James Craig: Then We Die

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.