James Craig - Shoot to Kill

‘Outstanding effort. Truly outstanding!’ Carlyle knew that he was grinning idiotically – like a kid who’d just managed to lay his hands on his first ever porn mag – but he did not care one jot. ‘Abigail Slater, what a woman! Out-fucking-standing.’ Starting back towards the main stand, he pulled out his mobile and called Baseer. Waiting patiently for it to go to voicemail, he left a simple message: ‘It is, my friend, the story of your dreams. Fill your boots.’

Ending the call, he pulled up Simpson’s number. She answered on the third ring.

‘You’ve heard about what’s happened, I presume?’ Carlyle asked, by way of greeting.

‘Dino’s in a foul mood,’ she said, by way of reply. ‘He’s stomping around – I’ve never seen anything like it.’ Her voice was cautious, low; a tone that he’d never heard before.

‘Are you okay?’

‘I’m fine, John.’ Simpson audibly bristled at the suggestion that she might not be able to handle her boyfriend’s moods. ‘Just a bit surprised at Dino’s lack of grace under pressure.’

‘I’m surprised that Holyrod was that important to his operation,’ Carlyle mused. ‘After all, he’d only just joined the Board.’

‘Holyrod?’ Simpson spluttered. ‘Dino couldn’t give a fig about that self-important buffoon. It’s his bloody love-child Gavin Swann that he’s exercised about. The people who shot him in the leg knew what they were doing. It looks like his career could be over.’

‘Shame.’ Signalling to Umar and Milch that he was leaving, Carlyle began walking off the pitch.

‘Dino reckons that Mr Swann’s premature retirement could end up costing him the best part of a hundred million,’ Simpson added, in a tone that suggested she cared as little about it as the inspector did himself.

‘Who’s investigating the Swann shooting?’

Simpson mentioned the name of a Detective Chief Inspector who they both knew was completely useless.

‘I’d offer to help,’ Carlyle said sincerely, ‘but I’m off tomorrow.’ Reaching the tunnel, he headed for an illuminated Exit sign.

‘Of course, of course,’ Simpson said, not particularly interested in his holiday plans either. ‘I hope you have a good time,’ she offered half-heartedly. ‘Come and see me when you get back.’

Ending the call, Carlyle pushed open a gate marked NO RE-ENTRY . Outside the ground, he counted a dozen or so police officers standing around, clearly unsure about what they should be doing. For some reason, two fire engines had turned up. A large group of journalists and TV crews were swarming around an ambulance that had just arrived at the kerb, shouting questions that no one would ever answer.

Feeling a gentle rain on his face, Carlyle lowered his head. ‘This bitch of a life,’ he mumbled to himself. ‘This fucking bitch of a life.’ Not knowing whether to laugh or cry, he thrust his hands deep into his pockets, moving away from the crowd at a brisk pace.