James Craig - Acts of Violence

Clanking and shuddering, the lift slowly ascended. When the door opened, Carlyle found himself on a spacious landing, with doors off to either side. On the far wall, under a massive print of Debbie Harry circa 1980, was an uncomfortable-looking sofa. Reclining on it was a familiar giant, wheezing away, engrossed in a comic book.

‘Kendrick!’ Carlyle greeted him. ‘How’s it going?’

Kendrick Saunders looked up from his copy of Justice League and scowled. The bouncer had never forgotten – or forgiven – the inspector for trying to have him jailed for putting a customer in hospital after a dispute about a bill. In the event, Kendrick had escaped with fifty hours of community service and a £2,000 fine but he still resented the fact that the policeman had shown an undue zeal in trying to secure a custodial sentence. ‘What do you want?’

‘Where’s Sammy?’ Carlyle demanded, all trace of bonhomie extinguished.

Kendrick tipped his comic, gesturing towards the door on Carlyle’s right.

‘Thanks.’

‘But he’s busy,’ Kendrick growled.

‘Don’t worry, I won’t take up too much of his time.’

Watching the inspector stride towards the door, the bouncer thought about getting up before deciding that it would be too much effort. ‘Suit yourself,’ he muttered, returning to his reading.

If the inspector had been expecting to find Sammy Baldwin-Lee up to no good, he was sorely disappointed. Striding into the office, he found the club-owner sitting behind his desk engrossed in a copy of the Financial Times . Just about the last man in London still to be reading the actual printed newspaper, he scanned each word carefully, his mouth open just enough for his tongue to pop out. In a pair of jeans and a Fleetwood Mac T-shirt, he had the look of an off-duty accountant.

‘Looking for tips?’ Carlyle quipped.

‘Looking for investors,’ Sammy said glumly. ‘Know any?’

‘Yeah, sure,’ Carlyle replied, casually looking around the room. The place was a tip, with promotional materials and other club-related detritus scattered everywhere. Removing a box from the only other chair in the room, he sat down.

‘Want a Racetrack T-shirt?’ Sammy asked, pointing at the box with a stubby finger. ‘On the house.’

The inspector held up a hand. ‘Thank you, but no.’

‘Hundred per cent cotton. Specially designed by, er, someone or other. They sell for £38.99 downstairs. Just make sure you wash it separately. Maybe the wife would like one?’

‘I think she’s sorted in the wardrobe department for now, ta.’

‘OK, well, if you ever change your mind, the offer remains open.’

‘Thanks. I’ll let you know.’

‘By the way,’ tossing the newspaper on to his desk, Sammy gestured towards the door, ‘isn’t Kendrick out there? Keeping riffraff like you out is supposed to be part of his job description. At least it was last time I looked.’

‘I said “hello” to him on the way in, but he’s rather focused on reading his comic right now.’

‘That damn boy spends half his life in Forbidden Planet ,’ Sammy griped, ‘and the other half in Burger King. Maybe I should think about an upgrade.’

Carlyle gave a sympathetic cluck. ‘I hear that he didn’t do much to stop the fight the other night.’

Sammy’s eyes narrowed. ‘Is that why you’re here? It was nothing at all, really. Just another average night on the town for our good friend Chase Race.’

‘I suppose there’s no such thing as bad publicity,’ Carlyle reflected.

‘I would never have thought I would say this, but he’s becoming a bit of a pain in the arse. We don’t want to be known as the kind of place where it’s all just bling, bling, bling. It’s all getting a bit too chavvy; very off-putting for the people who have serious money.’

‘I suppose it must be,’ the inspector sympathized. ‘However, it’s not Chase that I wanted to talk to you about.’

‘No?’ Sammy gave a disappointed shrug. ‘I was hoping that you might be able to put the git away for a year or two; just long enough for everyone to forget who he is.’

‘I’m here about the Chinese guy that Chase smacked.’

Sammy picked out a spot on the wall behind Carlyle and fixed his gaze upon it, bringing his hands together in silent contemplation.

‘Some big shot called Ren Qi,’ Carlyle continued. ‘He was arrested along with a couple of Harry Cummins’s hookers.’

‘How is Harry?’ Sammy asked genially. ‘I haven’t seen him for a while.’

‘We can sit here and talk shit all day,’ Carlyle said, ‘or you can tell me where to find Ren and I’ll let you get back to your reading.’

‘The guy was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. When Chase loses it, you want to be at least twenty yards away and out of his line of vision.’

‘He was in the VIP suite,’ Carlyle pointed out, ‘so don’t give me that old cobblers.’

Leaning forward, Sammy scowled. ‘Look,’ he jabbed a stubby finger in the inspector’s direction, ‘this Chinese guy, from what I understand, well “big shot” is an understatement. He’s a major player. I’m hoping that he might become an investor in the club.’

You can hope, Carlyle thought. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said reassuringly. ‘I just need to have a word with him about something completely different. He will never know that you and I have spoken.’

Sitting back in his chair, Sammy gave Stevie Nicks a scratch and folded his arms. ‘So, if I do help you find him, what’s in it for me?’

‘The continuing support and regard of your local constabulary,’ Carlyle said smoothly.

Sammy swatted the suggestion away with a wave of his hand. ‘Too intangible.’

‘That’s just for starters.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes,’ Carlyle smiled. ‘If you help me with this, I think there’s possibly a way I can help you with your Chase Race problem.’

Xue Xi wondered when they were going home. Their job in London was done but still there seemed no urgency on the part of her boss, Guo Miao to return to Beijing. When she asked about it, the major had simply smiled and said, ‘Soon.’

Rather than protest, she had nodded and returned to her post. Her father had always told her that waiting was an important part of the job.

On the other side of the door, the screaming ticked up a notch. A gleeful Ren Qi had told his wife that Michael Nicholson was dead. The man simply could not control himself; he had to rub it in, reasserting his power. Wang Lei had worked herself up into a frenzy and was raging hysterically at her husband. Guo Miao had struggled to hold her back as she tried to scratch out Ren’s eyes. It seemed inconceivable to Xue that the woman would now return to China voluntarily.

They were making life very difficult for themselves. Xue realized that things were different in England: harder to cover up. They had already caused a major furore with the killings of the security guards. When Nicholson’s body was discovered, it wouldn’t be long before someone made the connection between the crimes.

The tall, athletic woman shifted uneasily from foot to foot.

It was definitely time to go home.

After a few minutes, the shouting stopped. The door opened and Guo’s head appeared. ‘Get the boy,’ he barked.

Xue nodded and made her way briskly along the corridor. Reaching Ren Jiong’s room, she opened the door and stepped inside. The air was full of stale cigarette smoke. Xue had to do a little skip to avoid kicking over a full ashtray that had been left on the floor. Lying on the bed, Ren Junior was watching a porn movie on his iPad. Naked from the waist down, he bobbed his head in time to the grunts coming from the woman on the screen.