James Craig - Shoot to Kill

With a sigh, Umar realized that he was wasting his time, trying to have an intelligent conversation with his boss about anything that was not directly related to work. It was clear that the inspector was two-dimensional – at best – and Umar wondered just how much he would learn from working at Charing Cross. Hopefully, his stay would be a short one.

‘Okay,’ he asked, looking up from the screen of his smartphone, ‘what do you want me to do next?’

Carlyle finished his drink. ‘Your call.’ The boy had to start making his own decisions. Until he did that, the inspector wouldn’t know if he was any good or not. Simpson hadn’t explained why Umar – academic, matinée idol and rising star in the provincial police force – had upped sticks and come to London. A restless spirit? A dark secret? A hidden agenda? Or simply an understandable desire to play with the big boys? There were various possibilities. Not that Carlyle cared much one way or another. As a Londoner, he always assumed that anyone unfortunate enough to find themselves living in another part of the country would try and make it to the capital at the earliest opportunity, before life passed them by completely. As a policeman, he was not overburdened by curiosity. Anyway, whatever Umar’s reasons for heading south, they were unlikely to have much bearing on how things worked out between the two of them at Charing Cross. The kid would either stick around or he wouldn’t. Only time would tell. If they established a good partnership, terrific. If not, he would get someone else. That was one of the great things about London: there was always someone else. You were never missed for long. No one was indispensable. Ever. It was not a place for sentimentality.

Looking up, Carlyle saw the poster on the wall behind Umar’s head. It was for one of the ENO’s current shows called A Dog’s Heart . Bored, he read the blurb: . . . a new work by Russian composer Alexander Raskatov, based on a classic novella by one of the Soviet era’s best-known writers, Mikhail Bulgakov. Banned for many years under Stalin’s rule, Bulgakov’s absurdist tale tells of a stray mongrel that becomes human after a Frankenstein-like organ transplant by his master . Carlyle had never been to an opera in his life, but at least this one sounded interesting. At the bottom of the poster was a quote lifted from a Financial Times review: a total sensory extravaganza. Well, if it’s good enough for the FT . . . Carlyle thought sarkily.

Maybe he should ask Umar his opinion.

Maybe not.

Shocked by his willingness to contemplate trying something new, he made a mental note to ask his wife about it. He chuckled to himself. Was an opera about a Frankenstein dog a good choice for a date? Was there even such a thing as a date opera anyway? Helen would have to be the judge of that. The point was that it was up to him to make the effort to do something.

Umar finished typing some notes into his mobile device and looked up. ‘I’ll see if I can get a name, see what the uniforms come up with, knocking on doors, and chase up the pathologist’s report.’

‘Talk to the people at the halfway house on Parker Street and also the St Mungo’s hostel on Endell Street. They might be able to tell you something useful.’

‘Okay,’ Umar nodded.

‘Good.’ Carlyle got to his feet. ‘Get an estimated time of death and check the CCTV as well. I counted at least four different cameras that should have caught something.’

Umar grinned. ‘That would make our life easier.’

‘We’ll see.’ Carlyle let out a deep breath. Accidentally catching the eye of the actress, he looked away quickly, feeling like a berk. ‘I’ll see you later.’

Apparently oblivious to the star in his midst, Umar dropped the BlackBerry into his pocket. ‘Where are you going?’

‘Stuff to do,’ said Carlyle, as he headed for the door. ‘I’m off to see your predecessor.’

Was he imagining it, or did Roche look different? Scanning her face, Carlyle thought there was something missing. And then he saw it: the loss of sparkle in her eyes as she looked at him made him wonder if she could really recover from her tussles with Alain Costello.

Stepping forward, she greeted him with a limp handshake. ‘Hello, Inspector.’

‘Sergeant.’

She looked him up and down. ‘Like the specs. They make you look . . . different.’

‘So I’m told.’ Carlyle glanced down the suburban street. There was no sign of the two dozen or so police officers stationed within 100 yards of where they were standing. The neighbourhood looked deserted. ‘Are you ready to go?’

‘Just about.’ Roche pointed to a large, unmarked van parked twenty yards down the road. ‘My boss is in there,’ she mumbled. ‘I’d introduce you, but you wouldn’t like her.’

‘Fair enough.’ Roche might have lost her edge but she still knew him well enough. There were already plenty of police officers the inspector didn’t like; he didn’t need to meet another one.

‘The target address is the next street over,’ Roche said. ‘It’s called Fortune Street – a top-floor flat. As far as we can tell, Costello is in there alone. We’re going in, in around five minutes. Straight through the front door. There is no alternative exit.’

Third time lucky , Carlyle thought. Don’t fuck it up this time. If you have to shoot the bastard, that’s fine by me . ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I’ll stay in the background.’

As if reading his thoughts, Roche lovingly patted the Glock on her hip. ‘Are you armed?’ she asked.

‘No,’ Carlyle said. ‘Not really necessary, is it?’

Roche made a face that suggested his statement lacked a certain degree of wisdom.

‘Anyway,’ Carlyle continued, ‘I am not an Authorized Firearms Officer. As it happens, I’ve never fired a gun in my life.’

‘No? Maybe you should learn,’ Roche replied as she turned and headed off down the street.

‘Maybe I will,’ Carlyle lied as he watched her disappear round the corner. There was no way on God’s earth you would get him anywhere near an armed weapon. He knew that if he ever ended up with a gun in his hand, most likely the only person he would end up shooting would be himself. No, guns were definitely not on his agenda. He glanced at his watch; a couple of minutes to kick-off. After a moment’s reflection, he began walking down the street at a brisk pace, heading in the opposite direction to Roche.

At the end of the street, Carlyle crossed the two-lane road and went and sat on a grubby red plastic bench in a bus shelter that offered him a clear view down the length of Fortune Street. Arms folded, he watched as the snatch party of half a dozen uniformed officers smashed down a door halfway down the street, about 150 yards from where he was sitting. Carlyle saw an old woman, tartan shopping bag in hand, shuffling along the far side of the street, oblivious to what was going on around her. Otherwise, the place was deserted. Three buses trundled down the road in convoy, not bothering to stop. By the time they had passed, the police had disappeared inside, leaving a lone constable to stand duty outside. Carlyle heard a couple of quiet thuds and some indistinguishable voices, which quickly disappeared beneath the relentless hum of the traffic.

Another bus passed. Carlyle watched as the scruffy figure of a young man slipped out of the front door of the house at the end of the street, nearest to the bus stop. Head bowed, he crossed the road while still playing on his games console. Stepping into the bus shelter, he looked up at the indicator board, which said the next bus was due in one minute.

Bloody good service here , Carlyle thought, as he watched the single-decker lumber into view. Standing on the kerb, he fished his Oyster Card out of his pocket. Slipping his computer game in his pocket, the other passenger reached out and signalled to the driver to stop. The bus came to a halt and Carlyle listened to the familiar hiss of pressurized air as the doors opened. Stepping behind the man, he gripped the back of his neck and smashed his face into the side of the bus. Looking up, he caught the gaze of a middle-aged black woman who quickly glanced away, obviously not wanting to get involved. When Carlyle realized that the dazed man wasn’t going down, he grabbed the back of his jacket and hoisted him backwards towards the plastic bench. Taking his cue, the bus driver quickly closed the doors and moved off.