James Craig - Acts of Violence

Keeping his distance, Gregori circled the two policemen. There was a vaguely satisfied look on the German’s face. For the first time, the inspector wondered if he might really be bonkers.

With his free hand, Gregori pointed towards the building, furthest from the vehicles. ‘You are going in there, gentlemen, so if you please . . .’

The building looked like a barn, with a large wooden door at one end and no windows, at least on the side that Carlyle could see. Even from this distance, it was clear that the door was badly warped and rotting at the bottom. Its green paint had flaked off in large patches and there was no sign of a lock. Not much of a prison.

‘ Please ,’ Gregori repeated.

With a troubled sigh, Carlyle leaned over and helped Umar back onto his feet. The sergeant’s skin was cold and clammy and his eyes were glazed. He’s gone into shock, Carlyle thought. Flesh wound or not, the boy needs some medical attention. Slowly, he led him over the rough ground towards the building. Walking ahead of them, Gregori pulled open the door and gestured for them to enter.

Inside, the barn was cool and dark. The smell of damp and decay filled his nostrils as Carlyle let his eyes adjust to the gloom.

‘In there.’

Oh shit. Feeling his knees buckle, Carlyle had to quickly adjust his stance to prevent himself and the sergeant from both falling over. Bolted on to the back wall of the barn was a cage, a lattice of narrow metal bars roughly twelve feet wide and twelve feet high. The floor of the cage was covered with dirty-looking straw and, next to the door were lined up a dozen two-litre bottles of water, a couple of toilet rolls and a metal bucket. The whole scene was like something out of a torture porn movie.

‘In you go.’

Reluctantly, the inspector led Umar inside, laying him carefully on the straw as Gregori padlocked the door behind them. ‘Make yourselves comfortable,’ the man advised them. ‘You may be here for a little while.’

‘My colleague needs a doctor,’ Carlyle replied, trying to keep his voice from cracking. On cue, Umar let out an anguished groan.

Gregori dropped the key into his pocket, saying tersely, ‘He’ll live.’

‘He’s lost a lot of blood,’ Carlyle persisted.

‘He’ll still live,’ Gregori said. ‘The human body is a wonderful thing.’

Reaching for one of the bottles, the inspector knelt down by his colleague. Unscrewing the cap, he lifted the bottle to Umar’s lips and forced him to drink a little water. ‘Slowly, slowly,’ Carlyle said, ‘there’s no rush.’

Smiling weakly, Umar signalled that he’d had enough.

Over his shoulder, the inspector shouted: ‘What about food?’

‘Later.’

‘You know they’ll be looking for us.’

‘Looking is one thing,’ Gregori replied. ‘Finding is another.’

Don’t I know it. Just then, the inspector caught sight of something lying in the corner of the cage; it was a newspaper. Was it the one Kortmann had been holding in his photograph? Maybe. Getting back to his feet, he turned to face Gregori. ‘You brought Werner Kortmann here?’

Smirking, Gregori said nothing.

Taking a gulp of water, Carlyle rinsed his mouth before spitting it onto the ground. ‘What I don’t understand is why you would kidnap your own client?’ Replacing the cap on the bottle, he placed it back with the others. ‘Perhaps you could explain it to me?’

The German’s smirk grew wider. ‘Do you really want to know?’

‘Of course.’

Contemplating his answer, Gregori scratched his temple with the muzzle of his gun. ‘In that case,’ he said finally, ‘you’ll have to see if you can work it out for yourself. However, with your track record I doubt very much that you will be able to manage it.’ Argument won, their captor turned and headed towards the light.

‘Wanker.’ Lowering himself to the floor, Carlyle leaned back against the side of the cage and yawned. For a while, he sat staring into space, thinking about nothing in particular, his Zen-like calm only interrupted by the sound of a car starting up and driving away.

‘There goes the Beemer.’ Carlyle looked over at his sergeant who was staring into space. ‘What do you suggest we do now, then?’

Umar’s only response was to turn on his side and throw up.

After dozing for a while, Carlyle woke with a start. It was properly dark now, after 10 p.m. according to his still signal-less BlackBerry. Helen will be pissed off, he thought dolefully.

In the middle of the cage, Umar muttered something in his sleep. His breathing was heavy but he seemed comfortable enough. Christina won’t be too happy, either.

Enough light from the paddock trickled under the doorway for the inspector to glimpse something rustling in the hay near Umar’s head. Hoping it was just his imagination, he struggled to his feet, his stiff joints protesting all the way up. Conscious of his aching bladder, he stepped up to the bars and unzipped his trousers.

In mid-flow, he was interrupted by a noise outside. There was the sound of multiple vehicles, followed by footsteps and hushed voices. He just had time to finish up before the main door creaked open and a light was switched on. He had to shield his eyes against the sudden glare.

‘So there you are.’ Carole Simpson strode up to the cage and placed her hands on her hips. An amused grin played at her lips as she took in the scene. ‘Inspector John Carlyle behind bars. I have to say I rather like it.’

‘This is no time for jokes.’ Carlyle gestured towards Umar, who was still flat out on his back, seemingly unmoved by the new arrivals. ‘Get us out of here.’

From behind Simpson, Gapper appeared and stared at the padlock. ‘Get an axe, or a set of bolt cutters, or something,’ Carlyle hissed. With a nod, Gapper turned and headed off to see what he could find.

‘You should be a bit more gracious, John,’ Simpson admonished him, once the driver had disappeared. ‘If it wasn’t for young Gapper, you would have been in a world of trouble.’

‘And here’s me thinking we were in Butlins,’ Carlyle said sarcastically.

‘When you went AWOL, at least Gapper had the sense to call the station. Who would you rather have, turning up to rescue you? Us, or the local plod?’

Not wishing to concede the point, Carlyle simply glared at her.

‘Or we could have decided it could wait and then taken a leisurely stroll up here sometime tomorrow.’

Carlyle was momentarily distracted by further rustling in the straw. ‘All right, all right. You’ve made your point. Just get us out of here.’

In the event, it took Gapper the best part of twenty minutes to find an axe and smash the lock. Once the cage had been opened, the driver used the First Aid kit from the boot of the Astra and carefully cleaned up Umar’s wound.

‘Do you know what you’re doing?’ Carlyle asked.

‘I did the First Aid course last month,’ Gapper explained evenly, not looking up as he wrapped a gauze bandage around the sergeant’s thigh. ‘I know enough to patch him up until we get to hospital.’

‘It’s just a flesh wound,’ Umar said, decidedly more chipper now that they had been rescued. ‘Let’s get back to London. You can drop me at UCH.’ University College Hospital, at the top of Tottenham Court Road, was barely fifteen minutes from Charing Cross police station.

Simpson looked on doubtfully.

Taping up the bandage, Gapper handed Umar half a dozen ibuprofen in a foil wrapper. ‘At this time of night we can be there in an hour or so,’ he pointed out. ‘At least we know where it is. It could take us almost as long to find a local hospital.’

‘And you don’t want to leave him out in the sticks,’ Carlyle chimed in. ‘We’d have a lot of explaining to do.’