James Craig - Acts of Violence

‘And you get what you pay for.’ Like all frontline officers, Carlyle was aware of their increasing reliance on the financial support of private companies. The Force took support in the form of everything from concert tickets and football shirts, to high-end SUVs for use by Special Branch and Royal Protection Officers. Cash donations were funnelled into specialist investigation units. It was the kind of creeping privatization that had been eating away at all manner of public services for years and it created a rent-a-cop image that was, at best, unhelpful.

‘Yes, you do,’ Simpson agreed. ‘I don’t like it any more than you do, but that doesn’t do anything to change the facts of the situation.’

‘Which are-’

‘Which are,’ she said shrilly, ‘that we have been instructed to investigate the Hutton matter properly.’

What’s all this ‘we’ business all of a sudden, Carlyle wondered grumpily. I’m the one left holding the baby.

‘Do you understand? I don’t want to find another memo about you on my desk in the next few days,’ she paused, as if to catch her breath, ‘or ever for that matter.’

‘Fat chance of that,’ Carlyle said ruefully. They both knew that he could rarely manage more than six months between complaints.

‘Well, quite. Let’s aim for a realistic target then, shall we? Just mind your Ps and Qs for the next day or so, while you help facilitate Mr Kortmann’s query.’

‘During which time I will, of course, be paying due care and attention to the rights of Mrs Hutton.’

‘Yes, yes. Of course.’ Simpson was interrupted by the sounds of an argument erupting in the street.

‘Sounds like you might have to make an arrest, boss,’ Carlyle quipped.

‘Don’t think I wouldn’t,’ Simpson shot back, ‘if the situation demanded it.’

Happily for the Commander, however, the dispute died as quickly as it had begun, both parties heading on their way. She returned her attention to the vexatious inspector. ‘How good is the evidence against Hutton, by the way?’

Carlyle stared morosely at the file on his desk. ‘I dunno. Haven’t had a chance to look at it yet.’

‘Very well, but keep me posted.’

‘Will do.’

‘Good. Thank you.’

Maybe I’ll get Umar to take a look at it. Glancing across the room, Carlyle watched his sergeant still surfing YouTube and wondered if he might not just dump the whole case on to the lazy bugger’s lap. At the very least, he could get Umar to do a quick Google search, check if Baader Meinhof had its own online TV channel or whatever.

‘Look, John,’ mistaking his silence for acquiescence, Simpson adopted a more conciliatory tone, ‘I know this is a bit of a hospital pass but we’ve just got to get on with it.’

There was that ‘ we ’ again, getting on his nerves.

‘I don’t like it any more than you do,’ Simpson repeated.

‘No.’ Normally, Carlyle would give his boss the benefit of the doubt, but today he wasn’t in the mood.

‘But just remember, if this woman does turn out to be Tosches, she’s wanted for some very serious crimes.’

There was more shouting in the street. From his end, it was impossible for Carlyle to make out if it was the same dispute being revisited.

‘Christ,’ Simpson groaned, ‘I’m never going to get any bloody lunch at this rate. Look, one final thing – I managed to dig out some information that you can share with Naomi Taylor.’

‘Great,’ said Carlyle, cheered that Simpson had at least managed to make good on that particular promise.

‘The body should be released to the family tomorrow.’

There was a pause while Carlyle waited for her to continue. The commotion in the background had dissipated again, to be replaced by the generic hum that rose from a thousand city streets.

‘It’s not a hundred per cent,’ Simpson added, ‘but that is the hope . . . at this stage.’

‘Is that it?’ Carlyle tried to sound disappointed and incredulous at the same time. ‘I think Mrs Taylor was looking for a bit more info, like who killed her husband? And is his head still in any way attached to his body?’

‘It will be a closed casket,’ Simpson responded, ‘under the strict instructions of the undertaker. It is a matter for his discretion.’

‘Jeez. He must be a right old mess then.’

‘Apparently so. But that is not something you want to have to get into with the widow.’

‘No.’

‘Leave it to the liaison officer.’

‘Sure. So who killed him then?’

There was a long pause, filled by the sound of traffic.

‘Commander?’

‘All I can say is that it appears to be really quite complicated.’

It’s always complicated , Carlyle observed, when you don’t want to explain it. ‘So what am I supposed to tell Naomi Taylor?’

‘Just tell her that we’re doing all we can,’ Simpson said irritably. ‘Didn’t you go on the Emotional Outreach Training Module that was run last year?’

‘No,’ Carlyle scoffed. ‘Of course not.’

‘Then you’ll have to damn well work it out for yourself, won’t you.’ Simpson ended the call and stalked off in search of her lunch.

Placing the receiver on the cradle, Carlyle got to his feet. Sensing movement, Umar looked round hopefully. ‘Time for lunch?’

Carlyle smiled. ‘Slight change of plan.’ He gestured towards the file on his desk. ‘Take a look at that lot and see what you think. It’s about a woman called Sylvia Tosches. See what you can find out about her online as well.’ Umar started to protest, but Carlyle kept going. ‘And see if you can dig up anything on a woman called Barbara Hutton. Her address is in the file. I’ll be back in an hour or so.’

‘But I’m starving,’ Umar spluttered.

‘I’ll bring you a sandwich,’ Carlyle promised. ‘I won’t be long. It’ll do you good to have some work to do for a change.’

Sipping from a glass of Evian, Wang Lei paced around the room in ever-decreasing circles until she felt dizzy. She had spent the last hour trying to clear her head and decide how best to handle the situation. To her immense frustration, however, no plan presented itself. As a lawyer, improvisation was not one of her strong points. Coming to a halt in the middle of the floor, she let her head flop to one side in a half-hearted attempt to clear the pressure that was steadily building at the top of her spine. As it became clear that wasn’t going to work, she spun around, projecting her ill temper onto her host.

‘What is the interest of the MSS in all of this?’ she demanded, in a staccato Cantonese that threatened to blow the top off her skull. ‘What are you doing here?’

Standing by the window, Xue Xi looked on impassively. Years of training had taught her not to respond to this kind of desperate aggression.

‘You are from the Ministry, aren’t you?’ Sitting in an overstuffed armchair in the corner, Ren Jiong didn’t look up from his Wii console. The boy had been playing a soccer game for almost four hours straight; it was an excellent way of keeping him quiet.

The opium of the masses .

Xue smiled to herself, which only served to enrage Wang further.

‘What is so funny?’ she thundered. ‘You have no right to keep us here. Your actions are completely illegal.’

Illegal? The mission of the Ministry of State Security, of which I am an important member, is to control the people, in order to maintain the rule of the Party. Legality doesn’t come into it.

‘I know the Deputy Under-Secretary responsible for the MSS,’ Wang continued. ‘He is a close personal friend.’

I very much doubt that, not now. After your little foreign adventure, I’d be surprised if you have any friends at all back in Beijing.