James Craig: Then We Die

‘John. .’ his mother repeated.

‘Yes?’ Carlyle forced himself to meet his mother’s gaze.

‘Your father and I,’ she said, with only the slightest of tremors evident in her voice, ‘are getting a divorce.’

‘ What? ’

Almost falling off his chair, Carlyle stared at her in absolute astonishment. Tea dribbled down his shirt and on to his lap. A waiter in bow-tie and waistcoat appeared by the table to offer him a napkin. Feeling flustered, he took it and waved the man away.

His mother watched impassively, finishing her sandwich as he mopped himself up.

‘What do you mean,’ he asked finally, dropping the tea-stained napkin on the table, his appetite well and truly gone, ‘you’re getting a divorce?’

She looked back at him sternly. ‘I would have thought, Inspector John Carlyle, that the meaning of what I am saying is perfectly clear.’

‘Yes,’ he said, looking down at his plate. ‘But — why?’

His mother narrowed her eyes and gave him another stare that made Carlyle feel as if he was eight years old. He had a flashback to some time around 1970, sitting in Macari’s Cafe Bar off the Fulham Palace Road with a large glass of milk, reading the Beano and munching on a Tunnock’s Caramel Wafer while his mum puffed away on an Embassy Regal and raced through the Daily Mirror crossword. She had given up both vices not long after. He tried to remember the last time he had seen a Caramel Wafer. Did they even still make them? Would they still taste so good?

Questions, questions — anything to avoid the matter in hand.

After dabbing at the corner of her mouth, his mother put down her napkin and stood up. ‘Excuse me for a moment,’ she said, before hurrying off in the direction of the Ladies. Watching her go, Carlyle pulled his mobile out of his jacket pocket. He was about to call and ask Helen for some advice when the waiter suddenly reappeared.

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he declared officiously, ‘but the use of mobile phones is not allowed in the Palm Court.’

Carlyle felt the panic rising in his chest. ‘But-’

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ the waiter said firmly, standing his ground.

Reluctantly, Carlyle placed the mobile on the table. As he did so, the handset started vibrating, indicating that he had received a message. Waiting for the waiter to turn away, he opened it up.

On my way, pick you up outside the hotel in 15 minutes .

‘Fuck!’ Cursing a little too loudly, given his surroundings, Carlyle glanced at his watch. Surely that wasn’t the time already? He had told his sergeant, Joe Szyszkowski, to come and collect him from the hotel at five o’clock. The pair of them had business to attend to this evening. The inspector was hoping that it would lead to a breakthrough in what had become a troublesome case. There would be arrests, followed by stories in the papers, personal glory and the admiration and respect of their colleagues — the kind of thing that was supposed to get you out of bed in the morning. Carlyle sighed. On the one hand, the call of duty was his Get Out of Jail Free card; on the other, much as he might wish to ignore what his mother had just said, he knew that he would have to deal with it at some stage, and the sooner the better.

Sticking the remains of the French Fancy in his mouth, he made a decision. His domestic dramas would have to wait, at least until tomorrow. Would his mother understand? Like her son, Lorna Gordon was an arch pragmatist, so he decided that she would allow herself to be usurped by The Job.

Washing down the mouthful with the last of his tea, Carlyle picked up the silver teapot and glanced inside. Empty. He looked around for a waiter who could bring them some more hot water. The guy who had stopped him using his mobile phone was hovering beside a table ten feet away, where a couple of men were perusing the menu. After a short discussion, the pair made their choices and the waiter bustled off, walking straight past Carlyle without acknowledging his signal.

The two men looked to be around forty, give or take. One of them said something and the other laughed loudly. It struck the inspector that they looked rather out of place here in the Palm Court. Apart from Carlyle himself, most of the other customers were women, mainly fifteen or twenty years older. The men were dressed like American tourists: chinos and loafers with striped shirts and horribly clashing ties, tweed jackets and wraparound sunglasses. Sunglasses? London hadn’t seen any sun worth talking about for more than six months. Carlyle listened to his brain taking notes. Both men had severe crew cuts which hardly complemented their attire, and both were wearing Bluetooth headsets, which did not sit well with the Palm Court’s no-phones policy.

Picking a cupcake off the stand, Carlyle took a bite and slowly scanned the rest of the room. When he looked back at the duo, he could see they were peering through the arches of the Palm Court, past the Long Gallery beyond, and into the lobby. Following their gaze, he spotted a third man who seemed to be the focus of their interest. This one was dressed more like a proper businessman, in an expensive-looking navy suit, white shirt and red tie. Talking into a mobile, he used his free hand to cover his mouth while keeping his eyes on the revolving doors at the hotel entrance.

Three men on a mission. So where was number four?

Carlyle recalled an operational note that he had read the week before. It concerned a gang — believed to be of four men — who had been targeting the hotel rooms of rich visitors. There had been three incidents over a period of two months, with the last one almost a fortnight ago. The story had been kept out of the papers for fear of scaring away the top-end tourist trade.

Each robbery had been at a different hotel. The Ritz, so far, had not been one of those hit. The group’s MO was the same in each case: follow the target up to his or her room, burst in as they are opening the door, force them to unlock the room safe, then drug them and grab whatever is to hand. Not very subtle, but effective. The crew’s total estimated haul to date was almost half a million pounds in currency and valuables.

It had all been very professionally handled. On the way out, the gang had put Do Not Disturb signs on the door — a nice touch, Carlyle had to concede. In each case, no victim had been able to raise the alarm until several hours after the robbers had left the hotel. The gossip at Carlyle’s police station was that the team from West End Central investigating the case had nothing to go on apart from a couple of security camera images that may or may not have caught the four unknown males thought to be involved.

Trying to appear as casual as possible, Carlyle looked around slowly for the CCTV. From where he was sitting, he could see three cameras fixed to the columns in the Palm Court. There were bound to be more in the lobby, so there would be plenty of images of all three of these guys. Maybe they were getting sloppy. He reached for his phone and, watching out for officious waiters, began surreptitiously typing a text to Joe under the table.

Possible situation here. Wait for me in lobby. Check availability of back-up .

After pressing Send, he looked back towards the lobby in time to see a middle-aged couple, laden with shopping bags covered in designer logos, coming in through the entrance. The businessman type said something further on his mobile, ended the call and fell in behind them. The two men sitting in the Palm Court got up from their table and headed for the lobby. One of them was still holding his napkin, and Carlyle thought he detected something black wrapped inside it. Could it be a handgun? He frowned. As far as he could remember, no weapons had featured in the earlier robberies. Then again , he reminded himself, things change .