James Craig - Acts of Violence

‘No.’ Carlyle opened a cupboard above his head and reached for some cups. ‘So, what’s the verdict?’

‘They’re sending him for a scan.’ She gave him a stern look. ‘You really must be there for that one.’

‘Of course,’ he said stiffly.

‘And you should give him a call.’

‘Yes.’

‘Go and do it now.’ She shooed him away, in the direction of the hall. ‘I’ll sort the tea. What do you want on your muffin?’

Conscious of someone hovering in front of her desk, Deborah Burke looked up and stifled a small gasp. ‘Can I help you, sir?’ she asked.

‘Someone has been in the safe in my room,’ Sebastian Gregori said flatly.

The concierge frowned. ‘Has something been stolen?’

‘Nothing was taken. However, someone has been snooping around. I want to see the audit trail of the safe.’

Placing her hands on the top of the desk, Burke pushed herself to her feet. ‘Let me go and find the Head of Security for you.’

A pained expression settled on Gregori’s face. ‘I’m not interested in the Head of Security. Get me the manager. Right now.’

After a fairly pointless couple of minutes on the phone with his father, Carlyle tucked into his muffin with relish. Wiping a blob of butter from his chin, he sat back on the sofa and contemplated a second.

‘Want another?’ Helen smiled.

‘Thinking about it.’ Taking a mouthful of his tea, he caught an unmistakable whiff of body odour. ‘I need a shower.’

Helen murmured her agreement.

‘Presumably,’ Carlyle reflected, returning to the matter in hand, ‘it must be quite serious if they’re sending him for a scan.’

‘He is getting on. But at the moment, they’re just trying to find out what’s going on. You know what it’s like with doctors; they’re never going to commit to any definitive diagnosis if they can help it.’

Carlyle nodded at his wife’s wise words.

‘I should know,’ Helen continued, ‘I’ve worked with enough of them over the last twenty years.’

Make that thirty, Carlyle thought, but he let it slide.

‘Anyway, it’s best to know for sure,’ she said.

‘Depends what it is. If it’s cancer, I think he’d rather not know.’ For a few moments, the pair of them sat in silence, thinking about the mortality of their parents. Helen’s father had died years ago; Carlyle’s mother more recently. It was a grim business. Grim but inevitable.

‘How’s the rapper thing coming along?’ he asked finally, trying to lighten the mood.

‘Chase Race,’ Helen sighed, ‘is not a man who is used to being told no . We turned down his fifty grand, so he came back and offered us a hundred.’

‘Bugger. So what are you going to do?’

‘There’s another meeting to discuss it next week. On the plus side, he’s back with his girlfriend. On the minus, he was in the papers again yesterday, pictured snorting cocaine out of the bellybutton of a stripper.’

‘Sounds like Umar,’ Carlyle commented. ‘Those two would get on like a house on fire.’

‘What would you do?’

‘Same as you, sweetheart.’ Struggling to his feet, Carlyle planted a smacker on her forehead. ‘Take the money and run.’

‘My hero,’ Helen swooned. ‘Ever the pragmatist.’

Carlyle tentatively sniffed the air. ‘A smelly pragmatist. I’m going for that shower.’

* * *

He was just drying himself off when Helen handed him his mobile. ‘It’s your favourite sergeant.’ Smirking at his nakedness, she retreated towards the living room.

‘Great,’ Carlyle groaned. Jamming the handset under his chin, he wrapped a towel around his rather too thick waist. ‘What is it?’

‘I’m at the Garden Hotel,’ Umar explained, keeping his voice low. ‘There’s a bit of a palaver.’

A bit of a palaver? When did the bloody boy start mimicking his speech?

‘I’ve just spoken to a woman called Ros McDonald,’ Umar went on, barely whispering now, ‘and I think you’d better get down here asap.’

Fifteen minutes later, Carlyle burst through the Garden’s revolving doors and strode purposefully towards the concierge’s desk. The look on Sebastian Gregori’s face hardened as he watched him approach.

‘Why are you here?’ he ground out.

‘Because,’ the inspector said as cheerily as he could manage, ‘it looks like I’m turning into your own private policeman.’ He gave a brisk nod to Burke and McDonald in turn, before glaring at Umar. Until he learned how much the sergeant knew, Carlyle was determined to play things straight. ‘What seems to be the problem?’ All four voices started at once, forcing Carlyle to hold up both hands. Noticing that they were beginning to attract a crowd, he took the opportunity to get rid of Umar by sending him off to disperse the gawkers.

Turning to Gregori, he smiled unctuously. ‘Sir, why don’t you tell me what happened?’ Nodding at every opportunity, the inspector focused his attention exclusively on the private eye while he listened to his suspicions about the safe.

Reaching his conclusion, Gregori pointed at McDonald. ‘And she was in on it.’ Saying nothing, the Head of Security kept her gaze fixed on an indistinct point in the middle distance. ‘When I demanded to see the manager, they refused, so I called the police.’ He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘They sent your boy.’

Suppressing a grin, Carlyle looked across the lobby to see the sergeant deep in conversation with a very attractive middle-aged woman. For once, he was happy to let Umar get on with his flirting. Knitting his brows together, he turned back to the two women. ‘This is a very serious matter. Where is Nicky?’ Nicholas Lezard had been the manager of the Garden for almost fifteen years. The inspector knew him well enough to have a contact number programmed into his phone.

Burke coughed. ‘I haven’t been able to get hold of him, Inspector.’

‘Is that the manager?’ Gregori demanded. ‘She didn’t even try.’

Once again, Carlyle held up a hand for silence. Taking out his mobile, he pulled up Lezard’s number and hit Call. Almost immediately, it went to voicemail. With a sigh, he turned to Gregori. ‘Just give me a moment,’ he requested, heading for the reception desk. ‘I will sort this out for you.’

‘Thank you,’ Gregori mumbled, unconvinced.

He found Nicky Lezard in a serviced apartment on the top floor of the Garden, eating popcorn and watching a DVD. ‘Don’t you remember tonight is movie night?’ was all the hotel manager could bring himself to say when he finally responded to the persistent rapping of the inspector’s knuckles on the door. ‘We’ve got the latest Jennifer Aniston movie,’ he added, flouncing back into the living room. ‘At least, I think it’s the latest. The girl certainly knows how to churn them out.’

Carlyle mumbled something suitably banal and followed him inside. Nicky flopped back onto the sofa and took the remote from his viewing companion – a young-looking guy with a crew cut and a Madonna T-shirt which harked back to the singer’s Like a Virgin period. His host reluctantly gestured towards a nearby armchair. ‘Take a seat.’

‘It’s OK.’ Carlyle positioned himself in front of the TV and shoved his hands in his pockets. ‘This will only take a minute, then you can get back to your film.’

Letting the remote drop from his fingers, Nicky let out an unhappy cluck. His companion considered Carlyle for a moment then slithered off the sofa and swanned out of the room.

‘Ma-artin,’ Nicky shouted after him, ‘get me a Coke, will you? Sugar-free.’ When he got no response, he turned his attention back to the policeman standing on his carpet. ‘You really have ruined the mood, you know.’