James Craig - Acts of Violence

‘Anyway,’ Taylor continued, ‘I don’t want money.’

‘No.’

‘I want to know who killed Marvin. And why.’

Money would be easier, Carlyle thought glumly. He reluctantly met her expectant gaze. ‘Well, I have spoken to some people who are working on the investigation and there does not seem to be a lot for them to go on at the moment.’

She waited patiently for him to say more.

The inspector rubbed a hand over his face. Now was the time for him to get up, make his apologies and scarper. Only he couldn’t. On the one hand, the decapitation of Marvin Taylor was nothing to do with him. Indeed, the irony was that it probably wasn’t much to do with Marvin himself either. On the other hand, the inspector felt unable to just ignore it and walk away. Sometimes cases chose you, rather than the other way round.

‘I was, er, wondering what you might be able to tell me about Marvin’s business. In particular, whether you knew anything about the people he was working for on the night that he was killed.’

‘The other people asked me about that.’

The other people. SO15. ‘Yes.’

‘But I couldn’t tell them anything much. Marvin and I never really talked about his work.’

‘No.’

‘He was big on client confidentiality.’

‘Of course.’

She pointed towards the ceiling. ‘We use the spare bedroom as an office.’

‘Jolly good.’ Carlyle got to his feet.

‘The anti-terrorism people came and searched it the other day.’

‘Ah.’ He sat back down again.

‘They took the computer, a couple of laptops and our back-up hard drives. I asked the bloke how long till we got them back but he just said, “how long is a piece of string?”.’

‘Helpful.’

‘Marvin’s mum had to go down to PC World and get another one, so Laurie could do her homework.’

‘Yes.’ The inspector stole another glance at the urn. Marvin, you silly sod, if only you knew the trouble you’ve caused. He looked back at the wife. ‘What did the SO15 boys say that they were looking for?’

‘Dunno,’ she sniffed. ‘The same as you, I suppose.’

‘OK.’ Carlyle wondered what to do next. Maybe he should go back to Roche; see if he could do a trade with the information that Sonia Coverdale had given him. Maybe SO15 already knew about Michael Nicholson and Tallow Business Services, but maybe they didn’t.

‘They didn’t take the paper records though.’

‘Sorry?’

‘We keep paper copies of all Marvin’s files. I mean, you never know with all that electronic information, it could all just disappear in a puff of smoke one day and then where would you be? Marvin was always paranoid about losing all the data, so we had a back-up to the back-up.’

Good old Marvin. ‘Only the paranoid survive, as they say.’

Naomi Taylor blinked away a tear.

Carlyle, you idiot. ‘Sorry.’

She struggled to her feet. ‘Would you like to see them? They’re in the kitchen.’

After an hour of sifting through a pile of papers six inches thick, Carlyle was none the wiser as to the job Marvin Taylor had been doing on the night of his death. Marvin and Naomi might have been keen on keeping duplicate records, but they hadn’t been too interested in filing them in any discernible order. Moreover, it was clear that Marvin’s clients were not the kind of people who liked to provide too much information for the purposes of an invoice. Pushing his chair back from the kitchen table, he closed his eyes and yawned.

‘Who are you?’

Opening his eyes, Carlyle saw a young girl standing in the doorway. He smiled. ‘I’m John. Who are you?’

She didn’t answer his question, but went on: ‘Why are you here?’

‘I’m a policeman.’ Taking his warrant card from his pocket, he held it out for her to inspect. ‘I’m looking at some information for your mother.’

The girl thought about it for a moment, then stepped into the kitchen and took the ID from his hand. Studying it carefully, she read aloud: ‘Inspector John Carlyle, Metropolitan Police.’

‘That’s me.’

She looked at him doubtfully. ‘You don’t look like your picture.’

‘That was taken a while ago now,’ Carlyle said, ‘when I wasn’t as old as I am now.’

The girl took one last look at the photo and handed the card back to him. ‘Not so much grey hair. And no glasses.’

‘I’m getting old,’ Carlyle shrugged, dropping the card back into his pocket. ‘It happens.’

‘Are you older than my dad?’

Carlyle felt a sick feeling in his stomach. ‘Yes, a few years older.’

‘My dad’s dead,’ the girl said matter-of-factly. ‘His ashes are in the living room.’ She stared at him defiantly, as if challenging him to deny it.

Trying to hide his embarrassment, Carlyle began trying to tidy the papers on the desk. ‘What’s your name?’

‘I’m Laurie.’

‘Nice to meet you, Laurie.’

‘Did you know my dad?’

‘Yes, I did. We worked together when he was in the police. I liked him a lot. He was very good at his job.’

Laurie nodded. ‘Are you going to be here long?’

‘Not very long.’

‘Do you want to hear a joke?’

‘Sure, why not?’

‘OK, and maybe you want this for your pile.’ From behind her back she produced a sheet of A4 paper that was covered in crayon of different colours and placed it carefully on the table.

‘Thank you.’

‘You’re welcome.’ She looked at him earnestly. ‘So, what do you call a crazy chicken?’

‘A crazy chicken . . .’ Carlyle rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘I don’t know.’

‘A cuckoo cluck , ha. Geddit?’

‘That’s a good one,’ Carlyle chuckled.

The girl folded her arms. ‘Your turn.’

‘OK.’ Carlyle thought about it for a moment. He only ever had the one joke but it was a good one. ‘What do you call an exploding monkey?’

‘A what?’ The girl frowned.

‘An exploding monkey.’

‘No idea.’

‘A ba- boom .’

He watched her face fall.

‘That’s terrible.’ Pushing herself away from the table, Laurie skipped out of the room and disappeared down the hallway.

‘I quite like it,’ Carlyle mumbled to himself. Returning to the mess on the desk, he picked up the sheet of paper the child had left behind. It was immediately clear that Laurie had spent quite a bit of time colouring in one of her dad’s invoices. The mess reminded him of the art on the wall of the Garden Hotel. He should show it to Deborah Burke; maybe she could hang it in the lobby. Underneath a smear of orange crayon he noticed the date; the invoice had been raised barely a week ago.

Then he saw the name. Tallow Business Services.

‘Bingo.’

Folding the sheet of paper into quarters, he stuffed it into his pocket. Getting to his feet, he headed quickly for the door, leaving the mess of papers for someone else to deal with.

Fifty yards down the road, the phone started vibrating in his pocket.

‘Carlyle.’

‘Boss, where are you?’

‘Tsk.’ The inspector was in no mood to be quizzed by his sergeant.

‘I think you’d better get back here sharpish,’ Umar continued. ‘Simpson’s on the warpath.’

‘What’s the problem this time?’ Carlyle asked, adopting the blasé tone of a man long past caring.

‘It’s your Germans.’

My Germans? When did they become my bloody Germans? ‘What about them?’ he snapped. ‘We had a meeting scheduled for this morning. They didn’t turn up.’

‘That might be because they were beaten to a pulp in Soho last night.’

‘Fuck,’ Carlyle sighed, lengthening his stride. ‘OK, I’m on my way.’