her hand was the kind of large paper coffee cup that every other commuter in this city seemed to carry. Hunter did a rough calculation in his head of how much the cost of a daily coffee added up to on an annual basis, frowning when he came up with a total. People down here really didn’t know they were born. Everyone talked about London being another country; as far as Hunter could see, it was more like another planet.
Hunter straightened himself up as the blonde woman approached the Silicon Roundabout Lettings Agency, emitting a small croak of triumph as she stopped at its door. From his pocket, he removed the card that the fireman, Fitton, had given him at the scene of the crash, glancing at it as he watched the woman rummage in her bag. After several moments, she pulled out a large set of keys and began going through the laborious process of opening multiple locks. Hunter put the card back in his pocket and slipped off his stool.
Having dealt with the locks, the woman pushed open the door. Planting one foot in the hallway, she quickly disabled the alarm and disappeared inside. Hunter allowed himself the luxury of a stretch while he waited for her to reappear in the office proper, visible through a large plate-glass window – the bottom half of which was filled with the particulars of properties available for rent. He waited patiently for the woman to get herself settled behind her desk before emptying the remains of his cold coffee into the bin provided and stepping out into the street.
The lack of sleep had dulled his reflexes. Crossing the road, Hunter was almost taken out by a delivery van and a cyclist in quick succession. Finally reaching the other side, he took a second to compose himself. Ignoring the Closed notice, he stepped into the office. From behind her desk, the woman didn’t seem particularly surprised at his arrival.
‘Good morning, sir.’ Her smile was impressive, given both his appearance and the time of morning. ‘How can I help you?’
Hunter pulled up a seat and sat down. She handed him a business card: Caroline Batting, Lettings Manager. He took it with a nod, not mentioning that he already had one sitting in his pocket. Up close, he estimated that she was mid-thirties, not unattractive but rapidly going to seed, the skin under her chin beginning to sag alarmingly. ‘I’m looking for a property,’ he explained.
‘Yes,’ she said brightly, already on automatic pilot. ‘What kind of thing were you looking for? Do you have a budget?’
‘No, no.’ Hunter shook his head. ‘I don’t want to rent anywhere.’
‘Oh.’ The smile on her face wavered but did not completely disappear.
‘I’m looking to track down a property that you let to someone.’ Taking his Warrant Card from his pocket, he handed it over for her to inspect. ‘A man – or maybe a couple of men – took a short-term rental recently. I need to find them.’
Taking the card, she looked at it carefully. ‘So you are . . .’
‘Royal Military Police.’ He emphasized the first word, knowing from experience that was what civilians usually responded to. The image of a Union Jack fluttering against a clear blue sky would appear before their eyes and they would be falling over themselves to be helpful before he had even asked his first question.
Batting, however, didn’t get up and salute. Instead, she handed back the ID and said, ‘I’m sorry, but our records are private. We have a duty of confidentiality to our clients, both landlords and tenants. Their information can only be accessed by the police – and even then only upon production of a relevant court order.’ The words came out with practised ease, as if she had used them before. Or maybe she just watched too many cop shows on TV.
Hunter stuffed the card back in his jacket. ‘I am the police.’
She shot him a condescending smile. ‘I’m sorry, Mr—’
‘I’m sorry, Captain Hunter, but you will be perfectly well aware that you have no authority out here in the real world.’ It was true enough, as a Military Policeman, Hunter did not have any powers over members of the general public. Having called his bluff, she twisted the knife. ‘And, no offence, I’m sure you really are who you say you are, but that Warrant Card doesn’t prove anything, does it? You could probably buy one of those on eBay for a tenner.’
‘You seem to know a lot about it,’ Hunter said grimly.
‘You need to know about all aspects of the law in this game,’ she shrugged, ‘otherwise people will mess you about all the time. The nonsense you have to put up with can be unbelievable.’
‘I’m not trying to mess you about,’ Hunter stressed. ‘I am chasing some really bad men who were involved in the airport robbery last night.’
She looked at him blankly. ‘What robbery?’
‘The theft of some diamonds. A lot of money. People were killed. We have reason to believe that the crew who did the job may have rented one of your flats.’
