James Craig - Shoot to Kill

Unclamping his jaw, Blitz pulled out the cigar and waved it at Carlyle. ‘And you won’t say anything to the papers!’

‘I don’t deal with journalists,’ Carlyle said firmly.

‘Yeah, right,’ said Blitz, with feeling, as he stuck the Romeo y Julieta back between his teeth.

‘I will carefully pursue the various lines of enquiry that need to be checked out, and when-’

‘ If .’

Carlyle smiled. ‘ If I need to speak to Mr Swann a second time, I will come through you.’

‘Good.’

Finally, the traffic eased and they accelerated across the Euston Road, heading towards Camden.

‘Thank God for that,’ Blitz sighed. ‘It should take about ten minutes from here.’

Carlyle felt his phone go off. No number was displayed but he had a sixth sense that it was Simpson and slipped the phone back into his jacket.

‘Hiding from the boss?’ Blitz grinned.

Carlyle shook his head. ‘How long have you known Swann?’

‘Gavin? Donkey’s years. I first saw him playing on Hackney Marshes when he was eight. The little bugger was brilliant – scored six goals in a single game. It was obvious he was going to be a top player.’

Carlyle knew a well-rehearsed spiel when he heard one but he nodded amiably.

‘I signed him on the spot,’ Blitz continued. ‘Since then, I’ve been taken to court three times, been banned by those numpties at the Football Association twice, and fined a total of a million and a half quid.’

‘Blimey!’ said Carlyle, turning up the fake empathy as high as it would go.

‘I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve been sent bullets through the post,’ Blitz said smugly. ‘One time I was actually shot at but, through it all, I’ve still held on to my client.’

‘You must have made a mint.’

‘I’ve done all right,’ Blitz reflected. ‘I remember one meeting at a hotel at Heathrow. There was a Gola holdall with two million quid inside. It was sitting on the bed, next to a piece of paper and a pen. The bit of paper had just been torn from a lined notebook. On it was three lines of handwritten scrawl. It was supposed to be a contract with me signing over Gavin to this other agent, a twat called Marcus Angelides. Angelides was clearly scared shitless. I don’t know what he thought I would do to him. He was there with two Belgian cage fighters as muscle. He nodded at the bit of paper and said, “Sign it, take your money and fuck off”.’ He shook his head, smiling at the memory. ‘It was all in the papers.’

Knowing better than to spoil the moment, Carlyle waited. Reaching Camden tube, the cab took a left, heading towards Regent’s Park.

The meter now read £25.

‘So I looked him in the eye,’ said Blitz, as they turned into Gloucester Avenue, ‘and said “Marcus, you know I’m not going to sign that; don’t be so fucking stupid.” I knew that Gavin was going to be worth a hell of a lot more than that over the next ten years. I accepted that I might have to take a shoeing there and then but it would be worth it – as long as they didn’t actually kill me.’ Leaning forward, he rapped a knuckle on the glass window behind the driver’s head. ‘Anywhere here’s good – thanks, mate.’

Carlyle watched relieved as Blitz took out his wallet and removed a pair of crisp £20 notes to pay the fare.

‘How did you know that they wouldn’t kill you?’ he asked as the driver pulled up at the kerb.

‘I didn’t,’ Blitz shrugged. ‘But I had to take a punt, didn’t I? In the end, I didn’t even get thumped.’

‘So those weren’t the guys who shot at you, then,’ Carlyle asked, amused.

‘Nah. That was someone else. This time round, with the cash in the bag, it was just a lot of swearing and posturing. But that’s what you have to expect in this game.’ The driver stopped the meter at £27.80 and slid open the glass partition. Blitz slipped through the cash. ‘Thanks mate,’ he said cheerily. ‘Keep the change but give me a couple of blank receipts.’

‘I thought she was just some slapper.’ Slumped in a chair at the kitchen table, Gavin Swann looked down into his mug of tea. He was wearing jeans and a blue T-shirt with the legend BENCH emblazoned across the chest in white lettering. On his chin was a couple of days’ stubble, but he looked alert and relaxed. ‘Kelly brought her.’

Carlyle noticed the slightest grimace from Blitz. ‘Kelly?’

‘Kelly Kellaway,’ Swann explained, oblivious to his agent’s annoyance. ‘I’d hooked up with her a few times before she brought Sandy.’

‘I’ll give you her number,’ Blitz said, keen to move the conversation on. He was leaning against the sink, a tumbler of Grey Goose vodka in his hand, his half-smoked Romeo y Julieta smouldering in an ashtray nearby. Carlyle turned his attention back to Swann.

‘So you didn’t know that Sandy Carroll was the daughter of Dino Mottram?

Swann shook his head.

‘She was Dino’s step-daughter,’ Blitz corrected him. ‘From his first marriage. He gets through them at a steady rate. The last one was number three, I think. I hear he’s on the lookout for number four.’

Good luck, Commander Simpson , Carlyle thought. Increasingly, he was struggling to understand why his boss was going out with the old rogue. Then again, her track record with men was uniformly bad, so why not?

‘Dino is a great guy,’ Blitz said, ‘but why he feels he has to marry every bird that he ever shags is beyond me.’

‘Never heard of him. Who is he?’ asked Swann.

‘Dino is the bloke who owns the football club you play for,’ Blitz told him gently.

‘The old bloke?’

‘Yeah.’

Swann frowned. ‘I thought that Ricky owned the club.’

Blitz sighed. ‘He’s the Chief Executive.’

Carlyle drummed his fingers on the table. ‘Getting back to the matter in hand . . .’

‘It was Paul,’ Swann bleated.

Carlyle looked at Blitz. ‘Who’s Paul?’

‘Paul Groom. He’s a reserve goalkeeper – third or fourth choice. Played in the first team just the once, for a grand total of ten minutes. Been out on loan at Gillingham earlier this season.’

Poor bastard , Carlyle thought.

Finishing his vodka, Blitz stepped over to the fridge to retrieve the bottle. ‘Not a client of mine, in case you’re wondering.’

Carlyle looked at Swann. ‘What was he doing in your hotel room?’

Swann gave the question some thought. ‘Sometimes,’ he said finally, ‘we hang out together.’

Carlyle grinned. ‘And you like to share the ladies?’

Swann shrugged, as if he didn’t understand the point that the inspector was trying to make.

‘You shouldn’t read anything into it,’ Blitz said. ‘Team-mates like to hang out together. Groupies get handed round. It happens all the time.’

‘Groupies?’ Carlyle frowned. ‘I thought she was a hooker.’

Swann gave the impression of serious thought. ‘She wasn’t on the game.’

‘She just put herself about,’ Blitz explained. ‘They tend to call them “sport fuckers” these days.’

Charming . ‘But she took money?’ Carlyle asked.

Swann thought about it some more. ‘Yeah, well, she would have done, I suppose.’

‘You suppose?’

Swann looked at the inspector earnestly. ‘Well, we didn’t get that far, did we?’

The cretin was beginning to wear him out. Carlyle took a deep breath. ‘Why do you even have to pay for it, anyway?’

‘Kids today,’ Blitz laughed. ‘They’re not like us, Inspector. They’re all watching porn on the internet by the time they’re five and fucking around by thirteen.’

Carlyle thought of Alice and shuddered.