Shoot to Kill (33 page)

After his conversation with the Honeymann journalist Baseer Yazdani, the inspector had spent an hour in Maria’s tiny office in Somerset House, talking her through the alleged fraud involving Gavin Swann. Sitting in front of a floor-to-ceiling bookcase crammed with files, papers and various tax guides, Maria looked even smaller than her five foot two inches. A pretty, raven-haired woman now well into her forties, she had Italian parents and a French husband, with two kids who were Londoners through and through.

‘Okay. I see.’ Maria nodded thoughtfully all the way through Carlyle’s opening monologue, taking copious notes in a hard-backed A4 notebook.

When he couldn’t think of anything else to say, the inspector sat back in his chair, knocking a copy of
Tolley
’s
Tax Guide
from the table behind him.

‘Sorry.’

Maria rolled her hazel eyes. ‘Don’t worry about it.’

Carlyle picked the book off the floor and placed it back in its place. ‘So,’ he asked, ‘what do you think?’

‘Well,’ Maria looked at her notes, ‘this kind of thing is fairly common. I should imagine we know all of this stuff – and more –
already. It’s clearly a grey area; the question is, how actively are we investigating it?’

‘I see,’ said Carlyle, unable to keep the disappointment from his voice.

‘Don’t worry,’ Maria smiled, ‘I’m sure we will be able to give this guy a hard time for you. My boss is a complerte media tart. He will love the publicity of such a high-profile target. He would have sex with his grandmother in Selfridges window for a couple of minutes on the
Today
programme.’

‘Urgh.’

‘His words, not mine.’

‘This has to be more than just a publicity stunt.’

She looked at him doubtfully.

‘Really.’

‘Okay. I understand. I’m sure if we put our minds to it we could probably come up with enough to put Mr Blitz away for a year or two, maybe more.’

‘Perfect,’ Carlyle smiled. ‘That would be great.’

‘Never heard of her?’ Blitz parroted, sensing that he was being given some flannel but unable to do anything about it.

‘No, sorry,’ Carlyle replied. ‘But let me see what I can find out.’

‘Appreciate it,’ Blitz said grudgingly.

‘Meantime,’ Carlyle continued, deciding to yank Blitz’s chain a bit more, ‘you can do something for me.’

There was a suspicious pause. ‘What would that be?’

‘I need to get in touch with Paul Groom’s agent.’

‘Hah!’ Blitz laughed. ‘Wayne Devine isn’t his agent any more.’

‘Oh? Who is?’

‘I am.’

Ending the call, Carlyle finished his drink and signalled to the waitress that he would like another. Then he called Baseer, gave him a mobile number for Maria March and told him he could finally write his Gavin Swann story.

‘She’ll “no comment” it for you,’ Carlyle said, ‘but she can’t deny it. I would have thought that should be enough to get it past your editors.’

‘I hope so,’ Baseer replied. ‘Thanks.’

‘No problem.’ Carlyle did a thumbs-up as the waitress placed a cold drink in front of him. ‘Let’s keep in touch.’

Dropping the phone onto the table, the inspector cracked open the can and took a swig of its contents. He was contemplating ordering a sandwich when someone pulled up a chair and sat down beside him. Looking up, he was surprised to see that it was Gideon Spanner.

Dropping a Nike holdall by his feet, Spanner carefully placed a copy of that afternoon’s
Standard
on the table, opened at page six and folded in half. Below the fold was a story headlined:
WAR VETERAN KICKED TO DEATH BY THUGS
.
He tapped the story with his index finger, saying, ‘You were supposed to give me a heads-up on this.’

Picking up the paper, Carlyle scanned down the story. They had Gasparino’s name, some details of his service record, along with a quote from Dr Bell. In the last paragraph, a ‘Metropolitan Police source’ was quoted as saying: ‘The
attackers left a lot of forensic evidence at the scene. On that basis, we would expect to make good progress in identifying them quite quickly
.’ The inspector sighed heavily; it wasn’t the worst leak he had ever seen, or the quickest, but it was pretty bad.
If Umar had anything to do with this
, he thought,
I will kick the smug bastard all the way back up to Manchester
. He dropped the paper back onto the table and shrugged. ‘This doesn’t really help me, but I don’t think we’ll have too much trouble catching them – they’re just a bunch of kids. Idiots like that always get caught.’

Gideon gave him a stony look. ‘I want to deal with them.’

