Shoot to Kill (24 page)

Sounds good
, Carlyle thought.
Now all I’ve got to do is work out how to switch the bloody thing on
.

‘Inspector?’

Looking up, Carlyle saw a mixture of amusement and concern on Angie Middleton’s face.

‘Hi.’

‘What are you doing?’ the sergeant asked. ‘I thought you’d gone home.’

‘I came back. You’re on late tonight.’

‘My replacement called in sick. I had to pull a double shift.’ Middleton carefully took a bar of milk chocolate from her shirt pocket and placed it on the top of the machine. ‘I was just on my way back from the canteen.’

The inspector said, ‘I don’t suppose you know where the “on” switch is, by any chance?’

Middleton crossed her arms over her more than ample bosom. ‘Only properly qualified personnel are supposed to operate this machine.’

‘I know.’

‘And everything that goes through it needs to be logged.’

‘Of course.’ Carlyle gestured at the packet that he had carefully placed in the middle of the conveyor belt. ‘But I just need to look at something quickly.’

Sighing, Middleton stepped round the back of the machine and flicked a switch. ‘Come here.’

Carlyle did as he was told.

‘See?’

‘Mm.’

At the back of the machine was a monitor next to a control panel with four buttons. Middleton switched on the monitor and an image of inside the machine appeared on the screen. ‘It’s very simple,’ she explained, running her finger down the buttons. ‘Start. Stop. Backwards. Magnify.’

‘Okay,’ Carlyle nodded. ‘I’m sure I’ll be fine from here. Thanks, Angie.’

Angie gave him a weary shake of the head. ‘I’ll be at the desk if you need any more help. Remember to switch everything off when you go.’

‘I will,’ Carlyle smiled. ‘Thanks again.’

Retrieving her chocolate bar, she headed for the door. Once she
had gone, the inspector quickly pressed the start button and listened to the machine rumble into action.

By the time Carlyle made it home for the second time that evening, the flat was dark and silent. After brushing his teeth, he had a piss before undressing in the bathroom. Tiptoeing naked into the bedroom, he slipped under the duvet.

Rolling into the middle of the bed, Helen pulled him towards her. ‘So what was in the envelope?’ she asked sleepily.

‘I don’t know,’ he whispered. ‘Anything like that has to go through the scanner at work. The scanner guys knock off at six, so I logged it in and they’ll check in the morning.’ He had composed the lie on the way home; it sounded good enough.

Helen slipped a hand between his legs and he felt a pleasing tingle in his crotch. ‘Couldn’t it have waited until the morning, then?’ she asked, sounding rather more awake now.

Her hand slid away from him and Carlyle pulled it gently back. ‘I won’t be at the station first thing,’ he murmured, ‘so my sergeant can get on with it.’ He wondered how Umar was doing on the road back to London and stifled a chuckle.

‘What’s so funny?’ This time when Helen removed her hand, she did not let him guide it back.

‘My poor bastard of a sergeant had to go up to Middlesbrough tonight to track down a suspect.’

‘Look, John,’ said Helen, clearly not interested in the fate of Umar Sligo, ‘I don’t like Alice being accosted outside the school. Who is this informer anyway?’

‘Eh?’

‘Alice said it was a snitch.’

‘Yeah. He thought he was using his initiative. I’ll speak to him. It won’t happen again.’

‘If he’s someone you know,’ Helen persisted, ‘why do you have to go through such a performance?’

‘He thought he was being helpful.’ It was time to change the subject. ‘How was your meeting?’ he asked.

‘Good. We’ve got the confirmed dates for the Liberia trip.’

‘That’s great.’

Turning to face him, Helen looked her husband in the eye, the way she did when she wanted to steamroller him on something. ‘It’s been moved forward.’ She mentioned some dates.

Frowning, Carlyle thought it through. ‘You’re going next week then?’

‘Alice really wants you to come.’

‘Shouldn’t she be in school?’

‘I spoke to the Headmaster. He’s happy for me to take her out of school for such an educational trip.’

‘For two weeks?’

‘It takes forever to get around,’ Helen explained. ‘It’s not just like jumping in a car and zooming up the M1.’

‘No, no, of course not.’ He knew better than to get into an argument with his wife on the subject of Third World countries.

‘You must have plenty of leave you can take.’

‘Mm.’

‘Come on, you never use it all up.’

‘It’s not as easy as that, as you well know. Maybe I could come for the second week. Let me talk to Simpson.’