He had stimulated her interest but she wasn’t going to roll over. ‘Wouldn’t that be a matter for the police?’
‘It’s a joint investigation.’
‘But you have no authority,’ she repeated.
‘Yes, but I do.’ Carlyle walked into the office and tossed his ID on the desk. ‘You can’t buy one of those on eBay.’
‘I wouldn’t be so sure about that,’ Batting scoffed, inspecting this second document with rather less interest than she had the first. ‘Anyway, you still need the right paperwork.’ Handing the inspector back his card, she bent down and pulled on a pair of black leather shoes. ‘Now, you’ll have to forgive me, but if I don’t get a move on, I’m going to be late for a viewing. If you want to come back with a court order we will, of course, provide every possible assistance.’
‘Sorry, love.’ Carlyle moved round to her side of the desk, the better to check her computer screen. ‘We don’t have time for that. The men we are after are very dangerous. We need to track them down, right now.’ He glanced at Hunter who looked more than ready to beat the information out of her, gesturing for him to be cool.
The smile had gone now; this was getting very boring. Batting glanced at her watch. Technically speaking, it wasn’t even opening time yet. She pined for the days when the nutters wouldn’t get out of bed before noon. Her mind drifted to thoughts of her first glass of Sauvignon Blanc at lunchtime. It would be a large one.
‘We just need a bit of information,’ Carlyle persisted. ‘Otherwise, I’m going to have to take you back to Charing Cross police station and book you with obstruction.’
‘Nonsense!’ she snorted.
‘Yes, it is,’ Carlyle agreed. ‘It’ll be a complete waste of a day for everyone.’
Batting took a moment to consider her options. Then she began smacking the keys on her computer keyboard. ‘How far back do you want to go?’ While she listened to them setting out the parameters of their search, Batting’s mind was already in Tommy’s Wine Bar. To hell with a glass of wine, today she would be ordering a whole bottle.
TWENTY-THREE
They left Caroline Batting sitting in her office and set off down the street with six sets of keys and a map covered in crosses. In charge of the map, Carlyle felt like a bit of an idiot, like a tourist in his own city, unable to find his way around on instinct and experience alone. At least all of the properties were within easy walking distance. He let his finger trace a possible route for them to take.
‘How do you want to do this?’
‘Start with the closest,’ Hunter responded, ‘and we can work outwards from there.’
‘Okay.’ Carlyle set off in the direction of Moorgate. ‘But you know that they’ve probably done a runner by now,’ he panted, jogging across the road to avoid the attentions of an onrushing motorbike. ‘They could be in . . .’ he tried to think of somewhere exotic ‘. . . the Bahamas by now. Almost.’
‘That doesn’t matter,’ Hunter said tightly, ‘as long as we find Mel and the kids. Andy Carson can wait.’
Reaching the far pavement, Carlyle lengthened his stride. ‘What’s he like?’
‘Carson?’ Hunter fell in beside him, matching the inspector’s pace. ‘Just a fairly normal bloke. Liked his beer, his porn and his football. An Aston Villa fan.’
At least he didn’t support Chelsea, Carlyle mused. That was one character defect he could never overlook.
‘As far as I could see,’ Hunter continued, ‘Carson was a perfectly decent soldier. Hardly Sandhurst material, but solid; he did his job and was well enough liked. Had plenty of mates. He could be a bit of a berk when he got pissed up, but you can say that of just about every bloke that wears a uniform. If you had to sum him up in one word it would be “unremarkable”.’
‘So why did he shoot those guys?’
‘Simple – because he had a gun in his hand and he thought he could get away with it.’ Carlyle ducked into an alley that provided a short cut. It wasn’t wide enough for both of them, so Hunter let him lead before adding: ‘He would have done too, if he hadn’t been filmed in the act.’
‘That’s a fairly basic fail,’ Carlyle threw back. ‘It must have made your life easier though?’
‘Yeah. Once the video came to light, he was toast. Even then, he thought that there were absolutely no consequences to his actions. He seemed genuinely offended by the fact that there was even an investigation. When I arrested him he was gobsmacked. I’m sure you’ve seen the same kind of thing.’
