James Craig - Shoot to Kill

Dom grinned at Gideon, who was already in the cockpit, pulling up the anchor. ‘Good timing. A nice bit of rain is just what the doctor ordered.’

Gideon said nothing as he brought the engine to life and they headed for the open sea.

The whiskey bottle was empty by the time Gideon steered El Nino gently into her berth at Brighton Marina. Shoving it under his arm, Carlyle stuck his head out of the cabin and scowled at the grey morning. He had not slept a wink on the return journey. The Jameson’s hadn’t been able to stop his mind from running in various directions all night, but at least it had helped him forget some of his physical aches and pains. Without waiting for Gideon to tie up the yacht, he scrambled off it as quickly as he could. Jumping onto the jetty, he stumbled, dropping the bottle and, somehow, managing to knock his glasses off the end of his nose. ‘Shit!’

While the bottle bounced harmlessly on the wooden planks and rested at his feet, the spectacles went straight over the edge and into the water.

Despair welled up inside him as Carlyle watched three hundred quid disappear beneath a patch of foamy scum. ‘Shit, shit, SHIT!’

‘They’re gone,’ said Dom, picking up the bottle and placing it in a black bin liner. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to get a new pair.’

They headed to a small lock-up garage on Marina Way. Inside, the space smelled of damp, motor oil and bleach. Feeling faintly nauseous, Carlyle looked around, trying not to imagine what earlier crimes might have occurred within these breezeblock walls.

The garage was empty apart from three black bin liners which sat on a workbench running along one wall.

‘Here.’ Dom grabbed one of the bin bags and dropped it at Carlyle’s feet. ‘New clothes. Put the old stuff in there. Everything we were wearing on our little trip gets dumped.’

Dom and Gideon began to strip. Emptying out the contents of his bag, Carlyle contemplated his new outfit. There was a pair of boxer shorts, socks, some cheap trainers, jeans, a red sweatshirt and a brown parka with a furry hood.

‘Hurry up!’

‘Okay, okay.’ Slowly, he did as he was told.

‘Get rid of the new gear when you get home,’ Dom instructed him. ‘Put the underwear in the rubbish.’

‘Not taking any chances, are you?’

‘Of course not, you berk.’

Carlyle slipped off his boxers. Shivering against the cold, he dropped them into one of the bin liners. ‘Maybe I’ll just go commando.’

‘Suit yourself,’ Dom said gruffly. ‘Give the rest of the stuff to Oxfam if you want – but not the one on Drury Lane. Understood?’

‘Yes.’ Carlyle dressed quickly, stuffing his previous clothes into another bin liner. A thought suddenly crept across his brain. ‘What did you do with the guns?’

With one leg stuck in a pair of fresh jeans, Gideon tutted at the stupidity of the question.

‘Stripped down and scattered in the middle of the English Channel,’ Dom explained as he pulled on a grey T-shirt. ‘Nothing to worry about on that score.’

‘Nothing to worry about on any score,’ Gideon muttered.

‘No, indeed,’ Dom agreed.

Gideon shot Carlyle a threatening look. ‘Just make sure you keep your fucking mouth shut.’

‘He will.’ Smiling, Dom put his arm round Carlyle’s shoulder. ‘Of course he will.’

They drove back towards London in silence. Pulling in at the Pease Pottage motorway services, Dom donned a West Ham baseball cap, disappearing inside while Gideon stuffed the bin liners containing their soiled clothes into the trash.

Sitting in the back of the SUV, Carlyle rested his forehead against the cold glass of the window. Twenty yards away, a woman was shouting at a screaming child as she dragged the unhappy girl across the car park.

What should he make of the last twenty-four hours? Closing his eyes, the inspector tried to think of something suitably profound but nothing came to mind.

After a while, the car door reopened and Dom placed a tray of coffees on the driver’s seat. ‘Hungry?’ he asked, offering up a bag of doughnuts.

Carlyle thought about it for a moment. ‘Nah. Thanks.’

Dom frowned. ‘John Carlyle refusing a doughnut! Whatever next? Are you ill?’

‘I’m not hungry.’

‘Hungover?’

‘Amongst other things,’ Carlyle replied dolefully.

‘It was a tough night,’ Dom reflected, ‘but it’s over now.’ He stuck a hand in the bag, pulled out a doughnut and took a large bite, sending raspberry jam all over his chin. Groaning, he grabbed a napkin and dabbed at the mess. ‘Job done.’

‘Let’s hope so.’

‘It’s over,’ Dom repeated. Dropping the remains of the doughnut back into the bag, he began wiping his fingers clean. ‘I know you’re worried that you’ve crossed some kind of Rubicon here. Gone over to the dark side. Whatever. But it’s not like that. Think of all the shit you’ve had to deal with over the years. It’s all one big grey area. This is no different.’

A very dark shade of grey , Carlyle thought as he watched Gideon reappear from behind the service station.

‘In difficult situations you have to make choices.’ Handing Carlyle the coffees and the bag of doughnuts, Dom settled in behind the wheel, ready to resume the journey home. ‘And you have to live with them.’

Balancing the tray on his knees, Carlyle peeked inside the bag and felt his mouth begin to water. Maybe he could manage a nibble after all.

‘We’re big boys,’ Dom continued. ‘We can live with the decisions we make. We have to live with them. Above all else, we owe it to our families.’

Amen to that. Carlyle stuck his hand inside the bag and pulled out an iced ring as Gideon opened the car door and slid into the passenger seat.

‘All good?’ Dom asked.

Gideon nodded. ‘Just one thing.’

‘What?’

‘You’ve got jam all over your chin.’

‘Where have you been?’ Umar asked.

Hiding behind his plastic cup, Carlyle mumbled something about the flu.

‘Simpson’s looking for you.’ The sergeant grinned.

‘She’s always looking for me.’

‘She’s very . . .’

‘. . . pissed off?’

‘No, not at all.’

‘Eh? Why not?’ Carlyle was stumped.

Umar’s grin grew wider. ‘She’s very pleased that we’ve wrapped up the Gasparino case.’

Carlyle took a mouthful of orange juice while he slowly recalled the basic points of the Gasparino case. It seemed a long time ago now. Everything that had happened before he stepped on El Nino seemed an extremely long time ago. How the hell did that get solved when he was away? ‘We did?’

‘Yes,’ Umar folded his arms and sat back in his chair triumphantly. ‘We – I in other words – tracked down Clive Martin’s granddaughter and got her to confess and give up all her mates within two hours.’

Carlyle frowned. ‘It was a girl who attacked him?’

‘Yeah, nasty little character. She was proud of being the ringleader of her little gang. Clive is really cut up about it. More so than her parents, it seems to me.’

Clive? Carlyle thought. So, he’s Clive now, is he? ‘Why did they do it?’

‘God!’ Umar snorted. ‘You don’t think there’s anything as straightforward as a rational explanation, do you?’

‘I suppose not,’ Carlyle sighed. ‘Anyway, well done.’ A cheeky thought popped into his head. ‘Have you taken that WPC to Nobu yet? The one who got us,’ he corrected himself, ‘the one who got you the ID?’

‘Not yet.’ Umar looked around nervously. ‘She’s stalking me.’