James Craig: Then We Die

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.

FOUR

‘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.

Arriving at his shoulder, Nyc held up a large fabric plaster. ‘Use this.’

‘Thanks.’

His wound now bandaged, Carlyle tossed his jacket onto the chair and pulled off his tie. As he began undoing his shirt, he realized it was splattered with Joe’s blood. He instantly felt woozy and began to sway.

Nyc placed a hand on his elbow. ‘Are you all right?’

‘I’m fine.’ Carlyle took off the ruined shirt and bundled it into a ball, tossing it onto the floor. ‘Bin that for me, will you?’

‘Of course,’ Nyc nodded.

* * *

After putting on the fresh shirt, Carlyle rang home. To his relief, the call went straight to voicemail. After the beep, he gave the briefest summary of what had happened, stressing that he himself was completely okay but explaining that he might not get back to the flat until well into the wee small hours. With that minor but important task achieved, he went back to his whisky.

The more he drank, the more he thought about his responsibility for what had happened. And the more he thought about it, the clearer it became to him that he had fucked up big time.

Fucked up — and maybe got Joe killed.

As Carlyle brooded, the silence grew poisonous.

‘Has someone informed his wife yet?’ Nyc asked eventually.

‘Yes,’ said Carlyle. ‘They’ll be taking her straight to the hospital.’ He had no idea if that was true or not, but there was no way that he was volunteering for the job himself. He knew Anita Szyszkowski well enough, but they had never really established any kind of close relationship. To the inspector’s mind, Anita was always too ready to blame him for Joe’s late nights and missed family gatherings. If she got wind of what had happened here, she’d probably try and eviscerate him with her bare hands.

Above all, however, he didn’t want to have to face the kids. William and Sarah Szyszkowski were only slightly older than Carlyle’s own daughter Alice. The idea of having to tell them that their dad had been shot in the street did his head in. Someone else could take care of that.

After a while, Chief Inspector Chris French, officer in charge of the crime scene, strode through the lobby. He saw the glass in Carlyle’s hand and frowned.

Fuck off, you prick , Carlyle thought. French worked out of West End Central, on Savile Row. Carlyle knew French by sight, but otherwise wasn’t aware of much about him. He couldn’t recall having seen the chief inspector’s name mentioned on the report about the robbery crew, and he certainly hadn’t ever worked with him before. Sitting in the lobby of the Ritz, however, it took him less than ten minutes to take a profound dislike to the guy as French fussed about, wasting time on irrelevant details when he should have been out searching for the gunman and his colleagues.