‘Don’t go all Charles Bronson on me, Gideon,’ Carlyle sighed. ‘They will get what’s coming to them. Leave it alone or I’ll end up having to arrest you.’

If the big man was at all perturbed by the prospect, it didn’t show as he gazed out of the window. ‘Who’s Charles Bronson?’

Carlyle suddenly felt very old indeed. ‘For God’s sake, Gideon, is that what you came over here to hassle me about?’

‘Two things,’ Gideon said firmly. ‘One – be ready to go on a little trip tomorrow night, thirty-six hours or so. Wear old clothes, stuff you don’t mind losing. Make sure all your pockets are empty: no cash, no identification, no electronic devices.’

Carlyle looked at him, bemused. ‘This is a joke, right?’

‘Two.’ Gideon reached down, unzipped the holdall, pulled out a Waitrose plastic bag and handed it to Carlyle. ‘This is for you. Don’t touch anything inside there, it’s all clean – no fingerprints.’

Sighing, the inspector peered at a small canvas satchel inside. ‘What is it?’ Even though he knew the answer, he thought that he might as well ask.

‘It’s the drugs from the house that your people raided in Docklands.’

‘All of them?’

‘So I’m told.’ Gideon got to his feet. ‘Apologies for any inconvenience caused.’

‘Thanks a lot,’ said Carlyle sarcastically, but the other man was already gone.

Invigorated after an hour with Christina O’Brien and a chicken panini from Carluccio’s, Umar felt almost giddy as he climbed the steps to Clive Martin’s penthouse apartment on Maiden Lane. Ringing the doorbell, he hopped from foot to foot, humming an approximation of ‘Time of My Life’ as he waited for a reply. When no one came, he rang the bell again, longer this time, his enthusiasm for the Black-Eyed Peas beginning to wane.

‘Come on!’ He pressed the buzzer for a third time just as the door swung open.

‘There’s no need to keep ringing the bloody bell!’

Although it was the middle of the afternoon, the girl in front of him looked like she’d just fallen out of bed. Her long blonde hair was all over the place and her face still bore traces of last night’s make-up. Then there was the fact that she was naked, apart from a pair of black lace panties.

Umar slowly looked her up and down. This truly was his lucky day.
Must remember to buy a lottery ticket tonight
, he told himself.

‘Who are you?’ the girl demanded, making no effort to cover herself up.

‘I’m looking for Clive,’ Umar explained.

‘He’s still in bed.’ Her accent was broad Liverpool; she vaguely reminded Umar of some Scouse pop singer or soap star from when he was a kid, whose name, if he had ever known it in the first place, he had long since forgotten.

Umar glanced at his watch. It was after three thirty. ‘He can’t still be asleep, surely.’

‘Nah,’ the girl grinned. ‘My mate Gemma’s giving him a blow job. At least she’s trying to. The old bugger often struggles to get it up these days.’

Finally, Umar remembered his warrant card. He pulled out his ID and showed it to the girl. ‘Go and tell him I need to talk to him.’

‘Okay,’ the girl pouted, ‘but Clive doesn’t like to be disturbed.’ She gave Umar an evil grin. ‘He gets very pissed off if he can’t deliver the money shot, if you know what I mean.’

‘Sorry.’ Umar watched as she turned and sashayed down the corridor, disappearing somewhere off to the left. Stepping inside, he closed the door behind him and went off to find the living room.

‘This police harassment is getting very tiresome. I have already telephoned my lawyer.’ Clive Martin shuffled into the lounge in a Bon Jovi T-shirt and a pair of boxer shorts with what looked to Umar very much like a padded crotch. The look on his face suggested that poor old Gemma had not managed to close the deal. Snatching a pair of spectacles from the coffee table, he took a seat on an oversized red fabric sofa.

Umar smiled apologetically. ‘This is not about Everton’s.’

‘No?’ Martin allowed himself a leer. ‘I hear you were there this morning, screwing one of my girls.’

For a moment, Umar was speechless. The thought of Christina hanging out here with Martin sent a wave of sadness and anger
through him. Breaking off eye-contact, he contemplated Rob Ryan’s
You Are My Universe
on the wall above Martin’s head. The print seemed completely out of place in the strip-club owner’s shagpad.

‘News travels fast, Sergeant,’ Martin laughed. ‘Not that it had a long way to come in this instance. Anyway, it’s no big deal. I’m certainly not going to hold it against you. I only wish that your boss was as . . . interesting.’