‘Many times. People think they can justify anything.’
‘Tell me about it.’ Emerging from the alley, they fell back in step, two professionals enjoying the simple pleasure of swapping war stories. Going about their business on the quiet streets, they could almost feel like normal guys. For a short while at least, that was something to savour.
The next couple of hours were spent on a Cook’s tour, from Moorgate to London Wall and on towards the Barbican. After visiting the first four properties on the letting agent’s map, they had done nothing more exciting than walk in on a lawyer enjoying her morning bath. The woman had not taken the interruption well, muttering darkly about legal action as she shooed them out of the door wearing only a towel.
‘If you sue anyone,’ the inspector said drily, ‘make sure it’s the Army.’ All he got by way of reply was the sound of the door being slammed shut behind them, followed by the deadbolt being firmly thrown into place.
Standing in the corridor, he grinned at Hunter. Gazing into the middle distance, however, the captain did not respond. The look of stony despair on his exhausted face reminded Carlyle of what was at stake and the need to stay focused. ‘Let’s keep going,’ he offered, consulting the last two remaining properties on the map. ‘St John Street or Goswell Road, what d’you reckon?’
Heading towards the lifts, Hunter did not express a preference. Scurrying after him, the inspector made an executive decision. ‘Let’s try Goswell Road,’ he said, folding up the map and stuffing it in his pocket.
Hands on hips, Becky Carson contemplated the visitor standing in her kitchen. On the credit side, he was tall, dark and handsome. Fairly handsome, anyway. On the debit side, he was a cop.
The police had arrived at the villa just before 9 a.m. Half a dozen uniformed officers spilling out of the back of a van and then standing around gossiping while she was formally served with the search warrant and signed some papers that consented to them shoving their noses in her knicker drawer.
It was like an episode of The Bill, only with better weather. Deep down, she had known that the local police would be paying her a visit. Even so, the timing had been a bit of a surprise, if only because Becky had never come across anyone in Greece who started work before ten-thirty. ‘Lazy’ was the understatement of all time. It was no wonder that the bloody country was bust. Andy liked to joke that they should just hand the wh
ole thing over to the Germans, lock stock and barrel. That was probably one of the few things that her errant husband was right about.
She looked at the clock on the kitchen wall. ‘How much longer is this going to take?’
The officer in command made a non-committal gesture. ‘Our orders are to be thorough.’
‘Only it’s almost lunchtime now. I was planning to go out.’
‘I’m afraid you’ll have to wait until we are finished.’
‘You’re not going to find him here.’ Taking a packet of B&H from her bag on the Welsh dresser, she rummaged around for a lighter. Coming up empty, she swore in frustration. ‘I haven’t heard from him.’
‘We will be as quick as we can,’ the cop said. ‘After all, my boys will want their lunch too.’
‘Smoke?’ Becky offered the open packet to the cop.
He shook his head. ‘No. I don’t.’
‘Suit yourself.’ Shoving a cigarette between her lips, Becky tossed the packet back on to the dresser and resumed her search.
Through the open door the sound of police officers roaming freely through the rest of her house set her teeth on edge. They had been going through the house and the gardens all morning. What did they think? That Andy was hiding under the floorboards?
‘He’s not here,’ she repeated.
‘I know that.’
‘So what exactly are you looking for then?’
The officer smiled politely. ‘It’s all in the search warrant.’ His English was fluent and, disconcertingly, he had no trace of an accent. Becky glanced at the pristine document lying on the middle of the table, making no effort to pick it up. They had given her a copy in English but she wasn’t going to read it.
Giving up on the lighter, Becky dropped the cigarette on the dresser. ‘What did you say your name was again?’
‘Inspector Nikos Jones.’
She frowned. ‘Jones? That’s not a very Greek name, is it?’
‘My father is originally from Weybridge,’ the policeman explained, ‘in Surrey. My mother comes from the island. He came here on holiday one year, they met up, and he never left. I grew up about thirty kilometres from here.’ The boilerplate explanation he had given millions of times already and would give millions of times more.
