Shoot to Kill (12 page)

Holyrod let his voice drop until it was barely audible over the background hubbub. ‘It concerns my favourite policeman.’

John bloody Carlyle
. Simpson felt a sour twinge in her gut. The Commander’s relationship with her subordinate had improved immeasurably over recent years, but that did not preclude her from having an acute awareness of his somewhat severe shortcomings. The inspector was the kind of man who had a chip on both shoulders, along with the innate ability to piss off important people, especially the Mayor. On more than one occasion, Simpson had been caught in the middle when the pair had clashed. Whereas Carlyle seemed to revel in the conflict, she herself found it wearisome and futile.

‘There’s an issue in relation to—’

Simpson stopped him. ‘I am aware of the situation. Why don’t you call me in the morning?’

Holyrod was about to reply when an imperious figure appeared at his shoulder. At well over six feet, Abigail Slater towered over Simpson. She was wearing a Moschino twill blazer over a pearl blouse with the top three buttons undone, giving more than a glimpse
of an ample décolletage. Dino’s mouth fell open. Resisting the urge to elbow her partner in the ribs, Simpson gave Holyrod a sly smile. ‘Is your wife not coming this evening?’ she asked maliciously.

Catching her tone, Dino closed his mouth and, taking her arm, began manoeuvring the Commander towards the exit. ‘We’re off to dinner,’ he said, injecting a note of false cheer into his voice.

‘I will call you in the morning,’ Holyrod said grimly as Simpson walked away.

‘What a bitch,’ Slater sneered, loudly enough for Simpson to hear.

‘Forget it,’ Holyrod snapped, pulling her in the opposite direction. ‘Let’s go and see the bloody exhibition.’

The squaddie drained his pint of Spitfire Ale and banged it down on the table. ‘They’re almost here.’

Not looking up from his bottle of Foster’s, Adrian Gasparino grunted noncommittally. He was freezing cold in his dress uniform and trying to ignore the dull ache from his crippled leg.

‘Aren’t you going to come out and watch it?’ Not waiting for an answer, the squaddie was already out of the door and into the crowd, a few hundred strong that lined the main street in Wootton Bassett, the small Wiltshire town through which dead soldiers were driven on their way to the John Radcliffe Hospital in Oxford.

Gasparino looked up at the television screen set high on the wall. One of the news channels was showing live images of the scene outside. Over the pictures, a newsreader’s voice said: ‘
Since they began more than three years ago, there have been 149 repatriation ceremonies for 346 personnel. The rate has been increasing, with 34 ceremonies for 86 soldiers so far this year
.’

A perky blonde presenter was running up and down the street interviewing anyone in a uniform. Everyone used the same words – ‘tragedy’ and ‘bravery’ – the excited chatter only stopping when the hearses finally hove into view. There were six bodies being repatriated today. One of them belonged to Spencer Spanner. Gasparino kept his eyes on the screen as they passed by outside. As the last one disappeared, he finished his beer and went back to the bar.

Fed up with waiting for his wife to make a comment, Carlyle picked up his new spectacles and waved them in front of his face.

‘What do you think?’

‘They make you look different,’ Helen smirked.

‘At least I haven’t lost them yet,’ Carlyle replied, miffed that she couldn’t come up with something more positive to say about his new look.

Reaching across the sofa, Helen took the frames from his hand. Placing them carefully on his face, she gave him an affectionate kiss on the lips. ‘They look good. With the grey hair, you are on the way to looking really quite distinguished.’

‘Getting old,’ Carlyle said sadly.

‘We’re all getting old,’ Helen retorted. ‘No need to get all gloomy about it.’ She gestured at the television. On the screen were pictures of Union Jack-draped coffins being unloaded from an RAF plane. ‘There’s a lot worse could happen to you. Those kids were only in their twenties. It seems like they’re coming home almost every day now.’

‘I know.’

The news report turned to a series of vox pops with people who had turned out to watch the bodies return home. ‘I’m here to pay my respects,’ said one woman, carrying a baby. ‘They’re all heroes.’

Carlyle shook his head. ‘What kind of person takes a young kid to something like that?’

