James Craig - Shoot to Kill

‘Is this an agency job?’

‘No, it bloody isn’t.’ Kelly stuck her hands on her hips and pouted like a three year old before her face broke into a grin. ‘It’s top secret.’ The waiter returned with the change on a little tray but Kelly just left it there. Pulling her bag over her shoulder, she began manoeuvring her way between the nearby tables, heading for the exit.

Sandy hesitated. She was tired. She wasn’t in the mood. Today was supposed to be a day off. More to the point, she was wearing a fairly grungy pair of M amp;S knickers and a bra that didn’t match. If she’d known what Kelly had in mind, she would have worn her Agent Provocateur Cendrillon Playsuit – that always went down a treat with the punters.

‘Come on !’ Kelly shouted over her shoulder, already halfway to the door. ‘He’s waiting.’

With a sigh, Sandy hefted the bags of shopping piled around her feet. Getting up, she realized that not only was she not really dressed for the occasion, but she didn’t have any condoms on her. That might limit her bedroom options somewhat. Terrified of catching something nasty, she didn’t allow anyone to go bareback, not even a Premier League footballer. Not even Gavin bloody Swann.

‘Stop! Police! I am armed and I have the authority to shoot.’

‘ Merde !’ As Salvatore took off down the street like a scalded cat, Alain Costello turned to face the woman with the Glock. Recognizing her as the cop from St Pancras, he smiled insolently.

‘Stop,’ Roche repeated as she moved carefully towards him. ‘Put your hands in the air!’ She was little more than five yards away when an old woman pushing a shopping trolley started to cross the road. She did a double-take when she saw Roche’s gun and let out a high-pitched scream. Laughing, Costello took his opportunity to turn and run.

After spending a minute or so flicking through Umar Sligo’s file, Carlyle tossed it back onto Simpson’s desk. While he was reading, the Commander’s PA had speedily mopped up the spilled tea and removed the soaked letters, but he was still careful to avoid the remaining damp patch.

‘What do you think?’ Simpson asked. And seeing his expression: ‘You could at least show a little enthusiasm,’ she scolded. ‘I think he’ll be good.’

Carlyle shifted in his seat. ‘We’ll see.’ With an Irish father and a Pakistani mother, Umar was living, breathing proof of the benefits of the multicultural society. Kassim Darwish Grammar School for Boys, South Manchester ( The true measure of a good education is to explore the limitations of your knowledge ) had been followed by a first-class degree from the University of Manchester in Politics and Criminology. After joining the Greater Manchester Police, he had been rapidly promoted, becoming one of the youngest sergeants on the force at the age of barely twenty-three.

‘John,’ she instructed him. ‘Make an effort.’

‘I will,’ he protested. ‘Of course I will.’

‘I will be keeping an eye on the pair of you.’

‘Fine,’ said Carlyle, getting to his feet. ‘Let’s see how it goes.’

After many years of working together, Simpson understood Carlyle’s idiosyncrasies better than anyone else on the Force. Giving him a quizzical look, she decided to quit while she thought she was ahead. ‘Good,’ she said primly. ‘He’ll be with you tomorrow.’

Roche sounded more than a little pissed. ‘I can’t believe we’ve lost Costello again,’ she wailed.

Carlyle’s heart sank. He didn’t like these type of conversations and wished he’d let the call go to voicemail. Taking a deep breath, he tried to sound supportive. ‘Under the circumstances, it doesn’t sound like you could have done much differently. And now we know for sure that he’s still in the country.’

‘The bloody granny had a heart attack!’

‘At least you didn’t shoot her,’ Carlyle laughed.

Roche mumbled something incomprehensible.

‘Look,’ Carlyle said firmly, ‘get some sleep. I’ll go back to my guy and see if he can give us another lead.’

‘Okay,’ she said, starting to sound tearful.

‘Get some rest,’ Carlyle repeated. ‘We’ll talk tomorrow.’ Ending the call, he phoned William Wallace. The Yardie answered almost immediately.

‘Mr Wallace?’

‘Mr Carlyle!’ Wallace too sounded somewhat inebriated. There was a party going on in the background. ‘Hold on a sec.’

Carlyle waited while Wallace moved somewhere quieter.

‘What can I do for you?’

‘The address you gave me was good.’

‘I told you,’ Wallace said, sounding pleased.

‘But the guy has done a runner.’ Carlyle didn’t go into details.

Wallace let out a low whistle. ‘You mean you lost him again ?’

Carlyle chose not to rise to the bait. ‘I was wondering if you might have any thoughts about where he might be now?’

‘The guy he was staying with,’ Wallace lowered his voice a notch, ‘is called Salvatore Razzi. Nice enough bloke, but a bit of a slob. I happen to know that he also owns a place out west.’ Wallace gave Carlyle an address in Notting Hill.

‘Hold on, hold on. I need to write it down.’ After some considerable fumbling, Carlyle found a sandwich receipt and a pen in his jacket pocket. ‘Give me that again.’

Wallace repeated the address.

‘Thanks, William.’

‘No problem.’

Carlyle ended the call and dropped his phone into his pocket. Hopefully, it would be a case of third time lucky.

The Garden Hotel was located on St Martin’s Lane, a five-minute walk from the restaurant, just to the north of Trafalgar Square. It was the kind of high-end Central London location that attracted A-listers and all the hangers-on and ‘support-service’ providers that, inevitably, came with them. The girls had hung out at the Garden and its famous Light Bar many times before; they were both known to the chief concierge, Alex Miles, who had a ‘gentleman’s agreement’ with their agency.

As they walked in, Miles was not at the desk. Sandy recognized one of his sidekicks, a thin, sour-faced woman named Jenny Thompson, who caught her eye, giving a slight nod of acknowledgement as the girls headed for the bank of three lifts at the back of the lobby.

The place was heaving and all of the lifts were busy, stopping at every floor as they slowly made their way down to ground level. ‘Where are we going?’ Sandy whispered as they waited.

Kelly didn’t look up as she tapped away at the screen of her iPhone. ‘Top floor, penthouse suite.’

Finally, a lift arrived. The doors pinged open and a procession of guests streamed out, all of them dressed up ready to hit the West End on a Saturday night. Getting into the lift, the girls were joined by an Arab man in his thirties, along with two women, covered from head to toe in black burkas.

‘Not a great look,’ Kelly giggled as the doors closed.

‘They wear the sexiest lingerie under those things,’ Sandy breathed, scowling at the man as he shamelessly ogled her chest.

The Arabs got out on the third floor and the girls rode the rest of the way to the top in silence. When the lift opened, they found themselves in a short corridor with only one door. After taking a moment to compose herself, Kelly knocked loudly on the door and took a half-step backwards. Sticking back her shoulders, she looked her friend up and down. ‘Just follow my lead,’ she whispered. ‘Let me do the talking.’

Sandy nodded meekly.

‘Don’t worry,’ Kelly grinned. ‘If past experience is anything to go by, this is only going to take ten minutes. Fifteen tops. Then we’ll go and have a few drinks.’

At least they should have some decent vodka in the mini-bar, Sandy thought.