James Craig - Shoot to Kill

Carlyle held up a hand. ‘I know, I know. I’m sorry.’ He took a mouthful of Jameson’s whiskey and swallowed greedily. ‘I should know better. But you’ve got to admit it’s a strange name.’

Sir William Wallace was a thirteenth-century Scottish knight, made famous in popular culture for his portrayal by Mel Gibson in the film Braveheart. Mr William Wallace, sitting across the table from Carlyle in the Reliance pub on Old Street, was a thirty-something albino Yardie, originally from the Rose Town west Kingston ghetto in Jamaica.

‘If it makes things easier for you,’ Wallace said, ‘you can call me Will.’ A good two inches over six foot tall, he was whippet thin with high cheekbones, pale grey eyes and a tightly cropped bleached-blond afro. After more than a decade in London, he sounded like most of the city’s other eight million inhabitants, an undefined native with an undefined accent.

Wallace had known Carlyle for most of his time in London. Framed for a murder he didn’t commit, Carlyle had championed his case, saving him from both incarceration and extradition by going in front of the judge and presenting evidence that his fellow officers had somehow ‘lost’. Wallace walked. The killer was never caught. Several colleagues – not to mention the victim’s family – would never forgive Carlyle. Wallace, however, managed to find his way onto the straight and narrow, developing a career in the music industry, first as a studio engineer, then as a producer. He was now the co-owner of the Rose Town studio in Shoreditch, along with a discreet business angel, who had invested in the project as a favour to Carlyle. The inspector, pleased if rather bemused to have found himself in the role of successful social worker, had not sought anything in return. But Wallace, it seemed, felt obliged to provide the odd piece of information that came his way.

‘Okay.’ Carlyle extended a hand and they shook.

Wallace took a slug from his bottle of Peroni. ‘My parents had no idea about the name and I’ve never watched that Mel Gibson film.’

‘Neither have I.’ As a second-generation Scot, Carlyle was conscious of, if not particularly interested in, his roots. There was a lingering anti-Englishness that came with the territory, but first, last and always, he was a Londoner. London was where his parents had escaped to when there were no opportunities for personal development in post-war Glasgow. London was where he had been born; it was where he had lived all his life. It had given him everything and he was suitably grateful. ‘You know that he was killed near here?’

Wallace frowned. ‘Who?’

‘Your namesake. The Scottish terrorist. When the English caught him he was brought down to London, tried-’

‘Found guilty.’

‘Of course. This is 1305 we’re talking about, after all. Wallace was stripped naked and dragged through the city at the heels of a horse to Smithfield. He was strangled by hanging but released while he was still alive. Then he was eviscerated, and his bowels were burned in front of his face. Then he was beheaded, castrated, and cut into quarters.’

Wallace finished his beer and shivered. ‘Nice.’

‘His head was placed on a pike on London Bridge. Then they took the body parts on tour. His limbs were out on show in Stirling, Berwick, Newcastle and Aberdeen.’ Carlyle finished his drink and signalled that he was going back to the bar for another round. On his return, he handed Wallace his Peroni and took another mouthful of whiskey, vowing that this one would be the last. He took a relaxed view of drinking on duty but he never overdid it. ‘So,’ he said, ‘thanks for the call. What did you want to talk about?’

Wallace took a sip of beer. ‘It’s about that guy.’

Carlyle emptied his glass. He had a nice buzz going and felt the pleasing warmth of the Jameson’s on the back of his throat. ‘What guy?’

‘The guy who escaped from St Pancras, after the shoot-out.’

Carlyle sat up and leaned across the table. ‘The French guy?’

Wallace nodded. ‘Yeah – him. I know where he is.’

‘What am I going to do about my boy?’ Playing with his wine glass, Tuco kept his gaze on the table.

Not my problem . ‘Where is he now?’ Silver asked.

‘He’s staying at a safe house in London.’ Tuco looked up. ‘I want you to get him back to Paris.’

‘That,’ Dominic sighed, ‘is not going to be easy. After what happened at the Eurostar terminal . . .’

Tuco held up a hand. ‘I know, I know. It was not handled well.’

‘That’s some understatement,’ Dom said bluntly. ‘People have died. The police in London will not just let that go.’

‘He should have been more careful.’

‘Yes,’ Dom agreed, ‘he should.’ Idiots like Alain Costello really pissed him off. On the other hand, it was the very fact that they were idiots that gave him a considerable competitive advantage. There was no way he was going to put himself at risk by getting involved. The boy would have to fend for himself. ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ he said grudgingly.

‘Thank you,’ Tuco said, reaching across the table and slapping him on the shoulder. ‘I knew that I could depend on you. This will cement our working relationship.’

Or kill it before it has begun , Dom mused.

‘How reliable is the information?’

‘It’s reliable enough. It’s a very good source. And he has actually seen the guy. The location is the home of a known drug dealer.’

There was a pause. ‘Why are you telling me?’ Alison Roche asked finally.

You know why . ‘I thought that you’d want to know.’

Another pause. ‘I’ll get SO15 on it.’

‘Okay. Keep me posted.’

‘Will do.’

Now it was Carlyle’s turn to pause. He wanted to end the call, but didn’t. ‘How are you doing?’

‘Fine,’ said Roche dully, like a monosyllabic teenager. Even when they’d been working out of Charing Cross, Carlyle was not really the kind of guy to show much interest in her private life or her mental state, and that was the way she liked it. Now that they didn’t work together, there was even less reason to share.

‘I hear the IIC gave you a clean bill of health.’

‘Yeah.’

Carlyle ploughed on. ‘I also hear we’re sharing the same shrink.’

‘Wolf?’ Roche let out a shrill laugh. ‘He’s useless. Look, thanks for the info. I’ll give you a call when I know what’s happening. Speak later.’ The line went dead before he had the chance to say anything else. For a moment, he looked blankly at the handset before dropping it in his pocket and heading off in search of a bus that could take him in the direction of the station.

Carole Simpson gazed at the solid gold crown, thought to belong to a high-ranking nomadic woman more than twenty centuries earlier. The champagne glass in her hand was empty and she felt both light-headed and weary. The special viewing of the surviving treasures from the National Museum of Afghanistan came at the end of a long day. Pulling Dino Mottram close, she slipped her arm through his.

Smiling, he bent over and kissed her on the cheek.

‘Dino,’ she whispered, ‘how long do we have to stay?’

His furrowed brow gave her all the answer she needed. Entomophagous Industries had spent more than twenty thousand pounds sponsoring this evening’s reception and, true to form, Dino was determined to get his money’s worth. Realizing that she would be on her feet for a while yet, Simpson felt even more tired. This time, she made no effort to conceal the boredom as she returned her gaze to the crown.

Stepping into interview room B3 in the basement of Charing Cross police station, Carlyle nodded to the WPC, indicating that she could leave. Dropping the thin file onto the desk, he pulled up a chair and sat down. Flipping open the file, he scanned the three sheets of paper inside before eyeing the tired-looking woman sitting opposite him dressed in a T-shirt and sweat pants. ‘Well, Christina,’ he began, ‘that was quite a show you put on for us at Everton’s.’