Shoot to Kill (19 page)

At the end of the street, Carlyle crossed the two-lane road and went and sat on a grubby red plastic bench in a bus shelter that offered him a clear view down the length of Fortune Street. Arms folded, he watched as the snatch party of half a dozen uniformed officers smashed down a door halfway down the street, about 150 yards from where he was sitting. Carlyle saw an old woman, tartan shopping bag in hand, shuffling along the far side of the street, oblivious to what was going on around her. Otherwise, the place was deserted. Three buses trundled down the road in convoy, not bothering to stop. By the time they had passed, the police had disappeared inside, leaving a lone constable to stand duty outside. Carlyle heard a couple of quiet thuds and some indistinguishable voices, which quickly disappeared beneath the relentless hum of the traffic.

Another bus passed. Carlyle watched as the scruffy figure of a young man slipped out of the front door of the house at the end of
the street, nearest to the bus stop. Head bowed, he crossed the road while still playing on his games console. Stepping into the bus shelter, he looked up at the indicator board, which said the next bus was due in one minute.

Bloody good service here
, Carlyle thought, as he watched the single-decker lumber into view. Standing on the kerb, he fished his Oyster Card out of his pocket. Slipping his computer game in his pocket, the other passenger reached out and signalled to the driver to stop. The bus came to a halt and Carlyle listened to the familiar hiss of pressurized air as the doors opened. Stepping behind the man, he gripped the back of his neck and smashed his face into the side of the bus. Looking up, he caught the gaze of a middle-aged black woman who quickly glanced away, obviously not wanting to get involved. When Carlyle realized that the dazed man wasn’t going down, he grabbed the back of his jacket and hoisted him backwards towards the plastic bench. Taking his cue, the bus driver quickly closed the doors and moved off.

Carlyle’s target tried to wriggle free. As he did so, the games console fell out of his pocket and onto the pavement.

‘
Fils du pute!
’

Ignoring his attacker, the man reached down to pick it up, allowing Carlyle to give him a swift, gratuitous kick in the ribs. With a groan, the man went down on one knee. Pulling his hands behind his back, Carlyle clipped on a pair of handcuffs, relieving him of his console as he did so. ‘Alain Costello,’ he said in his most official-sounding voice, ‘you are under arrest.’

Struggling upright, Costello spat against the Perspex of the bus shelter. With a mixture of annoyance and despair, he watched Carlyle place the console into his pocket. ‘Give me back my PSP,’ he whined.

‘Shut the fuck up,’ Carlyle snorted. Resisting the temptation to drop the bloody thing down a drain, he took Costello by the arm and frog-marched him back across the street and into the waiting arms of SO15.

Sandy Carroll chucked her handbag towards the chair in the corner of the room and watched, mortified, as it hit the arm and fell onto the floor, emptying half its contents onto the carpet. Grinning, Gavin Swann bent down and picked up a packet of Durex Extra Safe.

‘I see you’ve come prepared this time!’

Sandy blushed. ‘Where’s Kelly?’

Swann made a face. ‘Dunno.’ Undoing the white towel around his waist, he tossed it on the bed, inviting her to appreciate his nakedness.

Sandy felt a flutter of concern in her stomach. Kelly was supposed to be bringing the recording device that Frank Maxwell’s PA had set them up with. ‘I thought you wanted another threesome,’ she said, keeping her gaze at eye-level.

Swann’s grin grew even wider. ‘We do.’ He gestured towards the open bathroom door and Sandy realized for the first time that the shower was running.

‘Who’s in the . . . ?’

Before she could finish the question, the water stopped. Through the door appeared a massive-looking guy, easily six five, drying his hair in a bath towel. This time, Sandy could not keep her gaze from heading south, past the guy’s well defined abs towards a piece of equipment that, on first glance, was easily twice the size of Swann’s.

‘I don’t—’

‘This is Paul, our reserve goalie. Big boy, isn’t he?’

Looking pleased with himself, Paul dropped his towel back onto the carpet, saying nothing.

Mesmerized and horrified in equal measure, Sandy watched as he started getting bigger.

‘He’s a shit goalie,’ Swann joked, ‘but he can screw for England.’

‘Fuck off,’ Paul laughed.

