James Craig - Shoot to Kill

‘We all know who you are, Inspector,’ Wilson grinned in a rather unsettling manner. She flicked a thumb in Umar’s direction. ‘I’m here to see if your sergeant is going to deliver on his promise to take me out.’

‘Oh yes?’ Carlyle enjoyed watching Umar squirm in his seat.

‘You see-’

Carlyle held up a hand. ‘No need to explain, Umar.’ Smiling broadly, he patted Wilson on the shoulder. ‘Make sure he takes you somewhere really expensive,’ he said mischievously. ‘I hear that Nobu on Park Lane is excellent.’

Having caused as much trouble as he could, Carlyle left. Was that the sound of Umar gasping for air as he headed for the lift? He certainly liked to think so.

‘Want another?’

Carlyle shook his head. There was barely enough whiskey left to cover the bottom of his glass but now was not the time for a refill; he wanted to get home.

Alison Roche took the hint and placed the remains of her Guinness on the table.

Carlyle gestured at her three-quarters empty glass. ‘You go for it, if you want another.’

‘Nah,’ Roche told him. ‘I’m fine.’

Carlyle shrugged. ‘When did you get into drinking that stuff?’

‘Some of the guys I work with like a pint – or ten,’ Roche laughed. ‘I don’t mind the occasional one, now and again.’

‘Never got into it myself.’ Carlyle looked around the Essex Serpent and wished he had chosen a better venue to meet his former colleague for a quiet drink. The place was heaving, with more people coming through the door all the time.

Sensing his discomfort, Roche finished her drink. ‘Alain Costello’s preliminary hearing is due next week.’

Carlyle happily got to his feet. ‘It should be a formality.’

‘You would hope so,’ said Roche, hoisting her bag over her shoulder. ‘Will you come along?’

‘Sorry,’ Carlyle smiled, ‘I can’t. I’ll be in Liberia.’

Roche gave him a funny look. ‘Where?’

He waited until they were outside, standing on the relative calm of the pavement before he explained his unusual family trip.

‘Sounds interesting,’ she said doubtfully. ‘How are Helen and Alice getting on out there?’

‘Fine.’ Carlyle stepped into the gutter to allow a gaggle of Chinese tourists to get past. ‘To be honest, I haven’t heard that much from them so far.’

‘No news is good news.’

‘Yeah.’ Under the yellow glow of the streetlight, he noticed belatedly how tired she looked. ‘How are things with you?’

Roche zipped up her coat. ‘Not too bad. Things have been a lot better since we nailed that little French bastard. They’re still making me go to your shrink, though.’

‘He’s hardly my shrink,’ Carlyle protested. As he did so, the uncomfortable recollection hit him that he had an appointment with Dr Wolf the next day.

‘You know what I mean.’

‘Yeah,’ Carlyle groaned. Pulling his BlackBerry from his jacket pocket, he checked the calendar. There it was: 3 p.m. ‘I’ve got to see him tomorrow, as it happens.’

‘What do you talk about?’

‘As little as possible,’ Carlyle said. ‘I find him very – I dunno – disengaged.’

‘Isn’t that how it’s supposed to be?’

‘Okay, for “disengaged”, read “full of shit”.’

‘At least you manage to say what you think,’ Roche grinned. ‘You don’t bottle it all up inside.’

‘That would be unhealthy.’ Sticking his hands in his pockets, he started walking towards the piazza, knowing that Roche would be going the other way. ‘Good luck with Mr Costello,’ he called. ‘I’ll give you a ring when I get back from Africa.’

Back at the flat, Carlyle retrieved the packet that had been left by Tuco Martinez and padded into the kitchen. Ripping open the envelope, he emptied the contents into the sink. There was a first-class open Eurostar ticket to Brussels, along with an authentic-looking Belgian passport, bearing Alain Costello’s photograph but in the name of Sébastien Daerden; then there was the cash: £500 in a mixture of £20 and £50 notes and a much thicker wad of crisp new €50 notes.

Carlyle gave up counting when he got to €5,000. Placing the cash on the draining board, he considered his options. After a few moments, he pulled open a drawer, rooting around until he found a pre-addressed, freepost envelope for the Supporter Care Department at Avalon, Helen’s aid charity. With some reluctance, he stuffed the cash into the envelope, sealing it at both ends with some sellotape before sticking it in his jacket pocket. He then took a box of matches from the drawer and carefully set fire to the ticket, watching it burn before washing the remnants down the plughole. The passport was a tougher proposition; after several unsuccessful attempts to get it to light, Carlyle settled for cutting it up into small pieces with a large pair of scissors. Scooping up the pieces, he placed them back in the envelope and headed for the door.

After dumping the remains of the Daerden passport in three different bins along Drury Lane, Carlyle dropped the cash in a post box on High Holborn, acknowledging just the slightest tinge of regret as he let it slip from his fingers and fall amongst the other first-class mail. To cheer himself up, he headed for the Rock amp; Sole Plaice, Covent Garden’s only fish and chip shop, a block away on Endell Street. After a ten-minute wait behind the usual line of tourists, he retreated back home with his order of skate and chips warming his hands.

Wayne Devine looked like he was overdue a session on the sunbed. The suit he was wearing still looked expensive, but the man himself looked considerably shabbier than the last time they had met. There was no iPad in sight either. Instead, Paul Groom’s ex-agent fiddled with a cheap-looking mobile phone of the kind that Carlyle himself might use.

‘I don’t know what I can really tell you, Inspector,’ he sighed, staring into his cappuccino. ‘People change agents all the time. In my line of work you have to plan for that. You can’t put all your eggs in one basket.’

‘No.’ Carlyle finished his espresso and waited for Devine to continue.

‘You have to develop and maintain a portfolio of clients. I still have a group of quality players on my books.’ He reeled off a list of names, none of which Carlyle had ever heard of.

‘How long had you worked with Paul?’

Devine blew the air out of his cheeks. ‘Going on for eight years. He came all the way through the ranks – county football, Academy, England under-18s, professional contract . . .’ His voice tailed off.

‘His career had stalled though,’ Carlyle mused, ‘even before he found himself in this mess.’

‘Hard to say,’ Devine said defensively. ‘He was still young, especially for a goalkeeper. He could have ended up dropping down a division, or even two, and still have had plenty of time to make it back to the top.’

‘Not now.’

Devine shrugged. ‘Plenty of footballers have gone to jail and been able to resume their careers when they’ve got out.’

‘Yeah,’ Carlyle spluttered, ‘when they’ve been done for drink driving, not for murder!’

‘Manslaughter,’ Devine corrected him.

‘Whatever.’

‘There was the guy – can’t remember his name – killed a guy in a car crash and ran off.’

‘I remember that,’ Carlyle said. ‘He was done for Death By Dangerous Driving and got six years.’

‘Did three. Which, I suppose, is fair enough.’

‘Not if you’re the family of the guy he killed,’ Carlyle suggested.

‘He’s done quite well since he came back.’ Devine mentioned a lower league club. ‘He gets on the scoresheet quite often.’