Then We Die (13 page)

‘Up!’

Struggling to breathe, Goya looked at the hulking figure in front of him. He was a brute of a man, maybe six foot three and weighing maybe 110 kilos. In the giant’s hand the Barak, now pointed at Goya’s nose, looked like a child’s toy.

‘Up!’

‘Who are you?’ Goya panted, reluctantly struggling to his feet.

Saying nothing, the man simply flicked the barrel of the gun in the direction of the house. With his free hand, he hoisted Goya up by his shirt and began dragging him back inside.

Moving slowly along the South Bank, Carlyle felt a sharp wind blowing off the Thames. He knew that this was as close to fresh air as he would ever get in London, so he was determined to make the most of it. It was not quite 6.15 a.m. and he was feeling pleased with himself for getting out of bed and going for a run. A combination of endorphins from the exercise and listening to The Clash, Stiff Little Fingers and a selection of other Punk tunes on his iPod further added to his good mood.

Even at this early hour, there were plenty of other joggers about, eyes glazed, headphones on, enjoying having the city to themselves. Occasionally, Carlyle waved to those passing him while heading in the opposite direction. Invariably, they ignored him. As ‘Safe European Home’ gave way to ‘Nobody’s Hero’, he kicked on. Heading through the tunnel under Southwark Bridge, while taking a swig from the small bottle of water he carried in his hand, he trundled past the rows of dossers sleeping underneath their cardboard boxes. He was approaching Tate Modern, an old power station alongside the Thames which had been converted into an art gallery. Here he could take the Millennium Bridge back across the river, and then be home in twenty minutes or so. The alternative would be to keep heading east towards Tower Bridge. His head said ‘yes’, but his legs were not so sure.

Carlyle was still undecided about his route as he reached the Tate, and just then his mobile started vibrating in the back pocket of his shorts. Pulling it out, he slowed to a walk.

Number withheld
.

Carlyle thought about it for a moment before deciding he’d rather take the call than persevere with his run.

‘Hello?’

‘Inspector Carlyle?’

A man’s voice he didn’t recognize. Sirens in the background. Carlyle knew the signs: something had happened.

Something bad.

‘Yes, speaking,’ he admitted with some reluctance. He started up the ramp of the footbridge, stopping in the shelter of a wall so as to complete this call out of the wind.

‘This is Detective Inspector David Ronan from SO15.’

Roche
’
s boyfriend
. Carlyle wiped his nose on his sleeve.

‘Alison told me about your dealings with Adam Hall.’

‘Ah, yes,’ Carlyle grinned, ‘pillow-talk.’

There was a short pause on the line. ‘What?’

‘Nothing,’ Carlyle said quickly. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘I’m on Peel Street, just off Kensington Church Street,’ Ronan continued, in a matter-of-fact manner.

Carlyle quickly scanned the A–Z in his head. ‘I know it.’ It was vaguely true.

‘Someone executed Hall here a few hours ago.’

RIP
,
young Adam
, Carlyle thought ruefully, his heart still beating rapidly in his chest.
James Bond you were not
.

‘And he wasn’t the only one.’

‘Is this related to the killing of my sergeant?’ Carlyle asked.

‘Looks like it.’

‘Thanks for the heads-up. How long are you going to be at the scene?’

Ronan sighed. ‘There are multiple scenes. It is quite a mess, so it looks like I will be here for a considerable while.’

‘Okay, I’ll be there within the hour.’ Ending the call, Carlyle moved up onto the bridge and began slowly jogging towards home. Feeling the wind full in his face, he let all thoughts of spies and murder fall from his mind as he upped his pace and ran on towards St Paul’s Cathedral.

Studiously ignoring the television cameras hovering just outside the police tape, the crews now taking a break from providing live reports to the early breakfast news bulletins, Carlyle ducked into Peel Street. It was a fresh, bright day and the morning rush hour had not yet started. After the carnage of the night before, comparative peace reigned in the vicinity.

Peel Street, with its expensively renovated four-storey Georgian townhouses, was the kind of exclusive London street that only bankers, arms traders and drug dealers could afford to live in. For now, it was empty, apart from a couple of uniforms mooching about and a gaggle of techies buzzing around a vehicle parked halfway along on the south side of the street. The car itself had been screened off to stop any journalists, residents or gawpers taking any pictures. Carlyle guessed that the one guy not in a white body suit was DCI Ronan.

