James Craig - Shoot to Kill

‘He’s a very interesting and articulate guy.’ Slater washed down the steak with a mouthful of wine.

‘Who – Martin?’

Slater nodded. ‘He talks well about the grotesque sexualization of our society.’ Slipping off one of her pumps, she inserted her foot between Holyrod’s legs and began gently massaging his groin with her toes.

The Mayor’s eyes widened. After a moment, his mouth opened slightly but no sound came out.

‘The way he explains it,’ Slater continued, feeling him stiffen under the arch of her foot, ‘we’re all in the sex industry, one way or another. Sex is used to sell everything – films, music, cars . . . even Entomophagous Industries.’

‘What do you mean?’

Slater put her cutlery back on the plate and pushed the half-finished meal away. ‘Have you seen the latest corporate advertising?’

Holyrod, rapidly losing interest in the conversation, shook his head.

‘There was a full-page ad for Entomophagous in the Economist , the Journal and the Herald Tribune . It was a picture of a naked woman,’ Slater explained, ‘or I should say “girl”, she looked about fifteen at best, sitting on a horse in a field with a slogan that said something like “beauty and strength”, something like that.’

Pulling her foot away from him, she slipped it back into her shoe. ‘So don’t come all high and mighty with me. And don’t try and tell me who I should choose as my clients.’

Slater dropped her napkin on her plate and sprang to her feet. Leaning over the table, she patted the Mayor on the cheek.

‘You never know,’ she smiled maliciously. ‘Maybe if you go home, your wife will let you fuck her tonight.’

Not very likely , Holyrod mused, trying to recall the last time they’d had sex.

‘Or,’ Slater continued, ‘maybe you could just wank off to one of your ads . . . if you like that sort of thing.’ Stepping away from the table, she headed off to get her coat.

Holyrod quickly pulled himself together as a hovering waitress approached the table.

‘Was the meal all right, sir?’

‘Fine, fine,’ said Holyrod brusquely as he watched his mistress disappear into the night. Maybe he would go home and fuck his wife, just to spite her. ‘Just get me the bill and a large glass of the twenty-year-old Pittyvaich.’

Carlyle wondered how long it might be before he could slink off and get a cup of coffee. He thought about the dozens of different cafés within a five-minute walk of the crime scene. As he went through the list, most of them were immediately ruled out on quality grounds. This was not the kind of morning when any old rubbish would do. He definitely was not in the mood for flavourless generic offerings doled out by some grumpy East European who hadn’t yet realized she should have stayed at home, rather than running off to a city that even he, a resident here all his life, found dirty, expensive and unforgiving.

The working day had started as he was brushing his teeth. Standing naked in the bathroom, he was wondering whether his gut was expanding as the desk sergeant phoned and informed him of the homicide. An unidentified tramp had been kicked to death in a doorway at the back of the London Coliseum, home of the English National Opera, not much more than fifty yards from the police station at Charing Cross.

‘Not so good for the crime statistics,’ the sergeant reflected.

Not so good for the poor bugger who is dead , Carlyle replied silently, holding his mobile to his ear while he continued brushing his teeth.

‘And just round the corner from where I’m standing,’ the sergeant sighed. ‘Doesn’t look too clever, does it?’

Still looking in the mirror, sucking in his stomach, Carlyle told him, ‘I’ll be there in ten minutes or so.’ Ending the call, he reached for the mouthwash.

Helen appeared behind him. Stepping out of her pyjama bottoms, she sat down on the toilet and began to pee. She gestured at the mobile as he set it down by the side of the bath. ‘Work?’

Carlyle nodded as he gargled. Spitting the mouthwash into the sink, he took the T-shirt that had been warming on the radiator and put it on. ‘Yeah. Dead tramp. Nice way to start the day.’

‘Ah well,’ she said, ‘good luck.’

‘Thanks.’ He kissed her gently on the top of the head. ‘I’ll tell you about it tonight.’

Umar Sligo turned up the collar of his raincoat and flashed a cheesy smile at the pretty blonde WPC standing by the police tape. He was sure he hadn’t seen her before; if he had, he would have remembered. Umar prided himself on always remembering a pretty face. Tossing her head, the girl looked away. Umar didn’t mind. Making a note of the number on her epaulette, he knew he would have her mobile number by the end of the day, no problem.

‘Sergeant . . .’

Turning back to face his boss, Umar gestured at the Fulham FC baseball cap pulled down low, with the brim concealing most of John Carlyle’s face. ‘Nice hat, Inspector.’

Stepping out of the rain, Carlyle tugged the brim down even further and grunted. The downpour was getting heavier but in the enclosed space of the doorway there was no chance that the stink of death was going to be washed away any time soon.

It wasn’t much of a crime scene, just a pair of battered Gola trainers sticking out from a heap of smelly clothes. If it wasn’t for the congealed blood spreading along the grimy concrete, you would assume the guy – Carlyle assumed that the victim was a man – was just another sleeping dosser of the kind that were to be found sprinkled around Covent Garden at any time of the day or night.

Nameless people living in a different world on the same streets.

‘Any ID?’

‘Nah.’ Umar shook his head. ‘They took everything.’

‘They?’

‘The techies reckon four or five people were involved. Anyway, they cleaned him out, took whatever money and possessions he had. All he had left were his clothes and the sleeping bag.’

‘Great.’ Turning away from Umar, Carlyle watched the pathologist, a small bearded guy called Evan Milch whom he hadn’t worked with much before, snap off his latex gloves and drop them into his bag. Closing the bag, he stretched and shook out his shoulders, catching Carlyle’s eye as he did so.

‘Nasty,’ said the pathologist.

Carlyle nodded.

‘We have just about finished here, I think.’ Milch wiped his hands on his green corduroy jeans. ‘I will let you have some initial thoughts by close of play.’

Someone kicked the poor bastard to death , Carlyle thought. What’s to know? He smiled thinly. ‘Thanks.’

‘My pleasure.’ Zipping up his padded green Barbour jacket, Milch gave a small bow and moved off the pavement, heading for the far side of the police tape and the peace of his mortuary.

As he watched him go, Carlyle stared vacantly at the corpse. For no particular reason, his mind alighted on a memory of Walter Poonoosamy, a local drunk known as ‘Dog’ on account of the fictitious pet he used to panhandle money from tourists. For a while, a few years back, Walter had been a local micro-celebrity, a regular fixture in the waiting room of Charing Cross police station. Then he disappeared, his fate unknown. Or, rather, the details of his fate were unknown. But, for a while at least, Walter had a name, an identity of sorts.

This guy, Carlyle thought sadly, was probably just a corpse long before he had breathed his last.

‘Fuck!’ Looking down, Carlyle saw that he had stepped in the victim’s blood. He took a step backwards, ignoring the disapproving looks of the two technicians still working on the crime scene. Standing in the rain, he wiped the toe of his shoe in a pool of murky water and looked across at his sergeant, standing vacantly in the gutter waiting for something to happen.