James Craig - Acts of Violence

Standing on the top floor of one of London’s most expensive private hospitals, Carlyle looked over the nearby rooftops. It had turned into the kind of typically grey London morning that suited the inspector’s sombre mood perfectly. Having spent the morning running around like a blue-arsed fly, he wanted nothing so much as a sandwich and a decent coffee. More than that, however, he just wanted to be left alone. There was nothing that irked him more than feeling the Commander’s controlling hand on his shoulder. Carlyle simply did not respond well to being managed .

Following the call from his sergeant, he had rushed over to A amp;E at St Thomas’s, only to be cheerily informed by a senior staff nurse that his quarry had flashed his Platinum health insurance card on arrival and had been promptly transferred to the Len Cohen Medical Centre. There was nothing your average NHS operative liked better than being able to pass a patient off to the private sector with a minimum of fuss.

‘He wasn’t even British,’ the woman observed, shaking her head at the temerity of these bloody foreigners, coming over here and getting sick just so they could take advantage of our wonderful health service.

With a growl of frustration, the inspector had turned around and retraced his steps as far as Portland Street, in the heart of Fitzrovia. Twenty-five minutes later, he was standing in the hotel-style reception of the LCMC, being told that Mr Gregori was undergoing ‘tests’ and could not be seen for another half an hour at least.

‘Fuck’s sake.’

The nurse, who looked barely half his age, shot Carlyle a disapproving look.

‘Sorry,’ he stammered. ‘What about the other one?’

‘The other one?’ the girl asked. He noticed the name on her badge: Siddle .

‘Yes.’ Carlyle tried to recall the name of the second German, but his mind was resolutely blank. ‘There was another one.’

‘I don’t know about that,’ Nurse Siddle said, ‘but let me see what I can find out for you.’ And she scurried off before he could ask any more questions.

Nurse Siddle did not reappear. However, after nipping out to a nearby sandwich shop to rebalance his blood-sugar levels, Carlyle felt somewhat calmer. Eventually, after flicking through various back issues of Motorboat Monthly , he was collected by another nurse who escorted him up to the HS Thompson Suites on the eighth floor. As they exited the elevator, turning right, Carlyle immediately knew the room he wanted; it was the one with the guard outside.

‘Thanks,’ he said to the nurse. ‘I know where I’m going.’

‘Very well.’ Turning on her heel, she headed off down the corridor in pursuit of her next chore. From somewhere nearby came the sound of a daytime TV programme. There was a smell that he couldn’t quite place; it made his stomach feel a bit queasy after its recent lunch. Nodding at the constable sitting by the door, he flashed his ID and stepped inside.

Sitting up in bed, a brief look of panic spread across Sebastian Gregori’s face until he belatedly recognized his new visitor. Ignoring the two chairs, Carlyle took up a position at the end of the bed. ‘How are you feeling?’

Gregori smiled weakly. The private investigator looked like he’d taken a bit of a beating, but he was hardly on life support. He had the beginnings of a shiner around his left eye, beneath which there was a plaster on his cheekbone. Otherwise, apart from a gash on his chin, he looked in reasonable condition.

Hardly enough cause for me to rush halfway across London and then back again, Carlyle thought sourly. ‘What happened?’

‘We were heading back to our hotel from dinner at the Countdown Club just after midnight,’ Gregori explained. ‘We were walking down a kind of alleyway and some guys jumped us from behind.’ He looked aggrieved. ‘I thought London was supposed to be a safe city?’

It is. ‘You can be in the wrong place at the wrong time, anywhere,’ the inspector mused.

‘I suppose so.’ Gregori sounded less than convinced. ‘Anyway, I was punched in the face and went down. They were kicking me on the ground and then it all went black. The next thing I knew, I was waking up in the ambulance.’

‘And what about Mr Kortmann?’ Carlyle felt pleased with himself for finally remembering the name.

Without any warning, Carole Simpson appeared at his shoulder, making him jump. ‘Werner Kortmann,’ she said grimly, ‘appears to have been kidnapped.’

‘Kidnapped?’

Taking a sheaf of papers from her briefcase, Simpson thrust a single sheet into his hand. ‘This is a copy of a picture that was sent to the hotel earlier this morning.’

Scowling, Carlyle scanned the image: Kortmann sitting cross-legged on the ground in front of a brick wall. It looked like he was inside a garage. His clothes were dishevelled, but he appeared to have taken less of a beating than Gregori. In his hands, he held a copy of The Times . The date wasn’t discernible, but Carlyle assumed it was today’s edition. There was a picture of a member of the Royal Family on the front page; then again, there was a picture of some royal or another on the front page most days.

‘History is repeating itself,’ Gregori groaned. ‘It’s the same as Uli Eichinger.’

The poor sods in these types of pictures all looked the same to Carlyle. ‘That was a very long time ago,’ he pointed out.

‘We have to assume there’s a connection of some sort,’ Simpson put in, ‘for the moment at least.’

‘It was certainly not a random mugging.’ Carlyle handed the picture back to Simpson. ‘What are they asking for?’

‘So far,’ she said, ‘they haven’t made any demands.’

Was that a good thing? Carlyle tried to retrieve what little he knew about kidnappings from the recesses of his brain. There was, however, next to nothing to recover. Other than a young boy who had been snatched by his father – a nasty domestic from years earlier – he had no real experience of dealing with this kind of thing. ‘Who’ve you got on the case?’

Simpson looked at him as if he was an idiot.

‘Hold on a sec.’ Stepping away from the bed, Carlyle lowered his voice to the point where it would be impossible for Gregori to hear.

‘Your mess,’ Simpson hissed. ‘You have to clean it up.’

‘My mess?’ Carlyle stifled a wail. ‘But this has nothing to do with me.’ He gestured half-heartedly towards the bed. ‘It’s hardly my fault what happened.’

‘The kidnappers think differently,’ the Commander said tartly, stuffing the picture back into her case.

Carlyle frowned. ‘What makes you say that?’

‘The picture. They sent it to you.’

Back on the front step of 46 Doughty Street, Carlyle peered through the ground-floor window, searching in vain for any signs of life. He counted to ten as he gave another blast on the front-door bell, waiting patiently as it reverberated through the old Georgian house. Still nothing; no one was coming out to play. Looking over the wrought-iron railings, he stared into the well that ran along the front of the house, a six-foot wide, ten-foot deep trough that separated the building from the pavement. A small set of iron stairs led down from street level to a basement door. At the top of the stairs was a gate set into the railings.

The gate was open.

Carlyle looked up and down the tree-lined street. Giving the doorbell one last try, he waited a few more seconds then nipped down the stairs.

Like the house proper, the basement appeared to have been spruced up recently. Turned into a granny flat perhaps, or rented out to give the Huttons a little extra income. Either way, a quick squint through the window suggested that the place was also empty. Carlyle rapped on the window with his knuckles.