James Craig - Acts of Violence

Unable to control himself, Umar licked his lips.

She shot him an amused look. ‘Apologies for kicking you out.’

‘Er, yes.’ Slowly, he stood up.

‘Thanks for the visit.’ Reaching into the cot, she recovered the child and began manoeuvring her into position. ‘I’ll call the locksmith and get my parents to give you a call when they resurface.’

‘That would be great,’ he replied, reluctantly heading for the door.

On closer inspection, the mess on the pavement was a dead mouse. It had been squashed across the concrete, like a cartoon character or a mini art installation. How did that happen? Carlyle wondered. What has flattened a poor mouse in the middle of a London street? It was a mystery.

People were walking past it, backing up and queuing to get round it. He watched a procession of people going past but none stepped on the expired rodent. That was the city; you quickly learned to watch where you put your feet.

‘Boss?’ Miffed by his boss’s apparent disinterest in what he had been saying, Umar did a little dance on the pavement as a couple of tourists appeared and started photographing the mouse on their smartphones.

‘Huh?’ Reluctantly the inspector focused on his Sancho Panza.

‘Derek Hutton.’

Carlyle recalled his meeting with the sweaty lawyer. ‘He didn’t seem like much of a revolutionary to me,’ he said.

‘He’s gotten old, that’s all,’ Umar chortled, ‘just like you.’

‘Ha.’ Looking at his younger colleague, an unhappy thought entered the inspector’s head. ‘You didn’t hit on her, did you?’

‘What, the daughter?’ Umar tried to look offended. ‘Of course not. She’s got a tiny kid, for God’s sake.’

Liar.

For a moment, they contemplated each other in sullen silence.

‘What do you want to do now?’ Umar asked finally.

Carlyle scratched his head. ‘I want to go home.’

‘Sounds like a plan. I’m fairly knackered myself.’

‘You, on the other hand, can do a bit more digging.’

Umar’s face fell. ‘Into what, exactly?’

‘Into the Huttons. Try and get a line on where they might be . . . check their credit cards, track their mobiles. Whatever works.’

‘Ooh,’ Umar sucked in some air. ‘Dodgy.’

‘I know, I know. But Simpson will back us up. She needs to find this Kortmann guy more than we do.’

‘And you think these two old lefties have got him?’

‘What other leads do we have?’

‘Fair point.’

‘So let’s find the old buggers then.’

‘OK, your call.’ Umar began ambling off in the direction of the station.

Yes, Carlyle thought as he watched him go. My call.

With a spring in his step, Carlyle bounced along the pavement mumbling the words to The Clash’s ‘London Calling’ as he danced between the oncoming pedestrians. The German case, as he had come to think of it, was in his bloodstream now and he felt energized. Whatever he had told his sergeant, he had no intention of heading home, not yet at least. Instead, he was off to do what he did best, tease out bits of information from unwilling sources that would allow him to inch closer to a resolution of the matter.

Walking into the lobby of the Garden Hotel, he checked his phone. There was another irritated message from Helen, but even that could not dent his mood. Deleting it with a flourish, he felt the handset vibrate in his hand. Casting caution to the wind, he answered without first checking the screen.

‘Carlyle.’

‘Inspector, you’re sounding very chipper.’

Shit. Carlyle cursed silently. Bernard Gilmore Esquire. The Fourth Estate’s finest. And a royal pain in the arse. ‘What can I do for you, Bernie?’

‘Just checking in,’ Bernie said lamely. ‘Keeping in touch with my contacts while I’ve got time on my hands. All this royal baby crap is making it impossible to get into the bloody paper at the moment.’

‘Uh-huh.’ The inspector couldn’t give a toss.

‘The bloody woman goes into labour and it’s the first sixteen pages of the first edition, for fuck’s sake. Imagine what it’ll be like when the damn thing pops out. At this rate there won’t even be any bloody sport.’

Carlyle yawned. ‘Didn’t have you pegged as a republican.’

‘I’m not, particularly. Then again, I’m not a seventeenth-century peasant either. All the fawning and grovelling does your head in.’

‘Helen says the same thing.’ On autopilot, Carlyle headed towards the lifts. Veering left, he came to the threshold of the Light Bar and peered into the gloom. ‘Look, I’m just about to go into a meeting . . .’

‘Yeah, right, so I was wondering what you could tell me about the Oakwood case.’

‘The Oakwood case?’ The name didn’t ring any bells.

‘Yeah,’ Bernie replied, his voice gaining strength as he got to the reason for his call. ‘I hear that arrests are imminent.’

‘Could be.’ Carlyle imagined that he could hear Bernie licking his lips.

‘And that there are some big names involved.’ He mentioned a couple of celebrities.

‘I wouldn’t know about that.’ He paused. If Bernie wanted a quote, he would have to beg.

‘Can you give me something?’

‘On background? No fingerprints?’

‘Of course.’

‘And you owe me?’

‘I’ll add it to your balance in my famous book.’

‘Fair enough.’ Carlyle took a deep breath. ‘So, how about something like this: An unnamed police source said: “We are very pleased with the way in which things are progressing and hope to be able to update the public on developments soon. Rest assured that no one will be given a free pass. Everyone will be required to account for their actions”. ’ Rather pleased with himself, he waited for Bernie to scribble it down.

‘Great.’

‘Maybe make it: “Everyone will be required to fully account for their actions”. ’

‘You’re a natural.’

‘Whatever,’ Carlyle said modestly. ‘Hope that helps you knock the sprog off the front page.’

‘Hardly. It might make page twenty-two, if I’m lucky.’

‘A good day to bury bad news,’ the inspector murmured. Who had said that? He couldn’t remember. It didn’t matter. Taking a second look around the bar, he finally located his target in a booth at the back just as another thought popped into his head. Might Werner Kortmann be on Bernie’s radar? Better not to ask. ‘Got to go. Keep me posted on . . .’

‘Oakwood.’

‘Yeah, right.’ Carlyle suddenly realized he was in the mood for a ridiculously expensive beer. Dropping the phone into his pocket, he strode manfully towards the bar.

For a man who had seen his client kidnapped and also just been released from hospital, Sebastian Gregori looked to be in pretty good shape. Without waiting to be asked, the inspector took a seat and placed his bottle of Kirin on the table, along with the glass that he wasn’t going to use. Looking up from his newspaper, Gregori smiled thinly.

‘I see that everyone is very excited about this royal baby.’

Carlyle made a face.

Closing the paper, Gregori tossed it on the seat next to him. ‘We don’t have this kind of thing in Germany.’

‘That’s why you are Europe’s leading nation,’ the inspector observed drily, ‘loved and respected around the world.’

‘That is good to know.’

‘How are you feeling?’

‘I am getting better, thank you.’ Gregori lifted his glass from the table and took a cautious sip of his carbonated mineral water. ‘The doctor said I should have no lasting effects from my unfortunate experience.’

‘That’s good.’ Carlyle reached for his bottle. The private eye watched him closely as he took a swig of beer. ‘I was wondering if you could remember anything else about what happened. About the men who attacked you, for example.’