Although dressed like a rich teenager – in blue Adidas Forest Hills Originals, carefully distressed jeans and an expensive-looking black leather biker jacket – David Ronan looked rather old and careworn. Worse, it looked like his raven-black hair had been dyed. Certainly, Carlyle thought with a stab of jealousy, the man looked a bit past it to be going out with the rather fragrant Alison Roche. Even allowing for the fact that he had the haggard look of someone who had been up all night, Ronan had to be at least ten years her senior, therefore almost as old as Carlyle himself.

‘Here.’ Carlyle had taken the precaution of bringing along a couple of lattes from the Caffè Nero round the corner. Extra hot, and with two extra shots each.

‘Excellent,’ Ronan said gratefully, taking one of the twelve-ounce cups. ‘You must be Carlyle?’ He extended his free hand and they shook. ‘Got any sugar?’

Carlyle dug into his jacket pocket and pulled out a couple of small white sachets. ‘There you go.’

‘Thanks.’

Ronan peeled the plastic lid off his latte, tore open each of the sachets in turn with his teeth, and dumped the sugar into the froth. Putting the lid back on, he gave the cup a gentle shake before taking a mouthful.

Stepping towards a narrow gap in the screens, Carlyle peered through. Still in the front passenger seat of a red Ford Focus was the body of a woman. It looked like she had been shot multiple times.

Squeamish at the best of times, Carlyle moved away quickly. Taking a couple of deep breaths, he waited for that familiar feeling of his breakfast coming back up his throat. Then he remembered that he hadn’t actually had any breakfast, and for that gave silent thanks. Turning back to face Ronan, he exhaled deeply and lifted his gaze to the heavens.

‘A right old mess,’ Ronan observed quietly, ‘isn’t it?’

‘Who is she?’

‘Gillian Strauss. MI6. Adam Hall’s boss.’

The female spook and her little apprentice
. Carlyle let out another long sigh. ‘And where is Hall?’

Ronan finished his coffee and looked around, wondering what to do with the cup. ‘We found him in the alley over there,’ he said, gesturing over his shoulder. ‘Looks like he was shot first, and then her. Then they shot the third guy.’

The third guy?
Carlyle wondered.
This just gets better and fucking better
.

The SO15 man saw the sickly look on his face and said, ‘Come on, I’ll show you.’

* * *

Ronan nodded to the uniform standing outside number 17 Peel Street and jogged up the three steps leading to the open front door. Carlyle followed him inside and down a hallway that ran the entire length of the west side of the house, to reach a large kitchen at the back. In the middle of the room stood a rectangular wooden table, with two chairs on either side. One of the chairs had been pulled out, as if someone had recently been sitting on it. The whole scene was unremarkable, apart from the large pool of congealed blood covering most of the table-top. At the far end, blood had dripped onto the floor, forming a pool leading towards the back door that opened onto the garden.

One of the technicians, wearing a white body suit, appeared in the doorway and said to Ronan, ‘We’re done here.’ He began stripping off a pair of protective gloves. ‘For now, at least.’

‘Thanks,’ Ronan replied. ‘Let’s touch base back at the station.’

‘Will do,’ said the man, turning to head out of the house.

Ronan explained to Carlyle, ‘The body’s gone to the morgue.’

‘Who was it?’

‘Middle-aged guy. He was carrying a German passport under the name of Lefter Sporel.’ Ronan looked at Carlyle. ‘Not a very German name, is it?’

Carlyle thought about that for a moment. ‘Germany has a large Turkish population,’ he reflected.

‘Probably a fake ID anyway,’ Ronan said. ‘If Mossad were after him, it’s very unlikely that he was Turkish.’

‘Unless he’s some random Mujahideen nutter,’ Carlyle ventured, keen to show his impressive grasp of international affairs. ‘They can come from anywhere.’

‘I would be very surprised, though. Maybe if he came from Blackburn, or Birmingham, but not from Berlin. We’ll just have to see if we can work out his real identity.’ Ronan pulled a packet of Marlboro out of his jacket pocket and stuck a cigarette in his mouth without lighting it. ‘What I assume happened is that this guy here was the target, and the MI6 bods outside just got in the way.’

‘Presumably MI6 may be able to tell us who he really was?’ Carlyle said.

Ronan made a face. ‘You would hope so.’

‘You don’t sound too convinced.’