‘Inspector Carlyle is a really boring straitlaced bastard,’ Umar agreed.

‘He certainly is.’ Martin smiled as a naked, auburn-haired girl, presumably Gemma, appeared with a demitasse which she placed on the coffee table. ‘Thanks, sweetie.’

‘No problem.’ The girl turned to Umar, placing her hands on her hips. ‘Would you like one, Officer?’

Umar’s mouth was dry and his brain struggled to get any signal to his jaw.

Stepping away from Martin’s grasp, the girl scratched a spot on her right thigh. ‘An espresso, that is.’

‘Er,’ Umar finally managed to hold up a hand. ‘I’m fine.’

‘Go to the bedroom,’ Martin commanded. ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’

‘All right,’ the girl pouted.

‘Quite a set-up you’ve got here,’ Umar said after Gemma had left.

‘It’s hard work,’ Martin grumbled. Grabbing the demitasse, he downed the espresso in one. ‘Especially at my age.’

Umar murmured sympathetically.

‘So,’ Martin asked, ‘what do you want?’

It took Umar more than a moment to remember why he was there. ‘I need to speak to your grandson,’ he said finally.

‘What on earth are you talking about?’ Martin got to his feet, theatrically scratching his padded crotch. ‘I don’t
have
a bloody grandson.’

Carlyle returned to Charing Cross carrying his plastic Waitrose bag as casually as he could manage. Looking up from behind the desk, Angie Middleton gave him a welcoming grin.

‘Been shopping?’ she asked, gesturing at the bag with her biro.

‘Nah,’ Carlyle shook his head. ‘Just some odds and ends.’ Walking past the desk, he headed through the fire doors and up the stairs.

Up on the third floor, he called Julie Crisp.

‘What do you want?’ she asked suspiciously. She was outside somewhere, maybe at a playground for he could hear children shouting happily in the background.

‘That stuff we missed the other day . . .’

‘Don’t go there,’ she said immediately. ‘I’m a completely busted flush with my superiors after that wild goose chase you sent me on. It’s gonna take me ages to get over that.’

‘This time it’s guaranteed,’ Carlyle protested.

‘Wasn’t it supposed to be “guaranteed” last time?’

‘Yes, but—’

‘It’s no fucking good to me now, John. Even if you came right over and placed the bloody stuff on my desk, it wouldn’t undo the damage done. I have enough trouble here dealing with all the normal, day-to-day shit without you making it worse. You can’t . . .’ her angry words were carried away on a gust of wind, but he got the message. With a heavy sigh, he ended the call and placed the receiver carefully back on the cradle. Pushing his chair away from his desk, he bent down and rummaged around amongst the pile of boxfiles that
he had accumulated over the years. Choosing the largest one, he emptied the papers inside into a bin marked
Confidential Shredding
, replacing them with the package that he had been handed by Gideon Spanner. With the drugs inside, the file didn’t quite shut, but it was close enough. Placing the file on his desk, Carlyle switched on his PC and surfed the net aimlessly for ten minutes before heading back downstairs.

The evidence locker was a secure storeroom that took up approximately 600 square feet of the raised ground floor on the William IV Street side of the building. The duty officer, a WPC whose name Carlyle didn’t know, buzzed him through the security gates and watched blankly as he signed the visitor’s log.

‘I just want to look at something from the Cameron case,’ he said, trying to look as bored as she did.

This, as it happened, was almost true. Wally Cameron was an accountant who had been found dead in his Dean Street office four months earlier. The autopsy suggested a heart attack but Wally’s wife was convinced he had been murdered by an unhappy client. She had been running a low-intensity media campaign to have the case reopened; Carlyle had happily ignored it until Sonia Cameron had managed to buttonhole one of the Met’s more gullible Assistant Commissioners at a public meeting and got him to agree to review the case.

‘The bastards at Paddington Green,’ Carlyle added, ‘have asked me to rewrite my bloody report.’ He raised his eyes to the ceiling in mock exasperation.

The WPC couldn’t have managed to look more bored if she was dead herself.

‘I know where the file is. Only need ten minutes, max.’

‘What’s in there?’ The woman nodded at the boxfile under his arm.

‘Just my papers,’ Carlyle replied, ‘the original report. I want to cross-reference a couple of things.’

The woman gestured at the rows of shelving that stretched out behind her. ‘Be my guest.’