James Craig - Acts of Violence

When they returned downstairs, there was no sign of Gregori in the bar. Taking a seat in the VIP area, McDonald ordered a mineral water, while Carlyle opted for a whiskey.

As the waitress hurried away, McDonald gave him a crooked smile. ‘I thought you weren’t supposed to drink on duty?’

Now it was the inspector’s turn to smile, a tad sheepishly. ‘And I would have thought you would have realized by now that there’re quite a few things I do that are not strictly by the book.’

‘Alex did mention that you could be a bit unorthodox.’

‘Ha. That was uncharacteristically understated of him.’

‘He likes you.’

‘I don’t know about that.’

‘He said that you were very fair.’

The waitress reappeared, placing their drinks on the table, along with a small bowl of olives. Looking at the olives, both of them decided to pass. Carlyle took a sip of his Jameson’s. ‘I try to be realistic about things.’

‘I suppose you have to be.’

‘Yes. Over the years, I’ve learned the hard way that you should pick your battles carefully.’ He watched her take a drink and for a few moments they sat in silence. Finally, he asked: ‘What should I call you, by the way?’

McDonald made a face. ‘I prefer Rosalind, but everyone calls me Ros.’

‘I shall call you Rosalind then.’ The inspector raised his glass in salute. ‘Or Ms McDonald, if you want to keep it formal.’

The Head of Security laughed ruefully. ‘I think it’s a bit late for that, don’t you?’

‘Yes,’ the inspector agreed. ‘Thank you for bailing me out back there. That could have been tricky.’

‘Find anything useful?’

‘Maybe.’

Lifting the glass, he let the remains of his drink moisten his lips. ‘I like the “starfish” thing. Very good.’

McDonald nodded.

‘Quick thinking.’

‘No, no. It’s for real. We have a code that changes every month or so. At the moment it really is “starfish”, although I nearly forgot. My mind went blank for a second and I couldn’t remember the bloody word. Before that, it was “donkey”. It’s very handy if you’ve got a guest who’s pissed off about something or other. Nine times out of ten a free drink is enough to placate them. It was something I introduced when I arrived here.’

Carlyle took a more substantial mouthful of whiskey. ‘How long have you been here?’

‘I got the Head of Security job about four months ago. Before that, I was at the Imperial in Sloane Square.’

Carlyle shook his head. ‘Don’t know it.’

‘It was fine. A bit boring. Not as interesting as this place.’

‘In my experience,’ Carlyle grinned, ‘boring is good.’

‘Yeah,’ McDonald played with her glass, ‘but you know what I mean.’

‘Sure.’

‘Before the Imperial, I was in the Army. An electronic warfare specialist in the Royal Signals.’

‘I see.’ He gave her the once-over: quite tall, maybe five eight but stocky with it, not yet thirty, open, guileless face under a black fringe.

‘Bomb disposal. One of the team would go in to cut the wires and my job was to block any signals that could set it off.’

‘Sounds like a barrel of laughs. How long did you do that for?’

‘I was in the Army for almost five years – did two tours in Afghanistan.’

Here we go, Carlyle thought, bracing himself for a tale of shell-shock and body parts. ‘So why did you pack it in?’

‘Well,’ she grinned, ‘in the end, it wasn’t really compatible with being a single mum.’

‘Ah.’ Quite the surprise package, aren’t you? The inspector was beginning to take a shine to Ms McDonald. ‘And this job is?’

‘Well, I was hoping to get into the police, but what with the cuts and everything, that was a complete non-starter.’

‘Tell me about it.’

‘So I got the gig at the Imperial through a mate and then ended up here. My mum helps out a lot, so it’s manageable. You’ve got to juggle a bit, but then so does everyone, don’t they?’

‘Yes.’ Finishing his whiskey, he placed the glass on the table.

‘Fancy another?’ she asked.

‘No, no. I’ve got to get going. Thanks again.’

‘No problem. Alex says you owe him though.’

‘In his dreams.’ A most unsavoury thought popped into Carlyle’s head. ‘Did he get you this job?’

‘No. He might have had a say, but it was Debbie who got me in the door.’

‘Deborah,’ Carlyle corrected her.

‘I call her Debbie.’

‘You didn’t tell her what we were up to, did you?’

‘Yes – I had to. It was only prudent.’

Carlyle grimaced. ‘Prudent?’

‘Yes.’ McDonald lifted her gaze past his shoulder. ‘Speak of the devil.’

‘Here you are.’ Pulling up a chair, Deborah Burke sat down without even acknowledging the inspector’s presence. ‘I thought you might have been nobbled.’

‘It would have helped if you’d given me a heads-up,’ McDonald shot back.

Uh, oh, Carlyle thought, ready to make a speedy getaway. The last thing he wanted was to get stuck in the middle of a row. He had his own domestic waiting for him when he got home.

‘I sent the bloody text as soon as the bloke appeared,’ the concierge protested.

‘Oh yeah?’ McDonald pulled out her mobile and waved it above the table. ‘Where is it then?’

‘Ladies, ladies . . .’ Getting to his feet, Carlyle tried to inject some calm into the conversation. ‘All’s well that ends well and all that.’ Looking up, they grunted at him in stereo. It was, the inspector imagined, like dealing with a pair of truculent sixth-formers. ‘I am very grateful to both of you for your help,’ he continued, ‘and look forward to repaying the favour in due course. If I can ever be of assistance, you know I’m only round the corner. For the moment, however, let’s just keep this under our hats, shall we?’

There was a pause, followed by some gentle, synchronized nodding. ‘Good.’ He began shuffling backwards, trying to get out of earshot before the bickering resumed. ‘I’ll see you both later.’

Waiting for a muffin to toast, Carlyle looked at the picture of the fluffy caramel tabby cat. ‘ Lovely Wilf the cat has gone missing from Flat Nine ,’ he mumbled to himself. ‘He is not used to being on the street, so we think he may be in hiding somewhere.’ The toaster clicked off and the muffin popped up. Crumpling the flyer in his hand, he tossed it in the direction of the sink. ‘Poor bugger is probably in a kebab by now.’

‘What are you chuntering on about?’

Reaching for the butter, he turned to find Helen in the doorway. She was wearing a pair of shorts and one of his old Fred Perry polo-shirts. The towel wrapped round her head finished off the ensemble nicely.

‘Enjoy your bath?’ he asked innocently, adding before she could reply, ‘Cup of tea?’

Leaning against the frame of the door, Helen folded her arms. ‘Yes please. Peppermint.’

‘Jolly good.’ Maybe the lovely long soak had mellowed her mood, but he couldn’t be sure. Grabbing the kettle, he filled it at the sink. ‘Look,’ he said, his back still turned, ‘I’m really sorry about missing Dad’s GP appointment. It just turned into a hell of a day.’

Appearing by his side, she slipped an arm round his waist. ‘It’s OK.’

‘Oh?’ he asked, relieved that he wasn’t going to get royally bollocked. Flipping down the lid, he plugged in the kettle and switched it on.

‘I went.’ Helen turned off the tap for him. ‘We had to wait almost an hour.’

‘Sorry, I know you’re busy too.’

‘It was fine. I didn’t want him to have to do it on his own.’