James Craig - Acts of Violence

‘You’ll see.’ Wiping his hands on his jeans, Gregori stood up. ‘In the meantime, you should just sit back and enjoy the show.’ He stepped up to the pizza box and kicked it into the corner. ‘Don’t think of this as being in captivity. Think of it more as an immersive interactive experience.’ He gestured around the room. ‘This is an opportunity to experience what Uli Eichinger went through all those years ago. It’s your chance to get closer to him.’

When he finally made it home, Carlyle was surprised to find Helen still awake. The moment he walked into the bedroom, she dropped her iPad onto the bed and eyed him coolly over the top of her reading glasses.

‘Have you been drinking?’

‘Not really,’ Carlyle said tiredly, his head still thick from the Mickey Finn. Stripping off his shirt, he was looking forward to having a shower before clambering into bed. ‘Tough day.’

Helen grunted something that he chose to interpret as an expression of sympathy.

Carlyle gestured at the tablet. ‘What are you reading?’

‘Some stuff from Cancer Research.’ She shot him another challenging look. ‘You haven’t forgotten about your dad’s MRI scan tomorrow?’

Oh, bollocks. ‘No, no,’ he lied hastily, kicking off his trousers.

‘Good. I spoke to him today. I think he’s a little bit nervous about it.’

‘I’m not surprised,’ Carlyle quipped. ‘ I’m quite nervous about it myself.’

‘So nervous that you forgot all about it.’

‘I didn’t-’

Cutting him off, Helen reached over and switched off her bedside light, leaving the room in the weak orange gloom created by the light pollution from the city outside. ‘Remember to look after his wallet and his keys. Otherwise the magnet in the machine will knacker them.’

‘OK.’

‘Apparently the machine is very noisy. You’ll be able to see the scanning room through a window. And be prepared – the whole thing can take up to an hour and a half.’

‘Great,’ Carlyle sighed. He wished that Helen would just do it for him but he kept his mouth firmly shut. It was, after all, his responsibility. ‘At least we’ll know what’s going on.’

‘You won’t know there and then,’ Helen pointed out. ‘It’ll take a couple of weeks for the results to come through.’

‘Bloody hell,’ Carlyle groused, ‘what a palaver.’

‘Just be grateful that it’s not you having the scan.’ Plumping up her pillows, she disappeared under the duvet. ‘Your dad needs you.’ Suitably dismissed, he retreated to the shower.

Ignoring the alarm clock, Carlyle stayed in bed, only surfacing when both Alice and Helen had left the flat. After a shave, and a further shower, he threw on some clothes and headed out. On the back of the front door, Helen had stuck a Post-it note on which she had scribbled Don’t forget the scan x.

‘Don’t worry,’ Carlyle grumbled, ‘I won’t bloody forget.’

Feeling the need for a little personal time in order to improve his mood, he took a leisurely stroll across Covent Garden, heading for work via a detour to a new café that had opened up on Maiden Lane the week before. Ordering a flat white and a large pastry, he took his time going through a copy of that morning’s Metro . The royal baby had finally popped out while Carlyle had been out for the count on Ren Qi’s carpet and bookies were now taking millions of pounds in bets on what the sprog would be called. ‘At least Bernie will be pleased,’ Carlyle muttered as he turned to the sports pages, ‘now that there’ll be more space again for his muck-raking.’

Finally arriving at Charing Cross, he was dismayed to find Simpson waiting for him on the third floor. Perched on Umar’s desk, the Commander was deep in conversation with Amelia Elmhirst. As he approached, it was apparent that the sergeant was showing no ill-effects from her unfortunate detention the previous evening. Indeed, clear-eyed and freshly scrubbed, dressed in a pair of black jeans and a red leather jacket over a grey blouse, she looked very much her usual elegant self. By comparison, the Commander, dressed in what Carlyle imagined to be a trouser suit from M amp;S, looked positively dowdy.

Turning to face the latecomer, the Commander appraised him coolly. ‘Inspector,’ she said satirically, ‘how nice to see you.’

‘Boss.’ Trying to gauge the lie of the land, Carlyle glanced at Elmhirst, but the sergeant was giving nothing away.

‘Heavy night?’ the Commander asked.

Carlyle flopped into his chair.

‘I hear that you were off on another of your little adventures last night.’

Ah. He glared at Elmhirst.

‘Don’t blame Amelia, John.’

Amelia? The Sisterhood was ganging up on him. He made to protest but thought better of it. Better just to take his bollocking and move on.

‘I had a call from a Chief Inspector Will Dick at four-thirty this morning.’

Who?

‘He’s the Head of SO15,’ Simpson explained, recognizing his blank look.

Hm. Carlyle made a mental note to give Roche a call asap.

‘The man whose investigation you and Roche blundered into.’

Not much of an investigation.

‘Causing the targets to up and leave the country on a private jet less than three hours after you confronted them.’

Carlyle frowned. ‘If the SO15 bods knew we were in there, why didn’t they come and get us out?’

‘They doubtless had better things to worry about.’

‘Thanks a lot,’ Carlyle huffed. ‘Anything could have happened to us.’

But the Commander was in no mood for tea and sympathy. ‘It was your own fault,’ she snapped. ‘I thought I told you to prioritize the Germans?’

‘Well . . .’

Simpson shook her head. ‘If I had told you not to focus on the Germans, you would probably be spending your every waking hour chasing the Teutonic buggers down, wouldn’t you? Maybe I should be trying a bit more reverse psychology.’

Maybe you should just get to the point. Leaning forward, he switched on his computer, listening to it splutter into action like an asthmatic pensioner. ‘Is there something I can help you with, boss?’

‘Yes, there is.’

‘Good.’ Sitting up in his chair, Carlyle tried to look suitably keen.

‘We’ve had a possible sighting of Sebastian Gregori.’ Reaching into her bag, she pulled out a scrap of paper and handed it to him. The inspector scanned the address. ‘It’s about thirty-five miles from where you ran into him last time. I want you two to go and check it out. Gapper is downstairs ready to go.’ Slipping off the desk, the Commander allowed herself the tiniest of grins. ‘He can play the responsible adult role.’

‘Ha, bloody, ha.’

‘Just make sure you don’t get another sergeant shot.’ Simpson gestured at Elmhirst. ‘This one we need to keep. She’s got a great future ahead of her.’

‘OK, OK.’ Getting to his feet, Carlyle ignored the blushing Elmhirst, glancing instead at his computer screen, which was still wheezing into life. The clock on the wall told him that he should really think about heading off. ‘That’s fine. We’ll leave when I get back.’

A black look descended on Simpson’s face; she looked like she wanted to reach out and strangle him. ‘John.’

‘Sorry,’ he said, jogging towards the lifts, ‘but there’s something important I just have to do first.’

Maybe we should have gone private. It was amazing how everyone could love the NHS in abstract but when it came to actually using the bloody thing it turned out to be a total pain in the arse. Sitting on a bench in an empty corridor, Carlyle looked at his watch. ‘For God’s sake.’ He gritted his teeth in disbelief. They had been there for the best part of three hours and now he was having to wait for his father to get changed back into his regular clothes before they could finally leave the hospital. ‘How long can it take?’