James Craig - Acts of Violence

‘Sure,’ Gapper said, reaching for a packet of Benson amp; Hedges in his jacket pocket. ‘Suits me.’

Umar reappeared, zipping himself up while still trying to scrape the worst of Carlyle’s smoothie from his crotch.

‘You look a right mess,’ Carlyle sniggered.

‘And whose bloody fault is that?’

‘Yeah, yeah.’ The inspector gestured for Umar to follow him. ‘C’mon, let’s go and see what this bent bugger is up to.’

‘Where’s the Beemer?’ Standing where the car had been, Carlyle scanned the horizon like a lost sailor searching for land. Hands on hips, he turned through 360 degrees in the vain hope of catching a glimpse of black metallic paint. All he saw was grass; lots of grass. Suddenly he felt hungry. Wishing he’d had something to eat in the café in North Finchley, he wondered how far away they were from food of any description. Miles, probably.

Ten yards along the road was a gap in the hedge, with a low, wide metal gate. Umar climbed up on the bottom rung and peered over. ‘Looks like he went in here.’

Carlyle sauntered over to take a look. ‘It’s an empty field.’

Umar pointed to a set of muddy tracks leading from the gate to nowhere in particular. ‘That’s the car.’

‘Maybe.’

‘Let’s go and take a look.’ Without waiting for his boss, Umar vaulted the gate and began jogging across the field.

Wearily, Carlyle hauled himself over the gate and followed at a more sedate pace. ‘Let’s just hope,’ he said to himself, ‘we don’t come across some farmer with a loaded shotgun.’

It took the best part of twenty minutes for the inspector to cross the first field, by which time Umar was through another gate and halfway across a second field, heading towards a wood. Quite the little Boy Scout, Carlyle thought, panting. Tired and hungry, he pulled out his phone to call Gapper to come and pick them up. The screen, however, showed no signal.

‘Great.’ Shoving the phone back in his pocket, the inspector soldiered on.

He caught up with Umar at the edge of the woods where the sergeant was having another piss.

‘Weak bladder?’ Carlyle enquired. ‘Maybe you should get your prostate checked.’

‘Maybe you should get yours checked, old man .’ Umar gestured towards where the vehicle tracks came into the wood. ‘There’s a gravel road down there. It’ll be to provide access for farm vehicles; more than big enough to get the Beemer down.’

But the inspector was in no mood for further adventures. ‘It could go on for miles,’ he demurred, taking a seat on a conveniently located tree stump.

‘There’s only one way to find out.’

‘Have you got a signal on your phone?’

Umar checked his handset. ‘Nah.’

Remembering that this whole palaver had been his idea in the first place, Carlyle reluctantly pushed himself to his feet. ‘OK then,’ he sighed, ‘having come this far, I suppose we might as well go and take a look.’

They walked in silence for nearly half an hour, each man keeping his thoughts to himself. The inspector was fantasizing about a Flat White from the Monmouth coffee shop when Umar put a hand on his arm.

‘Did you hear that?’ he whispered.

For several moments, Carlyle did an impersonation of a man straining to distinguish the different sounds around him. Holding his breath, he focused all his attention on trying to pick apart the soundwaves bouncing off his eardrums.

After a while, he exhaled, shaking his head. ‘Nothing, just the wind in the trees.’

‘Listen!’ Umar hissed.

The inspector tried again. Still he could make out nothing of note. No point in telling Umar that, he thought. After all, it was nice to have the boy enthused about a task for a change. ‘Yes,’ he nodded. ‘You’re right.’

‘See?’ Umar grinned. ‘I told you.’

Carlyle looked at his sergeant expectantly. ‘What is it?’

Umar, however, was distracted by something over his shoulder.

‘Step backwards,’ a voice barked.

Lifting his hands in surrender, the sergeant did as instructed.

‘Fuck’s sake,’ Carlyle tutted. ‘I knew we shouldn’t have gone wandering about in the countryside.’

‘No,’ Sebastian Gregori concurred, ‘you should have stayed in your own little world and done your own little job. That shouldn’t have been too difficult, should it?’ Bouncing on the balls of his feet, he clubbed the inspector across the back of the skull with his pistol. Falling to his knees, Carlyle flinched as a shot rang out above his head.

As the ringing in his ears subsided, the inspector slowly opened his eyes. In front of him, Umar was rolling on the ground, holding his left thigh.

‘Shiiiit . . .’ the sergeant screamed. ‘I’ve been shot. The fucking bastard shot me.’

‘It’s only a flesh wound,’ Gregori said contemptuously. ‘Show some balls. You could be dead by now. As it is, worst-case scenario, you’ll have a slight limp for a while.’

Or you could have no balls at all, Carlyle thought, as he watched the smoothie stain on Umar’s crotch disappear under a slowly spreading bloodstain. Staying down, the inspector watched the German circle round in front of him, keeping the prostrate sergeant between them.

‘That was just to let you know that I am serious.’

‘I never doubted it.’ Carlyle kept his eyes on the gun.

‘Not that I want you dead, you understand. I just have to even the numbers up a bit, seeing as there’s two of you and only one of me.’

Good to know . Carlyle glanced at Umar, who was muttering to himself through gritted teeth as he tried to staunch the flow of blood.

‘Help him up,’ Gregori commanded.

Slowly, Carlyle got to his feet and stumbled over to Umar.

Squeamish at the best of times, the sight of blood made his stomach do a somersault. What should he do? A tourniquet perhaps? For the first time in his career, he wished he’d taken one of the First Aid courses regularly on offer at Charing Cross. He offered a hand to his stricken colleague. ‘Can you get up?’

Still holding his leg, Umar showed no inclination to move. ‘I’ve been fucking shot, you dick.’

Looking around helplessly, Carlyle’s gaze alighted on Gregori’s tie. The German might be psycho, but at least he was a well-dressed pyscho, with a white shirt and a very nice red and green number around his neck. The inspector held out a hand. ‘Gimme your tie.’

‘Huh?’ The German wiggled the gun irritatedly at his captives. ‘Get on with it.’

‘Give me the tie,’ Carlyle repeated, ‘and I’ll try to get him up.’

‘But it’s Hugo Boss,’ Gregori objected.

‘Just give me the sodding tie.’ Reluctantly, the German complied, clawing at the knot with his free hand, while keeping the gun trained on Carlyle.

‘Here.’ Pulling the tie from around his neck, Gregori threw it towards them.

‘Thank you.’ Ignoring Umar’s protests, Carlyle set about tying it around the top of the sergeant’s thigh before carefully helping him to his feet.

‘That way.’ Gregori gestured down the path. ‘Keep going. It’s not very far.’

Entering a small paddock, in front of a group of three low buildings, Carlyle helped Umar sit down on a large stone. Off to the left, their BMW was parked next to an ancient Land Rover. Behind the vehicles, a single-lane tarmacked road led away from the buildings. Presumably this was where Kortmann had been brought. Maybe the businessman was still here. The motive for his ‘kidnapping’ was still a mystery, but the inspector had seen enough in his time to know that there was no reason to assume that things had to make any sense at all. His gaze alighted on a small patch of ground next to a fallen tree that looked as if it had been recently dug up. Maybe Kortmann’s in there, he thought grimly.