James Craig: Then We Die

Edwin Nyc cleared his throat. ‘Look, apologies for being so callous, Chief Inspector,’ he said, eyeing Carlyle, ‘but how long will it be until we can re-open the hotel lobby? We have guests using a side entrance but there are still some diners waiting outside, I believe.’

French nodded thoughtfully, like he was being asked to answer a riddle or a complicated maths puzzle. ‘I understand, Mr Nic. .’

It ’ s pronounced ‘ nike ’, you dick, like in the shoe , Carlyle groused to himself as he guzzled some more scotch.

‘. . I will make sure we get things up and running again as quickly as possible. However, I’m sure that you understand the seriousness of the situation.’

‘Of course. Thank you.’ Nyc gave Carlyle a pleading look and stalked off in the direction of the bar.

Carlyle watched the man go, taking the rest of the eighteen-year-old single malt with him. You could at least have left me the bottle , he thought mournfully.

French turned to Carlyle. ‘I need you to go to West End Central to make a formal statement.’

Carlyle drained his glass and stood up rather unsteadily. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘I was going to head over to the hospital first, and then I need to speak to my commanding officer.’

French thought about that for a moment. He clearly wasn’t happy with this plan, but at the same time he knew that he couldn’t object without coming across as a total arse. ‘Who’s your CO?’ he asked finally.

‘Simpson — Commander Carole Simpson.’ Carlyle made a vague gesture in a northwards direction. ‘She’s based up in Paddington.’

‘Don’t know her.’ French yawned. ‘Any good?’

I bloody hope so , thought Carlyle. He would need all of Simpson’s political skills to help pull him out of the shit this time. ‘Yes, not bad.’

‘Okay,’ French sighed. ‘Take your time. It’s clearly going to be a long night.’

Carlyle nodded. ‘Yes, it certainly is.’ His mobile started vibrating in his pocket. Pulling it out, he checked the screen. No number. Hoping that it wasn’t the Commander, he hit the receive button.

‘Hello?’

‘Do you know what time it is?’ Despite the background noise on the other end of the line, the inspector recognized the voice immediately. It certainly wasn’t Carole Simpson. And it certainly wasn’t happy. ‘Where the hell are you?’

Shit . Walking away from French, Carlyle took a deep breath, followed by another. His headache had returned with a vengeance and he wondered if he might be about to puke. He had completely forgotten about the evening’s planned business. Thoughts of arrests, newspaper ink and glory seemed, at best, totally irrelevant now.

‘John?’

‘Piccadilly,’ he said wearily. ‘I’m in Piccadilly.’

‘What the hell are you doing there?’

‘Sorry, Dom,’ he mumbled, trying to keep his voice even. ‘Something came up. Tough day.’

‘I don’t give a monkey’s about that,’ Dominic Silver snapped. ‘This is your window of opportunity here, sunshine. We are good to go. You need to get your arse over here tonto bloody pronto .’

‘But-’

‘No buts — I’ve laid out everything on a plate here for you. Not for the first time, I might add. So get your arse in a cab and get over here. Right now.’

Still holding the phone to his ear, Carlyle stepped out of the lobby and onto the pavement. Right in front of him, a cab pulled up at the kerb, disgorging a couple of hotel guests who were immediately swept up by one of the liveried doormen and shepherded to the side entrance. Grabbing the door before it slammed shut, Carlyle slid onto the back seat of the taxi and barked an address at the driver. ‘Okay,’ he said into the handset. ‘I’m on my way.’

Ending the call, he tossed the phone onto the seat, closed his eyes to stem the tears and rested his head on the cool leather. Blocking out the sounds of the city, he said a silent prayer. It was time to go to the show.

Just how surreal could this day get? All the background noise and bustle gradually faded to the point where he was aware of nothing beyond the fantastically pretty girl standing five feet in front of him, without a scrap of clothing on. Ignoring the swaying inspector, she idly scratched her left breast, just beneath the erect nipple, as she sucked on a cigarette. Blowing smoke into the air, her eyes locked on Carlyle’s. Feeling himself redden, the inspector nervously fingered the plaster over his left eye and tried not to lower his gaze. Making no effort to cover herself, the girl took another drag on her cigarette, her grin effortlessly mutating into a sneer. ‘Rollo!’ she shouted. ‘Pervert alert!. . Rollo!’

A small, fat, bald man of indeterminate age waddled over. Beside him was Dominic Silver. Wearing an expensive-looking navy suit with a black shirt, Silver looked like he owned the place, which, in effect, he did. The fat man, by contrast, looked like an extra from Pirates of the Caribbean , in black leather jeans and a ruffled white shirt that was unbuttoned almost to his waist. All that was missing was a parrot on his shoulder.

‘You finally made it then?’ Silver asked.

‘Yes,’ Carlyle coughed.

‘Good.’ Copper turned drug dealer, turned entrepreneur, Dominic Silver had known the inspector for something like thirty years, give or take. They had a good, if occasionally fractious relationship, which they both knew would survive this latest blip.

‘Charlotte,’ Silver’s sidekick hissed, ‘get dressed! We are starting in ten minutes.’

Rolling her eyes to the ceiling, the girl handed the fat man the cigarette, then turned and flounced off in the direction of a stylist waiting beside a long rail of clothes. Despite everything, Carlyle couldn’t help but be transfixed by the sight of her perfect buttocks as they retreated across the dressing area. He let out a deep, deep sigh.

‘And who are you?’ The fat man broke the angel’s spell by prodding Carlyle in the ribs.

‘He’s my guy,’ Dom said hastily, shooting Carlyle a look that said: be cool, stop embarrassing yourself .

‘Oh, I see.’ If anything, this news made the fat man even less happy about Carlyle’s presence.

‘Rollo Kasabian, fashion designer,’ Silver kept his voice low, trying to play the peacemaker, ‘meet Inspector John Carlyle, policeman.’

Without offering a hand, Kasabian grunted something that could not easily have been translated as Pleased to meet you .

Carlyle didn’t even bother with a response. Kasabian was Dom’s bunny, so Carlyle knew that the man would do what he was damn well told.

Another babe walked by, this one naked only from the waist down. His embarrassment waning, Carlyle smiled at Dom. ‘Are we ready to go?’

Silver looked at Kasabian, who nodded.

‘Good,’ said Silver, slapping Kasabian on the back.

The designer mumbled something about ‘last-minute arrangements’ and sloped off.

Silver took Carlyle by the arm and led him towards the curtain leading to the runway. ‘Let’s go and get our seats.’

Rollo Kasabian’s collection for London Fashion Week was being showcased on the ground floor of an empty office block in Knights-bridge, close to the Royal Albert Hall. The seats surrounding the runway were six rows deep — enough, Carlyle calculated, to accommodate maybe 200 people. As they stepped out from behind the curtain, he was pleased to see that the lighting made it impossible to see the audience from the runway. That would make his job easier when it came to effecting an arrest. Two uniforms were parked in a car outside, ready to take the suspect back to Charing Cross police station. After everything that had happened during the last few hours, Carlyle seriously doubted he would have the energy to conduct an interview this evening.