James Craig - Acts of Violence

‘So what did you do?’ the sergeant enquired. Unlike her boss, Roche seemed genuinely interested in the man’s story.

‘I got the lawyers involved, threatened to sue for constructive dismissal and took them to the cleaners.’ Howard raised a chuckle, but Carlyle could see that he considered it a pyrrhic victory. ‘Got a lump sum and my full pension – five years early. A terrible waste of taxpayers’ money really.’

‘Not the first,’ Carlyle mused, ‘and it won’t be the last.’

‘Not to mention a thirty-year career down the drain.’

Roche gestured at one of the photographs with her mug. ‘So where is Mrs Howard?’

Howard’s bottom lip began to quiver and for a moment it looked as if he might burst into tears. However, much to the inspector’s relief, he managed to pull himself together. ‘Ellen is still out there. She works for the Service too. They won’t let her come back to London and if she leaves now, well, she’s a few years younger than me, so her pension wouldn’t be up to much. For the moment, we have a bit of a long-distance relationship.’

What you might call a trial separation , Carlyle decided.

‘Couldn’t you have just stayed on, out there?’ Roche asked.

Saying nothing, Howard simply shook his head. Popping the other half of the biscuit into his mouth, he chewed it with a grim determination.

You’re not telling us the whole story, Carlyle thought, are you? Happily, it was none of his business. Tiring of the idle chit chat, he pointed at Roche. ‘The reason we’re here, sir, is that the sergeant thought that you might be able to explain to me what you saw on the night that Marvin Taylor and his colleagues were killed.’

Howard washed down the digestive with a mouthful of Merlot. ‘I think I can do rather better than that, Inspector.’

Carlyle glanced at Roche who made a no idea what he’s taking about gesture. ‘Oh?’

‘Yes.’ Howard finished the wine left in his glass and reached for the bottle. ‘I don’t have to explain what I saw. I can show you.’

The spare bedroom was scarcely big enough for the three of them to stand in at the same time. In the corner, by the window, a large computer screen perched precariously on a tiny table. Switching on the machine, Howard tapped a couple of times on the keyboard, bringing up a video player. ‘I shot this on my new phone,’ he explained. ‘My daughter-in-law got it for me as a retirement present. She showed me how to work it too. A lovely girl. Lives in Maidenhead with the grandkids.’

‘The phone is registered to the daughter-in-law,’ Roche explained, ‘which is why it took us a while to track Mr Howard down.’

That, and the fact that he was too drunk to give his name, Carlyle thought.

‘Ah yes,’ said Howard sheepishly. ‘I’m very sorry about that.’

‘We got there in the end,’ the inspector responded. ‘It was lucky that you were filming in the first place.’

‘It’s not something I make a habit of,’ Howard told them. ‘I was playing with the phone, trying it out, when I saw what happened. I’d had one or two and, I have to say, I didn’t know what to do, whether to record what was happening or call the police.’

Carlyle nodded.

‘Anyway, this is what I got.’ Enlarging the video so that it almost filled the whole screen, he hit the Play button and stood aside to allow them a better view. Carlyle and Roche stood in silence as they studied the shaky footage of the street outside. Parked on the corner, you could see the bonnet of Marvin Taylor’s van but not the cab, or the man inside. The time code on the bottom of the screen showed fifteen seconds of nothing – just an empty street. Then the first figure appeared, dressed all in black, with a baseball cap pulled down over its eyes.

Then a second.

Then a third.

‘The ninjas,’ Howard said. ‘It was the first word that came into my mind, I’m afraid.’

‘As good a description as any.’ Carlyle watched as two of the figures disappeared in the direction of the alley. The third – tall, sleek and athletic – disappeared around the side of the van. Instinctively, the inspector knew precisely who he was looking at.

Roche pointed at the screen. ‘That was when Marvin got garrotted.’

‘It’s a woman.’

Roche and Howard both leaned forward, squinting at the screen. ‘Maybe,’ said the sergeant. ‘Impossible to say. However, the statistics suggest otherwise.’

Carlyle grunted.

‘The numbers don’t lie,’ Roche insisted. ‘Even if you discount the upper-body strength that was required, you would not expect a woman to do something that savage. And so messy – urgh.’

‘I’ve seen her,’ Carlyle said, as much to himself as to Roche. ‘I know who she is.’ Kind of. Conscious of Howard’s presence, he added: ‘We can discuss it later.’

The picture wobbled and then the screen went blank.

‘That was when I dropped the phone and called 999.’ Howard scratched his nose. ‘It’s a truly amazing bit of kit though. Apparently you can film stories for the TV news on them, the quality’s that good.’

Carlyle and Roche exchanged glances.

‘You haven’t put this on YouTube, have you, sir?’

Roche took Howard’s bemused look as a ‘no’.

‘And you haven’t given this footage to any journalists?’

Howard shook his head vigorously. ‘Oh no. I wouldn’t do anything that silly.’

‘Good.’ Carlyle let out a small sigh of relief.

‘I know what a bunch of rapacious so-and-sos those fellows can be,’ said Howard with some feeling.

‘OK.’ Carlyle tapped the screen. ‘Let’s take another look.’

‘Why didn’t you mention this when we talked last time?’ Roche asked, once it had finished a second time.

‘To be honest, I wasn’t sure if I’d got it properly,’ Howard explained. ‘I thought I’d lost it. Once I finally managed to get it onto the computer, I sent it to your colleague, the young chap called . . .’ for a moment he struggled to recall the name ‘. . . Oliver.’

Roche frowned. ‘Oliver Steed?’

‘That’s right!’ Howard said, pleased. ‘I’m surprised he didn’t show it to you.’

‘Oliver’s been put on another case.’ Slipping easily into the lie, Carlyle gave the ex-Foreign Office man a conspiratorial wink. ‘A bit of a crisis up North. Anyway, we’ve been left holding the baby on this one and are having to retrace some of his steps.’ He glanced at Roche, who was staring at her shoes, trying not to blush. ‘These things happen sometimes.’

‘Don’t worry, Inspector,’ Howard chuckled. ‘I know all about dysfunctional organizations.’

Carlyle nodded sagely.

‘Anyway, once he’d got it, Oliver said I could delete my copy but, luckily for you, I hadn’t quite got round to that yet.’

Pulling a business card from his pocket, Carlyle handed it to Howard. ‘Maybe you could send it to me, as well? That way we’ve all got it.’

With Roche heading off to start her shift, the inspector made his way back into the centre of town. Walking through Leicester Square, he ducked up a side alley and approached a small black door marked STAFF ONLY . To the right of the door, at about head height, was an intercom with a keypad below it. Carlyle was just about to press the buzzer when a couple of tired-looking young women appeared at his side. Without a word, one of them punched in a code, pulled the door open, and disappeared inside with her friend. Grabbing the door handle before it shut, he counted to ten and then followed after them. Walking down a long, dark corridor, he came to a set of lifts. Picking the nearest one, he stepped inside and hit the button for the top floor.