Helen made a face. ‘It has clearly become a bit of a tradition. A day out for people.’

‘I’m sure it makes the poor buggers in the coffins feel a whole lot better,’ said Carlyle grumpily.

A stern-looking chap in uniform appeared on the screen under the title Lieutenant-General Sir Kelvin Frank. ‘There is a greater infatuation with the military,’ he announced, staring into the camera in a rather disconcerting fashion, ‘than at any other stage of recent history. Much of it is pretty mawkish – what you might call recreational grief . . . Diana . . . Graceland-type stuff. It’s just an extension of the
vapid celebrity culture that is corroding our country and doesn’t do anyone any good.’

Carlyle gave a small cheer. ‘At last,’ he said, gesturing at the screen, ‘someone’s talking some bloody sense. Why do we let ourselves wallow in all this sentimentality? You tell ’em, General!’

‘Alice came back with something from school yesterday,’ Helen said. ‘They’re doing a sponsored walk for Help for Heroes and Veterans Aid.’

Carlyle looked at her uncomprehendingly.

‘They’re charities aimed at helping ex-servicemen get back into civilian life.’

‘Isn’t that the government’s job?’ Carlyle asked. Holding up his hand, he corrected himself immediately. ‘Sorry, that was a remarkably stupid thing to say. Good for Alice. How much is she looking to raise?’

‘A minimum of two hundred quid. She’s really up for it.’

‘Good for her,’ Carlyle repeated, quietly wondering how much he would have to stump up himself. ‘What does she think of it all?’

‘Dunno,’ Helen replied. ‘I think she buys into the basic idea that the soldiers are heroes, but doesn’t have much of an understanding – if any at all – about what they’re actually fighting for.’

‘Same as everyone else then,’ Carlyle quipped. ‘I’d better see if I can dig out an old Stranglers CD for her to listen to.’

Leaping off the sofa, he began singing the first verse of ‘No More Heroes’ in his best Jean-Jacques Burnel accent. Raising her eyes to the ceiling, Helen picked up the remote and raised the volume on the TV.

Standing in the mud in the Royal British Legion Wootton Bassett Field of Remembrance, Gasparino shivered. He had eaten nothing for more than twenty-four hours and the beer had gone to his head. Looking around, he saw a smattering of people, small knots of families wandering among the rows of tiny crosses pressed into the
turf. A sharp blast of wind blew across the field. Looking up at the slate-grey sky, he breathed in deeply, trying to clear his head. In his hand, he was holding a six-inch wooden cross, the legend
Sergeant Spencer Spanner
written in blue biro across the tip. Dropping on to his good knee, Gasparino drove the cross into the ground until he was sure it was safely secured. His injured leg flared with pain as he struggled to his feet. Stepping away from the cross, he felt the first rain of the day on his uncovered head.

‘Sorry, mate,’ he said, choked.

Keeping his gaze on the ground, he headed for the road.

The inspector sat in the familiar surroundings of Simpson’s office in Paddington Green police station. Aside from the basic office furniture, the place was empty. The only personal touch – a photo of Simpson’s husband – had been removed years earlier, around the time the latter had been arrested for fraud. Carlyle waited patiently while she signed some papers. After a few moments, she tossed the biro onto the desk and looked up.

There was a pause while she did a double-take.

‘When did you . . . ?’

Carlyle shuffled uncomfortably in his seat. ‘The other day.’

Simpson tried not to grin. ‘They make you look different.’

A familiar sense of being persecuted stabbed Carlyle in the chest. ‘That’s exactly what Helen said.’

Simpson nodded.

‘There’s nothing wrong with my eyes,’ he added, somewhat defensively. ‘Everyone needs specs in the end.’

‘Quite,’ Simpson agreed, gesturing to her own glasses case lying on the desk. ‘Anyway, you know what this is about.’

Carlyle cringed. ‘The Mayor’s website: have you seen the video?’

Simpson shook her head.

‘You must be about the only person in the Met who hasn’t.’ Carlyle grinned. ‘I have a starring role.’

Simpson picked up a mug of steaming peppermint tea from her desk and took a sip. ‘Why couldn’t you just do what you were told?’
Carlyle made to say something but she cut him off. ‘For once, just execute my order. Not create another bloody drama that gets the Mayor’s back up.’

