James Craig - Acts of Violence

‘Christina called me this afternoon.’ Helen looked at her wine but made no effort to reach for the glass.

Uh, oh. Carlyle wondered if he should have called Umar’s wife on their way back to London. Too late to worry about that now.

‘She said,’ Helen lowered her voice so that, even sitting next to her, he had to strain to hear her over the hubbub, ‘that Umar got shot .’

‘Just a minor scratch.’ Carlyle tried to calculate how much Umar would have told his wife and how much Christina, in turn, would have told Helen.

‘Hmm.’ Finally reaching for her glass, Helen took a sip of her wine. The poppadums arrived. Showing no interest in her parents’ conversation, Alice began mechanically breaking them up and shovelling pieces into her mouth. ‘According to Christina, it sounded like a gangland shooting.’

‘Nothing so dramatic,’ Carlyle said airily, grabbing a poppadum while he still had the chance. Breaking it in half he plastered some mango chutney on it. ‘It was just an accident. You know what a drama queen he can be.’

‘Christina says he wants to leave.’

And he might get his wish, very soon. Now, however, was not the time or the place to tell Helen about his sergeant’s foray into photography. ‘He’s always said he fancied being a househusband but they can’t afford it.’ The waitress returned to take their order and Carlyle gave her a big smile, grateful that his grilling had been interrupted.

‘And another thing,’ Helen continued, ‘why didn’t you tell me about Chase Race?’

‘Who?’

‘The rapper,’ Alice helpfully reminded him from behind her book. ‘Likes to beat up his girlfriend. Mum wants to get her hands on his cash.’

‘Alice.’

‘Oh, that Chase Race,’ Carlyle laughed, cheered by his wife’s irritation. ‘What’s he done now?’

‘He spent the night in your cells,’ Alice told him. ‘Didn’t you know?’

‘Ah. That would explain all the snappers hanging around the other day.’

‘Honestly, John,’ said Helen, exasperated, ‘sometimes I think you walk around in a daze. You never pay any attention. What do you do all day?’

‘Now you’re sounding like my boss,’ he said.

‘There was a fight in a nightclub,’ Alice giggled, ‘and Mr Race was arrested. Now he’s offering Avalon a hundred and fifty grand to try and rehabilitate his reputation.’

‘Wow.’ Carlyle looked at Helen. ‘Is that right?’

‘Yeah. Every time he does something stupid, he lumps in an extra £50,000.’

‘You should sit tight,’ Carlyle chuckled. ‘It’ll be a million soon enough.’

‘I personally want to bite his hand off. The Board are still more than a bit sniffy about it though.’

‘God. As if your job isn’t hard enough.’ As he gave her a consoling pat on the arm, an idea started to flicker in his brain. ‘Have you met this guy?’

‘Once. Why?’

‘What was he like?’

‘Like someone who was struggling to pretend he was housetrained,’ Helen said drily. ‘In a word, feral.’

‘That’s what kids are into these days,’ Alice observed.

Carlyle thought about it for a moment. ‘Do you think you could arrange for me to meet him?’

He had been at his desk long enough to switch on his computer and let a wave of ennui wash over him when Amelia Elmhirst sauntered over, grinning from ear to ear. Dressed in a pair of skinny jeans and a grey silk blouse, she looked totally out of place in the shabby surroundings of the third floor of Charing Cross police station. Deploying the willpower of a dozen men, Carlyle tried not to stare.

‘I hear that you got Umar shot,’ she said, perching on the edge of their absent colleague’s desk.

‘Not quite,’ the inspector replied, keeping his eyes firmly on the screen of his computer. The cleaners had made a halfhearted attempt to remove Sonia Coverdale’s lipstick but her faded message was still perfectly readable. Wondering how Sonia was getting on, he made a mental note to get some proper screen wipes the next time he passed a Superdrug store.

‘It’s the talk of the station,’ the sergeant giggled. ‘You walked him into an ambush and he nearly got his balls shot off.’

‘That might have been a blessing,’ Carlyle riposted, not missing a beat. ‘Put a stop to the boy’s interest in photography.’ He was surprised to see Elmhirst blush slightly.

‘Apparently he’s gonna be off sick for months.’

At this, Carlyle sat back in his chair and folded his arms. ‘I followed Umar into an ambush,’ he informed her, ‘and had a nasty smack to my head, by the way. He took a minor flesh wound to the thigh. Nothing serious and his famous wedding tackle was never in any danger. The doctor says he should take a week or two off. All this stuff you’ve been hearing is just exaggerated nonsense.’

Elmhirst nodded solemnly. ‘You know what it’s like; the truth is always the first casualty of war.’

‘You shouldn’t listen to the gossip,’ Carlyle admonished her.

‘Gossip or not,’ she shot back, ‘you’d better make a big contribution to his collection.’

‘Collection?’

‘The guys on the front desk started it last night,’ Elmhirst explained. ‘They’ve got more than £200 already.’

‘It was just a bloody scratch,’ Carlyle objected as he calculated how much he would have to drop into the pot; £30 at least. ‘Anyway,’ he sighed, ‘was there something I could help you with?’

‘Well,’ she said brightly, ‘I’m Umar’s replacement – in the short-term at least.’

‘Oh?’ The inspector felt his mood lighten immediately.

‘Commander Simpson asked me to step into the breach.’

‘Excellent.’

‘She said that my languages might be useful.’ Noticing his baffled look, she added, ‘I speak French, Portuguese and German.’

As Elmhirst disappeared back downstairs, Carlyle idly speculated on the possibility of having her as a full-time replacement for the hapless Umar. After a while, the mobile on his desk started vibrating and he picked it up. There was no Caller ID on the screen but he took it anyway.

‘Carlyle.’

‘Inspector, you are sounding cheery this morning. Been busy locking up criminals?’

‘Something like that,’ Carlyle said coolly. ‘How are things in the imploding world of the media?’

‘Oh, you know. Same as ever – a constant struggle for survival in the face of the forces of progress.’

Carlyle glanced at the clock on the far wall. ‘It’s a bit early for you, Bernie, isn’t it?’

‘It’s a 24-7 operation these days,’ Bernie Gilmore replied sadly, ‘constant rolling deadlines. We journalists never sleep.’

‘My heart bleeds. What can I do for you then, at this early hour?’

‘I have a little story that I’m lining up . . .’

Carlyle’s heart sank. ‘If this is about bloody Operation Oakwood-’

‘No, no. That didn’t really have any legs. This is something different.’

‘Yes?’ The inspector ran through a range of possibilities in his head, none of them good. Where did their little out-of-town adventure take place – Bedfordshire? Did Bernie have any contacts there?

‘I was wondering if you might be able to give me some information about a hat.’

A hat?

‘Inspector? Are you still there?’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Carlyle irritably. ‘You want some information about what?’

‘I’m running a story about the £1,000-headgear that your boss has bought for Trooping the Colour.’

‘I thought it was only . . .’ He stopped himself in mid-sentence.

‘What?’

‘N-nothing,’ he stammered. ‘What has Trooping the Colour got to do with anything?’