Shoot to Kill (29 page)

‘Jesus.’

‘I know.’ Dino pulled his scarf tighter around his neck. ‘We just have to hope that Swann comes back all guns blazing. A couple of good results and the fans will be happy again.’

‘
Referee!
’ Slater and thirty thousand others rose in unison to protest at an unpunished assault in the centre circle.

Dino elbowed Holyrod. ‘At least Abigail is getting into the spirit of things.’ He allowed himself the smallest of leers. ‘And that shirt looks very good on her.’

For the first time in the evening, the Mayor allowed himself a smile. ‘It does, doesn’t it?’

‘Does she wear it in the bedroom?’

Holyrod glanced at the scoreboard. Five minutes and he would be at the bar. ‘Amongst other things.’

‘You are a very lucky man,’ Dino congratulated him.

‘You know what? It can be very exhausting.’

‘Ah.’ Dino gave him a knowing wink. ‘I have just the thing to help you with that.’ Not waiting for the half-time whistle, he struggled out of his seat. ‘In the meantime, let’s go and get a bloody drink.’

‘I haven’t been able to track down Kelly Kellaway.’ Umar looked almost sheepish.

Kelly Kellaway? Carlyle had forgotten all about her. ‘Why the fuck not?’ he barked.

‘Well,’ Umar said stiffly, ‘for a start, that number you gave me doesn’t work.’

Carlyle’s face crumpled in annoyance. ‘Go back and hassle Blitz then. She can’t have disappeared into thin air. What about her family?’

‘I spoke to her parents. They haven’t seen her in two years, apparently.’

‘ATM records? Mobile records?’ Carlyle threw his hands up in the air. He knew that Umar didn’t have the time or resources to do what he was asking any time soon, but he didn’t feel like being reasonable about it. ‘What do they tell us?’

Umar stuck his hands into his trouser pockets. ‘I haven’t been able t—’

‘For fuck’s sake!’ Carlyle exploded. ‘Just fucking find her!’

‘Did you get anything from Dino Mottram?’

Good question
. The inspector had been too focused on the malt whisky in Dino’s office to remember why he’d been there in the first place. ‘Nah,’ he said guiltily, forcing his anger to dissipate. ‘He wasn’t any help at all.’

‘Did you stay for the game?’

‘I wouldn’t waste my time watching those berks.’

‘Nil-nil,’ Umar mused. ‘Sounds like it was a good game to miss.’

‘Yeah.’ Carlyle looked at his watch. ‘I haven’t got much time. What are we doing here?’ He looked around the New Belvedere hostel, in Limehouse, East London, unimpressed.

‘We’re seeing Dr Ian Bell. CEO of Veterans United.’

‘Uhuh.’ Carlyle suspected that this would be a waste of time. In his experience, anyone who called themselves ‘Chief Executive Officer’ of anything was not likely to have much of interest or relevance to say.

‘He’s also Visiting Senior Research Fellow in the Department of War Studies at King’s College,’ Umar added. ‘He has a PhD in the causes of homelessness among veterans and wrote a book that came out last year on the war in Afghanistan.’

Over-achieving bastard
, Carlyle thought.

‘It’s a good read,’ the sergeant said. ‘I can lend you a copy if you want.’

‘Thanks,’ Carlyle mumbled, with no enthusiasm whatsoever.

‘It’s very kind of you to say so.’ A small, smiling man dressed in grey jacket over a button-down blue shirt, open at the neck, and a pair of freshly pressed jeans, appeared at Umar’s shoulder and shook the sergeant’s hand. ‘You must be Inspector Carlyle.’

‘I’m Sergeant Sligo,’ Umar grinned.

‘I’m Carlyle,’ the inspector interjected abruptly, offering his hand.

‘Ah, my apologies, gentlemen.’ Bell gestured at some chairs clustered around a low coffee table in the corner of his office. ‘Please, take a seat.’

‘So,’ said Carlyle when they were all seated, ‘it looks like you’ve got a lot on your plate here.’

The smile that had seemed permanently plastered on to Bell’s face faded somewhat. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘we do a very important job, even if I say so myself. Veterans United has a uniquely holistic approach when it comes to trying to deal with the serious problems that ex-military personnel face in modern Britain. At the most practical level, it’s about homelessness prevention; we provided more than thirty-five thousand nights of accommodation last year. At the moment, we
provide a home to around a hundred and fifty-two veterans here at the hostel. We don’t judge people. What we do is help them deal with the complexities of the welfare system and other aspects of state bureaucracy including, fairly regularly, the police.’

