James Craig - Acts of Violence

‘And what?’

‘Has she ever received-’

‘No, thank God.’ Helen, not wishing to dwell on it either, cut him off. ‘At least, not as far as I know.’ She gestured at the letter on the table. ‘It’s like the drugs issue, just another thing we have to try and keep an eye on.’

‘I suppose,’ said Carlyle glumly, wondering if he would ever get to the point where he could feel like he had this parenting thing even remotely under control.

This time of the morning was far too early for the beautiful people who haunted the Garden Hotel to make an appearance. For a few moments, it seemed as if he was the only person in the entire building.

Tapping the toe of his shoe on the limestone floor, Carlyle contemplated the empty lobby. They’d changed the artwork again, he noted, inspecting the massive canvas that ran almost the whole length of one wall. Paint of all colours had been smeared on with gusto and, to his mind at least, it looked like nothing so much as the contents of an ill child’s nappy. Even Derek Hutton’s picture looks better than that , muttered Carlyle’s inner peasant.

‘Striking, isn’t it?’

Carlyle turned to find a pretty, twenty-something girl at his shoulder. She wore the grey Mao tunic that denoted a member of staff, and her flat shoes meant that he could just about avoid having to look up to her. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a ponytail and she had the fresh-faced look of someone who had just started her shift. Above her left breast was a small badge that said: Deborah Burke, Chief Concierge.

‘What happened to Alex?’ Carlyle was well acquainted with Alexander Miles, who had been Chief Concierge at the hotel for many years. During that time, Alex had benefited on several occasions from the inspector’s ability to overlook a range of indiscretions on the part of both staff and guests. As a result, he still owed Carlyle more than a few favours.

‘He left a couple of months ago,’ the new Chief Concierge smiled. ‘He was headhunted to go and work in a new destination hotel in Battersea.’

What’s a ‘destination hotel’? Carlyle wondered. No matter, if the silly sod had gone south of the river he was unlikely to be of much use to anyone working out of Charing Cross. For Carlyle, the ultimate metropolitan snob, London stopped being London by the time you got to Fulham Broadway. As for Battersea, it might as well be Bournemouth.

‘Did you know Alex?’

The all too appropriate use of the past tense made Carlyle smile. He whipped out his warrant card and held it up for the late Mr Miles’s replacement to see.

The woman did a double take, glancing over her shoulder to check that no one was listening in on their conversation. ‘A policeman?’

‘That’s right, Debbie.’ Carlyle stuffed the ID back into the inside breast pocket of his jacket. ‘I work just round the corner at the Charing Cross station.’

‘It’s Deborah,’ she said stiffly.

‘OK, Deborah. Anyway, don’t worry, I’m just here to meet a couple of guys who happen to be staying in this place. Nothing to do with the hotel.’

‘Good, good.’ She edged further away.

‘But Alex and I had a good working relationship. We should have a chat about that when I’ve got a bit more time.’

The young woman smiled nervously, once again looking over her shoulder, this time for someone to come to her aid. ‘That would be great, thanks.’

‘Fine, I’ll see you later then.’ Not wishing to cause Deborah any more discomfort, he strode off in the direction of the reception desk to try and track down his two Germans.

* * *

Five minutes and four attempted phone calls later, he was none the wiser as to the whereabouts of Sebastian Gregori and Werner Kortmann. Neither man was answering the phone in his room. Their mobiles were going to voicemail. Gregori had not responded to the email Carlyle had sent earlier. The inspector looked at his watch. He had been late arriving and it was now more than forty-five minutes past the time they had agreed to meet. ‘If they’ve gone to see Barbara Hutton without me,’ Carlyle mumbled under his breath, ‘I’ll . . .’

You’ll what? said a voice inside his head. Why do you care what that pair get up to? This is not your problem. Leave it alone.

‘Good advice,’ Carlyle agreed, staring at the ground as if he was conversing with his shoes. ‘But what should I do now?’ Looking up, he caught sight of Deborah Burke watching him from behind her desk in the corner of the lobby. Not wishing to waste all of his morning talking to himself, he gave her a brisk wave and headed towards the exit.

‘Hey, Inspector!’

Carlyle turned and smiled. ‘Hey. How are you?’

Sonia Coverdale danced across the limestone floor of the hotel, wearing a flowery dress.

‘I hear I owe you an apology.’

‘Me?’ Carlyle frowned.

‘Yeah. I heard you had to deal with the guy who was demanding his money back.’

‘Ah, yes. The unhappy Mr Brian Yates.’

‘I never knew his name,’ she shrugged. ‘But what a nerve.’

‘It was a strange one,’ Carlyle agreed. Standing in front of him, the girl looked tanned and healthy. To his eyes at least, she was very attractive too.

She gave him a cheeky grin. ‘Did you nick him?’

‘Nah. I just sent him on his way with a flea in his ear.’

‘Shame.’

‘I don’t think he’ll do it again.’

‘That’s not much good to me,’ Sonia said, her face turning serious. ‘Word gets around.’

Carlyle gestured in the direction of the rooms upstairs. ‘It’s not like business has dried up completely.’

‘No,’ she conceded, ‘but I’ve got my reputation to consider.’

‘Well, it was the best I could do, under the circumstances.’

‘I know, and I’m very grateful.’ The smile returned and she slipped her arm through his and led him towards the door. ‘And, to show my appreciation, I’ve got something for you in return.’

Carlyle felt himself stiffen. He glanced nervously towards the concierge’s desk but Deborah Burke had disappeared.

‘Don’t worry,’ Sonia chuckled, pulling him closer, ‘it’s not that.’

‘What is it, then?’ Carlyle asked, relieved and disappointed at the same time.

‘In a minute.’ Reaching the revolving door, she gently pushed him in front. ‘First, I need some breakfast. It was a long night.’

He watched the last piece of toast disappear into Sonia’s mouth and wondered if he could have managed something more than a cup of tea. They were sitting in a café near Seven Dials. It was the kind of place whose name you could never remember, even when you were in it; not really a tourist trap, but not a hangout for the locals either.

‘Long night?’

‘Yeah,’ the girl grinned. ‘The pair of them kept me at it till almost five o’clock.’ She took a slurp of her tea. ‘That’s the problem with all this Viagra and stuff; people want to feel they’re getting their money’s worth.’

Carlyle’s eyes narrowed. ‘Two guys? They weren’t German, were they?’

‘Nope. Americans. Why do you ask?’

‘Doesn’t matter.’

‘Rich college kids.’ She made a face. ‘I much prefer older guys, like you.’

‘Thanks a lot.’

‘Apart from that wanker who made the complaint, obviously.’

‘Yates,’ Carlyle reminded her.

‘Whatever. The older blokes usually just hand me the cash there and then. Ten minutes of slobbering and it’s over and done with.’ She appraised the inspector coolly. ‘I reckon six or seven for you. Eight max.’

‘Good to know,’ said Carlyle, less than pleased with her assessment, even though he knew it was somewhat on the generous side.