James Craig - Acts of Violence

‘Sorry,’ Carlyle fibbed. ‘We just need to sort something out.’

Nicky arched an eyebrow. ‘We?’

Carlyle nodded.

‘What’s all this “we” business? Just because you had Alex Miles doing your bidding for you, it doesn’t mean you can come running upstairs now that he’s gone. From what I hear, you always were too demanding, Inspector.’

‘I am the hotel’s best friend,’ Carlyle countered, ‘and you know it. All the crap I spare you and your guests on a regular basis-’

‘All right, all right.’ Recovering the remote, Nicky looked at it longingly – keen, no doubt, to get back to the lovely Jennifer Aniston. ‘What is it this time?’

Carlyle kept his explanation short and to the point, omitting any mention of his own wrongdoing.

Trying to work up a sense of outrage, Nicky shook his head. ‘So you went rummaging about in one of our guests’ rooms, eh?’

‘The man is mistaken,’ Carlyle replied blithely. ‘No one went into his room.’

Shifting in his seat, Nicky released a large fart to let the inspector know what he thought of the story he was fabricating, an amused grin dancing across his lips as he watched Carlyle move away in a futile attempt to escape the smell. ‘But?’

‘But this gentleman is involved in something else I am dealing with at the moment, so I need to make this little problem go away.’

Grunting, Nicky tried to repeat his gas trick, failing miserably. ‘What’s this guy called again?’

‘Gregori.’

‘Gregory?’ His gaze drifted off into the middle distance. ‘I knew a boy called Greg once.’

‘Gregori’s the surname. With an i on the end.’

Martin reappeared, minus the drink and Nicky shooed him away again, saying, ‘All I wanted was a bloody Coke.’

‘Houseboys,’ Carlyle opined, ‘they just don’t make ’em like they used to.’

Nicky turned his nose up at the plod’s feeble attempt at humour. ‘This Gregori with an i . Why’s he so important that you had to go snooping around his room?’

‘That doesn’t matter.’

‘Well, maybe you could at least share some details regarding your proposed plan of action?’

Nicky insisted on watching his Jennifer Aniston laughathon through to the bitter end before doing the inspector’s bidding. With twenty minutes to kill, Carlyle went in search of Rosalind McDonald. He was still looking for her when his mobile started vibrating in his pocket. Assuming it was Helen, he hit Receive and held it to his ear.

‘Hi, sweetheart.’

‘Inspector? It’s Naomi Taylor.’

‘Ah, yes, sorry. I thought you were someone else.’

‘Is this a bad time?’ Her voice sounded even more fragile than he remembered.

Gritting his teeth, Carlyle glanced at his watch. Of course it’s a bad time. ‘No, no, not at all. What can I do for you?’

‘I just wondered how things were going?’

‘Ah.’

‘My lawyer wants me to sue the Police Service for what they did to Marvin but I wanted to see what you were able to find out first.’

Carlyle thrust his free hand into the pocket of his jacket. The crayon-covered invoice that Laurie had handed him was still there. Since leaving the Taylor household, he had done precisely nothing. ‘I’m still following up a couple of things.’ It was a lame response, but she was too polite to call him on it.

‘So I should tell the lawyer to hold off?’

‘Tell them to give us another couple of days.’ Us. A nice touch. Pleased with his own verbal dexterity, he smiled. ‘We should know where we stand by then.’ Neck-deep in a sea of shit, most likely.

‘All right. Thank you, Inspector.’ Her pathetic gratitude in the face of his sloth made him cringe.

‘How’s Laurie doing?’ he asked feebly.

‘We’re doing OK.’ She struggled to fight back a sob. ‘One day at a time and all that.’

‘Yes.’ Embarrassed, he shifted his weight from foot to foot as he stared at the carpet. ‘Look, I’ve got to go.’

‘Of course.’

‘I’ll be in touch.’

‘Thank you.’

‘No problem.’ Ending the call, he immediately pulled up another number.

‘Are you stalking me, Inspector?’ Alison Roche sounded groggy.

‘Sorry, were you asleep?’

‘Like you care,’ she grumbled. ‘What time is it?’

‘Not that late.’

‘All things are relative. What do you want?’

‘The Chelsea massacre. Did you come across a company called Tallow Business Services?’

For a moment, he listened to silence on the line.

‘Alison?’

‘How do you know about that?’ she asked, all sleepiness disappearing from her voice in an instant.

Once the final credits of the movie had rolled, Nicky Lezard followed the inspector down to the lobby to placate the irate Sebastian Gregori. They found him in the bar, sitting behind the rope in the otherwise empty VIP area, nursing a large glass of white wine. Carlyle noted the half-empty bottle of Chablis in a bucket by the side of the table and smiled.

Starfish.

The free booze seemed to have somewhat taken the edge off the German’s irritation. He shook the manager’s hand and politely listened as he parroted McDonald’s explanation of a carbon-monoxide scare on the second floor.

‘This would never happen in Germany,’ was his only observation when the tale was concluded.

‘No.’ Lezard glanced at the inspector, who remained inscrutable. ‘Well, I can only apologize. We will, of course, waive your bill for the duration of your stay.’

Gregori gave a satisfied nod. ‘What about the audit?’

‘What?’ Nicky asked, flustered.

‘The audit trail for the safe.’ Gregori looked at the inspector. ‘Was it opened while I was out of the room?’

‘Er . . .’

The inspector placed a calming hand on Nicky’s shoulder as he returned Gregori’s stare with interest. ‘I’m afraid that the particular model of safe that the hotel uses does not have this facility.’ It was a lie, but he had taken the precaution of getting McDonald to wipe all the incriminating data while waiting for Lezard’s movie to finish.

Gregori started to say something but thought better of it. A waitress appeared with a bowl of roasted macadamia nuts. Placing them on the table, she smiled at Carlyle. ‘Would you like a drink, sir?’

‘No. I’ve got to get going. Thanks for your help, Mr Lezard.’

‘My pleasure,’ said Nicky archly.

The inspector watched Gregori as he took a handful of nuts. ‘I will keep you posted on the other matter.’ No longer interested in their conversation, the German simply nodded and looked away.

Sammy Baldwin-Lee, founder and part-owner of the Racetrack, the West End’s premier entertainment complex, clasped his mojito to his breast and looked out over the balcony, surveying his domain. The dance floor wasn’t as full as he would like, but then again, tonight’s main attraction, DJ Oscar 451, wasn’t due to take the stage for another couple of hours at least. Initially, Sammy had baulked at the cost of bringing Oscar over from Ibiza to play three mid-week sets in London. That was until his Marketing Manager, a rather louche woman called Wendy, had produced a set of spreadsheets showing that punters paid a minimum of £80 to get into one of Oscar’s gigs and the average spend at the bar was almost £125 a head.

‘You’ll be able to clear six figures, easy,’ Wendy had told him at their weekly finance meeting, ‘maybe seven. He’s the new David Guetta.’

Sammy didn’t have the first clue who the old David Guetta was, but he kept his mouth shut. He was a major nightclub-owner, after all, and he should know such things. He watched Wendy scratching at the sleeves of her cardigan. Maybe she’s on heroin, he thought. You never see her arms.