‘Okay.’ Turning away from him, Helen signalled the end of the conversation. Within a few moments, she was snoring gently. Lying in the darkness, Carlyle stared at the ceiling, coming to terms with the impending trip.

A bored-looking Paul Groom sat behind a desk in the interview room, flanked by two men in suits. Both of the suits, dwarfed by the young goalkeeper, looked old and shrunken. Carlyle recognized the one on his left, an ambulance-chasing lawyer called Kenneth Moynahan, but the other, he had never seen before. Better dressed than either Groom or Moynahan, the third man ignored the inspector’s entrance as he tapped away ostentatiously on his iPad.

Carlyle nodded at Moynahan and glared at Groom, who made a half-hearted attempt to hold his eye, giving up almost immediately.

‘Who are you?’ Carlyle asked the man with the iPad.

The man finished what he was typing and put the tablet down on the desk. He then offered the inspector a limp hand. ‘Wayne Devine, pleased to meet you.’

Ignoring the man’s hand, Carlyle glanced at Moynahan but the lawyer’s expression was giving nothing away.

‘And what are you doing here, Mr Devine?’

Devine grinned as if that should be obvious. ‘I’m Mr Groom’s agent.’

Moynahan began doodling frantically on a notepad on the desk in front of him. He looked as if he was trying hard not to smile.

Getting ready to work himself up into a state of aggravated annoyance, Carlyle planted his hands on his hips. ‘Excuse me?’

Slipping a business card across the table, Devine sat back in his chair. Looking Carlyle up and down, he decided that he would have to take things slowly with the stupid plod. ‘I represent—’

‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ Whoever gave the agent access to the interview room was gonna be in big trouble, once Carlyle got hold of them. He glanced down at the card. At the top, in bold red lettering, it bore the legend
DF&K Associates
.

Unable to keep the smirk from his face any longer, Moynahan ducked under the desk, on the pretence of getting something from his case. Groom was still staring into space, giving no indication that he was following the conversation at all.

‘Mr . . .’ Carlyle stole another quick look at the card: ‘Devine.’ He gestured around the interview room. ‘In here, Mr Groom is
Mr Moynahan’s
client. We are here in relation to a very serious investigation.’

The agent sighed. ‘I am well aware of the situation, Inspector. What you have to understand is—’

‘What
you
have to understand,’ Carlyle hissed, leaning across the table and jabbing an angry index finger in front of the agent’s face, ‘is that if you don’t get your arse out of this fucking room right now, I will have you charged with both accessory to murder and obstruction of justice.’

‘But—’

‘You have precisely thirty seconds to get out of this room and out of this building.’

Devine looked past his client towards Moynahan.

‘I think,’ said the lawyer quietly, ‘the inspector has made his position quite clear.’

‘Very well,’ said Devine evenly. Getting to his feet, he addressed Groom directly. ‘Remember, Paul, just sit tight. Say nothing until I get back to you.’ Nodding at Moynahan, he picked up his iPad and stalked out.

‘What the fuck are you playing at?’ Carlyle asked the lawyer as the door closed and the agent disappeared down the corridor.

Moynahan was neither apologetic nor insightful. ‘Nothing to do with me.’

Rubbing his neck, Carlyle wondered quite where they should go from here. His dilemma was solved by the appearance of Umar with
a large mug of steaming tea in his hand. Putting the mug on the table, he pulled up a chair and sat down next to the inspector. Unshaven, with dark rings under his eyes, his dishevelled appearance immediately made Carlyle feel better.

‘Tough night?’

Umar nodded as he sucked up some of the tea from his mug. ‘I got two hours’ sleep.’ He waved his mug in the direction of Groom. ‘You could at least have played at home, couldn’t you?’

For the first time, the vaguest flicker of an expression crossed Groom’s face.

‘And you got beat.’ Umar added gratuitously.

The goalie shrugged. ‘Shit happens.’

It speaks
, thought Carlyle.

‘Shall we get started?’ Moynahan asked.

‘My sergeant will conduct the interview.’ Carlyle said, standing up. He grinned at Groom. ‘Feel free to confess, given that we know you did it. Save everyone a lot of time.’

Without waiting for any response, he headed back upstairs.

