James Craig - Acts of Violence

‘It’s all about power, corruption and lies,’ Carlyle observed tritely.

‘They reckon he’s going to get twenty years, at least. He might even get the death penalty.’ Letting the newspaper fall on to the desk, Sammy remarked sadly, ‘You lost me a serious investor there.’

‘Me?’ Carlyle spluttered. ‘How is that possibly my fault?’

‘He could have put millions into this place, millions . We could have signed Oscar 451 on a twelve-month residency.’

The inspector had no idea what the club-owner was talking about. ‘Never mind,’ he said cheerfully, ‘there are plenty more fish in the sea.’

‘Easy for you to say. You’ve never had to raise a bean in your life.’ Sammy shot Carlyle a look of utter exasperation. ‘Have you ever tried to get a rich man to part with his money? It’s damn near impossible.’

Still focused on his game, Chase let out a cackle. ‘You tell him, man.’

‘Speaking of which,’ said Carlyle, keen to move the conversation along, ‘I have found a way of properly utilizing your excess funds, Mr Race.’

Dropping his iPhone on the sofa, the rapper finally looked up. ‘What?’

‘The money that you wanted to donate to the Avalon charity, in order to boost your reputation,’ Carlyle explained. ‘I’ve found a suitable home for it.’

Sitting in a busy Soho restaurant, Carlyle allowed himself to be distracted by the TV screen, which dominated the back wall. Less than a mile down the road, Trooping the Colour, the Queen’s Birthday Parade, was progressing smoothly. It suddenly struck him that Her Maj had to be at least ten years older than his father. Despite her advanced years the old girl seemed happy enough as she waved from the back of her phaeton. It was the best part of thirty years now since she had done the ceremony on horseback but, other than decamping to her carriage, she showed no real sign of her advancing years.

The benefits of a pampered lifestyle, the inspector mused.

Peering at the various horses trotting past the camera, he tried to pick out Simpson amidst the sea of uniforms. However, of the Commander he could find no sign. Let’s hope her damn hat’s stayed on, he thought.

Sitting next to him, Helen sent a sharp elbow into his ribs. ‘This is hardly the time to be watching telly,’ she nagged, ‘is it?’

‘No, sorry.’ Sitting up straight, Carlyle returned his attention to the table.

‘There was a guy I read about,’ Alice took a slurp of her Coke, ‘a musician. He was diagnosed with cancer too – of the pancreas, I think. And he decided not to get treatment – went on a farewell tour instead.’

‘Alice,’ Helen tutted, ‘for God’s sake.’

‘She’s got a point.’ Alexander Carlyle patted his granddaughter on the shoulder. ‘Why bother? I feel fine at the moment. They say I could have another eight or nine months like this. Every day now is a gift. Why go through the hassle of treatment?’ He looked at Carlyle and Helen. ‘It will make me feel terrible. And for what? Another month or two? Maybe not even that.’

Helen gave him a consoling squeeze of the hand. Carlyle simply stared at the large plate of garlic bread in the middle of the table.

Folding up the letter from the hospital, Alexander slipped it back inside his jacket pocket. ‘At least we know now. To be honest, I feel quite cheerful about it.’

Looking up, Carlyle frowned. ‘Cheerful?’

‘I don’t know why, really, but ever since I spoke to the GP and got the letter, I’ve felt – I dunno – calm .’ Alexander took a sip of his lager. ‘It’s like the game’s almost over. We’re in injury time. You don’t have to worry about the result any more.’

Carlyle reached for a slice of garlic bread. Good for you, he thought grumpily. I just hope I don’t have to be terminally ill before I can feel relaxed.

‘I’m just going to enjoy my farewell tour. When it ends, it ends.’

I suppose when you’re staring death in the face you can mix your metaphors too. Carlyle made a mental note to get a couple of season tickets for Fulham. If nothing else, it would be a decent gesture. As the conversation lapsed, a procession of waiters appeared with their pizzas and began distributing them around the table. Keen to be distracted by the food, everyone assaulted their plates and began happily munching.

‘One bit of good news,’ said Helen, between slices of Padana, ‘is that Wilf has finally turned up.’

‘Wilf’s a cat who lived in our block,’ Alice explained to her granddad, who was busy wiping a globule of tomato sauce from his chin with a napkin. ‘He ran away from home and the owners put up Missing posters everywhere.’

‘Cats do that sometimes,’ Alexander observed. ‘They like to roam.’

‘He turned up somewhere in Camden,’ Alice continued.

‘Lucky he made it across the Euston Road then,’ Carlyle said through a mouthful of Fiorentina, ‘without being run over.’

‘Da-ad.’

‘His owner is an alternative comedian.’ Helen mentioned the name of a guy Carlyle assumed had died years ago. ‘I didn’t even know that he lived in our building.’

‘Obviously not making much money,’ Carlyle observed.

‘What’s an alternative comedian?’ Alice asked.

‘One who isn’t funny,’ both parents chirped in unison.

Once they had demolished the pizzas and a selection of desserts, Alice dragged Alexander off to Foyles bookstore on Charing Cross Road so that her grandfather could have the honour of buying her the latest L.J. Smith novel. On the TV, Trooping the Colour was still in full swing.

Helen turned to her husband as he stirred his double macchiato. ‘It was a nice thing that you did for Naomi Taylor.’

‘It won’t bring her husband back,’ he said, taking a sip of his coffee. Feeling more than a little full, he signalled to a waitress for the bill.

‘No, but still, it was a good idea, to get Chase Race to give her that cash. It will help tide them over for a bit.’

‘It’s money out of your pocket though,’ Carlyle said.

‘It doesn’t matter.’ But the frustration in his wife’s face told another story.

‘I’m sure Avalon could have put it to good use.’

‘Oh, hell, yes.’ Lifting her cup to her lips, Helen blew on her tea and took a cautious sip. ‘But the Board were never going to accept his money. They thought it was tainted.’

‘All money is tainted.’

Helen grinned. ‘Maybe I should have got you to come and talk to them. Make them see sense.’

‘Ha.’ Reaching over, he gave her a peck on the cheek. ‘As if that would have done any good.’

‘Anyway,’ Helen sighed, ‘the papers will lap it up. Chase probably gets better PR this way than if he had given the cash to Avalon.’

‘It’s a nice picture story,’ Carlyle agreed, ‘rapper with the grieving widow. Charity begins at home and all that. Once Bernie Gilmore starts weaving his magic, we’ll probably discover that Marvin was a big Chase Race fan on the quiet and that Chase is big on law and order.’

‘Don’t believe the hype.’

‘You gotta fight the power.’

‘Seriously though, well done. The money has been put to a good use – even if it wasn’t my good use.’

‘Thank you.’ Finishing his coffee, he took the bill from the approaching waitress and glanced at the total, trying not to wince.

Helen reached into her bag and pulled out her purse. ‘Let me.’

‘OK,’ Carlyle shrugged. ‘It’s all from the same pot, anyway.’

‘What I don’t understand,’ Helen said, checking the total before dropping her Visa card onto the plate, ‘is what Sammy Baldwin-Lee gets out of all this. I mean, Naomi gets the cash, Chase gets some good PR, but his club still needs some investors.’