James Craig - Acts of Violence

All he got in response was a blank look and a shrug. ‘No. I am sorry, I do not.’

‘OK.’ Carlyle chugged down the rest of his drink; ten quid well spent. ‘So what will you do now?’

Sitting back on the banquette, Gregori folded his arms. ‘I will wait.’

‘For what?’

‘For you to find Herr Kortmann.’

Carlyle suddenly tuned into the music playing quietly from a speaker above his head. The song, a track from South Korea of all places, was so ubiquitous that even he recognized it. It was also profoundly annoying. ‘That may take some time.’

Gregori raised an eyebrow. ‘So I am beginning to understand.’

‘Which is why,’ Carlyle continued, ‘I would be extremely grateful for anything else that you might have that might help us in our investigations.’

‘Such as?’

No idea. ‘Anything.’

‘I’m sorry, Inspector, but I have told you all I know.’ Catching the eye of a passing waitress, Gregori signalled for the bill before finishing his drink. When the woman appeared with the tab he signed it with a flourish, adding his room number in a large child-like script at the bottom. Even with his dodgy eyesight, Carlyle could make it out: 226. Getting to his feet, Gregori toyed with the top button of his jacket. ‘You will let me know of any progress that you make?’

Carlyle nodded. ‘Of course.’ Playing with his empty bottle, he watched the German cross the lobby and head out on to the street. When the waitress appeared to claim the bill he ordered another Kirin with a whiskey chaser. They didn’t have Jameson’s, so he settled for Bushmills. As she cleared the table, he thought he caught a glimpse of Sonia Coverdale at the bar with another girl, but when she turned so he could see her face he realized it was someone else. The waitress reappeared with his drinks, slipping the tab on the table. Taking a mouthful of the whiskey, he let it linger on the back of his throat while he fumbled in the inside pocket of his jacket. Pulling out a biro, he squinted at the bill, wincing at the price.

‘Ah well, never mind. It’s only money.’

With a flourish, he scribbled a rough approximation of Gregori’s signature and added the room number. It’s the least you can do, he thought, for dropping me in this shit. Reaching across the table, he retrieved the newspaper and began flicking through its pages. He was almost at the middle before he found anything that wasn’t in some way related to the royal baby. Bernie Gilmore was right, he thought, it’s all a load of crap. Given all the domestic excitement, ‘World News’ had been relegated to half a page, next to the horoscopes. His eye caught a small story across three columns, under the headline REN QI FACES FIGHT TO SAVE HIS CAREER: High-flying Chinese politician Ren Qi is at the centre of China’s most serious political infighting for decades as Communist Party leaders try to clamp down on corruption and abuse of office.

Carlyle shook his head. Politicians; it doesn’t matter where you go, they are all the same. A right shower. For a moment, his thoughts veered off in the direction of Marvin Taylor and Roche’s ninjas, but that would have to wait. Dropping the newspaper on to the table, he pulled out his mobile and brought up a number he hadn’t used in a while. Happily, the number was still working. Even more happily, the call was answered on the third ring.

‘Alex Miles.’

‘Mr Miles, John Carlyle.’ He paused, the better to enjoy the low groan from the other end. ‘How’s the new job going?’

‘It’s good, thank you,’ Miles said stiffly.

‘I’m at your old place at the moment,’ Carlyle explained. ‘I met your successor. She seems very nice.’

‘Debbie will do well.’

‘She prefers Deborah, apparently.’

‘Yes. Very proper,’ Alex chuckled. ‘You might not find her as easy to do business with as me.’

‘That’s exactly why I’m ringing, Alex.’

Another groan. ‘I’m at work at the moment. Up against it a bit.’

‘This won’t take long.’

‘Very well.’ Miles lowered his voice. ‘So what is it that I can do for you, Inspector?’

Making sure that the policeman hadn’t followed him out of the hotel, Sebastian Gregori headed down St Martin’s Lane, slipping round the corner and onto the Strand. After ducking into a mobile phone store, he bought a £20 pay-as-you-go sim card with cash. Exiting the shop, he crossed the road and hurried down Villiers Street, which ran down the side of Charing Cross station, towards the river. He had discovered Victoria Embankment Gardens while wandering round the area the day before. Now the scruffy park was empty apart from a few dossers. Taking a seat away from the entrance, he put the new sim into the cheap handset he’d bought from a different vendor earlier in the day. There was one number in the memory. He hit Call and waited for it to ring three times, as usual.

‘I’m listening.’

‘Everything is proceeding as planned.’ Gregori spoke clearly and slowly. ‘It should not be long now.’

‘Good.’ There was a pause. ‘We await your confirmation.’

The line went dead.

Gregori removed the sim from the handset and walked out of the park. Two minutes later he was standing on Hungerford footbridge, looking down into the Thames. A nearby beggar sitting on the pathway invited him to give alms. Gregori ignored him. Such a dirty river, he thought. Letting the sim fall from his hand, he watched it flutter downwards and disappear into the murky water.

Such a dirty city.

* * *

Carlyle followed the woman along the corridor and waited patiently while she opened the door to Room 226 with her key card. Pushing the door open, she invited him to step inside.

‘Thanks.’

‘No problem.’ Rosalind McDonald, the Garden’s Head of Security, gave him a big smile. ‘Don’t be too long.’

Carlyle took a pair of latex gloves from the pocket of his jacket and pulled them on. ‘Five minutes, max.’

‘OK. I’ll wait here. The desk will call me if Gregori reappears, in which case we’ll have to leg it.’

‘Sure.’ Stepping inside, Carlyle let the door close behind him and went straight to the closet. Finding the safe, he punched in the management override code that McDonald had supplied and let the door click open. Inside, Gregori had stashed his passport, an iPad and a sheaf of papers. Removing the lot, Carlyle sat down on the bed to see what he could find. On first glance, the papers were simply a copy of the Tosches file, which he’d already been given during their meeting at the station. Dropping them by his side, he powered up the iPad.

‘Shit.’

It was locked. Looking at the screen, he scratched his head. Then he called Umar. Listening to the phone ring, he drummed his fingers on the screen. ‘C’mon, c’mon.’

‘You have reached-’

‘Bollocks.’ So much for Phone a fucking Friend; who else might know how to open the bastard machine? He pulled up another number and hit Call.

‘Hiya, Dad.’ Alice’s cheery voice made him smile.

‘Hiya, sweetheart, how’s it going?’

‘It’s going,’ Alice replied, her voice expressing a level of weariness that only a teenager could reach. ‘Mum’s pissed off though.’

Why? He glanced at his watch; he had used up his five minutes already. ‘You can tell me later. Right now I just wondered if you could help me with something.’ He explained his problem.

Alice thought about it for a moment. ‘You’d have to restore it to its original factory settings.’

‘Great. How do I do that?’

‘Are you sure you want to? You’ll delete everything that’s on it at the moment.’