Back at his desk, Carlyle decided he needed a break from the station. Grabbing his jacket, he headed back downstairs and nipped across Agar Street, heading towards the piazza. Outside the Box Café on Henrietta Street, he caught the eye of Myron Sabo and signalled that he wanted a green tea. Remaining on the pavement, he pulled out his private pay-as-you-go Nokia from one pocket, and Clifford Blitz’s business card from another. With some difficulty, he laboriously typed in Clifford Blitz’s number and hit Call.

To his surprise, Gavin Swann’s agent picked up almost before he had time to lift the handset to his ear.

‘Blitz.’

‘It’s John Carlyle from—’

‘Inspector,’ said Blitz, all business, ‘how are things going with Mr Groom?’

‘The investigation is proceeding,’ Carlyle said stiffly, ‘but that’s not why I’m ringing.’

‘Let me guess,’ Blitz sighed, ‘you would like some tickets for a game and—’

‘No,
no
,’ Carlyle interrupted. ‘I wanted to ask you about something you said when we last spoke.’

‘Hold on.’

Down the line, Carlyle could hear Blitz bark a series of instructions to a hapless minion. Among the words that were clearly distinguishable were ‘Laurent Perrier’ and ‘blow’. Overlooking that, the inspector waited patiently for the agent to come back on the line.

‘Fire away.’

‘When we were talking last time,’ Carlyle said cautiously, ‘you said that you had received bullets in the post.’

‘Yeah,’ Blitz replied. ‘It’s happened a few times, always the same carry-on: some lame-brain with the imagination of a pea wants to threaten you. Thinks that all they have to do is pop a little something in the post.’ He paused to shout a few more instructions to his assistant before coming back on the line. ‘Why do you ask? Is someone trying to put the frighteners on you?’ He let out a loud gaffaw.

‘No, no,’ Carlyle lied, thinking about the three cartridges in the still-unopened envelope that was locked in a drawer in his desk. ‘It’s just something that’s come up in another investigation; nothing to do with Gavin Swann.’

‘Oh.’ If Blitz was curious, he kept it well hidden. ‘I gotta go, Inspector. All I can say is that you don’t have to worry about the kind of people who do this sort of thing. In my experience, it’s always bullshit. They never have the balls to follow through.’

‘No?’ Carlyle asked, wanting to be convinced.

‘It’s strictly for tosspots whose balls haven’t dropped. Real criminals don’t make threats,’ Blitz sniggered, ‘as I’m sure you know.’

‘Yes,’ said Carlyle, not sure that he knew at all.

‘Put it this way,’ Blitz said. ‘If it was me, and I was really pissed off, I wouldn’t send you a bullet, I’d blow your fucking head off.’

‘About Mr Swann,’ Carlyle started, but Blitz had already hung up. Through the window, Myron held up a mug, to show Carlyle that his drink was ready. Nodding, the inspector gestured for him to put it on
the table next to where he was standing. Staying outside, he called another number.

Silver answered on the third ring. ‘I was wondering when you were going to get in touch. What’s happening?’

‘Nothing good.’ Carlyle quickly brought him up to speed with a brief run-through of selected recent events.

When he finished, there was a pause.

Finally, Dom spoke. ‘No lecture this time?’

‘No.’

‘Good, because I’m getting more than enough of that at home.’

Carlyle kept his mouth clamped firmly shut.

‘Where are you now?’

‘The piazza.’

‘Okay.’ Dom gave him the address of a bar in Soho. ‘Meet me there in fifteen minutes.’

‘Make it half an hour.’ Ending the call, the inspector went into the café, nabbing a copy of the
Metro
that one of the other customers had left behind. Unfolding the paper, he turned, as was his wont, to the back page, which was dominated by a picture of Gavin Swann hobbling out of a game after being injured. The story was based around a quote from his manager saying that he hoped to have his star striker back playing within the next couple of weeks.

‘The
boy should be back in training on Monday,
’ the manager said, ‘
and we’ll take it from there. Obviously, he will have to work on his match fitness levels but he’s been living like a monk since the injury and I know that he’s in great shape. I want to get Gavin back on the pitch as soon as possible, certainly before the end of the month
.’

A horrible thought popped into Carlyle’s head: Swann’s return should be just in time for the game against Fulham. That was the last thing that his struggling team needed.
Maybe I should arrest the little sod
, he thought,
put his recovery back a bit. After all, we can do with all the help we can get
.

For a moment, he gave the idea some serious consideration. Then his eye caught the teaser at the bottom of the story:
KEEPER QUESTIONED OVER HOTEL DEATH, P
. 6
.