James Craig - Shoot to Kill

‘I want to know who killed him.’

Reaching for the Jameson’s, Carlyle knew better than to ask why.

Enveloped in the warm embrace of Dom’s whiskey, Carlyle picked up his own bottle of Jameson’s from Gerry’s Wines amp; Spirits on Old Compton Street on his way back to the flat. Crossing Shaftesbury Avenue, he tried Helen’s mobile but was unable to get through. Then he tried calling Umar. The call went to voicemail. Picking his way through the late-evening crowds, Carlyle left a curt message telling his sergeant to call him back.

Turning into Macklin Street, he grimaced at the strong smell of cooked meat coming from the kebab shop as he approached the entrance to Winter Garden House. Inside, unable to take the lift, he slowly slogged his way up the stairs, pausing on the eighth-floor landing to survey the deserted crime scene. The last remains of Harry Ripley had been removed and a sheet of opaque plastic stood across the open doors of the ruined lift. The unhappy realization dawned on the inspector that it would probably be weeks, if not months, before the lift was working again. With a heavy sigh, he continued upwards.

Outside the flat, Carlyle fumbled in his jacket pockets for his key. It was only when he went to place it in the lock that he realized that the door was already open. Taking a firm grip of the neck of the whiskey bottle in his right hand, he pushed the door slightly ajar with his left. Listening intently, he thought that he could make out noises coming from inside. Bemused, he opened the door just enough for him to step inside.

Standing in the hallway, he listened carefully for five, six, seven seconds. The sounds were coming from the living room. Animal grunts, followed by extended female moans that were obviously fake. His head felt thick and he couldn’t make sense of what he was hearing; it sounded like someone was watching a porn movie on his TV. Carlyle tiptoed down the hall and stepped into the doorway, bottle raised to shoulder level.

‘What the fuck?’

The television was turned off. Instead, he was confronted with a small, white-haired man, who looked like he was no stranger to a tanning bed, grappling with a voluptuous black woman who was bent over Carlyle’s sofa.

Both of them were completely naked. How, in the name of God, he wondered, was he going to explain this to Helen?

Acknowledging the inspector’s arrival with a grin, the man slapped the woman hard on her right buttock and upped his tempo.

‘What the hell is going on here?’ Carlyle asked, somewhat redundantly.

‘Viagra,’ the man panted. ‘Good stuff, no?’ His face was going a deeper shade of orange by the second and his brow was bathed in sweat. ‘The only problem is when you want to stop.’

‘Tuco,’ the woman said tiredly, ‘enough!’ She stood up and thrust her pelvis backwards, sending her diminutive lover into space with such force that he almost fell over the coffee table.

Carlyle felt his jaw drop at the sight. Then he recalled what the woman had said. ‘Tuco?’ He frowned. ‘You’re . . .’

‘That’s right,’ the man smiled.

From down the hall, Carlyle heard the sound of the toilet being flushed. Out of the bathroom came a much younger man. Realising that the master of the household had returned, he casually pointed a pistol at Carlyle’s head.

‘Take a seat, Inspector.’ Tuco Martinez picked up a pair of trousers from the floor and pulled them on.

After what he’d seen, Carlyle decided to sit in one of the armchairs. Placing the bottle of Jameson’s on the floor beside him, he watched as the woman picked up a pile of clothes from beside the sofa and headed for the door.

Tuco followed his gaze. ‘Quite a woman, my Monica, don’t you think?’

Carlyle tried to regain his composure. ‘Why were you having sexual intercourse in my home?’

‘These things happen.’ Tuco tugged a powder-blue sweater over his head. ‘I took the pill and was ready to go.’

‘Mm.’ Carlyle wanted to be outraged at the intrusion but, somehow, couldn’t quite manage it.

‘ C’est génial . It’s really something.’ Tuco ran a hand through his hair. ‘Have you ever tried this stuff?’

Carlyle shook his head.

Tuco looked him up and down. ‘Everyone is using it these days.’

‘I don’t need it,’ Carlyle mumbled, somewhat defensively. Why the hell was he having this conversation?

‘People use it whether they need it or not,’ Tuco informed him. ‘It’s like a . . .’ he groped for the word, ‘a social thing. Very common. You should give it a go. Maybe I could send you some samples.’

‘I don’t need it,’ the inspector repeated.

Tuco gave him a thoughtful glance. ‘Well, a man like yourself, at your stage of life, I suppose that you are not quite there yet.’

‘No.’

‘But soon . . .’ Tuco smiled sadly. ‘It’s embarrassing to have to use it, but trust me – it works. The only problem is that you can’t exactly switch it on and off quite as easily as you might want.’ He patted his trousers, which were still showing a massive bulge. ‘This thing will last for hours and hours.’

‘You’re called the Samurai,’ Carlyle said, trying to move the conversation on.

Tuco smiled. ‘Dominic Silver told you about that?’ Then his face darkened. ‘I see that you two have been busy conspiring against me.’

‘Hardly,’ Carlyle snorted. He gestured at the young guy, who was now leaning against the door with the gun dangling at his side. ‘I presume he’s the guy who was at my daughter’s school.’

Tuco nodded.

‘Who is he?’

‘Just a footsoldier. Not on your records. Never will be. Not someone you have to worry about.’

‘What do you want?’

Tuco slipped into a pair of black Gucci loafers. ‘Inspector,’ he said, ‘you know me well enough by now. You have even seen me naked.’

‘You don’t want to fuck me, too?’ Despite the circumstances, Carlyle’s grin was genuine enough.

‘No,’ Tuco laughed. ‘You are not my type. What I am saying is that we are both intelligent men.’

Carlyle did not demur.

‘So let’s not pretend you don’t know what I want.’

‘I can’t do anything about Alain Costello,’ Carlyle said. ‘Your son is in the system. His trial is being fast-tracked on the grounds that the outcome is inevitable.’

Tuco looked at him expressionlessly. He said, ‘You don’t seem to understand.’

‘Understand what?’

‘I will get what I want,’ Tuco said slowly, ‘or I will kill you and your family.’

Monrovia, here I come , thought Carlyle, smiling to himself.

‘What’s so funny?’ Tuco demanded.

‘Nothing,’ said Carlyle, holding up a hand. ‘I understand what you’re saying. After all, you’ve already tried twice.’

‘I’m glad you noticed.’ Tuco beamed at him as the woman reappeared from the bathroom. She was wearing a pair of jeans and a grey silk blouse, and it struck Carlyle that she seemed far less attractive with her clothes on.

‘Tuco, où sont mes chaussures? ’ Without waiting for an answer, the woman fell to her knees and began looking under the furniture.

Tuco Martinez kept his gaze on the inspector. ‘You have one more chance,’ he said. ‘I want my boy and I want my drugs. I know that you and Silver stole them.’

‘Not so.’ Carlyle shook his head and tried to look surprised. ‘I don’t work with Dominic Silver.’

‘ Voilà! ’ The woman squawked, pulling a pair of studded ankle boots out from under Carlyle’s chair.

‘Wait outside!’ Tuco demanded, looking exasperated. ‘He turned back to Carlyle. ‘Silver told me you were a corrupt cop. He said he’d had you in his pocket for years.’