James Craig - Shoot to Kill

Shit , Carlyle thought, I don’t even remember that I’m wearing the bloody things now. Surely a sign that I’m getting more decrepit in both mind and body . A pang of self-pity was quickly replaced by the realization that there was sod all he could do about it.

Zatoichi was situated at the northern end of Beak Street. As he walked in, a creature in a black vest with orange hair scowled at him from behind the bar. On balance, Carlyle decided that it was probably female.

With a sigh, she gestured across the empty room. ‘We’re closed.’ To his plebeian ear, the accent sounded South African, or maybe Australian.

He took another couple of steps towards the bar. ‘I’m here to see Mr Silver.’

If mention of the boss’s name had any effect, it didn’t show. ‘Are you the cop?’

Carlyle felt anger flare in his chest. For fuck’s sake, Dominic, why not tell everyone who I am? He nodded.

The girl gestured to a set of stairs at the end of the bar. ‘He’s in the office, second floor.’

Jogging up the stairs, Carlyle found himself seriously winded by the time he reached the blue door marked PRIVATE: STAFF ONLY. As he walked into the room, Dominic Silver looked up from behind his desk and grinned.

‘Nice specs,’ he noted, pushing his own, rimless frames further up his nose. He was wearing an ancient Kurt Cobain T-shirt, which made him look like a fifty-year-old student.

‘I know, I know,’ said Carlyle grumpily. ‘They make me look “different”.’

‘They make you look old.’

Gesturing over his shoulder, Carlyle quickly changed the subject. ‘Where did you get Lisbeth Salander?’ he asked, giving a name-check to Stieg Larsson’s anti-heroine.

‘Michela?’ Dom laughed. ‘She might be borderline autistic, but I don’t think she’s very good with computers or guns.’

‘You don’t do customer service then?’ Parking himself in the low leather chair in front of the desk, Carlyle looked round the office. The bar, in various incarnations, had been part of Dom’s portfolio of businesses for many years now and the inspector had been here several times before. The room had, however, been redecorated since his last visit, in a bright, minimalist style. To Carlyle’s untrained eye, the furniture looked like it came from IKEA but he knew that it was more likely to have been purchased at some top-end West End retailer like Heal’s or the Avram store. To his left, a large window gave a view down Regent Street towards Piccadilly Circus; on the opposite wall, above a tattered brown leather sofa, hung a massive screen print of The Island , one of Stephen Walter’s series of idiosyncratic maps of London, full of humour and autobiographical detail. Carlyle wasn’t a great one for art, but he knew that he could find infinite pleasure exploring Walter’s work, in the unlikely event that he could ever afford to put one on his wall. He searched unsuccessfully for Charing Cross, somewhere in the centre of the dense forest of detail. This was one time when his spectacles wouldn’t help; the piece could only be properly viewed with the aid of the large Silverline magnifying glass sitting on the corner of Dom’s desk.

‘The customers love her,’ said Dom, bringing Carlyle back to more mundane matters. ‘Michela’s a great girl. You work in here, you have to be a bit robust, otherwise you wouldn’t last a single shift. Michela’s been here almost two years now.’ Both of them knew that was the best part of a lifetime in the transitory world of Soho. He gestured at an empty plastic drinks container on his desk. ‘Want a juice?’

Carlyle felt vaguely tempted. ‘What is it today?’

‘It’s an Organic Eggnog Super Smoothie.’

Carlyle made a face.

‘It’s from the juice bar next door,’ Silver told him. ‘It really is good stuff. I can get Michela to nip round and get you one.’

‘It’s okay.’ Carlyle held up a hand. ‘I’m fine.’

‘Okay.’ Sitting forward in his chair, Dom started drumming his fingers on the table. For a moment, Carlyle wondered if he might be partaking of his own product.

Then: ‘The matter in hand.’

‘Yes?’ Carlyle replied.

Dom stopped drumming as quickly as he had started. ‘I’ve got a plan,’ he said, picking up a Mont Blanc fountain pen from the desk.

Oh, have you? Let’s hear it then .

Silver unscrewed the cap and scribbled something down on the A5 pad on the desk in front of him. Tearing off the top sheet, he waved it in front of Carlyle, like a doctor bestowing a prescription.

Carlyle leaned over and accepted the offering. Sitting back down, he looked at the address Dom had given him. ‘Docklands?’

Dom nodded. ‘It’s a small office block. Get your people to check it out; top floor.’

‘My people?’

‘Someone you can trust.’

‘That narrows it down,’ Carlyle snorted.

Dom put the cap back on the pen and tossed it onto the table. ‘Someone who is reliable; who cannot be directly connected to you by an outsider.’

‘Mm.’

‘No one from Charing Cross.’

‘Okay.’ Carlyle started going through a list of possible colleagues in his head. ‘What will they find when they get there?’

‘The place is currently being squatted by a bunch of students complaining about “locals” being priced out of the neighbourhood.’

‘Great.’ Carlyle could already imagine the pitched battle when the police went in.

Dom smiled weakly. ‘Free security. What they don’t know is that in the ceiling there is stashed some 40 kilos of coke. Not great stuff, but reasonably pure.’

‘Not yours, presumably.’

Dom sat back in his chair and brought his hands together, the tips of his fingers touching as he adopted a pose of earnest contemplation. ‘It’s supposed to be a joint venture but ultimately, the stuff belongs to the Samurai.’

‘Your business partner.’

‘My soon-to-be ex-business partner.’ Dom held up his hands in surrender. ‘I have already admitted my mistake in getting into bed with Tuco Martinez, so I think it is time we should all move on.’

Carlyle nodded graciously.

‘If Tuco loses this load,’ Dom continued, ‘it will seriously bugger up his operations. Throw in his problems with his moronic son and I think he’ll have to abandon his plans to expand in the UK.’

‘You think?’ Carlyle had intended to raise the issue of the three bullets in the envelope that had been handed to Alice, but now he decided to leave it. If they could run Tuco out of town, it would be problem solved.

Dom thought about it for a moment. ‘Yeah. Alain Costello will get sent down for a good stretch but will probably get transferred back to a French prison fairly quickly . . .’

‘I suppose so,’ Carlyle agreed.

‘And the vacuum created by the Special Intelligence Section and their Operation Eagle will make London a complicated place to operate in for a while, especially if you are struggling for product.’

‘How are people dealing with the market disruption?’ Carlyle asked casually.

‘As I said, it will be filled soon enough,’ Dom replied, ‘but inevitably there will be some blood spilled along the way.’

Carlyle shot him a questioning look.

‘You don’t need to know.’

‘Okay.’ Carefully folding the sheet of paper into quarters, Carlyle got to his feet.

‘What did you want to talk about?’ Dom asked.

‘It can wait.’ Carlyle waved the square of paper at Dom before putting it in his trouser pocket. ‘Let’s sort this out first.’

Dom nodded. ‘They need to move today.’

‘Understood,’ Carlyle said briskly, heading for the door.