James Craig - Shoot to Kill

Dom had long since given up paying any attention to the news about Afghanistan; it was just a basket case, a medieval country living on the edge of extinction. ‘Is there anything I can do?’ he asked, feeling like a useless prick for even asking the question.

Gideon frowned. ‘Nah. I’ll take care of it.’ As the train headed into the tunnel, he stared unseeingly at his reflection in the window.

Relieved that the conversation was over, Dom sat back in his seat and closed his eyes. As he listened to the carriages move effortlessly under the Channel, taking him back to his more than charmed life, he suddenly realized that that had been – by some considerable distance – the longest personal conversation he’d had with Gideon in all the years they’d been working together.

Waiting to collect her coat, Simpson felt a hand on her shoulder. Turning, she found herself looking at a familiar face.

‘Good evening, Commander.’

She gave him a thin smile. ‘Good evening, Mr Mayor.’

Dino appeared from the gents, still zipping up his fly. ‘Christian!’ he said cheerily, slapping Holyrod on the back. ‘I’m glad you could make it.’ He handed his ticket over to the waiting coat-check girl while gesturing at Simpson. ‘Do you know Commander Carole Simpson?’

‘Yes, indeed,’ Holyrod said politely. ‘We go back quite a long way.’

Dino’s eyes widened. ‘Oh, really?’

‘My former husband,’ she said, the smile now frozen on her face, ‘was a supporter when the mayor first ran for election.’

‘Ah,’ Dino nodded. Realizing that he had strayed onto a sensitive subject, he collected the waiting coats from the counter and began helping Simpson into her camel-hair jacket. ‘As you know, Christian has just agreed to join my Board,’ he said, ‘which is a major coup for us.’

‘I’m sure it is,’ said Simpson without any enthusiasm as she buttoned herself up.

‘Dino is too kind,’ Holyrod said smoothly. ‘I have a lot of learning to do if I am to get up to speed with the business.’

‘Well,’ said Simpson, ‘good luck with that.’ Pulling her belt tight, she watched with some irritation as Dino struggled into his Ralph Lauren trench-coat. ‘I hope you enjoy the exhibition, Mr Mayor. The pieces on display really are quite incredible.’

‘I’m looking forward to it,’ Holyrod beamed, edging closer. ‘But there was something I was meaning to ask you about as well.’

Dino gave her a quizzical look.

Simpson’s heart sank. Not only had she been embarrassed by the antics of her insider-dealing husband, she had been embarrassed by the political company that he had kept. And now, with hindsight, she was even more embarrassed to admit that she had been a fellow traveller; a fellow traveller to the point where, arguably, she had overstepped the mark in disclosing to Holyrod details of an investigation in which he personally had been involved. As it happened, her indiscretion had not affected the outcome of the case; but it could have done and that thought still rankled. Still, she had learned an important lesson. Her dealings with politicians were, she had hoped, all long in the past. That was most definitely where she wanted to keep them.

Holyrod let his voice drop until it was barely audible over the background hubbub. ‘It concerns my favourite policeman.’

John bloody Carlyle . Simpson felt a sour twinge in her gut. The Commander’s relationship with her subordinate had improved immeasurably over recent years, but that did not preclude her from having an acute awareness of his somewhat severe shortcomings. The inspector was the kind of man who had a chip on both shoulders, along with the innate ability to piss off important people, especially the Mayor. On more than one occasion, Simpson had been caught in the middle when the pair had clashed. Whereas Carlyle seemed to revel in the conflict, she herself found it wearisome and futile.

‘There’s an issue in relation to-’

Simpson stopped him. ‘I am aware of the situation. Why don’t you call me in the morning?’

Holyrod was about to reply when an imperious figure appeared at his shoulder. At well over six feet, Abigail Slater towered over Simpson. She was wearing a Moschino twill blazer over a pearl blouse with the top three buttons undone, giving more than a glimpse of an ample décolletage. Dino’s mouth fell open. Resisting the urge to elbow her partner in the ribs, Simpson gave Holyrod a sly smile. ‘Is your wife not coming this evening?’ she asked maliciously.

Catching her tone, Dino closed his mouth and, taking her arm, began manoeuvring the Commander towards the exit. ‘We’re off to dinner,’ he said, injecting a note of false cheer into his voice.

‘I will call you in the morning,’ Holyrod said grimly as Simpson walked away.

‘What a bitch,’ Slater sneered, loudly enough for Simpson to hear.

‘Forget it,’ Holyrod snapped, pulling her in the opposite direction. ‘Let’s go and see the bloody exhibition.’

The squaddie drained his pint of Spitfire Ale and banged it down on the table. ‘They’re almost here.’

Not looking up from his bottle of Foster’s, Adrian Gasparino grunted noncommittally. He was freezing cold in his dress uniform and trying to ignore the dull ache from his crippled leg.

‘Aren’t you going to come out and watch it?’ Not waiting for an answer, the squaddie was already out of the door and into the crowd, a few hundred strong that lined the main street in Wootton Bassett, the small Wiltshire town through which dead soldiers were driven on their way to the John Radcliffe Hospital in Oxford.

Gasparino looked up at the television screen set high on the wall. One of the news channels was showing live images of the scene outside. Over the pictures, a newsreader’s voice said: ‘ Since they began more than three years ago, there have been 149 repatriation ceremonies for 346 personnel. The rate has been increasing, with 34 ceremonies for 86 soldiers so far this year .’

A perky blonde presenter was running up and down the street interviewing anyone in a uniform. Everyone used the same words – ‘tragedy’ and ‘bravery’ – the excited chatter only stopping when the hearses finally hove into view. There were six bodies being repatriated today. One of them belonged to Spencer Spanner. Gasparino kept his eyes on the screen as they passed by outside. As the last one disappeared, he finished his beer and went back to the bar.

Fed up with waiting for his wife to make a comment, Carlyle picked up his new spectacles and waved them in front of his face.

‘What do you think?’

‘They make you look different,’ Helen smirked.

‘At least I haven’t lost them yet,’ Carlyle replied, miffed that she couldn’t come up with something more positive to say about his new look.

Reaching across the sofa, Helen took the frames from his hand. Placing them carefully on his face, she gave him an affectionate kiss on the lips. ‘They look good. With the grey hair, you are on the way to looking really quite distinguished.’

‘Getting old,’ Carlyle said sadly.

‘We’re all getting old,’ Helen retorted. ‘No need to get all gloomy about it.’ She gestured at the television. On the screen were pictures of Union Jack-draped coffins being unloaded from an RAF plane. ‘There’s a lot worse could happen to you. Those kids were only in their twenties. It seems like they’re coming home almost every day now.’

‘I know.’

The news report turned to a series of vox pops with people who had turned out to watch the bodies return home. ‘I’m here to pay my respects,’ said one woman, carrying a baby. ‘They’re all heroes.’