James Craig - Shoot to Kill

Ignoring the panting girl beside her, the boy gestured at Alice. ‘Are you?’

Dropping her bag at her feet, Alice nodded. ‘Yes.’

The guy pulled a small padded envelope from his back pocket and thrust it towards her. ‘Give this to your father.’

‘Okay.’ Taking the packet, she watched as he turned on his heel and headed off in the direction of Moorgate.

‘What a hunk,’ Olivia gushed. ‘Do you know him?’

‘Never seen him before in my life.’

Olivia snatched the packet from her hand and gave it a shake. ‘What is it?’

‘How the bloody hell should I know?’ Alice scowled.

‘Are you going to open it?’

Taking it back, Alice turned the envelope over in her hand. No name or address had been written on the outside and it was sealed with sellotape at both ends so there was no way she could get into it without her father knowing.

Olivia prodded her gently on the shoulder. ‘Go on!’

‘Nah.’ Alice opened her bag and dropped it inside. ‘I’d better just give it to my dad.’ Deciding she would walk home through Smithfield, she hoisted the bag on to her shoulder for a second time. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’

Carlyle bought a juice and a cheese sandwich from the station canteen and headed back upstairs. Relieved to find his spectacles sitting just where he’d left them on his desk, he slipped into his chair and swung his feet onto the desk. Polishing off the sandwich in about ten seconds, he looked around for something else to eat. On Umar’s desk, he spotted a king-size Mars Bar. After a moment’s contemplation, he reached over and swiped it. Tearing open the wrapper, he took a happy bite while reading a story in the evening paper about an undercover copper who had gone native. PC Marcus Bingle had been a tattooed, ponytailed eco-warrior. Operating as a green campaigner, he had been shagging his way through the ranks of the ideologically unwashed for years while diligently reporting to his case officer along the way. But ‘police sources’ were now claiming that Bingle had gone native. It was a classic bit of attempted damage limitation when a £2 million trial of environmental activists collapsed, allegedly after Bingle offered to give evidence on their behalf.

‘Bloody idiot,’ Carlyle harrumphed. Shoving the last of the Mars Bar into his mouth, he watched his mobile vibrating across the desk. Chewing rapidly, he picked it up.

‘Yeah?’ he said indistinctly.

‘Inspector?’

Carlyle swallowed quickly. ‘Yes, Umar.’ With his free hand, he guiltily scrunched up the empty Mars wrapper and threw it in the direction of a nearby bin, missing by a good foot.

‘I’m at the training ground.’

‘Good. Have you got the goalie?’

‘No.’

Carlyle felt his sugar-rush tail off dramatically. ‘Where is he then?’

‘He’s gone to Middlesbrough,’ said Umar apologetically.

Don’t make me ask , Carlyle thought.

After an extended pause, Umar realized that he owed his boss an explanation. ‘The team had an injury crisis, apparently. Groom is supposed to be on the bench for tonight’s game.’

‘What game?’ Carlyle drew the line at paying attention to anything that didn’t directly involve his own club, Fulham. How could he have gotten involved in such a messed-up series of investigations? Getting to his feet he began pacing between desks like a caged baboon with a mental disorder.

Umar mentioned some minor cup competition.

‘For fuck’s sake,’ the inspector grumbled, ‘a fucking meaningless game in an empty fucking stadium in a pointless fucking competition. And he’s still on the fucking bench. This guy must be really useless.’

‘What should I do?’

‘Are you joking?’ Carlyle shouted at the handset. ‘This is a murder investigation. Go and get the fucker.’

Umar groaned. ‘In Middlesbrough?’

‘Yes, in fucking Middlesbrough,’ Carlyle said maliciously. ‘I hear it’s lovely this time of year.’

‘He’ll be back tomorrow,’ Umar protested. ‘It’ll take me five or six hours to get there.’

‘Just fucking get on with it,’ Carlyle snarled. ‘And, by the way, thanks for the Mars Bar.’

‘What-’

Before his sergeant could complain any further, Carlyle ended the call. Still hungry, he stalked off in search of more food.

On the way back down to the canteen, his phone rang again.

‘Yes?’

‘On the other thing,’ Umar said, clearly irritated at being cut off.

‘What other thing?’

‘The tramp who was kicked to death round the back of the ENO.’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Carlyle brusquely. ‘What have you got?’

‘I spoke to Milch. He was cagey about saying too much at this stage, but he thinks it will be difficult to work out which blow actually killed him. We have CCTV pictures showing four hoodies laying into the poor bastard, but it will be hard to prove that one of them landed the fatal blow.’

‘Bloody pathologists,’ Carlyle grunted. ‘Do we have an ID for the stiff yet?’

‘Not yet.’

‘For fuck’s sake!’

‘We have uniforms going round the hostels and speaking to the local dossers,’ Umar explained patiently. ‘And I’ve got a couple of CSOs going through Missing Person reports.’

‘Good luck.’

Umar paused for effect. ‘However, what we do have is some DNA.’

‘Do we, indeed?’ Carlyle felt his mood improve.

‘The security pictures show one of the little bastards gobbing at the victim. He missed, leaving us a nice little present on the wall.’

That’s the great thing about scumbags , Carlyle smiled to himself. They tend to be very good at messing up . ‘Have we got a match?’

‘It’s going through the database now,’ Umar replied. ‘We’ll have the results tomorrow.’

‘Excellent,’ said Carlyle cheerily. Reaching the basement, he made an executive decision to treat himself to a mushroom omelette with chips and beans. ‘Something for you to look forward to when you get back from Middlesbrough.’

Silence.

He looked down at the phone. The signal had gone and he had lost the call. ‘Ah well,’ he mumbled to himself, ‘onwards and upwards.’

Lying on a king-sized bed in the penthouse suite on the fifth floor of the Dukes Hotel in St James’s, Christian Holyrod gazed morosely at Abigail Slater. Also naked, she was standing at the end of the bed, bent over her black leather shoulder bag.

Holyrod’s eyes narrowed. Her arse is getting fatter , he thought. That wasn’t necessarily a deal-breaker but, in the Mayor’s book, it was always better to err well on the skinny side of voluptuous. His wife could pile on the pounds; he expected considerably more restraint from his mistress. Taking a mouthful of whisky, his thoughts turned to his new PA in City Hall. Clara Hay, the third of his three assistants, had joined the Holyrod express a few months earlier. Twenty-four, she had a Double First in something or other from Cambridge and, rather annoyingly, a television presenter boyfriend who fronted something totally unwatchable on the BBC. Clara was slim, blonde – and smoking hot. Holyrod had a vision of her shimmying through the office in her slit leather mini-skirt and smiled happily.

‘Are you checking out my arse?’ Abigail said archly as she approached the bed.

‘Have you been going to your personal trainer?’ he asked before he could think better of it.

She gave him a quizzical look. ‘Not for a while. Been too busy. Why?’

‘Er, I just thought I might give her a go myself.’

They both appreciated the feebleness of the lie. The woman who organized Slater’s training sessions only took on female clients. To Holyrod’s relief, however, Abigail let it slide. Then he noticed the over-sized albino carrot in her hand. All evidence of life down below disappeared. He felt a sinking feeling in his stomach as he drained the last of the scotch from his glass. ‘What the hell is that?’ he asked.