James Craig - Acts of Violence

‘Get dressed,’ Xue commanded.

Ren rolled over and gave her a dopey grin. Tossing the iPad to one side, he slipped off the bed and stood to attention.

‘Get dressed,’ Xue repeated.

‘What’s the hurry?’ he said thickly, stepping towards her. Dropping her right shoulder, Xue flicked out a jab. The punch caught him right on the chin and Ren toppled backwards, his skull cracking off the frame of the bed before he hit the floor with a thud.

‘Your father is waiting.’

‘Fuck you,’ the boy wheezed, but she knew that he had no fight in him. He was soft and weak. Standing over him, Xue had to resist the temptation to give him a swift kick in the genitals to hurry him up. Ever since arriving in this country, she had endured problems with her impulse control and anger management.

Grabbing his hair, she pulled him up on to the bed. Disconcertingly, his erection remained intact. From the iPad, the groans of simulated ecstasy continued unabated. Switching off the tablet, Xue placed it on the bedside table.

‘I’m not going back,’ the boy warned, finally locating his underpants.

Tell it to your father.

Slowly, insolently, Ren recovered his jeans and pulled them on. Xue was reaching for the door handle when a buzzer sounded. She froze.

After a few moments, the buzzer sounded again.

Composing herself, Xue stepped out into the hallway; Guo was already there. The buzzer sounded for a third time. The major glared at Xue, as if it was her fault. ‘Make them go away.’

Ordering the boy to stay in his room, Xue walked nervously down the corridor. Opening the front door, she was confronted by the crumpled officer from the police station. Trying to keep him from seeing the look of recognition in her eyes, she immediately turned her attention to his associate, a tall blonde woman. Very beautiful, Xue thought.

‘Yes?’

The man held up his ID. ‘Police.’ He let her stare at it blankly for a few seconds before stuffing it back into his pocket. ‘I am here to see Ren Qi,’ he barked.

How did you know his real name? And how did you know he was here? Gripping the door tightly, Xue tried to think of a response.

‘I am here to see Ren Qi,’ the man repeated, speaking more slowly this time, in the time-honoured tradition of Englishmen addressing foreigners. Edging forward, he had his foot in the door before she could consider slamming it in his face.

Carlyle recognized the woman immediately. Up close, she looked even stronger and more imposing than he had imagined. Happily, she didn’t have any cheese wire in her hand. Still, the inspector had little doubt that he was looking at a good thrashing, should things come to fisticuffs. His mind went back to Gerald Howard’s dancing ninjas and he wondered if it might have been wiser to organize some back-up. He wished that he had Roche with him, but she had cried off, citing a ‘hot date’. Could Elmhirst look after herself in a ruck?

A bit late to be worrying about that now.

Pushing his way inside, he barrelled down the corridor. The woman tried to stop him, but Elmhirst cut her off. On his left was a door. As he reached for the handle, the door flew open. Carlyle jumped back in surprise.

‘Inspector,’ Ren Qi smiled. ‘Please, come in.’

* * *

Ignoring Elmhirst’s disapproving look, the inspector accepted a large glass of fifteen-year-old Dalwhinnie and settled into an armchair on one side of the fireplace, the better to enjoy the oppressive atmosphere. Cradling a glass of his own, Ren Qi took the chair opposite. The woman who had opened the door – the killer ninja as Carlyle had come to think of her – had disappeared, leaving an older woman and a short, intense middle-aged man to complete the numbers in the room. No one was making any introductions, so Carlyle sat back and savoured a mouthful of his whisky.

Ren did the same, giving a sigh of appreciation as he waited for the policeman to declare his intentions.

‘Why did you give me a false name?’ Looking up from his drink, Carlyle gave his host a not that it’s any skin off my nose smile.

‘I have to apologize for that,’ Ren said smoothly, determined to outdo his guest with the depth of his insincerity. ‘A man of my position, finding himself in such an unusual and unfortunate situation . . .’ He shrugged. ‘I’m afraid to say that I simply panicked.’

Carlyle nodded.

‘An error of judgement for which I am deeply sorry. Of course, I will accept the appropriate punishment without demur.’

‘Don’t worry about that, sir.’ Carlyle waved away his host’s concerned look before taking another taste of the single malt. The Dalwhinnie burned on the back of his throat and his brain began to feel pleasingly warm. ‘I completely understand how your state of mind could have been negatively impacted by the events of the evening in question.’ The evening in question. Hurrah for the petty bureaucrat. ‘I would like to assure you that the Metropolitan Police have no interest in making an issue of such a minor matter.’

Nodding graciously, Ren waited patiently for him to get to the point.

‘Indeed,’ Carlyle went on, continuing his meandering preamble, ‘if I had been on duty at the time, I would have had you released immediately. I can only apologize that that did not happen.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Which brings me to the reason for my visit.’ Finishing his drink, Carlyle held out his glass for a refill. After a moment’s hesitation, the squat lackey fetched the whisky bottle and carefully placed half an inch in the bottom of the glass. ‘Thank you.’ The man exchanged glances with Ren and retreated to his position by the door. ‘I was wondering,’ said Carlyle, slowly looking up from his drink, ‘if you could talk me through your relationship with Michael Nicholson?’

A strangled groan came from the woman in the corner. Ren shot her an angry look and the lackey put a restraining hand on her shoulder. Happy to watch events unfold, Carlyle took another mouthful of whisky. He was beginning to feel its effects now and told himself to slow down. Two drinks were more than enough.

‘I’m sorry,’ Ren said finally, ‘but I don’t think I recognize the name.’

Lies, lies, lies. Stifling a yawn, the inspector went on. ‘He ran a company called Tallow Business Services. I asked you about it before.’

For a few moments, Ren mimed a man considering the name. ‘No, as I said at the police station, I don’t think we’ve come across it.’

‘His body was found not far from here.’ Carlyle was deliberately stringing out the conversation, letting the man hang himself. Finishing the Scotch, he watched Ren glare at the lackey. The drink was really getting to him now. ‘I was wondering,’ he continued rashly, unable to resist a smirk, ‘why you had him, and three other men, killed?’ As he turned to give Elmhirst a wink, the room began to spin. Clinging to his seat, he tried to return his attention to Ren. The smiling face of the politician was moving in and out of focus. Carlyle felt his stomach heave in a sudden lurch. What the hell’s going on? he wondered, irritated. I only had a couple of small ones. Lifting the glass, he noticed a line of fine white residue that had collected, just below the rim.

Oh, bollocks.

The glass slipped from his fingers and he pitched forward into darkness.

‘I thought we were on a date.’ Pushing away the half-eaten pizza on his plate, Oliver Steed scratched at his Coldplay T-shirt and stared sullenly into his beer.

‘Oli,’ Alison Roche said, exasperated, ‘I’m old enough to be your mother.’ She took another mouthful of the rather acidic house white and grimaced. ‘Well, almost.’

‘But I like older women,’ the boy whined. ‘It’s my thing. Cougars and all that.’