James Craig - Acts of Violence

‘Hello? Anyone home? Police.’

Not getting any response, he turned his attention to the door.

The top half consisted of six small panes of glass; wood on the bottom. It looked flimsy. The inspector considered giving it a good kick, then thought better of it. It wouldn’t look too clever if he left an identifiable footprint. Instead, he pulled out a pair of latex gloves from his jacket pocket and slipped them on. On the pavement, above his head, a young woman walked past, squealing on her mobile phone.

‘Whatever. That little cow’s gonna get a good slap when I see her, skanky bitch.’

Ah, the solidarity of the Sisterhood. Listening to the young woman disappearing down the street, Carlyle smacked the pane nearest the handle with his elbow.

‘Fuck. That hurt.’

It took three more determined blows before the glass gave way. Pulling out the largest pieces of glass, he made a hole large enough to get his hand inside and unlock the door. Careful not to stand on the broken glass, he then slipped inside.

The flat had a heavy, musty smell. Carlyle quickly checked out the three rooms – a bedroom, kitchen/living room and a tiny bathroom with the smallest shower he had ever seen. Everywhere was clean and tidy, but there was no evidence that anyone was currently residing there. On a counter in the kitchen was a set of tourist leaflets and a ring binder on which someone had written USEFUL INFORMATION + THINGS TO DO IN LONDON in black marker pen.

Holiday let , the ace investigator concluded. In the distance, he heard a siren and froze, letting out a deep breath as he realized it was moving away from him.

‘Let’s get on with it, shall we?’ At the back of the flat were stairs leading to the house. At the top was a door. He tried the handle.

Locked.

‘Shit.’ Carlyle stared at the door for several moments, on the off-chance that it might open of its own accord. When it didn’t, he scratched his head.

‘OK, genius, what are you going to do now?’

‘Well, stop talking to myself, for a start.’ Returning to the kitchen, he rummaged around the drawers until he found a substantial-looking knife. Having already faked a break-in (or rather, committed a break-in) now was no time for subtlety. Knife in hand, he climbed the stairs and set about jimmying the lock.

Two minutes later, he was standing in the room where he had previously spun the line to Barbara Hutton about a burglar being on the prowl. He glanced up at the painting on the wall and gave Ulrike Meinhof a quick nod of recognition. She didn’t respond.

Belatedly, an alarm went off somewhere in the house. Carlyle glanced at his watch. A couple of minutes and then he was out of here. Even his recklessness had limits.

Clearly he didn’t have time to search the whole house, so where should he start? He contemplated the idea of grabbing a DNA sample – from a hairbrush perhaps – that could be compared with the sister. But how could he explain acquiring it? Moving into the hallway, he began climbing the stairs. Reaching the second floor, he found a small study, situated at the back of the house, with a window overlooking a walled garden. Almost half of the floorspace was taken up by a large oak desk on which sat an Apple Mac, largely hidden behind piles of papers. On the wall to his left was a large framed movie poster, showing a couple embracing under the legend Angst essen Seele auf. Below the poster was a small bookcase on which sat a framed black and white photograph. In the picture, a man and a woman seemed to be aping the pose of the couple in the poster. Carlyle lifted the picture in front of his face. The pair were standing outside in the sunshine. From the selection of people and banners in the background, it looked like they were taking part in a demonstration of some sort. Carlyle guessed it had probably taken place some time in the 1970s, or maybe the eighties. The man was a youthful Derek Hutton, hidden behind a thick, bushy beard. The woman he didn’t recognize; it clearly wasn’t Barbara Hutton, however. An old girlfriend? Wouldn’t that be a strange thing to keep on display in the family home?

He was still staring at the picture when the doorbell rang.

Stay calm.

Putting the photograph back in its place, Carlyle slowly counted to ten. Nothing. Relaxing, he went back to his task. The bookcase was filled with legal texts. On the bottom shelf was a battered red box-file. Opening it, Carlyle stared at a jumble of yellowing newspaper cuttings, some in English, some in German. At first glance, they all seemed concerned with Baader Meinhof and various terrorist attacks in Germany in the seventies. He glanced at his watch. His time was up. But what had he learned from his little criminal adventure?

Then he saw it.

It was an undated clipping from a German newspaper. Only four paragraphs and the headline had been cut off. Beside the text was a grainy photograph of a pretty girl and, beneath, the name: Sylvia Tosches. Interesting. It wasn’t exactly proof of anything, but it was something . He squinted at the image. It could have been Barbara Hutton. It could have been a million other women.

From outside came another blast on the doorbell.

Time to go.

Placing the clipping back in its place, he returned the file to the shelf and headed for the stairs. As he descended, a third blast led him to conclude that there was no merit in trying to exit through the basement. Instead, reaching the ground floor, he pulled open the front door to find a young PC standing on the doorstep. At the kerb, his partner sat in their police vehicle, watching developments with interest.

‘Excuse me, sir. Is this your house? Your alarm’s been going off.’

Carlyle turned to look at the blue light flashing insistently from the box above the front door before reaching for his warrant card.

The constable looked at it suspiciously and glanced at his partner.

‘I was just passing and saw there had been a break-in.’ Putting his ID back into his pocket, Carlyle pointed to the mess in the basement. ‘So I went to have a look.’ He knew it sounded lame, but as long as he stood his ground he would be able to get away with it.

‘Without calling it in?’

‘No, sorry. It was kind of an impulse thing.’

‘Didn’t you hear the bell when I rang it the first time?’

‘No.’

The PC clocked the latex gloves Carlyle was still wearing. It was clear that he was becoming more suspicious by the minute.

It was time to go on the offensive. ‘What is your name, Constable ?’

‘Wilson,’ the uniform said stiffly.

Carlyle eyeballed the officer in the car, who was now busy talking on his radio. ‘And your partner?’

‘Garner.’

‘From the Holborn station?’

A nod.

‘OK,’ Carlyle sighed. ‘There is a bit of damage downstairs but nothing serious. Difficult to say what, if anything, was taken. The owners are out, obviously. You probably just need to leave them a crime number and we can be on our way.’

‘What about Forensics?’

Carlyle shot the youngster a look of disbelief. ‘Are you kidding? Have you guys got nothing better to do?’

‘Standard procedure.’

‘Not if you’re broke, it’s not. And the Met is most definitely broke.’

‘But-’

His irritation rising, Carlyle pushed open the door and invited Constable Wilson inside. ‘Want to take a look around?’

Sitting on the stairs, Carlyle checked the messages on his BlackBerry while Wilson poked about upstairs. After five minutes or so, the constable reappeared on the first-floor landing, filling out a pre-printed sorry you’ve been robbed form.

Is there any organization in the world that is as addicted to forms as the Met? Carlyle wondered. Getting to his feet, he yawned. ‘All done?’