James Craig - Acts of Violence

‘Quite.’ The Police Federation might be one of the most successful trade unions ever, but even it would have trouble saving a member who liked to flash his member so indiscriminately. ‘What the hell did he think he was doing?’

‘People do strange things,’ was all Simpson could offer in response.

‘I suppose. Anyway, thanks for the heads-up. What happens next?’

‘I need to conduct a preliminary inquiry,’ Simpson said briskly, her inner line manager kicking in, ‘and then, if there is deemed a case to answer – which seems a formality in this situation – we will have a meeting with Sergeant Sligo and ask him to explain his side of the story. Then, barring some miraculous explanation, he will be suspended pending a formal hearing.’

‘OK.’ Carlyle thought about that for a moment. ‘The thing is, I could do with him right now, what with this German business.’ And the ‘ninjas’.

‘I can’t sit on it for too long but one of the girls who made a complaint is on holiday this week and next, so you’ve got a bit of time. Of course, you have to keep this under your hat,’ Simpson chuckled to herself, ‘no pun intended.’

‘I understand.’

‘Umar will have plenty of time to prepare his response but you mustn’t warn him in advance. We can’t have him running around trying to nobble the witnesses.’

‘I don’t think he’d try to do that.’ Carlyle felt a sudden urge to protect his wayward colleague. ‘He might be a bit immature but he’s not threatening.’

‘That’s not really for you or me to decide, is it?’

‘Perhaps not. But you know what I mean.’

‘Whatever we think privately,’ Simpson stated, ‘we have to be above reproach in the way that we are seen to handle these matters. Apart from anything else, this kind of thing is manna from heaven for the papers.’ Picking up her bag, she hoisted it onto her shoulder. ‘Which reminds me, I see that your journalist chum Bernie Gilmore has been writing about Operation Oakwood.’

‘He’s hardly my chum,’ said Carlyle rather defensively.

Simpson waved away his protests. ‘There is considerable unhappiness upstairs about leaks on this one.’

‘Nothing to do with me, this Operation . . .’

‘Oakwood.’

‘Don’t know anything about it.’

‘Is that right?’ Simpson looked disbelieving.

‘Speaking of leaks,’ Carlyle said brightly, ‘do you think we should let the press know about the Kortmann kidnapping?’

‘Ah, yes, exactly. That was the other thing I wanted to discuss. Where are we on that?’

Carlyle explained about the sleeping pills he had discovered at the Garden Hotel, glossing over how exactly they had come into his possession.

‘And that’s your only line of enquiry?’ she scoffed. ‘Kortmann’s private eye? What about Sylvia Tosches?’

‘If you mean Barbara Hutton and her husband,’ Carlyle replied, ‘we’re still looking for them. But there’s something about this guy Sebastian Gregori . . . I think he’s trying to run some scam.’

‘Well, get some proof, dammit. Used to be you’d never act on a hunch; now it’s all you seem to do.’

‘Hardly.’

Simpson jabbed an angry finger in Carlyle’s direction. ‘Getting old and lazy, that’s what it is.’

‘Thanks for the vote of confidence, boss.’

‘Prove me wrong.’ She gestured for him to get out of the doorway. ‘Have you informed Kortmann’s family yet?’

‘No. I was waiting to see if Gregori did that.’

‘And?’

‘He’s not made any contact, as far as I know.’

‘Hmm. Maybe he is bent. Keep digging. But don’t be too long about it. At the very least, we will have to speak to the German Embassy before your mate Bernie gets the scoop.’

‘He’s not-’ Carlyle began, but Simpson darted out into the hallway. He chased after her. ‘One final thing.’

Pausing at the top of the stairs, Simpson checked her watch. ‘Make it quick, Inspector, I’m due to see Maverick in less than an hour.’

‘Maverick?’

‘My mount for the Trooping the Colour. He’s quite a specimen.’

‘Good for him.’

‘After that, I’ve got to go and talk to an MP who claims he’s been the victim of a bullying campaign on Twitter.’

Carlyle gave a sympathetic tut. ‘Busy day.’

‘People are so bloody thin-skinned these days.’ Simpson heaved a sigh. ‘Tea and sympathy, that’s just about all I do.’

‘And riding the horse.’ Ignoring her glare, the inspector quickly ran through what he had come across in relation to Marvin Taylor’s death, Tallow Business Services and the mysterious Li Hang, aka Ren Qi.

‘Give it to SO15.’ Digging out a credit card from her purse, the Commander began down the stairs. ‘No doubt Alison Roche will make sure it gets properly looked at. After all, she learned at the feet of the master – John Carlyle himself.’ Laughing at her own joke, she disappeared to collect her fancy titfer.

On the way back to Charing Cross, he put a call in to Roche. The phone rang for what seemed like an eternity before the sergeant picked up.

‘Inspector. What can I do you for?’

Carlyle was conscious of a strange humming noise in the background. ‘This isn’t a bad time, is it?’

‘I’m not on duty,’ Roche pointed out, ‘but it’s OK. I can talk.’

The noise was getting louder. ‘Where are you?’ Carlyle asked.

There was a pause before Roche said: ‘I’m at the Beekeeping Club.’

‘The what?’

‘The Beekeeping Club,’ she repeated. ‘SO15 set it up a couple of months ago to help firearms officers de-stress.’

‘And is it working?’ Carlyle asked, intrigued.

‘This is only my second visit, but I’ll keep you posted.’

‘Just make sure you don’t get caught in any sting operations,’ the inspector giggled.

‘Yes, yes,’ Roche said flatly. ‘Very good. Never heard that one before. Not in the last ten seconds anyway.’

‘Sorry.’ The inspector bit his upper lip.

‘Was there something I could help you with?’

Was there? Distracted by the bees, it took Carlyle a moment to remember the purpose of his call. ‘I was just wondering,’ he said finally, ‘did you ever find out any more about those “ninjas”?’

‘Nah. They eventually tracked down the bloke who made the call but he turned out to be a complete alkie. I spoke to him myself, or at least I tried. It was barely eleven in the morning and the guy was already sozzled.’

‘A quality wino then?’

‘Oh, a perfectly nice bloke. Lives in a flat that’s probably worth a couple of million, if not more.’

Carlyle let out a low whistle.

‘Easily. Gerald Howard’s certainly no dosser. More of your nice middle-class dipso. A functioning alcoholic, at least up until lunchtime. The problem is, he was probably on bottle number four or five by the time it all happened. By that stage he could barely remember his own name. Hardly what you could call a reliable witness.’

Carlyle recalled the statuesque associate of Ren Qi who had turned up at the police station. ‘I was wondering if one of the ninjas could have been a woman.’

‘Boss,’ Roche responded, exasperated, ‘they could have been little green men for all we know. There’s nothing to show that they existed at all.’

‘Someone sliced Marvin’s head off,’ he reminded her. ‘That was hardly a figment of Mr Howard’s imagination.’

‘No.’

‘Could a woman have done it?’

‘Yes, in theory. You’d need a strong stomach, as well as strong arms though.’

Stepping off the pavement, he was almost knocked down by a Lycra-clad cyclist racing round the corner. ‘Watch where you’re fucking going,’ the rider snarled. Carlyle flipped him the finger but the guy was already fifty yards down the road, shooting through the next red light.