James Craig - Then We Die

‘Now, now,’ Carlyle grinned, ‘we could be looking at some genuinely interesting detective work here.’

‘Yeah, if you’re a historian!’

‘I’m sure we can wrap it up quickly,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘Phillips has already said he’s an adult male. She should be able to make a reasonable guess at his age, and hopefully give us a better steer as to when he died. Then you need just take a quick look at any unsolved murders from around then, or people reported missing. If anything interesting comes up, let me know. Otherwise, we can just drop it into the bottomless pit of cases that will remain open forever.’

Carlyle fished a fiver out of his wallet and dropped it on the counter. ‘ Arrivederci , Marcello! See you later.’

An indistinct reply issued from the store room.

He looked again at Roche, who seemed in no hurry to leave. ‘I’ll meet you back at the station. I need to go and see some people first.’

NINE

‘Inspector Carlyle? I’m Adam Hall.’

Carlyle looked up at the fresh-faced young man and scowled. He’d now been sitting in a windowless interview room for almost forty-five minutes, without even the offer of a cup of crap police coffee. West End Central’s hospitality left a lot to be desired. ‘Where’s French?’

‘Chief Inspector French is no longer involved in this investigation,’ Hall said, trying — and failing — to keep the smirk out of his voice.

Bloody hell , Carlyle thought. He didn ’ t last long .

‘I will be conducting your interview,’ Hall explained, taking a seat at the table opposite the inspector.

‘And who are you?’

In a cheap suit and wearing a blue and white checked shirt open at the neck, the little scrote only looked about thirteen. Carlyle couldn’t believe he could be anything higher than a constable, so what the hell was going on here?

The youngster leaned back in his chair, while assessing the situation. ‘This,’ he said finally, sitting back up straight, ‘is all highly confidential.’

Yeah, yeah, whatever . ‘Of course,’ Carlyle replied solemnly.

‘Nothing said in this room can be repeated to anyone — anyone at all — outside.’

Get on with it, you little twat .

‘Of course,’ Carlyle repeated. For emphasis, he nodded and smiled a fake modest smile.

‘Good,’ Hall said slowly. ‘For your information only, I work for MI6. We are now handling this investigation.’

MI6, technically known as SIS, meaning the Secret Intelligence Service, was the UK’s external intelligence agency. It was famous for being the home of James Bond and, more recently, for spending?150 million on its not very secret HQ on the southern bank of the Thames in that no-man’s land called Vauxhall.

Carlyle took a moment to show the boy that he was digesting this bombshell news. ‘I take it,’ he said finally, ‘that this means that we don’t think this was the same gang who were taking down rich folk in their hotel rooms.’

Hall put on his best approximation of a poker face. ‘I am not at liberty to discuss anything relating to the matter.’

Carlyle held up a hand. ‘Fine, fine, I understand.’ He gave Hall a hard stare. ‘Just remember, though, it was my partner who was killed by those cocksuckers. I will not just walk away from this.’

The kid blushed, saying nothing.

‘So do not fuck this up.’

‘Rest assured, Inspector,’ Hall stammered, ‘that will not happen.’

Sorry, Joe , Carlyle thought. It looks like things are moving away from us. But I promise I will do what I can to stop these spook bastards letting you down . ‘Okay,’ he said, nodding towards the tape recorder on the table. ‘Let’s get started.’

Twenty-five minutes after completing his interview with the junior spy, Carlyle emerged from Edgware Road tube station, heading towards Paddington Green police station, a brutalist Sixties cube straight out of the couldn ’ t-give-a-fuck school of architecture that had been fashionable at the time. Ten minutes later, he was sitting in Simpson’s office, waiting politely for her to finish off a phone call. Her desk was bare save for a copy of the British Medical Journal . Carlyle tried to read the contents of the cover page, but it was upside down and the text was too small.

Simpson finished her call and put down the phone. ‘How are you, John?’

‘Fine,’ he replied. ‘A few aches and pains but basically okay.’

She nodded. ‘Good.’

‘I’ve just been to West End Central. .’

‘Oh yes?’

‘. . and MI6 have taken over the investigation into Joe’s death.’

‘Have they indeed.’

Simpson’s smile suggested that she already knew what was going on, and that she was not going to share.

Deeply annoyed, Carlyle went on: ‘That tells me two things.’

‘Does it, Inspector?’ Simpson’s eyes positively sparkled with amusement. ‘And what would they be?’

‘First, this is something political. The guy shot in his hotel room must have been someone important.’

‘Someone dangerous.’

‘Whatever.’

‘And the second point?’

‘The second point is that if our little spook pals are primarily investigating this bloke, then they won’t much care about what happened to Joe.’

‘But the same man was responsible for both deaths, was he not?’

‘Yes.’

‘So the Security Services can kill two birds with one stone, as it were.’

‘Let’s hope so.’

‘I am sure they will do what they can.’

‘Will you keep me informed?’

‘To the extent that I can.’ Simpson’s eyes lost their sparkle. ‘The quid pro quo here is that you leave well alone.’

‘Of course.’

‘This is a dangerous game, John,’ she added firmly, ‘one for the big boys. You have to accept that it is no longer a police matter. That has come down from the top. The very top.’

Carlyle stiffened. ‘That’s what the guy said as well.’

‘What?’ Simpson frowned. This part of their conversation had already gone on far too long.

What the hell , Carlyle thought. I might as well go for the sympathy vote , and he launched into his mini-monologue. ‘When I was on my knees in that hotel room, looking down the barrel of his semi-automatic, waiting for him to pull the trigger,’ he stole a quick glance at Simpson, not wanting to overdo it, ‘he said, “You’re playing with the big boys now”. I still don’t understand why he didn’t pull the trigger.’

Simpson gave him a sceptical look. She knew Carlyle was no delicate flower, but she didn’t want to call his bluff. ‘If you need to see a psychologist. .’

Carlyle dropped his gaze to his lap. ‘No, no.’

‘Okay,’ Simpson said primly, ‘but don’t rule it out. Anyway, that’s not what we really need to talk about.’

Carlyle looked up. ‘Oh?’

‘Charlotte Gondomar.’

Carlyle held up a hand. ‘Don’t applaud, as they say — just throw money.’

‘Now is no time for one of your lame jokes.’ Simpson gave him a stern look. ‘She was found hanged in her prison cell this morning.’

Fucking great . ‘Ah. .’

Simpson’s mobile started ringing. She looked at the number on the screen, and cut it off. ‘So — we have a problem.’

‘We do?’

‘Don’t mess me about, John,’ Simpson hissed. ‘First, we have to explain why we didn’t show proper care and attention to a vulnerable girl in custody. Initial indications are that she died around five a.m. It seems that she wasn’t checked after one a.m.’

‘Someone fucked up.’

‘Too bloody right,’ Simpson snorted. ‘And there will be hell to pay over that. And with hindsight. .’