‘I wanna go,’ Sandy sobbed.

‘Strip!’ Swann commanded, pushing her onto the bed.

‘No!’ Sandy screamed. Bouncing back off the mattress, she got to her feet and made a grab for her bag. Dropping on one knee,
she tried to scoop as much of the contents back inside as possible. Standing upright, Swann clasped her hair from behind, yanking her towards him. His hot breath on her cheek smelled of a mixture of beer and cheese and onion crisps. ‘You bitches were going to sell me out to the papers.’

‘No,’ Sandy snivelled unconvincingly. Turning her head, she could see his face turning puce with rage, beads of sweat forming on his brow. Behind him, the goalie laughed nervously.

‘Do you think I am stupid?’ Swann roared, pulling her head back as far as it would go.

Sandy shook her head. Her eyes blurred with tears.

‘Do you know how much I pay Frank every bloody year to keep me
out
of the papers? Do you think he’s going to give all that up for a few extra quid?’

‘Please . . .’ The laughing behind her had been replaced by a series of animal grunts and Sandy was horrified when an arc of semen flew past her right shoulder and splattered across the LCD screen in front of her, hitting the Sky Sports News weather girl smack in the face.

Releasing her hair, Swann almost fell over laughing. Blushing, Paul picked up the towel at his feet and wiped himself down.

Masturbating with one hand, Swann smiled maliciously at Sandy. ‘He’s just making sure he doesn’t finish too quickly . . . when it comes to the real thing.’

Regaining some of her composure, Sandy hoisted the bag over her shoulder and stepped towards Swann. Placing a hand on his chest, she pushed him firmly out of the way and headed for the door. ‘You are a pair of sick bastards,’ she shouted, hoping someone outside would hear her distress. ‘Fucking perverts. You should fuck each other. I’m going.’

‘I don’t think so,’ Swann growled.

Expecting him to grab her hair once again, Sandy flinched. But this time, he clutched her by the shoulder and spun her round, gesturing at his now fully erect penis. ‘Suck me off,’ he commanded.

Sandy started crying again. Massive, ripe tears rolled down her cheeks. The kind of tears she hadn’t cried since she was eight and
Santa failed to bring her the right kind of Barbie for Christmas. ‘Piss off!’ she cried.

Placing a meaty hand on the top of her head, Swann tried to push her down towards his groin. When she resisted, he took a step back, unleashing a vicious right upper cut that caught her flush under the chin, sending her collapsing to the floor.

Letting go of Costello’s collar, Carlyle pushed him in the direction of the ashen-faced Roche. ‘You looking for this guy?’

Roche raised her eyes to the darkening heavens but said nothing. Standing next to the sergeant, a po-faced woman made a show of looking Carlyle up and down.

‘Who are you?’ she asked snootily.

‘This is Inspector Carlyle,’ said Roche, snapping out of her torpor as she stepped between them. She gestured at her boss. ‘Inspector, this is Chief Inspector Cass Wadham.’

Carlyle gave a curt nod. He already knew that Roche was right. Wadham was another paper-pushing copper destined to get up his nose; someone best left well alone.

‘How did the prisoner get those marks on his face?’ Wadham asked brusquely as Roche, taking possession of Costello, levered him into the back of a police car parked at the kerb.

‘He hit me,’ the Frenchman whined as he fell onto the back seat. ‘And he stole my PSP.’

Good point
, Carlyle thought. Pulling the console out of his pocket, he threw it underarm to Roche. Fumbling the catch, she watched in dismay as it fell into the gutter.

‘Hey!’ Costello protested as Roche bent down to retrieve it.

It would be a shame if it happened to get broken, Carlyle mused.

‘I was asking . . .’ Wadham interjected.

Carlyle shot her a sharp look. ‘Just be grateful I recovered your man for you.’ He gestured towards the car. ‘Your track record when it comes to trying to arrest this guy is on the bad side of appalling.’

Making a sound like a deflating beach ball, Wadham stepped forward. For a moment, Carlyle thought she was going to give him a
slap. Then, thinking better of it, she turned on her heel and stalked off down the street.

Carlyle watched the exaggerated swing of her hips.

Roche followed his gaze. ‘Are you checking out my boss’s arse?’

