James Craig - Acts of Violence

Clearly not convinced, Elmhirst pondered different scenarios. ‘Even if that’s right, he could always shoot Kortmann . . . or himself.’

‘He won’t shoot Kortmann,’ Carlyle insisted. ‘He needs him – or at least, he thinks he does. He’s trying to find his mum, remember?’

‘I just hope that you’re right.’

‘I’m always right,’ Carlyle chuckled. ‘That’s how I made it to Inspector.’

The sergeant failed to look impressed. ‘What if he shoots himself though?’

‘That’s not going to help him find his mum, is it?’

‘No, but he could do something stupid.’

‘Just for a change.’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘Well,’ the inspector sniffed, ‘if he does do something stupid, he won’t get any complaints from me.’

Elmhirst gave a despairing sigh. ‘Just be careful.’

‘I’m always careful.’

As he stepped across the muddy entrance, Carlyle’s foot brushed against something metallic. Looking down, he saw that it was a length of half-inch pipe. Picking it up, he weighed it in his hand. It felt good. What was the saying? Speak softly and carry a big stick. That seemed as good a plan as any. Waving at Elmhirst with the pipe, he continued on his way.

After five minutes of walking at a steady pace, Carlyle had completely lost his bearings. All of the plots on the abandoned development looked the same – square boxes squashed together, with barely enough space in between them to park a small family saloon. The only apparent difference was how far work had progressed on each unit. By the time the whole endeavour had come to a grinding halt, some were little more than a set of foundations, while others were almost a complete shell, with walls on both the ground and first floors. One or two even had the beginnings of a roof, a wooden skeleton waiting for tiles that would never be laid.

The main road through the estate went in a circle, with groups of eight or ten houses set on a series of cul-de-sacs, spokes leading off from the hub. In the centre of the development was a long, featureless building, three storeys high. Those must be the flats, Carlyle presumed. Stopping for a moment, to try and better get his bearings, he looked around. The place was completely dark, with no signs of activity. A gust of wind whistled down the road, making him shiver. Regardless of the time of year, it was cold at night. Moreover, the inspector was dressed for the city, rather than the countryside. His jacket was thin and offered little warmth.

Cursing to himself, Carlyle continued his slog round the site. After a couple of minutes largely spent trying not to fall into a series of large potholes, he caught a glimpse of a weak gleam coming from the ground floor of a property around 100 yards to his right.

An owl hooted in the darkness and he almost jumped out of his skin.

‘Get a grip, you idiot.’ After waiting for his heart rate to return to normal, he glanced at his watch. He had already been creeping round this place for more than half an hour. ‘Get on with it,’ he mumbled to himself, tightly gripping the salvaged length of pipe. ‘You don’t want Gapper to have to rescue you again.’

Cautiously approaching his target, the inspector saw that the light was coming from an empty window on the ground floor, gently illuminating the breezeblocks that formed the unfinished interior wall. As with its neighbours, the front of the property consisted of an area of deeply churned-up mud. Tiptoeing across this no man’s land, the inspector crouched below the empty window, listening for any evidence of human activity inside.

The owl hooted again.

Shut it.

Holding his breath, he tried to block out extraneous distractions. A few moments later, proof of life from inside the house came in the unmistakable form of a loud, extended fart. This was followed by a second, much shorter expulsion of wind.

The inspector resumed breathing, counted to ten and then slowly edged to the side of the window, before taking a peek inside.

Well, bugger me. Although it pained him to admit it, it looked as if the Commander had been right. Lying under a dirty blanket on the concrete floor, surrounded by an array of empty pizza boxes and other fast-food packaging, Werner Kortmann had his back to the window. Despite the chain around his ankle, he semed to be sleeping soundly. There was no sign of Popp.

Moving away from the window, Carlyle cautiously slunk around to the doorway and stepped inside. ‘Hey. It’s the police.’ Lifting a foot an inch off the ground, he prodded Kortmann with his toe.

‘ Geh zum Teufel .’ Kortmann brushed away the inspector’s boot and sat bolt upright. ‘ Wer bist du? ’

‘The po-lice,’ Carlyle repeated, waiting for the guy to come to, recognize him and switch into his better-than-native English.

Kortmann obliged on all three fronts almost immediately. ‘Well, get me out of here,’ he snapped, yanking at his chain.

‘Erm, yes.’ Carlyle gave the chain a few desultory thwacks with the length of pipe he had discovered at the entrance to the site.

Kortmann grimaced at the sudden, discordant noise. ‘That’s not going to do it,’ he shouted, ‘is it?’

‘No, I suppose not.’ The inspector tossed the pipe into the corner of the room and looked around in the vain hope of finding a handy axe, or a pair of bolt cutters, nearby.

‘Hurry up.’

Carlyle swiftly concluded that his search was not going to glean so much as a paper clip. Perhaps Gapper might have something handy in the boot of the Astra. Digging out his mobile, he was about to call the driver when he remembered he was in the middle of nowhere, with no signal. Scratching his head, he smiled weakly. ‘I’m afraid this might take a little while.’

‘Schwachkopf.’

From Kortmann’s angry stare, Carlyle didn’t feel the need to ask for a translation. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll get it sorted.’

The German said nothing. Distracted by a noise from the darkness, he turned his attention to a point somewhere behind the inspector’s head.

‘Now, now,’ said an amused voice from the doorway. Footsteps tapped across the concrete. ‘That’s no way to speak to the good inspector.’

The inspector looked longingly in the direction of his discarded weapon. ‘Marcus Popp, I presume.’

‘Good, good. Very good.’

Werner Kortmann’s angry gaze flashed from the policeman to the kidnapper and back again. It was hard to determine which of the two wretched specimens standing in front of him the old man found the more annoying. ‘Popp?’ he thundered. ‘Is that this criminal’s real name?’

Carlyle made a face. ‘It’s kind of complicated.’

‘Everything’s complicated to you, isn’t it, Mr Policeman?’ Taking a step away from the inspector, Popp’s eyes gleamed with a demented amusement. In the half-light, he looked like some kind of drugged-up Manga hoodlum. ‘Maybe you should take a rest. Sit down.’

Reluctantly, Carlyle did as he was told, parking his backside a couple of feet from Kortmann.

Popp waved the gun at his two captives. ‘Closer.’ As Carlyle shuffled towards the grumpy businessman, Popp fumbled in his pocket, coming up with a short length of chain – like the kind of thing you might use to attach a bicycle to a lamppost – and a padlock. ‘Here,’ he tossed the chain towards the inspector. ‘Tie yourself up, like Werner there.’

Catching the padlock in front of his face, the inspector did as he was told, tying the chain around his ankle and then running it carefully through the hook on the floor. ‘What’s the plan then, Marcus?’

‘You’ll see. It will be a surprise.’