Ten yards along the corridor, Carlyle came to a room-service tray deposited outside one of the guest rooms. On it stood an empty bottle of Cuvée Dom Perignon 2000. Might be handy, he thought, picking it up by the neck and weighing it in his hand. Looking up again, he spotted the second tweed-jacketed jerk from the Palm Court coming out of a room ahead of him.
Game on!
With one guy in front and one behind, there was no chance of backing down now. Carlyle strode forward, smiling inanely.
Tweed jacket number two was also clearly bigger and heavier than Carlyle himself. Still wearing his sunglasses in the semidarkness, he held up a hand, like a traffic cop directing traffic.
‘Hotel Security.’
Carlyle nodded politely, but said nothing. The man in front of him was wearing surgical rubber gloves, of the kind doctors used. Carlyle felt a wave of relief pass over him, mingling with the adrenalin that was coursing nicely through his veins. This must definitely be the crew that was hitting London hotels. He might be about to get his head kicked in, but at least he wasn’t going to end up looking like a paranoid idiot.
The man frowned when he realized that Carlyle wasn’t backing off. ‘Can I help you, sir?’
Another accent he couldn’t place.
‘No, I’m fine, thank you,’ said Carlyle, moving closer.
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ the man smiled malevolently, ‘but I’m going to have to ask you to return to the lobby.’
‘Uh-huh.’
Carlyle kept coming.
The man nonchalantly moved his feet apart, adopting a lower centre of gravity. ‘We have a small issue here that we need to deal with,’ he said flatly. ‘It is nothing serious and you will be able to access your room very shortly.’
‘I understand,’ Carlyle nodded. ‘Edwin Nyc is on his way up.’
The name of the hotel’s Head of Security garnered no response from behind the sunglasses.
Big surprise
.
Carlyle tightened his grip on the neck of the champagne bottle. For a split second he considered smashing it against the wall and glassing the overgrown shithead in front of him. He discarded the idea immediately. Too messy, and it would raise the stakes too high. No one needed to get seriously hurt here.
Carlyle kept advancing, speeding up slightly to gain the extra momentum. He was almost on top of the bastard now.
‘Sir!’ The man’s voice jumped an octave. He looked past Carlyle, clearly wondering where his back-up was. ‘I have to insist that you go back downstairs. Now!’
‘Like fuck,’ Carlyle grinned. With a skip in his step, he lifted himself a couple of inches off the ground, took the bottle in both hands, and in one smooth arc, smashed it as hard as he could into the guy’s face.
There was a dull thud and the crack of plastic as the sunglasses disintegrated and the man crumpled to the carpet. Surprised that the bottle didn’t break, Carlyle tossed it further down the corridor and moved quickly to the door of the room from which the fellow had recently emerged.
In the comparative gloom, it was only when he pressed the handle that he realized that the lock had been forced. Pushing open the door, he stepped inside.
‘Police!’
He was standing in a small sitting room. It was empty. On first glance, the room hadn’t been tossed and nothing seemed out of place. To his left was a half-open door leading to a bedroom. Behind it he could see signs of movement. Carlyle stepped over and kicked the door open wider.
‘
Police!
’ The shout died in his throat as Carlyle took a moment to process what he was seeing. The Arab guy from the lift was lying face down on the bed, out for the count. His blazer had been tossed on the floor and his right shirt-sleeve rolled up past his elbow. There was a large hypodermic needle sticking out of his arm. Pressing down on the plunger was the ‘businessman’ from the lobby. His red tie loosened, sweat beading on his brow, he too was wearing a pair of surgical gloves. He carefully finished administering the injection and looked up at the inspector.
This guy is more my size
, Carlyle decided, licking his lips. His blood was up now and he had a taste for action. ‘Step away from the bed!’
The man frowned but did not move.
‘I said—’
‘I heard you,’ the man smiled.
What’s he got to smile about?
Carlyle wondered.
Then he heard the sound of a safety-catch being released behind his ear.
Oh
,
shit
.
Everything was happening too fast.
Far too fast.
Out of the corner of his eye he could just make out the muzzle of a semi-automatic with a silencer attached. There was a whiff of body odour and a malicious whisper in his ear: ‘On your fucking knees, copper. Hands behind your head.’