‘No way,’ Carlyle frowned.

Laughing, Roche slammed the door shut on Costello. ‘I told you that you wouldn’t like her.’

‘And you were right.’ Carlyle thrust his fists into his pockets. ‘How did you manage to lose the scumbag this time?’

Roche sighed. ‘Through the attic. He scuttled up there when he heard us coming in, and was able to get all the way along to the end of the row. It was just as well you were waiting for him.’

‘I was waiting for a bus,’ Carlyle quipped. ‘They seem to have a very good service round these parts.’

Roche stared at him uncomprehendingly.

‘Look – just don’t lose him again, eh?’ Carlyle told her.

‘I’ll try not to.’ Roche’s gaze fell to the pavement. ‘Thanks.’

‘No problem.’ Carlyle looked at his watch. ‘I need to get going.’

‘How are things back at Charing Cross?’ Roche asked quietly.

‘Fine.’

‘Have you replaced me yet?’

Carlyle gave her his cheesiest grin. ‘You’re irreplaceable.’

She lifted her eyes to meet his gaze. ‘I might want to come back.’

You made your bed
. . . ‘They’ve given me someone.’

‘Any good?’

‘Too early to tell.’

‘Well,’ she said, ‘keep me posted.’

‘Of course.’ Carlyle was already heading back down the street. ‘See you later.’

Gazing vacantly out of the window, Carlyle sat on the 243 bus trundling back towards Central London, enjoying the luxury of an empty mind. His pleasant journey came to an end halfway down Clerkenwell Road when his mobile sprang into life. He looked at the screen.
Alex Miles
. Miles was the chief concierge at the Garden Hotel, round the corner from the police station. The inspector hesitated for a moment before answering.

‘Alex,’ he said tiredly. ‘How are you?’

‘Inspector?’

‘Yeah. It’s Carlyle here. What can I do for you?’

There was a long pause on the other end of the line.

Must be bad
, Carlyle thought.

Finally, Miles cleared his throat. ‘Well . . .’

Distracted by a pretty girl walking by, Carlyle tuned out of the conversation.

‘Inspector?’

‘Yes?’

‘Were you listening to what I said?’ Miles huffed.

‘Yes, yes,’ Carlyle snapped. ‘Just sit tight. I’ll have some uniforms there in five minutes. Do nothing until I get there.’

Ending the call, he quickly dialled the station and told Angie Middleton to have a team meet him at the hotel.

‘Shall we go up?’ Carlyle faced Alex Miles across the concierge’s table, a mahogany Regency writing desk, largely hidden behind an
oversized sofa in the left-hand corner of the hotel lobby. They had been joined by a bored-looking uniform, PC Tim Burgess. Burgess had been a constable for the best part of a decade now and Carlyle knew that, even if he stayed in the Met for another thirty years, a constable he would remain. Useless was not the word.

As Miles headed for the lifts, Carlyle nodded at his colleague. ‘Stay here. I’ll give you a shout if you need to come up.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Burgess glumly.

Upstairs, he met Susan Phillips coming the other way. Working out of Holborn police station, Phillips had been a staff pathologist with the Met for more than twenty years now, and she and Carlyle had worked together many times.

‘John!’ she smiled, giving him a peck on the cheek.

‘Susan,’ he smiled in return, ‘you got here quick.’

‘Too quickly,’ Phillips told him. ‘I left some stuff in the car and need to nip back downstairs.’ She gestured over her shoulder. ‘But my colleague is in there. You can take a look.’

‘What happened?’

Phillips glanced at Miles, who bowed his head and retreated a respectful distance.

‘Simply speaking,’ Phillips whispered, ‘someone punched her lights out.’ She added: ‘Is it true the room was booked to Gavin Swann?’

Carlyle sighed. ‘So I’m told.’

Phillips shook her head. ‘What a bloody mess.’ She patted Carlyle on the shoulder. ‘Good luck.’

‘Thanks,’ said Carlyle, heading unhappily towards the door.

Less than twenty minutes later, Alex Miles stuck his head round the door of the room. He looked stressed. ‘Inspector! There are half-a-dozen journalists downstairs in the lobby already.’ He made it sound like this was somehow the inspector’s fault.