James Craig: Then We Die

Standing up, he let the men disappear through the intervening arches and counted to three. Then he followed.

‘Sir?’

Carlyle had barely gone two steps when he was stopped by his ever-so-friendly waiter.

‘Is everything all right? Are you finished with your table?’

‘No,’ said Carlyle hurriedly. ‘My mother will be back in a second.’ He pulled a business card out of his pocket and thrust it into the man’s hand. ‘Police,’ he said quietly. ‘Is Edwin around?’

Edwin Nyc was the hotel’s Head of Security. Carlyle had met him a couple of times over the years. Presumably he would have been briefed about those recent robberies, along with his equivalents at the other big hotels.

The man looked at the card and nodded. ‘Yes, I think so.’

‘Good. Get him to meet me by the concierge’s desk in ten minutes.’ He gestured back to his table. ‘And tell my mother I won’t be long.’

‘What’s going on?’ the waiter asked, not sure whether he should feel excited or worried.

‘I don’t know,’ replied Carlyle, striding away.

Making his way out of the Palm Court, Carlyle forced himself to slow down and stick his hands casually in his pockets. Eyes to the floor, he took a left and headed towards the bank of three lifts at the rear of the hotel lobby. As he approached, he heard a bell signal that one had arrived. Looking up, he saw the doors of the middle lift open and the couple with the shopping get in, followed by a large guy wearing jeans and a pink shirt, open at the neck, and a navy blazer with gold buttons. Was this the fourth member of the crew?

The man had his back to Carlyle, who therefore couldn’t get a proper look at him. He peered around for the other three, but they had disappeared. He wondered if he was letting his imagination get the better of him. ‘Bollocks,’ he muttered. ‘In for a penny, in for a pound.’ Jogging forward, he stepped into the lift just before the doors closed, lifting his gaze to the ceiling.

The guy in the blazer pressed the button for the third level and then looked at Carlyle.

‘Which floor?’

Carlyle checked the panel, noting that five was also lit up. He smiled at the man. ‘Five’s fine, thanks.’

The other man nodded, silently. He looked to be in his fifties, balding, overweight, of Middle Eastern appearance. Maybe , the inspector thought, a rich Arab with a taste for losing ridiculous amounts of money in London casinos . Carlyle again wondered about the scenario that he’d been so quick to pull together in his head. This guy just didn’t look like he belonged with the other three.

The lift shuddered into motion and began its slow journey upward. When they reached the third floor, the Arab type got out, leaving Carlyle alone with the shoppers. In the silence, Carlyle eyed the pair’s reflection in the lift doors. The husband was wearing a Dallas Cowboys jacket, so presumably they were American. He thought back to the operations note: in the previous robberies, two of the victims had been Chinese couples, the other a French businessman. All the victims had been super-rich. The couple in the lift looked well off — maybe the guy was a dentist from Texas or something — but not the kind of folk who would have a hundred grand or more in cash lying about in their hotel room.

Sighing, he felt his analysis completely unravelling before his eyes. He shook his head. John bloody Carlyle! All this running around just to get out of having a difficult conversation with your mum!

On the fifth floor, Carlyle stepped out onto the landing. Feeling rather embarrassed, he fiddled with his BlackBerry while he watched the middle-aged couple make it safely to their room.

Waiting for the lift to take him back down to the lobby, he sent Joe another text: False alarm. See you in a minute .

Heading down, the lift stopped again at the third floor. Carlyle stood aside to let a couple of Japanese girls enter. Both of them were dressed like faux punk rockers with spiky hair and purple eyeliner. It ’ s like the bloody United Nations , he thought. Distracted by their giggling, not to mention their short skirts, he didn’t see the man with the tweed jacket and crew cut hovering outside until the doors had almost shut.

‘Shit!’

The girls looked at each other and giggled some more.

Reaching across them, Carlyle hit the button for 2.

The lift slowly trundled away from where he wanted to be.

‘ C ’ mon! C ’ mon! ’

It took maybe twenty seconds for the lift to move down one floor and the doors to open. Jumping out, Carlyle took a left, following the signs for the emergency exit, cursing until he found a small door leading to the stairs.

Bounding up two steps at a time, his heart was racing by the time he reached the third floor. Taking a moment to calm himself, he stepped as casually as he could into the corridor and headed back in the direction of the lifts, adopting the air of a guest having difficulty in locating his room.

When he reached the lifts, the man in the tweed jacket was still standing there, staring aimlessly at a print hanging on the wall. There was no sign of his twin or of the third man, the one in the suit.

As he approached, Carlyle could see that this guy was at least six inches taller — and probably a good 20 kilos heavier — than himself.

What are you going to do now, genius? he wondered, now bitterly regretting his rather premature text to his sergeant.

The man turned to face Carlyle, his expression hidden by the sunglasses. Carlyle nodded politely and made to walk past.

‘Excuse me, sir,’ the man said, ‘do you have the time?’

His English had a slight accent, but Carlyle couldn’t place it. He checked his watch and smiled. ‘Almost exactly five.’

‘Thanks.’ The man gestured towards the print. ‘Nice picture, don’t you think?’

‘Very nice,’ said Carlyle, quickening his pace in order to avoid being caught up in any more chit-chat. ‘Very nice indeed.’

He sensed the man hesitate, before making a decision not to follow. As he turned the corner, the inspector heard the guy say something in a language that certainly wasn’t English. Carlyle continued walking down a long, gloomy, curving corridor, with doors on either side, but empty of any other people. Gritting his teeth, he hoped this didn’t lead to a dead end. Pulling out his mobile, he again called his sergeant. When the call didn’t go through, he studied the screen and was dismayed to realize that he had no signal. ‘Fucking hell!’ he hissed. ‘The middle of London and there’s no bloody signal. How the hell can that be possible?’

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 Cuvee 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.