James Craig - Acts of Violence

‘We’ll have a lot of explaining to do at UCH,’ Simpson said moodily.

‘Nothing we can’t talk our way out of,’ Carlyle countered. ‘And at least we’ll be on home turf.’

A gust of wind swept through the barn, causing Simpson to shiver. ‘You don’t really operate very well outside of Zone 1 of the tube map, do you, John?’

‘The fresh air doesn’t agree with me,’ Carlyle grinned. ‘Not enough lead in it.’

‘You should have protected your colleague.’

Carlyle gave Simpson a disbelieving look. The colleague you are going to hang out to dry in the next few weeks? ‘Look,’ he started, ‘if you want to play the blame game, who got us into the mess in the first place? You were the one who told me we had to help Gregori and Kortmann.’

Ignoring him, Simpson stalked out into the paddock. Following her outside, Carlyle gestured towards the other buildings. ‘Anything of interest in there?’

Relieved that the inspector was not looking to continue the argument, she shook her head. ‘Not really. We can check who owns the property in the morning.’

‘No sign of Kortmann, I suppose.’

‘Nothing. Only the newspaper in your cell to suggest he’s been here.’

‘There was some freshly dug ground.’ Carlyle gestured towards the fallen tree. ‘Over there. Maybe-’

Simpson shook her head. ‘It’s someone’s vegetable garden. There’s no body.’

The inspector looked almost dismayed. ‘So we’re pretty much back at square one.’

‘Hardly,’ Simpson corrected him. ‘We now know that Gregori is our man. I’ll call in Forensics, see what else they can discover.’

Carlyle bridled at the suggestion. ‘Maybe that is not such a good idea. Not right now, at least.’ The lights were on in one of the buildings. Through a ground-floor window, he could see a fridge. Further along was an open door. Carlyle began walking towards it. ‘We don’t have the remotest clue about what’s going on here. Who the hell is this guy Gregori? What’s he playing at? And how was he able to dupe his client? That’s what we need to find out. Not to mention, what the hell is he going to do next?’ Not waiting for a reply, he went in search of the kitchen, hoping that the crazy kidnapper had at least left some decent food behind.

Pulling open the fridge door, Carlyle gave silent thanks to Gregori for at least being organized enough to buy some groceries. Helping himself to a Jamaican beer, some Dutch cheese and the remains of a baguette, he began filling his stomach.

Stepping into the kitchen, Simpson watched impassively as her underling stuffed his face. ‘I hope you’ve left something for Umar,’ she said.

Chugging down the beer, Carlyle stifled a burp. ‘Don’t worry, there’s plenty.’ He gestured towards the fridge with his can. ‘Want a beer?’

The Commander thought about it for a moment. ‘Why not? It’s been a long day.’ Stepping over to the fridge, she pulled out a can of Red Stripe, cracked it open and took a long drink. ‘Aaah.’ Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, she rested her behind on the edge of a workbench. ‘You know,’ she said, staring at her can, ‘even by your standards, today has been quite a cock-up.’

‘I know,’ Carlyle replied unapologetically, shoving another chunk of cheese into his mouth and washing it down with the last of his beer. Crushing the can, he dropped it onto the table. In the corner was a pile of neatly folded plastic bags; grabbing one, he opened it up and placed the can inside. ‘We don’t want to leave any rubbish with our fingerprints on it, do we?’ Placing the bag on the table, he returned to the fridge. ‘Just in case Forensics do happen to turn up, one day.’

‘You’re going to wipe that down, as well?’

‘Of course,’ Carlyle said airily. ‘There’s no harm in being paranoid.’ Grabbing the last can of lager, he closed the door and wiped down the handle with a grubby tea towel. Opening the can, he took a swig as Simpson gave him a look. ‘Well,’ he shrugged, ‘it’s not like Umar can drink it. And Gapper’s driving.’ With Simpson making no further objections, they drank in silence for several moments. ‘By the way,’ Carlyle said finally, ‘how did you find us?’

‘Gapper played a blinder,’ Simpson told him. ‘By the time I made it up here, he had followed your trail and found the road that comes in from the other side. He assumed that you were in here as there’s nowhere else for miles.’

‘Good for him,’ Carlyle said, finishing off the last of the cheese and speaking with his mouth full. ‘If he thought we were here though, why didn’t he come in and get us out? Gregori legged it hours ago.’

‘He had no way of knowing that. For all he knew, he could have stumbled right into a nutter with a gun.’ Lifting the can to her lips, she smiled. ‘Just like you did.’

‘Thanks for reminding me,’ Carlyle grumbled.

‘Like I said,’ Simpson teased, ‘you just can’t function outside of Zone One.’ Taking a final mouthful of beer, she poured what remained into the sink and dropped the can into the plastic bag. ‘So, what do you want to do now?’

‘We’d better put the word out about Gregori,’ Carlyle said. ‘We can’t have him scampering around the Home Counties, armed and dangerous.’

‘Leave that to me,’ Simpson replied. ‘I’ll make sure that it’s done in a way that doesn’t scare the horses.’

‘OK. Then let’s get back to London. See what else we can find out about him. Think how we can manage the mess when the news gets out that we helped a nutter to kidnap some German industrialist.’ Sweeping up the bag of rubbish, he looked at Simpson. ‘Who put the two of them on to you in the first place?’

‘Someone in the Commissioner’s office.’ The Commander exhaled. ‘There was nothing particularly surprising about that. Like I said before, it was the kind of referral that you get on a fairly regular basis. “Just make sure that so and so feels that they are being properly looked after.” You know what it’s like; plenty of VIPs turn up expecting us to do their bidding.’

‘Tell me about it,’ Carlyle agreed.

‘I just passed them on to you.’

‘Maybe you need to have a word with the Commissioner.’

‘Ha.’ She waved the idea away with a dismissive flick of her hand. ‘What exactly would I say? Anyway, I’m sure he knows nothing about it; it was just a name on a piece of paper that came across his desk that he delegated.’

And we don’t want to lose the Trooping the Colour gig, do we? Carlyle thought. But it was a cheap shot and he knew it. ‘In that case, maybe we need to speak to some people in Germany.’

She looked at him doubtfully.

‘Don’t worry,’ he told her. ‘I think I know where to start.’

With Umar bundled into the back of the Astra, Carlyle took up Simpson’s offer of a ride in her Range Rover. Setting off in convoy, they headed back towards London. Once his network coverage was restored, Carlyle called home. Helen sounded like she’d been asleep. Skipping any mention of his rustic adventure, he told her he should be home in a couple of hours and let her get back to bed. That done, he made a second call. The phone rang for several moments before someone finally picked up.

‘Hello?’

‘Ben? Look, sorry for ringing you so late. It’s John Carlyle, from Macklin Street.’ Ben and Elizabeth Crane lived in a townhouse just off Seven Dials and played a leading role in the Covent Garden Residents Association, which was active in trying to keep the local nightlife to manageable levels. Carlyle had first come across the couple a few years earlier when the Association had helped get a kebab shop closed on Macklin Street. Since then, he and Helen had been out with the Cranes a couple of times socially. The inspector had never been entirely clear what Ben did for a living. Elizabeth, on the other hand, was a Registrar at University College Hospital and therefore a good contact to have at times like this.