James Craig - Acts of Violence

‘I need my bloody prescription,’ the man huffed.

‘Don’t worry, Mr Halliwell, I’ll get Hayley to come over and sort it out for you.’

With Hayley despatched to deal with the grumpy Halliwell, Carlyle stood next to a pile of cardboard boxes, while Vicky perched on the edge of a tiny desk that looked as if it had been nicked from the infant school round the corner.

‘He’s a cheery old sod, isn’t he?’ Carlyle said about the pensioner.

‘Mr H? He’s OK, just a bit lonely. He lives on Stukeley Street, just above the tattoo parlour. He’s been in the neighbourhood for almost sixty years. His wife died a few years ago and he doesn’t get out that much these days.’

That could be me, soon enough, Carlyle thought morosely. He tried to push the idea from his mind. ‘Do you know the names of all your customers?’

‘Just a few of the regulars. How’s the family?’

‘All good, thanks.’ Reaching into his pocket, he produced the bottle of pills swiped from Sebastian Gregori’s hotel room. ‘I was wondering if you could tell me what these are.’

Vicky took the bottle and inspected the label. ‘Triazolam is a sleeping pill. Probably not the most common type that we would see prescribed these days, but fairly common.’

‘Could you abuse them?’ He realized it was a stupid question before it had even left his mouth.

‘Trust me,’ Vicky grinned, ‘you can abuse anything. With prescription drugs, you have to follow the instructions to the letter.’

‘Of course,’ Carlyle nodded.

‘Why do you ask?’ She took another look at the label. ‘Has Mr . . . Kortmann come a cropper?’

‘Come a cropper?’ Carlyle laughed.

‘You know what I mean.’ She handed him back the bottle. ‘Did you find the victim face down in his own . . .?’

‘That’s CSI Miami, not boring old Covent Garden.’ Carlyle put the bottle back into his pocket.

‘Come on, Inspector, it’s not that boring.’

‘No, I suppose not. But there is no victim.’ Not yet, anyway. ‘And all this is strictly between us.’

Vicky knitted her eyebrows. ‘Yes, of course.’

‘Just a few preliminary enquiries.’

‘So I won’t be reading about it in the papers then?’

Carlyle stood up straight. ‘I most certainly hope not.’

‘Is that it?’

‘That’s it. Very helpful.’

‘Glad to be of assistance.’ Vicky slipped off the desk and led him out of the room. ‘Give Helen and Alice my best.’

‘Will do.’

Heading back through the shop, Carlyle saw Mr Halliwell chatting away happily to Hayley, wilfully oblivious of the queue of people that was building up behind him. Heading behind the counter, Vicky opened up a second till and got back to work.

Approaching the police station, Carlyle was still pondering the significance – if any – of finding Kortmann’s sleeping pills in Sebastian Gregori’s hotel room. Waiting to cross the road, he saw a council worker steam-cleaning the pavement at the spot where the flattened rodent had previously come to rest. RIP, Mousey, Carlyle thought, your fifteen minutes of fame are over. From the other side of the street came the sound of a dozen cameras whirring into action. Looking up, he saw a well-built black guy hurrying down the front steps of the station, trying to ignore the snappers as he pushed his way into the back of a black Lexus which slowly pulled away from the kerb. A couple of the photographers made a half-hearted attempt to follow it down the road but most reckoned that they’d already got their shot. By the time the car had disappeared round the corner, the majority were sitting on the pavement, laptops out, emailing the best shots to their picture desks.

‘Whoever that guy is,’ Carlyle mumbled to himself, ‘he’ll be all over the internet before I manage to get my computer switched on.’

On his way to the third floor, he bumped into Sergeant Elmhirst on the stairs. ‘Who was that who just left?’ he asked, manoeuvring himself up a couple of steps so that she was not towering over him.

‘Dunno. It’s been a total circus downstairs this morning and I’ve been keeping well out of it.’ Wearing no make-up, with her hair pulled back into a ponytail, Amelia Elmhirst looked ridiculously pretty and it was a struggle not to gawp.

‘Smart.’ He edged up another step. ‘And how’s Umar getting on?’

She frowned. ‘Sorry?’

‘No more photographs, I hope.’

‘I wouldn’t know about that either,’ she replied frostily.

‘But-’

‘You’d really need to ask him .’ Taking hold of the handrail, Elmhirst continued on her way before he could quiz her any further.

‘What are you doing here?’ Sitting at Carlyle’s desk, Sonia Coverdale looked up from the game she was playing on his PC. There were dark bags under her eyes and she looked like she hadn’t slept. ‘And how did you get on to my computer?’

‘Your sergeant got me started,’ she explained, adding: ‘He’s quite cute, isn’t he?’

‘He’s married with a kid,’ Carlyle grumped.

‘Lots of men are . . . you, for example.’ She returned her attention to the screen.

‘What are you doing here?’ he repeated.

‘There was no room downstairs, so they brought me up here.’ She giggled. ‘It’s like me getting an upgrade on my points, I suppose.’

‘Eh?’

‘I must have a lot of points on my police loyalty card by now. I’m one of your best customers, surely.’

‘That’s one way of looking at it.’ Resting on the edge of a nearby desk, Carlyle folded his arms. ‘Sonia,’ he said wearily, ‘why were you arrested?’

‘There was a bit of a fight at the Racetrack last night. Someone called the police.’

‘And your involvement was?’

‘Innocent bystander,’ she said, carefully tapping on his keyboard.

‘You are turning into a right shit magnet, aren’t you?’

She giggled again. ‘More like a puke magnet.’ Pushing the chair back from the desk, she gave him a blow-by-blow account of the night’s events. ‘Poor old Morag was sent to A amp;E at UCH. The rest of them are downstairs.’

‘I suppose I’d better go and take a look, then.’ Heading for the stairs, he shouted over his shoulder, ‘Can I get you a coffee, or anything?’

‘I’m fine, thanks,’ she said cheerily. ‘Umar’s gone to get me something from the canteen.’

‘Good for him,’ Carlyle muttered, ‘the smarmy sod.’

A look of profound disappointment swept across the face of Constable Mike Proctor as the inspector appeared in front of him. ‘I was hoping you were Vaughan,’ he said dolefully.

Having no idea who Vaughan was, Carlyle simply nodded.

‘He should have relieved me by now,’ Proctor yawned. ‘I’ve been here all night.’

‘Think of the overtime,’ was the only consolation that the inspector could offer.

Proctor patted his already ample stomach. ‘I’m thinking of a bacon sandwich.’

‘I can imagine.’ Carlyle gestured over his shoulder towards the cells. ‘I hear that you had a busy night last night.’

Proctor raised his eyes to the heavens. ‘It was like Piccadilly Circus in here. Most of them have gone now though. Sammy Baldwin-Lee was screaming and moaning till his lawyer got him out.’ He looked up at the inspector. ‘You know who he is, don’t ya?’

‘Oh yes,’ Carlyle said, making a mental note to go and visit Sammy in his lair before too long – encouraged by a vague sense that he might be able to dig up something to his advantage. ‘Everyone knows Sammy.’

‘Great club, the Racetrack. Great grub too.’

Carlyle shot the portly constable a sharp look.

‘So I’ve heard,’ Proctor added swiftly.