Slowly, Carlyle did as he was told. Lifting his eyes to the ceiling, he thought of Lorna Gordon abandoned downstairs and cursed himself. Maybe there were worse things than discussing your mum’s divorce, after all.
He took a couple of quick slaps to the back of his head; nothing serious. Hands went through his pockets until they found his warrant card.
‘Metropolitan Police,’ announced the voice behind him – one of the tweed jackets, he assumed. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘My colleagues are on the way,’ Carlyle said quickly. It was worth a try.
‘Unlucky for them if they are,’ the voice behind him laughed. ‘Unlucky for you, my friend, either way. You are playing with the big boys now.’
‘What shall we do with this one?’ the businessman asked, pulling the needle out of the Arab’s arm.
Carlyle looked over at the man lying on the bed, his eyes half-closed, his breathing laboured. The guy in the tweed jacket stepped past Carlyle and prodded the body on the bed with the silencer of his semi-automatic. Without his sunglasses, Carlyle could make out the dark rings under his brown eyes. He had a large bruise rapidly developing on the side of his face. Carlyle wished he’d kept hold of the champagne bottle, so that he could at least fight back; try and give him another whack, put him down properly this time.
The gunman gave the body on the bed another prod. There was no response. ‘How long?’
The businessman type dropped the syringe into a small holdall and shrugged. ‘I have given him the full 100 millilitres,’ he said, doing up his tie, ‘so twenty minutes. Maybe twenty-five.’
‘Too long.’ The man with the gun looked at Carlyle and shook his head. ‘Anyway, we don’t have to worry about an autopsy any more. No one’s going to write this off as natural causes.’ He took a pillow and carefully placed it over the comatose man’s head. Then he shot twice into the pillow, sending down feathers flying into the air.
Carlyle winced as a feather landed on his head.
‘Like I said, Officer,’ the gunman said grimly, ‘you’re playing with the big boys now.’ Stepping back from the bed, he raised the pistol and aimed it at Carlyle.
Closing his eyes, Carlyle mumbled something that even he didn’t understand.
‘Are you sure we want to . . . ?’ The businessman’s voice trailed off into nothingness.
There was the click of the safety going back on.
Carlyle opened his eyes, relieved that he hadn’t voided his bowels – so far, at least.
The gunman laughed. Then he stepped closer to the kneeling policeman. ‘Luckily for you,’ he said quietly, ‘the big boys have fucked up more than enough for one day.’
Carlyle’s eyes widened as the gunman stepped forward and smashed the pistol down on his skull.
‘That’s for hitting me with the bottle, copper!’
There was a second blow. And a third. Carlyle swayed on his knees, and then pitched sideways into blackness.
When he came to, it took Carlyle several moments to remember where he was. The man on the bed brought it all back very quickly. The remains of his French Fancy reappeared as he vomited his Palm Court tea on to the carpet. Forcing himself into a sitting position, he put a hand to his right temple where the skin had been broken. He rubbed the blood between his fingers – sticky, but nothing too serious. The stitches could wait.
‘Oh fuck!’ His nose crinkled at a whiff of excrement mingling with the smell of vomit. He put a hand to his crotch, but there was no sign of any accident. A dark stain on the dead man’s jeans confirmed the source of the odour. Carlyle let out a relieved sigh. ‘Thank You, God,’ he said out loud. In the Met, no one could ever recover from getting a reputation for having shat themselves in the line of duty.
Standing up, he felt his headache spreading effortlessly to all parts of his body. Gazing at the destroyed pillow, he didn’t even bother checking the body for a pulse. He peered groggily around the room. The alarm clock on the bedside table said 5.09. Maybe he’d been out cold for only a couple of minutes. His warrant card lay on the carpet by his feet. Picking it up, he placed it back in his pocket and staggered to the door.
The sitting room of the suite was empty. Gingerly, Carlyle stuck his head out of the busted door and looked up and down the corridor. Empty.
Right
,
you bastards
,
let
’
s be having you!
A surge of anger and adrenalin sent him running back towards the lifts.
* * *
The first person he saw as he reached the lobby was his sergeant, Joe Szyszkowski. Ignoring the look of surprise on Joe’s face, Carlyle hissed: ‘Three men, two of them with crew cuts. Wearing tweed jackets. Armed and dangerous. Call for back-up . . .’
Even as the words were coming out, he spotted the same trio casually hailing a taxi on the street outside.