Carlyle’s grin got wider.

‘You bloody enjoy it!’ Simpson slammed her mug down on the desk, spilling tea over her newly signed letters. ‘Shit!’

Carlyle struggled to suppress a laugh.

Simpson could tell there was no point in trying to clean up the mess. The letters would have to be redone. ‘The problem is that you just like making trouble,’ she complained. ‘What on earth was the point of arresting that cameraman?’

Carlyle spread his arms wide in what he hoped was a conciliatory fashion. ‘What was the point of arresting anyone? How many illegal aliens did we actually catch?’

Simpson glared at the inspector. They both knew the answer to that: zero.

Carlyle ploughed on. ‘One stripper arrested for assault – an assault that only happened because we turned up – and thousands of pounds’ worth of police time wasted. And all for what? So we could make some fancy video for the Mayor’s website.’

‘The Mayor—’

‘The Mayor,’ Carlyle said angrily, ‘can go fuck himself. It’s not like he’s going to be in the job for much longer anyway.’

Simpson thought about mentioning Holyrod’s new job with Dino’s company but decided against it. ‘He’ll still be an important man,’ she said lamely.

‘We’ll see,’ Carlyle snorted.

‘What about the woman that assaulted your constable?’

‘PC Lea? She’s an American citizen by the name of Christina O’Brien. I expect that she’ll be deported. Bishop’s dealing with it, unless my new guy turns up, sharpish.’

‘That was the other thing I wanted to talk to you about,’ said Simpson, opening a desk drawer and pulling out a thin file. She handed it to Carlyle, careful to avoid the pool of tea on the table. ‘He starts on Monday. Here are the details.’

‘Thanks.’ Sitting back in his chair, Carlyle flicked through the contents. ‘Umar Sligo,’ he frowned. ‘What kind of a name is that?’

‘Fucking shit!’ Alain Costello threw his PSP at the wall in frustration. ‘
Merde alors!
’

He had been playing the same game for weeks and had to get to a store to buy something new or his head felt like it would explode. No one would be looking for him now. His father Tuco was being a total arsehole. If Tuco had made more of an effort, Alain could have been home by now. Well, fuck him. Grabbing his puffer jacket, he headed for the door.

‘Hey! Where you going?’ Salvatore, the minder Tuco had instructed to look after him, stuck his head out of the kitchen door. In his hand was a ham and cheese sandwich. Frowning, he took a large bite. Alain swore to himself; all the fat fuck ever did was eat.

‘I’m going out.’

‘But . . .’ Salvatore struggled to chew and talk at the same time. ‘Tuco—’

‘Fuck Tuco,’ Alain whined. ‘I need some new games.’

Salvatore shoved the remainder of the sandwich into his gaping maw and wiped his hands on his Kings of Leon T-shirt. ‘Tell me what you want. I’ll go and get them.’

‘I want to go out.’

‘But the police . . .’

‘There are no police,’ Alain scoffed. ‘Everyone thinks I have left the country.’

Salvatore looked doubtful. ‘Hold on,’ he said finally. ‘I’ll come with you.’

Feeling weary, Adrian Gasparino turned into the driveway of number 47 Hobart Street and walked down the side of the house. Placing his rucksack against the wall, he gently pressed down on the handle and pushed open the back door. Stepping into the kitchen, he gazed upon the pile of dirty plates in the sink and breathed in the familiar, stale cooking smells that always filled the tiny space. Closing his eyes he tried to feel something. Over the ticking of the clock on the wall came the sound of children laughing from the garden next door.

The door that led into the living room was ajar. From behind it he heard a noise – a grunt – followed by what sounded like a slap and an indistinct male voice. Gasparino stepped carefully to the door and pushed it open another couple of inches. His eyes moved to the large mirror hanging on the far wall, which gave him a view of the end of the L-shaped room. Biting his lip, he watched Justine, naked, on her hands and knees, her bump almost touching the carpet, move her legs apart for a man he had never seen before. Equally naked, the man slipped his engorged penis between her buttocks and thrust vigorously.