James Craig - Shoot to Kill

‘I’ll try not to.’ Roche’s gaze fell to the pavement. ‘Thanks.’

‘No problem.’ Carlyle looked at his watch. ‘I need to get going.’

‘How are things back at Charing Cross?’ Roche asked quietly.

‘Fine.’

‘Have you replaced me yet?’

Carlyle gave her his cheesiest grin. ‘You’re irreplaceable.’

She lifted her eyes to meet his gaze. ‘I might want to come back.’

You made your bed . . . ‘They’ve given me someone.’

‘Any good?’

‘Too early to tell.’

‘Well,’ she said, ‘keep me posted.’

‘Of course.’ Carlyle was already heading back down the street. ‘See you later.’

Gazing vacantly out of the window, Carlyle sat on the 243 bus trundling back towards Central London, enjoying the luxury of an empty mind. His pleasant journey came to an end halfway down Clerkenwell Road when his mobile sprang into life. He looked at the screen. Alex Miles . Miles was the chief concierge at the Garden Hotel, round the corner from the police station. The inspector hesitated for a moment before answering.

‘Alex,’ he said tiredly. ‘How are you?’

‘Inspector?’

‘Yeah. It’s Carlyle here. What can I do for you?’

There was a long pause on the other end of the line.

Must be bad , Carlyle thought.

Finally, Miles cleared his throat. ‘Well . . .’

Distracted by a pretty girl walking by, Carlyle tuned out of the conversation.

‘Inspector?’

‘Yes?’

‘Were you listening to what I said?’ Miles huffed.

‘Yes, yes,’ Carlyle snapped. ‘Just sit tight. I’ll have some uniforms there in five minutes. Do nothing until I get there.’

Ending the call, he quickly dialled the station and told Angie Middleton to have a team meet him at the hotel.

‘Shall we go up?’ Carlyle faced Alex Miles across the concierge’s table, a mahogany Regency writing desk, largely hidden behind an oversized sofa in the left-hand corner of the hotel lobby. They had been joined by a bored-looking uniform, PC Tim Burgess. Burgess had been a constable for the best part of a decade now and Carlyle knew that, even if he stayed in the Met for another thirty years, a constable he would remain. Useless was not the word.

As Miles headed for the lifts, Carlyle nodded at his colleague. ‘Stay here. I’ll give you a shout if you need to come up.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Burgess glumly.

Upstairs, he met Susan Phillips coming the other way. Working out of Holborn police station, Phillips had been a staff pathologist with the Met for more than twenty years now, and she and Carlyle had worked together many times.

‘John!’ she smiled, giving him a peck on the cheek.

‘Susan,’ he smiled in return, ‘you got here quick.’

‘Too quickly,’ Phillips told him. ‘I left some stuff in the car and need to nip back downstairs.’ She gestured over her shoulder. ‘But my colleague is in there. You can take a look.’

‘What happened?’

Phillips glanced at Miles, who bowed his head and retreated a respectful distance.

‘Simply speaking,’ Phillips whispered, ‘someone punched her lights out.’ She added: ‘Is it true the room was booked to Gavin Swann?’

Carlyle sighed. ‘So I’m told.’

Phillips shook her head. ‘What a bloody mess.’ She patted Carlyle on the shoulder. ‘Good luck.’

‘Thanks,’ said Carlyle, heading unhappily towards the door.

Less than twenty minutes later, Alex Miles stuck his head round the door of the room. He looked stressed. ‘Inspector! There are half-a-dozen journalists downstairs in the lobby already.’ He made it sound like this was somehow the inspector’s fault.

‘Not that surprising, is it?’ Carlyle affected an air of insouciance. Inwardly, however, his heart sank. The fact was that he shouldn’t have touched this case with a bargepole. But no, he’d had to play the big ‘I am’ and wade right in. As a result, he’d fucked himself good and proper. He turned grimly to the concierge. ‘Try to keep them downstairs,’ he instructed.

Well aware of the drill, Miles nodded and quickly disappeared. Carlyle turned to Phillips. ‘How much longer do you need?’

Standing over the crumpled body, the pathologist allowed herself a stretch. ‘An hour, maybe. No more than that.’

‘Okay.’ Studiously ignoring the victim, Carlyle stared out of the window. The view wasn’t much – just a brick wall – but it was better than looking at another body. He didn’t need to look at the poor girl’s face to know what had happened, broadly speaking. And pulling out his mobile, Carlyle dialled the number of Carole Simpson.

The Commander picked up on the second ring, catching him by surprise. ‘Yes?’ she asked brusquely. ‘What can I do for you, John?’

‘We need to call a press conference for an hour’s time . . .’

There was a pause while he listened to the negative vibes coming over the airwaves. Then, taking a deep breath, he explained what he wanted, and why. ‘I need to get the press away from the crime scene and into the station.’

‘And what am I supposed to tell them?’

‘Just the bare minimum; enough to be going on with.’

There was another pause, less hostile this time. ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ she said finally, ending the call.

Phillips watched him put away the phone. ‘Playing the media game, eh?’

‘Do I have a choice?’ Carlyle stepped towards the door. ‘We’ll get the reporters out of here and you can take the body back to the lab.’

Phillips nodded. ‘Okay – thanks. I’ll let you have more detail later. But I would say that Mr Swann should be helping you with our enquiries.’

‘Yes, indeed,’ Carlyle said wearily. ‘I wonder where the stupid little scrote has run off to.’

Thinking through his ‘to do’ list, Carlyle headed for the lifts. When he reached the hotel lobby, he was pleased to see that it was now clear of journalists who had, presumably, taken the bait of Simpson’s press conference. Heading for the exit, he felt his stomach rumble. Remembering that there was a Caffè Nero two doors down, he decided that a latte and a panini were in order before he returned to the station.

He was less than ten feet from the street when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

‘Inspector,’ said Alex Miles in a low voice. Clearly embarrassed to be consorting with a policeman, the concierge scanned the room anxiously.

Reluctantly stopping, Carlyle half-turned and looked around for himself. Apart from a few tourists milling aimlessly about, the place was empty. No one was interested in their conversation.

‘How’s it going?’ the concierge asked.

‘I need to get on,’ Carlyle said brusquely.

‘There is someone,’ Miles coughed, ‘whom you need to see.’

Carlyle gave him a convince me look.

‘Trust me, you do want to see this guy.’ Miles gestured back towards the lift. ‘He’s in the Light Bar.’

Carlyle thought about it for a second. ‘Are you serving food at the moment?’

Miles glanced at his watch. ‘Yes.’

‘Let’s go then,’ said Carlyle, heading back the way he had come.

Bathed in a pale violet light, the bar was completely empty, apart from a large man sitting in a booth at the back. Letting Miles lead the way, Carlyle checked out the succession of enormous black-and-white close-up photographs of various celebrities that hung on the walls. Some – Neneh Cherry, Vanessa Paradis, Lenny Kravitz – he recognized, but the majority he did not, which pleased him considerably. As they approached the table, Miles nodded nervously at the man, who was busy tucking into a beef sandwich and a side order of chips.