James Craig - Shoot to Kill

After a few moments, they heard the lock disengage and the door was jerked open. Giggling, they stepped inside.

Susie McCarthy gripped her mug so tightly it looked as though it might be crushed between her fingers. ‘You should think about contacting your family.’

‘Mm.’ Adrian Gasparino looked past the earnest young social worker and out across the River Thames. Sitting in the canteen of New Belvedere House, a hostel for homeless ex-servicemen in Limehouse, East London, his mind wandered back to the image of Justine on her knees on the living-room carpet. Shaking the memory from his head, he smiled sadly. ‘It’s nice here. I was lucky to find it.’

‘Yes, you were,’ Susie agreed brightly.

How old are you? Gasparino wondered. Older than me? What skills and experience do you have that you can use to help me with my problems?

‘The great thing about the New Belvedere,’ Susie continued, dropping into what sounded like an oft-repeated spiel, ‘is that it’s a safe environment. We are only small compared to something like the Royal British Legion, but our aim is to become the most dynamic driver when it comes to repaying the debt of honour that we owe our troops.’

‘Ah yes,’ Gasparino nodded. Suddenly the room felt very stuffy. He had an overwhelming desire to step outside and feel the wind blast his face. ‘Thanks for the tea,’ he said, getting to his feet.

‘Where are you going?’ Susie asked as he slipped his rucksack over his shoulder.

‘I just fancy a walk.’

She gestured at his bag with her mug. ‘With all your stuff?’

Gasparino shrugged. ‘I travel light.’

She looked at him doubtfully. ‘Where will you go?’

‘Not far. Maybe we could have another talk tomorrow.’

She shook her head. ‘I have a day off tomorrow.’

‘I see,’ Gasparino smiled. ‘Maybe later then.’ He turned towards the door. ‘Have a nice day off.’

‘I will,’ she said happily. ‘Thank you.’

Helen handed Carlyle a cup of green tea and then began rummaging in her bag. ‘There’s something you should see,’ she said, pulling out a copy of The Times .

‘Yeah?’ Sipping his tea, Carlyle waited patiently while she found the relevant page and folded the paper in half.

‘Here.’

Scanning the article, he frowned. ‘What makes parents pack their sons off to Eton?’

‘No.’ Retrieving the paper from her idiot husband, Helen pointed him to the story below the fold: MY TEENAGER HELL . Thrusting the paper back at him, she hissed: ‘The bitch has written about Alice in her column.’

Carlyle quickly scanned the article. Helen had underlined a paragraph that said: Jemima came for a sleepover last week. The girls just lock themselves in the bedroom and smoke dope all night. Somewhere round about two in the morning comes the not unfamiliar sound of retching from the bathroom . He looked at the by-line. ‘Who is Lucy Pulse?’

‘It’s Andrea bloody Blackman.’ The blank look on Carlyle’s face told her that he was none the wiser. ‘Olivia’s mum.’

‘And “Jemima” is Alice?’

‘Yes. The woman has used her in one of her tawdry little columns.’

‘What does Alice think?’ Carlyle asked.

‘I think it’s bloody hilarious,’ said Alice, sticking her head round the kitchen door. ‘Olivia’s mortified, though. And she has to put up with this kind of stuff all the time.’

‘Poor kid,’ Carlyle clucked. ‘Imagine having your life turned into a newspaper column. That must be tough.’

‘But did you go over there to smoke dope and be sick?’ Helen asked.

Alice stepped into the kitchen. Not for the first time, she had borrowed his Clash T-shirt. ‘Nah. We only smoked a little. No one puked up. Olivia’s mum has to exaggerate things to make her stories more interesting.’

‘What will they say at school?’

‘For God’s sake, Mum,’ Alice pouted, ‘no one pays any attention to that rubbish.’ She gave her dad a shameless wink. ‘Anyway, my grades have been really good recently.’

‘Yes,’ Helen admitted, ‘but-’

Alice cut her off. ‘Even the Headmaster said “well done” the other day.’

‘Long may it continue,’ said Carlyle with feeling. A couple of years earlier, Carlyle and Helen had been summoned to Dr Terence Myers’s office after Alice had been suspended for possession of cannabis. At the time, Carlyle had been both surprised and relieved that his daughter had only got a suspension. All the same, he was in no hurry to repeat the experience.

‘ And, ’ Alice squealed, ‘I’m giving up the drugs. It’s all getting a bit boring.’

Giving them up? Carlyle thought suspiciously. ‘I hadn’t even started them at your age,’ he grumbled.

‘It’s a different world today, Dad,’ Alice told him. ‘Kids grow up quicker. I’m probably already as mature as you were when you were nineteen, or even twenty.’

Fucking hell , thought Carlyle, that’s a result. Let’s just hope she doesn’t change her mind again next week .

‘I’d say you’re already more mature than he was when he was thirty,’ Helen grinned, giving Carlyle a dig in the ribs, ‘at least.’

‘As if.’ He gave them both a hurt look.

Alice did a little jig of delight. ‘Face facts, old man.’

‘Old man?’ Carlyle echoed. ‘In that case, maybe you can let me have my T-shirt back.’

‘I don’t know about that,’ Alice said, beating a hasty retreat towards the safety of her bedroom.

‘Thank you, Jemima ,’ he shouted after her. ‘Make sure it’s washed and ironed – inside out – when you’re finished with it.’

‘Leave the kid alone,’ Helen admonished him. ‘You don’t need to iron a T-shirt.’

‘But it is The Clash,’ Carlyle reminded her. ‘You have to show some respect.’

Helen, always more of a Paul Weller devotee, was less than convinced. ‘Yeah, right.’

‘Seriously. That T-shirt is vintage.’

‘Just like you,’ Helen couldn’t resist saying.

‘It cost me a tenner from Camden market thirty years ago.’

‘And the rest.’

‘Anyway. It’s irreplaceable. It needs to be properly looked after.’

‘It’s just a bloody T-shirt. You can probably get a new one on the internet.’ With that, Helen padded off into the living room. After adding some more hot water to his tea, Carlyle followed her. Lowering himself onto the sofa, he rested his head on her shoulder and lifted his feet on to the coffee table.

On the TV was a story about the arrest of a dozen men on suspicion of the commission, preparation or instigation of an act of terrorism in the UK. A serious-looking blonde reporter Carlyle didn’t recognize stood in front of a fluttering police tape on a suburban South London street and began speaking live to camera: ‘Searches at several London properties began after the arrests, with detectives and forensics experts looking for any scientific evidence of materials that could be used to make explosives. The counter-terrorism operation targeting some of those arrested had been under way for some time, and is described as “significant”. At least some of those arrested are believed to have been under surveillance.’

‘That doesn’t tell you much, does it?’ Carlyle mused.

A familiar face appeared next to the blonde. Metropolitan Police Assistant Commissioner Quentin Collymore was the country’s leading anti-terrorism officer. He began explaining how the raids were launched to take action in order to protect the public. ‘This,’ he said carefully, ‘is a large-scale, pre-planned and intelligence-led operation involving several forces. The operation is in its early stages, so we are unable to go into detail at this time about the suspected offences. We know we face a real and serious threat from terrorism and I would like to thank the police and security service for working to keep our country safe.’