‘They’re not known for sharing information at the best of times, and right now they will be busy trying to work out how to spin the fact that two of their agents got whacked in the middle of London.’

‘The body count is piling up a bit.’

Ronan grinned. ‘Alison told me you were a master of understatement.’

Me?
Carlyle thought.

The DI’s grin grew wider. ‘Or rather, if I recall rightly, her exact words were “sarcastic old bastard”. Anyway, six murders, including a police officer and two spooks, is a genuine, bona-fide shit storm.’

‘Good job MI6 are handling it, then,’ Carlyle said.

‘Not any more.’ Ronan gave him a stern look. ‘SO15 are not going to just sit by while all this crap is dumped on their doorstep.’

Great
, Carlyle thought.
A bit of inter-agency politics is just what we need right now
.

‘MI6 have blown it big-time,’ Ronan continued. ‘Now it’s up to the Met to get a grip on things.’

Carlyle shrugged.

‘This has come right from the top. The Commissioner has given CTC the green light to deal with the problem.’

Carlyle wondered whether that also chimed with the Secret Intelligence Service’s understanding of this situation. He very much doubted whether the Metropolitan Police Commissioner could ever win a pissing contest with the head of MI6. On the other hand, he really couldn’t give a toss about who did what, as long as Joe’s interests were properly looked after.

‘Okay,’ he said finally, ‘how can I help?’

Arriving at Charing Cross police station, Carlyle made his way through the usual flotsam and jetsam gathered in the waiting room and headed on past the front desk. Looking up from his copy of the
Sun
, Kevin Price gave him a quizzical stare.

‘What are you doing here?’

Carlyle frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

Price closed his paper, folded it and stuck it under the desk. ‘I thought you’d be at Joe’s funeral.’

Carlyle glanced at his watch. The funeral was due to start in twenty minutes and he felt hugely relieved that he didn’t have to go. He held Price’s gaze. ‘It’s a small family-only affair,’ he said, keeping any suggestion of emotion out of his voice. ‘Simpson is representing the Met.’

‘I assumed you would have gone as well,’ Price persisted.

‘It’s a family decision,’ Carlyle said brusquely, heading quickly down the corridor to bring this conversation to an end.

Back at his desk, he was surprised to see the third floor almost empty. He tried calling Roche, but the call went to voicemail and he couldn’t be bothered leaving her a message. His legs still ached from the early-morning run, and a wave of tiredness washed over him. Dropping his mobile on the desk, he stretched out in his chair and yawned widely. Almost immediately, the phone began to ring. He looked at it for a minute then picked it up cautiously. Despite not recognizing the number on the screen, he answered.

‘Carlyle.’

‘Mr Carlyle, this is Louisa Arbillot.’

Who?

‘I work with your wife.’ The voice was heavily accented, almost like a comedy French accent. Traffic noise in the background suggested she was standing somewhere out on the street.

‘Ah yes, thank you for giving me a call.’

‘Helen explained your situation to me. I think we should meet.’

‘OK.’ Carlyle was caught off-guard by the woman’s ready offer. He wasn’t used to Helen’s leftie friends being in any way co-operative. Simply because he was a policeman, they usually treated him with a mixture of contempt and distrust.

‘I happen to be in Soho at the moment. Could you do it sometime round about now?’

‘Sure.’ Mentioning the name of a coffee bar on Berwick Street, he said he’d meet her there in twenty minutes. Forgetting all thoughts of tiredness, he jumped to his feet and headed for the stairs.

Situated at the northern end of Berwick Street’s fruit and veg market, the Flat White café was one of the most celebrated coffee shops in Soho. Inside, the place was crammed, as usual. Even so, Louisa Arbillot was easy to spot in her Avalon T-shirt. They exchanged nods as he stood at the counter and ordered his drink. Sitting underneath a small poster advertising a Grace Jones concert, she sipped daintily on her latte and waited patiently for him to collect his double espresso and take the spare seat at her table.

‘Very nice to meet you, John.’ She offered him a moist hand and, rather reluctantly, he shook it.

‘Thank you for agreeing to see me.’

Louisa studied him closely through dull grey eyes. Draining the last of her coffee, she placed the cup back on the saucer with a flourish. ‘When Helen told me what you were interested in,’ she said, ‘I didn’t think I could help at first.’ Her French accent seemed less obvious now than over the phone, but it was still clearly detectable. Carlyle took a taste of his own coffee and waited for her to get to a point.