‘There they are! Come on!’
Carlyle rushed across the lobby, searching in vain for Edwin Nyc as he went. He burst through the revolving doors and past a startled doorman, just as a cab pulled up at the kerb.
‘Stop!’ he yelled. ‘Police!’
The three turned to face him with the weary look of executives whose bad day at the office showed no sign of abating.
‘Police!’ Carlyle repeated, waving his warrant card above his head.
The cabbie took one look at what was transpiring and promptly switched his light back on, squeezing in front of a coach and into the middle lane as he went in search of a less troublesome fare. Disgusted, two of the men turned their backs on Carlyle and stepped out into the road to begin crossing the four lanes of slow-moving traffic on Piccadilly. The third man opened his jacket, as if to remind Carlyle that he was carrying a weapon.
The sound of sirens in the distance made Carlyle feel a little better. He just hoped that they were coming to help him. ‘Put the gun on the pavement!’
The man shook his head. ‘Is this how you repay me for saving your life?’ He frowned. ‘Don’t be stupid. I am going to walk away now. If you take one step further, I will shoot you in the head.’ He grinned. ‘Maybe in the balls first.’
The sirens were getting louder.
‘Where are you going to go?’ Carlyle asked. ‘There’s nowhere to hide.’
‘Home.’ The man shrugged. ‘My job is done. Now I’m going home.’
Carlyle felt someone at his shoulder.
‘The cavalry will be here in about one minute.’ His sergeant stepped past him, brandishing a pair of plastic handcuffs.
‘Joe . . .’
‘What the fuck
is
this?’ The man pulled the gun from the waistband of his trousers and shot twice.
Joe Szyszkowski hit the ground before Carlyle had a chance to move.
‘Are you going with him?’ Ashen-faced, Edwin Nyc scanned the lobby. The guests had been evacuated, to be replaced by a growing number of emergency services personnel methodically going about their business. Perched on the arm of a chair, Carlyle watched as Joe was carefully stretchered into the back of the ambulance outside. He knew that he should be out there with his friend and colleague, but an overwhelming sense of uselessness washed over him. He tried to stand up but found that he lacked the energy to move.
‘Where are they taking him?’
‘St Thomas’, I think.’
‘I’ll make my own way over there.’
‘How bad is it?’
‘No idea,’ Carlyle said listlessly. ‘Pretty bad, I suppose.’ A reasonable assumption, given the two bullets lodged in his sergeant’s chest.
In silence, they watched Joe disappear inside the ambulance. The doors closed and the vehicle edged out into the traffic, its siren blaring. After watching it depart, the technicians quickly got back down to business. All around them, life was effortlessly returning to normal. Few people in the city had time to stop and gawp.
Nyc disappeared into the Rivoli Bar, returning almost immediately with a bottle of whisky and two glasses. He handed Carlyle one empty glass and poured him a triple measure. Then he poured an equally large one for himself.
Gesturing for Nyc to hand it over, Carlyle inspected the bottle: Caol Ila, an eighteen-year-old Islay malt. Nice. He studied the label:
Caol Ila (Gaelic for ‘the Sound of Islay’, which separates the island from Jura in one of the most remote and beautiful parts of Scotland’s West Coast) was built in 1846 by Glasgow businessman Hector Henderson. The barley used is still malted locally at Port Ellen and the pure spring water it contains still rises from limestone in nearby Loch nam Ban, then falls to the sea at Caol Ila in a clear crystal stream, just as it always has. Their offspring is a fine-ageing malt reserved in oak casks for up to eighteen years
.
And, best of all, it was 43 per cent proof.
I
’
ll drink to that
, Carlyle thought grimly. Taking a small mouthful, he let the golden liquid soothe his throat if not his soul. Placing the bottle carefully on the floor, he slithered into the armchair. Nyc plonked himself down in the one opposite. Both men drank steadily, in silence, for several minutes.
Still without saying anything, Nyc disappeared for a second time. When he came back, he was carrying a damp hand towel in one hand and a clean white shirt in the other.
He handed Carlyle the towel. ‘Here, tidy yourself up.’
‘Thanks.’ Getting to his feet, Carlyle walked across the lobby, positioning himself in front of a full-length mirror next to the concierge’s desk. Tentatively dabbing at the cut above his eye, he winced.