James Craig - Acts of Violence

‘The younger guys though, they’re popping the blue pills and trying to go all night. It’s an abuse of the fair usage policy.’

‘The what?’

‘Fair usage. Like with your internet company. You use too much and they cut you off. Happens to Darren all the time. Mind you, the silly sod spends all day downloading all the illegal crap he can lay his hands on.’

Carlyle wondered who Darren was, but wasn’t curious enough to ask.

‘Anyway, I’ve complained to the agency about it, but they don’t want to know.’

‘I suppose not.’

‘At the very least, we should be thinking about changing our pricing structure, to take account of that kind of thing.’

Christ, when did you do an MBA? ‘I don’t suppose Royal Escorts has given much thought to changing its business model,’ Carlyle observed drily, ‘given that they’re operating in the oldest profession of them all.’

‘No,’ Sonia nodded, ‘but you would have thought Harry would have been prepared to at least think about it. After all, it’s all about him making more money.’

Carlyle raised his eyes to the heavens. Harry Cummins, the cheery public schoolboy owner of Royal Escorts, had more than enough money already. For Harry, being a pimp was more about a lifestyle choice than putting bread on the table. ‘How long has he been out of jail now?’

‘I dunno,’ Sonia shrugged, ‘A couple of years, maybe?’

Carlyle tutted. ‘I don’t know how he gets away with it.’ Even when sending him down, the judge had commented favourably on Harry’s ‘remarkable’ and ‘enlightened’ business, which paid Corporation Tax, National Insurance, VAT and council tax, as well as refusing to have anything to do with trafficked women. ‘The whole operation had been kept as legitimate as a criminal enterprise could have been,’ the beak had concluded, before passing a ridiculously lenient sentence. So far, it had been Harry’s only spell inside.

‘He’s OK, really,’ Sonia claimed.

‘If you say so.’ The inspector took a sip of his tea and signalled to the waitress behind the counter for the bill. ‘Breakfast is on me.’

‘Thanks.’

‘So,’ he continued, finally getting down to business, ‘you said you had something for me?’

‘Yes.’ Finishing her tea, Sonia placed the cup back on the saucer. ‘I hear you were asking about Marvin Taylor?’

Jeez, Carlyle thought, how is it that everyone always knows my business? ‘How did you hear that?’

‘I have my sources,’ she said cheekily, ‘just like you.’

Another thought popped into his head. Instead of batting it away, he asked: ‘Did you know him?’

‘In passing. I’d seen him around a few times.’

Thank God for that. The last thing he needed were skeletons to start falling out of cupboards.

Recognizing the look of relief on his face, Sonia waved an index finger at him. ‘No, no, you dirty-minded sod, he wasn’t a punter. Although, if you want, I could give you a list of cops round here who are. It’d be quite a long list too.’

‘No, thanks.’ He thought of the havoc that such information could wreak and shuddered. ‘Let’s just get back to Marvin, shall we?’

‘It wasn’t so much about Marvin as that place in Chelsea he was guarding.’

‘What about it?’

‘I’ve been there a lot. One of my best clients lives there, on the top floor.’

Carlyle’s eyes narrowed. ‘Has anyone spoken to you about this?’

‘No, why would they? I’ve haven’t been there for over a month. The place is always deserted anyway; you never see another soul there.’

‘What about Harry?’

‘What about him?’

‘Presumably he would know that you went there.’

‘Yeah, but he hasn’t mentioned it. Probably hasn’t made the connection. Harry isn’t the kind of guy who spends a lot of time following the news.’

‘Smart bloke. So, who is the client?’

‘He was a businessman. About fifty, I’d say.’ Sonia let out a chuckle. ‘He was a seven-minute man . . . like you.’ Reaching into her bag, she rummaged around for a few moments, finally pulling out a business card and placing it on the table in front of Carlyle. ‘ Voilà .’

Picking up the card, Carlyle squinted at the script.

‘You need glasses,’ Sonia observed.

‘I’ve got glasses,’ Carlyle told her ‘but I don’t really need them for reading. I tried varifocals, but they didn’t work for me.’ He squinted harder. Tallow Business Services, Michael Nicholson Managing Director . There was a mobile number and an email address. He looked at Sonia. ‘Tallow?’

‘It’s a kind of Chinese tree,’ she explained. ‘The guy did a lot of business in China, apparently.’

China. He thought back to his conversation with Roche and the mysterious call about the ‘ninjas’. It vaguely felt like he could be on to something, even though he didn’t really want to be. Holding up the card, he waved it at Sonia. ‘Can I keep this?’

‘Sure.’

‘And if Nicholson gives you a call, can you let me know?’

‘Yeah, but I wouldn’t hold your breath. He goes off on his business trips and I might not see him for months.’

The waitress appeared with the bill and Carlyle dropped a tenner and some change on the table. ‘I’ve got to get going.’

‘OK,’ Sonia smiled. ‘I’m in no rush.’

‘Thanks for the info.’ He got to his feet. ‘And I hope you don’t have too many hassles with the punters.’

The smile vanished. ‘You know what it’s like, Inspector. You never know what you’re gonna get when you walk through that door.’

The first thing Carlyle noticed when he walked into the room was the urn, a small metallic pot squatting on the mantelpiece. At first glance, he imagined that it was glowing slightly, as if it was radioactive. Distracted by its malevolent presence, it took the inspector a couple of moments to acknowledge the woman’s presence. Perched on the sofa, Naomi Taylor seemed to have shrunk since their last meeting.

Rocking backwards and forwards, she blew her nose into a handkerchief as he sat down in an armchair by the fireplace. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered.

‘Don’t worry.’ Embarrassed, Carlyle pointed towards the pot. ‘What happened?’

Taylor’s face crumpled. ‘They cremated him,’ she sobbed.

‘Yes.’

‘We went to collect the body and they gave me . . . that .’

Carlyle took a deep breath. ‘Did you give your consent for the cremation to take place?’

‘No. I wasn’t even there when they did it.’ She looked up. ‘I was just given the ashes. I don’t even know that it’s him.’

‘I’m sure that-’

‘Why would they cremate him,’ she wailed, ‘without my permission? Why would they do that?’

Because they’re berks, Carlyle thought wearily. ‘What did they say?’

She mumbled something that sounded like ‘bureaucratic error’.

Carlyle scratched the back of his head. There was nothing useful he could tell the poor woman. ‘You could sue,’ he said finally.

‘No.’ Trying to compose herself, she sat back on the sofa and wiped her eyes. In a pair of jeans and a Breaking Bad ‘I am the one who knocks’ T-shirt, she looked about sixteen, even though he knew that she must be pushing forty-five. ‘They made me sign something before I could take the ashes away. My lawyer says it was a declaration that I am happy with what was done, even though I’m not, obviously.’

It looked like she was going to start sobbing again, but she blinked back the tears and pulled her knees up under her chin. Her feet were bare and the inspector noticed that her toenails were painted different colours. He looked away, focusing his attention on the far wall, which was dominated by a large photographic print of the New York City skyline at night. After some ill-tempered debate inside his head, the inspector decided that it was not hanging straight.