James Craig - Shoot to Kill

Once the strudel was a happy memory, Carlyle’s thoughts turned to his ‘to do’ list for the day. He still had to interview the stripper who had assaulted PC Lea and wasn’t looking forward to it. Off the job, strippers were usually dull and unappealing creatures and quite mouthy with it. This one, having refused to plead guilty to a charge of aggravated assault, was bound to be a pain in the arse. Still, it had to be done. Finishing his coffee, he had almost worked himself up to going to work when his mobile went off.

He looked at the screen. No number came up, but as it was his ‘private’ phone, it could only be one of a small number of potential callers. The Nokia 2330 was one of the cheapest pay-as-you-go models currently on the market. Carlyle had bought it for cash and he topped it up for cash at random newsagents well away from his usual haunts. He didn’t flash it around and gave the number out to very few people. Even then, he changed both the phone and the sim card every three or four months. He knew well enough that this didn’t guarantee complete secrecy, but it meant that no one was checking his calls as a matter of routine. It gave him some privacy, and for that the hassle and cost was worth it.

‘Yes?’

‘Inspector?’

Recognizing the voice immediately, Carlyle smiled. ‘How are you, William?’

‘Fine, I’m fine.’ Over the years, William Wallace had been one of his more useful contacts.

‘What’s going on?’

‘I’ve got something for you.’

Carlyle’s smile grew wider. ‘Okay . . .’

‘But you have to come to me.’

‘Where?’

Wallace gave him an address in East London.

‘Hold on,’ said Carlyle, gesturing to Myron for a pen and a piece of paper. The café-owner quickly obliged. ‘Give that to me again.’ This time he scribbled down the address. ‘Thanks. I’ll be there in about an hour.’ Ending the call, he fished a handful of change out of his pocket and paid his bill. Then, happy to have an excuse for not going directly back to the station, he headed out into the damp, grey day.

‘Clichy-sous-Bois is the most notorious suburb in Paris.’

‘Mm. Looks a bit like Tower Hamlets to me.’

‘The government couldn’t care less.’

‘They tend not to, in my experience.’

‘That’s right!’ Warming to his theme, Tuco Martinez waved in the direction of the tower blocks in the distance. ‘Poor housing, chronic poverty and rampant unemployment, we have it all. Rioting and looting are the local pastimes. Life here is supposed to be nasty, brutish and short. If I didn’t conform to the stereotype of the vengeful crime boss, the little bastards would eat me alive. But that’s not the whole story. We do a lot for the people around here.’

Ah yes, the pusher turned social champion . The world was full of drug dealers who saw themselves as Robin Hood-type figures. It was not an unfamiliar line in bullshit, but one Dominic Silver had always tried to avoid himself. The fact was he sold illegal drugs, pure and simple, and didn’t feel the need to dress it up with any undergraduate sociology spiel.

His story was an unusual one, but not especially earth-shattering. Having trained as a junior officer, Silver had quit the Metropolitan Police after the brutal Miners’ Strike of the early 1980s. Over the following decades, he had built up a multi-million-pound business, becoming something of a legend in police circles in the process. The son of a policeman, the nephew of a policeman, he was the archetypal good boy turned bad, but with an honesty and a style that gleaned a little goodwill from even the most hard-nosed copper. Now, even after more than thirty years, there was still a little part of Dom that was ‘one of us’ in the eyes of many officers of a certain age.

At his peak, during the course of the first decade of the new century, he had reached maybe the third or fourth tier of narcotics entrepreneurs in the capital. This was not a bad place to be, reasonably comfortable, avoiding the problems facing those above and below him. His operation was turning over millions of pounds each year, with clients including a swathe of minor celebrities and newer entries in Who ’s Who , rather than City barrow boys or benefit losers. He even had a couple of corporate clients, who bought on account.

It was a good gig. In an industry crying out for quality management, Dom stood out. If there were dozens of mid-level dealers in London, there was only one Dom. Independent. Cautious. Discreet. Sensible .

Above all, Dominic Silver was a family man. He’d been with his common-law wife, Eva Hollander, for more than twenty-five years. They had four kids; a fifth, Marina, had been diagnosed with Type I Cockayne Syndrome, a rare genetic disorder characterized by an appearance of premature ageing, which led to her death at just six years old.

The combination of family trauma and the ongoing financial crisis had hit Dom and his business interests hard. Business school had shown him how to build up a portfolio of assets and diversify risk. A couple of years ago, drugs probably accounted for less than 40 per cent of Dom’s income. But a series of unfortunate investments had slashed his net worth from almost £50 million to less than £20 million. That sum would be enough for most people, but not for Dom. The amount of money in the bank was his way of keeping score – and this was a game that wasn’t going to finish until he had won. Despite Eva’s objections, he decided to return, full-time, to the day job. Even the drug-dealing business wasn’t as lucrative as it had been in previous years, but it still paid the bills. So it was time to forge new partnerships; partnerships with people like Tuco Martinez.

‘This place,’ said Tuco, waking Dom from his reverie, ‘is only twelve kilometres from the centre of Paris.’

Dom shrugged.

‘But there are people here who have never been there in their lives. They have never seen the Eiffel Tower, for real, or the Arc de Triomphe or anything else. There is only one bus out of here – it goes to the airport for the people who work as cleaners at Charles de Gaulle – and no Metro. And the politicians!’ He let out a snort of derision. ‘They wring their hands but do nothing.’

‘It’s the same everywhere,’ said Silver, pushing his chair back from the table. ‘Politicians are less than useless.’

Tuco nodded sadly.

‘Now,’ said Dom, getting to his feet, ‘back to business. We have some things to sort out before I leave Paris.’

Chief Inspector Cass Wadham eyed the warrant card and the Glock 26 on the desk in front of her before looking up at Roche.

‘The IIC report has concluded that you can return to full active service,’ she said, clearly not impressed by the decision.

Clasping her hands together, Roche nodded but said nothing, resisting the temptation to reach across the table and grab her things.

‘You will, of course,’ the Chief Inspector continued, ‘have to carry on seeing Dr Wolf. There will be regular assessments and additional weapons training. Is that clear?’

‘Yes.’

Wadham looked her up and down. ‘Personally, I question whether it’s too early. However, given the recent personnel cuts and the high rates of absenteeism we are currently experiencing . . .’

Well , thought Roche, thank you for the vote of confidence . Getting to her feet, she waited patiently for Wadham to hand over the weapon and her ID. Then she turned on her heel and left without another word.

‘They may take our lives,’ Carlyle cackled, ‘but they’ll never take our freeeeeDOM!’

William Wallace shook his head. ‘Inspector,’ he laughed, ‘how many times have I told you? You need to find a new joke.’