Carlyle shrugged. ‘If you have any problems in the future, please call Sergeant Sligo. He will be delighted to try and help you.’ Catching the grimace that flashed across Umar’s face, he added, ‘Any time of the day or night.’

‘Thank you.’ Bell bowed slightly. ‘We also do our own original research, looking into the effects of military service on the health and wellbeing of personnel when they leave the military and take up civilian careers.’

‘Or not,’ Carlyle interrupted.

‘Or not.’ Bell’s smile faded even further. ‘Civilian careers are hard enough to find at the moment, even for civilians.’

‘Adrian Gasparino,’ said Carlyle, ‘seems to have fallen through the net very quickly.’

‘It doesn’t take long,’ said Umar.

Carlyle glared at him to shut up. He didn’t schlep all the way out to Limehouse to listen to the thoughts of his bloody sergeant.

‘Soldiers, sailors, airmen and -women are the same as everyone else,’ Bell went on. ‘They fall victim to homelessness for various prosaic reasons ranging from psychological disorders to alcohol and drug abuse or family breakdown. Once you are on the street, however, for whatever reason, it is hard to get back to something approximating what we might think of as a “normal” life.’

‘Very true,’ Umar nodded.

‘Aside from the cold and hunger,’ Bell continued, ‘violence is commonplace. Those on the streets are either prey or predators.’

Spare me the homilies
, the inspector thought wearily.

‘We are no longer honouring the military covenant,’ Umar said solemnly.

The what?
Carlyle struggled to ignore an overwhelming desire to give his man a firm slap.

Sensing the inspector’s confusion, Bell told him how, in the
nineteenth century, the government had pledged to support and provide care for all service personnel in return for the sacrifices they made for their country.

‘There are many,’ Umar chipped in, ‘amongst the media, senior military figures and politicians, who feel that the Ministry of Defence has abandoned these people.’

‘Yes,’ Bell nodded. ‘Recently, Edgar Carlton himself spoke out about the covenant in the House of Commons, stating that it was an unbreakable common bond of identity, loyalty and responsibility, which has sustained the Army throughout its history.’

That doesn’t stop him from doing fuck all about repairing it
, Carlyle reflected. His mobile started buzzing in his pocket. Pulling it out, he checked that it wasn’t his wife before rejecting the call. The screen told him that he had six missed calls. Shrugging, he dropped the phone back into his pocket.

‘The outlook is bleak,’ Bell sighed. ‘Poverty is on the rise, which means more homelessness, which means more homeless veterans. The government
must
act. No veteran in our country should be forgotten or lost.’

‘Adrian Gasparino was forgotten,’ Carlyle said flatly. ‘What can you tell us about him?’

Bell reached inside his jacket and pulled out a single sheet of white A4 paper. Unfolding it, he handed it over to Carlyle. ‘Here.’

‘Thanks.’ Squinting at the paper, Carlyle realized that he wasn’t wearing his spectacles. Fortunately, he was quickly able to locate them in the breast pocket of his jacket. Slipping them on, he glanced down the list. Gasparino’s military history was typed out in chronological order, along with his age, home address and National Insurance number; it even had the registration number of his car, a ten-year-old Nissan. Scribbled at the bottom were details of his next of kin, along with the names of his commanding officers and a couple of comrades.

Nothing, however, that would give any insight into who killed him, or why.

Carlyle nodded at Bell. ‘Thank you for this.’ He passed the sheet to
Umar before getting to his feet. ‘If there’s anything else that comes to mind that might be of use, please let my sergeant know.’

‘Of course,’ said Bell, also getting to his feet. The two men shook hands. ‘Good luck with your investigation, Inspector.’

‘I’m sure we’ll sort it out.’ Carlyle smiled grimly. ‘But you can be sure that there won’t be any happy ending.’

‘No.’ Bell stared at his shoes. ‘Quite.’

Carlyle gestured at the sheet of paper in Umar’s hand. ‘If you speak to some of the people on there, I will catch up with you later.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Umar, slowly getting up.

Bell gestured to the door. ‘Let me see you out.’

Feeling rather glum, Carlyle sat between Helen and Alice in Terminal 4 at Heathrow, waiting for the Royal Air Maroc flight to Casablanca to be called. His wife and daughter were going on the cheapest tickets available, which meant a 24-hour stop-off in Morocco before boarding a flight to Monrovia Roberts International Airport the next day. Not a happy flier, the inspector was already worrying about making the journey himself in a week from now.

