James Craig - Shoot to Kill

Helen gave an exasperated grunt. ‘Of course it’s safe. Liberia is one of Africa’s good news stories.’

All things are relative , he thought, waiting for the lecture to begin.

‘The numbers are improving, but it is still shocking. The maternal mortality rate is still among the highest in the world at 994 deaths per 100,000 births. In Britain it is twelve. The death rate for under-fives over there is fourteen per cent. In Britain it is nought point six per cent.’

Statistics, statistics, bloody statistics. ‘But it’s safe?’ he repeated.

‘I wouldn’t take her if it wasn’t.’

‘Have you spoken to her about it?’

‘Yeah. She seems quite up for it. Not least because it would mean a week out of school.’

‘How much is it going to cost?’

‘Not much. Just her flight, basically. Mine will be covered by work.’ She gave him a sly grin. ‘You can come too if you want.’

‘Mm, got to run.’ He gave her a kiss on the forehead, already moving for the door. ‘I’ll have a think about it.’

‘Welcome to London.’

Umar Sligo smiled but said nothing.

It was their first day together and the inspector was trying not to pre-judge his new colleague. The initial signs, however, were not promising. The new boy appeared young, good-looking and enthusiastic; just looking at him made Carlyle feel weary to his bones.

They were standing in the empty front room of a Georgian terraced house on Great Percy Street, just down from Kings Cross. On the bare wooden floorboards lay a machete and an empty can of Carlsberg lager. Under their feet, technicians were removing ‘skunk’ cannabis plants estimated to be worth more than a million pounds that had been found growing in the basement.

‘What I don’t understand,’ said Umar, ‘is how a Scotland Yard Deputy Assistant Commissioner can afford to have a place like this as an investment property?’

Carlyle thrust his hands in his pockets. ‘He’s got a rich wife apparently.’

‘Nice.’

‘He’s completely straight. Been on the job more than thirty years. Started off as a beat constable in Southwark. They live somewhere in Surrey now. The wife rented the place out through an online letting agent to a British man who provided proof of identity and bank details. The neighbours had complained about the noise, on and off, but the clincher was the £50,000 electricity bill.’

‘I bet he feels like a bit of a berk,’ Umar laughed.

‘The Deputy Assistant Commissioner?’ Carlyle asked. ‘Yeah, well, he should, shouldn’t he?’

‘Mm.’

‘It’s tough at the top,’ the inspector mused. ‘So they tell me.’

‘It’s not that uncommon, though. Police in England and Wales uncover about twenty cannabis factories every day, and last year officers and customs seized a million-and-a-half plants worth about two hundred million pounds.’

Carlyle gave his new sidekick a funny look. ‘Did you swallow a copy of the Economist or something?’

‘No,’ Umar said defensively. ‘It’s just one of those things you pick up.’

A uniform appeared from the hallway. ‘Inspector?’

Carlyle recognized the constable. ‘Lea!’ he grinned. ‘Good to see you back on duty. How’s the head wound?’

PC Lea smiled sheepishly and looked at the floor. ‘Fine, thank you. They took the stitches out last week.’

‘What happened?’ Umar asked.

Lea started blushing violently. ‘There are some reporters outside,’ he said hastily, ignoring the question. ‘They’re looking for a quote.’

Carlyle glanced at Umar. ‘Tell them we’re all looking forward to getting high tonight.’

A confused look spread across the young constable’s face. ‘Inspector?’

Carlyle held up a hand. ‘Only joking. Only joking. Tell them: The police were called to a report of a disturbance in a property on Great Percy Street. The property was found to house a cannabis factory. There have been no immediate arrests, and enquiries continue . That’s more than enough to be going on with.’

‘Okay,’ said Lea, moving off.

Gesturing to his sergeant that it was time to leave, Carlyle followed him to the door. ‘Speak to the neighbours,’ he said brusquely. ‘I’m going back to the station.’

On the wall was a sheet of A4 paper, headed, in outsized, bold type, Frank Maxwell’s Guide to Becoming Famous . Sitting in front of the great man’s desk, Sandy Carroll read down the list, butterflies dancing in her stomach:

1 . Appear on a reality series

2 . Enter a talent show

3 . Be abysmal on a talent show

4 . Gain fame by association

5 . Date a celebrity

6 . Flaunt your body

7 . Date a member of the Royal Family

8 . Make a home sex video

9 . Be a success on YouTube

10 . Be in the right place at the right time

Underneath the poster was a sideboard cluttered with photographs: Frank Maxwell with Bruce Forsyth, Frank with Simon Cowell, Frank with Victoria Beckham, Frank with some black guy whom Sandy didn’t recognize.

Kelly elbowed her in the ribs. ‘He’s here,’ she whispered.

Frank Maxwell breezed into the room, steaming mug of tea in hand, PA in tow. He saw Sandy looking at the photos and smiled. ‘That’s the PM,’ he said pointing at the black guy, before dropping into the oversized chair behind his desk. ‘Edgar Carlton. Nice guy.’

‘PM?’ Sandy frowned.

‘Yes,’ said Frank, placing his mug onto a copy of the Sun lying on the desk. ‘The Prime Minister.’

Kelly elbowed her again.

‘Oh,’ said Sandy, embarrassed. ‘I’ve heard of him, I think.’

Frank exchanged a glance with the PA, a camp-looking guy in his twenties in a grubby blue T-shirt and torn jeans, who stood at the corner of the desk, pen and notepad in hand, ready to take notes. ‘So,’ Maxwell said, leaning across the table, clasping his hands together, his dull green eyes fixing them with a careful stare, ‘what can I do for you two ladies?’ He was a short man with well-barbered silver hair and a serious expression. He looked trim, in good shape for his age which, Sandy guessed, had to be somewhere in his early-to-mid sixties.

Sandy opened her mouth but nothing came out.

‘Well,’ Kelly piped up, launching into an explanation of their encounter with Gavin Swann.

A massive grin broke out on the PA’s face and he began scribbling furiously.

After a few moments, Frank held up a hand. ‘I get the picture,’ he said. ‘Sorry, but I don’t have much time this morning.’ He looked from one girl to another. ‘You know that bloke who was accused of hiring a hitman to kill his wife on their honeymoon in Thailand?’

‘Yes,’ the girls lied in unison.

‘I’ve got to take him to do some media interviews in . . .’ he lifted his left wrist in front of his nose and peered at his steel Rolex Oyster Perpetual Submariner, ‘about forty-five minutes.’ He shook his head. ‘Terrible situation. Truly terrible. To lose your wife like that . . . and then be accused of such a vile crime.’

The girls looked at him blankly.

Sitting back in his chair, Frank raised his arms to the heavens. ‘He’s totally innocent, of course. And the good news is that we’re winning in the court of public opinion. Anyway, you want to do a kiss and tell – am I right?’

The girls nodded.

‘Fine.’ Frank gestured towards the PA. ‘Brian here will sort out all the details. When is your next liaison?’

‘There isn’t-’ Sandy started.

‘Next week,’ Kelly cut her off.

Frank nodded thoughtfully. ‘Good. Good. That gives us time to get everything in place.’