James Craig - Shoot to Kill

Carlyle shook his head. ‘What kind of person takes a young kid to something like that?’

Helen made a face. ‘It has clearly become a bit of a tradition. A day out for people.’

‘I’m sure it makes the poor buggers in the coffins feel a whole lot better,’ said Carlyle grumpily.

A stern-looking chap in uniform appeared on the screen under the title Lieutenant-General Sir Kelvin Frank. ‘There is a greater infatuation with the military,’ he announced, staring into the camera in a rather disconcerting fashion, ‘than at any other stage of recent history. Much of it is pretty mawkish – what you might call recreational grief . . . Diana . . . Graceland-type stuff. It’s just an extension of the vapid celebrity culture that is corroding our country and doesn’t do anyone any good.’

Carlyle gave a small cheer. ‘At last,’ he said, gesturing at the screen, ‘someone’s talking some bloody sense. Why do we let ourselves wallow in all this sentimentality? You tell ’em, General!’

‘Alice came back with something from school yesterday,’ Helen said. ‘They’re doing a sponsored walk for Help for Heroes and Veterans Aid.’

Carlyle looked at her uncomprehendingly.

‘They’re charities aimed at helping ex-servicemen get back into civilian life.’

‘Isn’t that the government’s job?’ Carlyle asked. Holding up his hand, he corrected himself immediately. ‘Sorry, that was a remarkably stupid thing to say. Good for Alice. How much is she looking to raise?’

‘A minimum of two hundred quid. She’s really up for it.’

‘Good for her,’ Carlyle repeated, quietly wondering how much he would have to stump up himself. ‘What does she think of it all?’

‘Dunno,’ Helen replied. ‘I think she buys into the basic idea that the soldiers are heroes, but doesn’t have much of an understanding – if any at all – about what they’re actually fighting for.’

‘Same as everyone else then,’ Carlyle quipped. ‘I’d better see if I can dig out an old Stranglers CD for her to listen to.’

Leaping off the sofa, he began singing the first verse of ‘No More Heroes’ in his best Jean-Jacques Burnel accent. Raising her eyes to the ceiling, Helen picked up the remote and raised the volume on the TV.

Standing in the mud in the Royal British Legion Wootton Bassett Field of Remembrance, Gasparino shivered. He had eaten nothing for more than twenty-four hours and the beer had gone to his head. Looking around, he saw a smattering of people, small knots of families wandering among the rows of tiny crosses pressed into the turf. A sharp blast of wind blew across the field. Looking up at the slate-grey sky, he breathed in deeply, trying to clear his head. In his hand, he was holding a six-inch wooden cross, the legend Sergeant Spencer Spanner written in blue biro across the tip. Dropping on to his good knee, Gasparino drove the cross into the ground until he was sure it was safely secured. His injured leg flared with pain as he struggled to his feet. Stepping away from the cross, he felt the first rain of the day on his uncovered head.

‘Sorry, mate,’ he said, choked.

Keeping his gaze on the ground, he headed for the road.

The inspector sat in the familiar surroundings of Simpson’s office in Paddington Green police station. Aside from the basic office furniture, the place was empty. The only personal touch – a photo of Simpson’s husband – had been removed years earlier, around the time the latter had been arrested for fraud. Carlyle waited patiently while she signed some papers. After a few moments, she tossed the biro onto the desk and looked up.

There was a pause while she did a double-take.

‘When did you . . . ?’

Carlyle shuffled uncomfortably in his seat. ‘The other day.’

Simpson tried not to grin. ‘They make you look different.’

A familiar sense of being persecuted stabbed Carlyle in the chest. ‘That’s exactly what Helen said.’

Simpson nodded.

‘There’s nothing wrong with my eyes,’ he added, somewhat defensively. ‘Everyone needs specs in the end.’

‘Quite,’ Simpson agreed, gesturing to her own glasses case lying on the desk. ‘Anyway, you know what this is about.’

Carlyle cringed. ‘The Mayor’s website: have you seen the video?’

Simpson shook her head.

‘You must be about the only person in the Met who hasn’t.’ Carlyle grinned. ‘I have a starring role.’

Simpson picked up a mug of steaming peppermint tea from her desk and took a sip. ‘Why couldn’t you just do what you were told?’ Carlyle made to say something but she cut him off. ‘For once, just execute my order. Not create another bloody drama that gets the Mayor’s back up.’

Carlyle’s grin got wider.

‘You bloody enjoy it!’ Simpson slammed her mug down on the desk, spilling tea over her newly signed letters. ‘Shit!’

Carlyle struggled to suppress a laugh.

Simpson could tell there was no point in trying to clean up the mess. The letters would have to be redone. ‘The problem is that you just like making trouble,’ she complained. ‘What on earth was the point of arresting that cameraman?’

Carlyle spread his arms wide in what he hoped was a conciliatory fashion. ‘What was the point of arresting anyone? How many illegal aliens did we actually catch?’

Simpson glared at the inspector. They both knew the answer to that: zero.

Carlyle ploughed on. ‘One stripper arrested for assault – an assault that only happened because we turned up – and thousands of pounds’ worth of police time wasted. And all for what? So we could make some fancy video for the Mayor’s website.’

‘The Mayor-’

‘The Mayor,’ Carlyle said angrily, ‘can go fuck himself. It’s not like he’s going to be in the job for much longer anyway.’

Simpson thought about mentioning Holyrod’s new job with Dino’s company but decided against it. ‘He’ll still be an important man,’ she said lamely.

‘We’ll see,’ Carlyle snorted.

‘What about the woman that assaulted your constable?’

‘PC Lea? She’s an American citizen by the name of Christina O’Brien. I expect that she’ll be deported. Bishop’s dealing with it, unless my new guy turns up, sharpish.’

‘That was the other thing I wanted to talk to you about,’ said Simpson, opening a desk drawer and pulling out a thin file. She handed it to Carlyle, careful to avoid the pool of tea on the table. ‘He starts on Monday. Here are the details.’

‘Thanks.’ Sitting back in his chair, Carlyle flicked through the contents. ‘Umar Sligo,’ he frowned. ‘What kind of a name is that?’

‘Fucking shit!’ Alain Costello threw his PSP at the wall in frustration. ‘ Merde alors! ’

He had been playing the same game for weeks and had to get to a store to buy something new or his head felt like it would explode. No one would be looking for him now. His father Tuco was being a total arsehole. If Tuco had made more of an effort, Alain could have been home by now. Well, fuck him. Grabbing his puffer jacket, he headed for the door.

‘Hey! Where you going?’ Salvatore, the minder Tuco had instructed to look after him, stuck his head out of the kitchen door. In his hand was a ham and cheese sandwich. Frowning, he took a large bite. Alain swore to himself; all the fat fuck ever did was eat.

‘I’m going out.’

‘But . . .’ Salvatore struggled to chew and talk at the same time. ‘Tuco-’

‘Fuck Tuco,’ Alain whined. ‘I need some new games.’

Salvatore shoved the remainder of the sandwich into his gaping maw and wiped his hands on his Kings of Leon T-shirt. ‘Tell me what you want. I’ll go and get them.’

‘I want to go out.’