James Craig - Acts of Violence

As if on cue, the door opened and Alexander Carlyle appeared.

‘There you are.’ The old man said nothing, concentrating on adjusting his tie. What do you need a tie for? Carlyle thought sullenly.

Alex tightened and straightened his knot. ‘Sorry.’

‘C’mon,’ said Carlyle, already bouncing down the corridor. ‘Let’s get going.’

‘Yes,’ Alex replied, following his son, ‘After all that, I could do with a bite to eat.’

Nooo. The inspector was about to protest, but caught himself in time. He imagined Helen giving him hell for not looking after his dad properly. ‘Sure,’ he said dully, ‘good idea.’

Leaving the hospital at a brisk pace, they found a café a hundred yards down the road. Alexander took a seat at a window table while Carlyle went and ordered. Fifteen minutes later, he watched the old man shovel the last of his egg and chips into his mouth, washing it down with a swig from a large mug of builder’s tea.

At least he hasn’t lost his bloody appetite, Carlyle thought.

Alexander carefully placed his knife and fork together on the empty plate and sat back in his chair. ‘I needed that. It’s the first thing I’ve had to eat today.’ He cast a covetous eye towards the selection of cakes lined up on the counter. ‘They starve you before the scan, you know.’

‘Yeah, Helen told me.’ Carlyle sipped at a bottle of carbonated water, feeling virtuous.

Still looking at the counter, Alex took another slurp of his tea. ‘I think I might have one of those doughnuts. Want one?’

‘Why not?’ Getting to his feet, Carlyle asked the girl at the till for a couple of doughnuts and a black coffee for himself.

Returning to the table, he placed the food down and took a mouthful of his coffee. ‘Urgh.’ It was truly terrible, but he knew that it would complement the sugar rush well enough. Grabbing his doughnut, he took a large bite and watched his father do the same. For several minutes, they ate together in companionable silence.

All too soon, the doughnut was nothing but a guilty memory. Carlyle was wiping the crumbs from the corner of his mouth when his phone started ringing in his pocket. With some reluctance, he pulled it out and looked at the screen. SIMPSON . With a grimace, he dropped the handset back into his pocket.

‘Don’t you need to get that?’ Alexander asked through a mouthful of saturated fat.

Finishing his coffee, Carlyle shook his head. ‘It can wait.’

‘I suppose you’ll need to be getting back to work.’ Gazing out of the window, Alex tracked the progress of a well-fed young baby as it made its way backwards down the street strapped to the chest of its exhausted-looking mother.

‘Yes.’ Carlyle made a determined attempt to study his father’s face. The old bugger looked in decent shape, all things considering. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘Fine,’ Alex said, ‘that food’s set me up nicely.’

‘No, you know what I mean.’ Even though no one else in the café was remotely interested in their conversation, he lowered his voice. ‘How do you feel in general?’

‘ Ach. ’ Folding his arms, Alex did his best Grandpa Broon impersonation. ‘I’m fine, son. More or less.’

Feeling Helen’s presence at his shoulder, Carlyle continued to press. ‘But are you worried about . . . you know?’

‘Look,’ leaning forward, Alexander smiled at his son, ‘it’s going to be bad news. There’s no two ways around it.’

‘You don’t know that,’ Carlyle said stiffly.

‘Son,’ Alex gestured back down the road, in the direction of the hospital, ‘we wouldn’t have been in there for all that time if they didn’t think there was something wrong.’ He clutched Carlyle’s hand. The inspector was so surprised that he had to stop himself from pulling it away. ‘Something seriously wrong.’

‘And I thought I was the pessimist.’ He tried to make it sound like a joke but the words crumbled as they came out of his mouth. The doughnut was settling in his stomach and he felt a little sick.

Alexander patted his hand. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll deal with it.’

‘Scottish grit.’

‘Aye.’ A flicker of amusement appeared in the old man’s eyes. ‘This is one of those times when some good old Presbyterian stoicism comes in useful.’

‘I suppose so.’

‘I’m just glad your mother isn’t here to see this,’ Alex chuckled. ‘Could you imagine the fuss she’d make?’

Carlyle nodded. His late mother had always been very intolerant of anything that smacked of weakness. ‘She’d be giving us both a kick up the backside right now.’

‘That’s one thing we don’t have to worry about, at least.’

‘Yes.’

‘I have to say though, I’m very grateful for all your help and support, son.’

What support? Carlyle wondered guiltily. In his head, he could hear Helen laughing. ‘Me? I’ve done nothing.’

‘Just being there, son. Just being there. It means a lot.’

‘Good,’ was all he could think of to say by way of reply.

‘A lot of people, they’d run a mile.’

‘Hm.’

‘I feel a lot better knowing that you are with me on this. Every step of the way.’

‘Of course.’

‘So now, we just have to get on with it, one thing at a time. No need to panic. Let’s just wait and see what the results say.’

‘OK.’ Clearing the lump in his throat, Carlyle tried to smile. ‘That sounds like a plan.’

‘It’s the only one we’ve got.’

‘That’s right,’ he gave his father’s hand a squeeze. ‘I suppose it is.’

‘You’re a good lad,’ Alexander smiled. ‘But then you always were.’

It was as if he was on a runaway train that would never stop until it crashed into the buffers at the end of the line, killing everyone on board. The fact that he had been sitting in a first-class compartment all the way would not save him. How could he get off the train? How could he jump to safety?

Ren Qi sipped his orange juice and stepped out on to the terrace. Under the shimmering blue sky, the Mediterranean stretched out in front of him. Reaching for the expensive sunglasses on the top of his head, he slipped them on. A private jet, just taken off from the airport at Mandelieu, was making a steady ascent, heading east, the vapour trail showing its serene progress. Lowering his gaze to sea level, he counted three, four, five superyachts lazily making their way towards St Tropez for lunch. On shore, off to his right, the ordinary people of Cannes went about their desultory business.

Ren wondered about the wisdom of operating his retirement fund out of grey, dreary London. No one in their right mind would set up their operations in France, especially not with the current President in situ, but Monaco was just down the road and, well, there were many quality of life issues to consider.

Trying to focus on the matter in hand, he ran through the events of the last thirty-six hours. Leaving the drugged policeman in the apartment, they had driven from London to Manston airport in Kent. From there, a private jet had taken them to Milan. After an extended argument, Wang Lei and Ren Junior had been placed on a commercial flight from Malpensa to China, accompanied by Guo Miao. The major would have several colleagues meet them on arrival at Beijing International airport. Wife and son would then be whisked off to effective house arrest at a discreet location until Ren Senior had decided how best to stop the pair of them damaging his political career any further.

Ren fretted over his decision to send them home. After all, what kind of man effectively kidnaps his wife and son? On the other hand, leaving them to their own devices in England was not a realistic option. How could a man unable to rule his own family ever hope to rule his country?