He shifted in his seat, unable to shake the sickly feeling in his stomach. This trip hadn’t seemed the greatest of ideas at the outset, and now that they were actually about to depart, it seemed a whole lot worse. He felt bad about not going with them. It dawned on him that this would be the first time ever that he had been away from his daughter for more than a couple of nights; and even then she had only been in bloody Brighton with her grandma. Part of this whole thing was, he knew, about Alice growing up, which was important but still kind of sad.

‘You’ll let me know when you get there?’

‘Yes,’ said Helen, the exasperation clear in her voice. She didn’t look up from her copy of the
West Africa Travel Guide
. ‘You’ve asked me that a dozen times already. Of course I’ll text you when we arrive.’

Alice flicked through a pile of newspaper articles that she had printed off the internet. In the margins, she had scribbled copious notes in a surprisingly neat hand.

Carlyle got out of his seat and kissed her on the head. ‘You’ve done a lot of research on this.’

‘I’ve got to do a report for the class at school,’ Alice explained, waving him away. ‘That was the deal when the Headmaster allowed me to come.’

‘Good idea.’

Alice tapped the papers on her lap with her index finger. ‘Basically, I’ve done it already, downloading stuff from the net. I’ll add in some local colour when I get back.’

‘Isn’t that cheating?’

Now it was Alice’s turn to frown. ‘Cheating what?’

Good point
, Carlyle mused.

‘After all,’ she said primly, ‘I’ve got to put the trip into some kind of context.’

‘Er, I suppose so.’

‘Did you know,’ she said cheerily, ‘that around a quarter of a million people were killed in Liberia’s civil war?’

Carlyle’s stomach took another lurch downwards.

‘Thousands more fled the fighting. The war left the country ruined.’

‘Which is why Avalon is there in the first place,’ Helen pointed out tartly. ‘This
is
what I do for a living, after all.’

‘There are weapons all over the place, but no mains electricity and running water,’ Alice went on. ‘Corruption is rife and unemployment and illiteracy are endemic. Life expectancy is just fifty-nine for men and sixty-one for women.’

‘Sounds like Tower Hamlets.’ Carlyle’s feeble attempt at humour got him a dirty look from his wife.

‘The United Nations,’ Alice continued, reading from her notes, ‘has fifteen thousand soldiers there for its peacekeeping operation.’

‘Thank God for that.’ Carlyle seriously wondered if he should grab their passports and leg it back into the city.

‘People there speak English and twenty-nine African languages belonging to the . . . Mande, Kwa or Mel linguistic groups.’

‘Is George Weah still around?’ Carlyle asked. He knew that the
former AC Milan star came from Liberia and had run for President a few years earlier.
That really is the definition of a fucked country
, he thought to himself,
when your best hope is a former footballer
.

Alice consulted her notes. ‘He’s the leader of the opposition. The President is a woman called Ellen Johnson-Sirleaf, known as the “Iron Lady”.’

Where have I heard that before? Carlyle wondered.

Helen elbowed him in the ribs. ‘Time to go.’

Carlyle looked up at the screen above his head. Flight 801 would be boarding in just over forty-five minutes. With a heavy heart, he walked them to Passport Control.

Heading back to the tube, he got a call.

‘Yes?’

‘John, it’s Julie Crisp.’ The inspector sounded more than pissed off.

Shit, he’d forgotten all about the Docklands drugs bust.

‘Why haven’t you returned any of my calls?’

‘What calls?’ Carlyle said guiltily, knowing that his track record in this area was far from the best.

Crisp let out an exasperated sigh. ‘I’ve been trying to get hold of you for the last four days. There were no fucking drugs in that house you sent us to.’

‘Ah.’

‘All we got were a couple of joints that some of the squatters were smoking at the time, and half a gram of speed. Not a lot for a police operation that cost the thick end of ten grand in overtime.’

‘No.’

‘So what am I going to tell my boss?’ Crisp demanded

Carlyle thought about it for a moment. ‘It was a solid tip,’ was all he could think of to say.

‘Fuck!’

‘I’m sorry, Julie. I didn’t mean to drop you in it.’

‘I know, I know,’ she said, calming down a little. ‘There was evidence that stuff had been stored in the attic, but the place had been cleaned out before we got there.’