James Craig - Shoot to Kill

Umar caught him staring. He nodded again at the inspector’s cap. ‘Bad result for Fulham last night.’

Tell me something I don’t know , Carlyle thought. Fourth defeat on the bounce, a shell-shocked manager and another wearisome relegation battle looming. ‘We’re not like United,’ he said maliciously, ‘with dodgy decisions from helpful referees every week.’

Umar shook his head. ‘I’m a Citeh man,’ he said, ‘as you well know. I don’t like United any more than anyone else.’

‘These days that’s probably worse,’ Carlyle said morosely. Manchester City, for so long the poor relations of their local rivals, had been bought by some rich Arabs intent on buying their way to success. In football, where money was everything, even perennial losers like City could be transformed . . . eventually.

Umar shrugged his shoulders. ‘You’re just jealous of our money,’ he said almost wistfully in a soft Lancashire accent that had clearly been honed in some of the smarter parts of Cheshire.

‘You can’t buy class.’

‘Yeah,’ Umar agreed, puzzled by his boss’s obvious hostility over such a trivial matter. ‘Like your cap – very classy.’

Finally, Carlyle managed a grin. ‘At least it keeps my head dry.’

Umar Sligo pulled himself up straight so that he could profit from his three-inch height advantage over his boss. ‘A bit of rain never hurt anyone,’ he said.

Thrusting his hands deep into the pockets of his North Face jacket, Carlyle pawed the ground restlessly. Breakfast was long overdue. ‘Where you come from,’ he said, ‘I suppose it rains all the time.’

‘Manchester’s not that bad,’ Umar said defensively.

‘Yeah, right,’ Carlyle nodded. ‘Just be grateful that you’ve finally made it to civilization.’

Umar looked at him defiantly. ‘Have you ever been there?’

Carlyle frowned as if the question was crazy. He lived and worked in London. Why would he ever want to venture into the provinces? Letting his gaze slip from his sergeant, he watched an ambulance appear from round the corner, its blue lights flashing, then pull up to the tape.

‘We’re done here,’ he said. ‘Let’s go and get a drink.’

Sitting in a cramped booth at the back of the Monmouth Coffee House, just off Seven Dials in Covent Garden, Carlyle took off his cap and hung his jacket over the back of his chair. He could feel a headache coming on. A trio of baristas expertly worked the red Gaggia Deco machines lined up against the far wall, and while he waited, he read the notice hanging above them that explained the characteristics – toasted almonds with smooth body and balanced fruity acidity – of his espresso. We currently use Fazenda do Serrado (Brasil) as the base of the espresso, adding Lo Mejor de Nariño (Colombia) for high notes and complexity and Finca Capetillo (Guatemala) for cocoa notes .

Carlyle didn’t know whether to be impressed or embarrassed. Sipping his drink, he scanned the room. At a nearby table, a hugely famous, jaw-droppingly gorgeous young actress was canoodling with a young pretty boy who looked even more feminine than she did. Carlyle was no star-gazer – in Central London, celebrities, even proper celebrities, were ten a penny, but even so, he found it hard not to gawp.

Finishing his cappuccino, Umar noisily dropped his cup back on its saucer, bringing the inspector back to the present. ‘Shall we get going?’ he asked, bouncing around on his seat like a hyperactive five year old.

‘Yeah,’ said Carlyle. Making no move to get up, he gave his sergeant the onceover. They had been working together for a while now but Carlyle, usually a man quick to make a judgement on people, felt like he was still a long way off making a decision about Umar Sligo. Dark and clear-eyed, with a strong jawline, high cheekbones and a mane of pitch-black hair that was considerably longer than allowed for in the Met’s regulations, Umar was a pretty boy too, and no mistake. Sitting in a charcoal, single-breasted Jil Sander suit, something that Carlyle could never have afforded on his inspector’s salary, and with an aqua-blue Hugo Boss shirt, open at the neck, the young man looked more like a model than a policeman. Carlyle watched as the actress turned away from her boyfriend and blatantly gave Umar an appraising look. The stab of envy that Carlyle felt was sharp and lingering. What is it today, he wondered grumpily, with all these beautiful people? Glancing up, he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror that ran the length of the wall behind the bar. His hair was greyer than he remembered and his plebeian build, always slight, seemed to be shrinking as he hunched over his demitasse. To his own hypercritical eye, he looked at least ten years older than his actual age. You’re past your sell-by date , he said to himself, too old to be a footsoldier in the battle for law and order. You’ve been doing this job for far too long – you should have found something else to keep you busy by now .

Umar had started reading a story on his BlackBerry Curve 8520 and was soon laughing out loud. ‘Have you heard the latest about Gavin Swann?’

‘His new contract?’

‘Nah. That was sorted weeks ago. Two hundred grand a week after tax, apparently.’ He turned the BlackBerry round in his hand, so that Carlyle could see the screen. It showed an image of a sleek white automobile. Gavin Swann was leaning out of the driver’s window, signing autographs for a couple of young boys. In the background, a gaggle of middle-aged men in shell-suits looked on. ‘The latest addition to his stable of high-end motors. A Bentley Continental. One of the most popular cars with Premier League footballers. More than a hundred grand’s worth of style and grace.’

‘Nice.’ Carlyle failed to fake much interest. The truth was that he knew nothing about cars and cared even less. ‘Bit of a cliché, though, isn’t it?’ he went on. ‘ Footballer buys flash car . Not very imaginative.’

‘By and large,’ Umar acknowledged, ‘it is pretty much what you’d expect. English footballers tend to come either from the working class or from the underclass. Young men, lacking in both formal education and life skills, with a lot of disposable income . . . they like their expensive toys. A lot of them have a problem when it comes to managing money.’

‘He’s a chav,’ Carlyle sneered.

‘Like all of us, Gavin Swann is a product of his environment. Until he signed as a professional footballer, no one in Swann’s immediate family had worked for almost thirty years. He lived in a one-bedroom council house in Elephant and Castle until he bought a six-million-pound mansion in Surrey. He played for England before he had even qualified for a driving licence.’

‘Part of a long tradition of lovable “bad boys”, like George Best, Stan Bowles, Paul Gascoigne.’

‘His is the kind of story you’d expect from this society.’

Carlyle let out a short, harsh laugh. ‘You sound like you’ve been on one sociology course too many.’

‘Nah.’ Umar shook his head. ‘But I read an interesting article about it in the FT at the weekend.’

The FT ? What kind of bloody copper, Carlyle wondered, reads the Financial Times?

‘They have a guy called Simon Kuper who writes lots of interesting stuff.’

Carlyle gave him a blank look.

‘He co-wrote a book,’ Umar continued, ‘called Why England Lose .’

For a nanosecond, Carlyle rediscovered his Scottish roots. ‘England lose because they are not very good,’ he said.

‘No, well, actually . . .’

Carlyle held up a hand. ‘Let’s not go there.’ However shit England were on the football field, he knew only too well that Scotland were far worse.