Then We Die (26 page)

‘All right,’ said Ronan doubtfully, as if not sure he should be taking orders from Carlyle. ‘I guess we’re thinking she’s not a journalist, after all.’

‘Doesn’t look like it,’ Carlyle agreed. ‘Most of the journalists I know do their violence with a pen.’

‘Well, they do say that the pen is mightier than the sword,’ Ronan quipped.

‘Not in this case,’ Carlyle said grimly, as he pulled open the doors of the wardrobe. ‘Okay, let’s get on with it. I’ll let you know what I find.’

‘If she’s not a journalist,’ Ronan wondered, ‘what is she then?’

‘God knows,’ Carlyle sighed. ‘Just another nutter who has arrived in our great city to cause us grief.’ He gestured towards the corridor. ‘On the way out, could you quickly check if the cleaning lady outside has anything useful to say, although I doubt it very much, then she can get back to work.’

‘Okay.’ Ronan grinned as he headed for the door. ‘You know what this means, don’t you?’

‘What?’

‘It looks like good old Sylvia wasn’t trying to get into your pants, after all.’

‘Yeah,’ Carlyle laughed. ‘Probably she just wanted to bash me over the head.’

The inspector pulled a vinyl LP copy of
Strange Days
by The Doors out of a tattered cardboard box and peered around the cramped bedsit for a record-player.

‘Do you have something to play this on?’ he asked his father, who sat on the unmade bed, staring morosely out of the window at the cars speeding along the Westway.

‘Er, no. I left the record-player at home. I’ll fetch it later.’

Carlyle scratched his head in exasperation and dropped the record back in the box. ‘So what did you bring the records for?’

His father just shrugged.

The room had only enough space for a single bed, a small wardrobe and a one-ring gas stove. On a chair in the corner sat a tiny TV. The wallpaper was peeling off the walls and the carpet didn’t look like it had been cleaned in the last twenty years. All this for £165 a week. It was the most depressing place Carlyle had ever seen in his life.

‘Come on,’ he sighed, ‘let’s go and get a drink.’

They sat in the otherwise empty Queen and Artichoke pub, each nursing a pint of cold Grolsch lager. Carlyle wasn’t in the mood for a drink, but drinking was easier than talking, so his glass was quickly empty. Getting to his feet, he gestured towards the bar. ‘Fancy another one?’

His father nodded assent although his glass was still more than half-full. Crossing the room, Carlyle wondered why he had come at all and, more to the point, how quickly he could reasonably leave. As the barman poured their pints, he checked both of his phones in the hope that someone had called him. They hadn’t. With a sigh, he paid for the drinks and returned to his father’s table.

‘So,’ Carlyle said, after taking a sip, ‘what are you going to do now?’

‘I don’t know, really,’ said his father, keeping his eyes fixed on his drink. ‘I suppose I never imagined that your mother would throw me out. The whole thing happened so long ago.’

You should have kept your mouth shut
, Carlyle thought,
you bloody idiot
. ‘Maybe she just needs a bit of time to calm down. Then you can put all this behind you.’

Alexander Carlyle laughed grimly. ‘I don’t think so. Not with your mother. Once she’s got the bit between her teeth, that’s it.’ He looked up at his son and smiled sadly. ‘Where do you think you got your own bloody-minded streak from?’

‘Me?’ Carlyle laughed in mock amazement. ‘Bloody-minded?’

‘Aye, you are, lad. And you know it fine well. Just like your mother.’ Alexander took another swallow of his pint. ‘I’ve seen that look in her eye before, many, many times. It means I won’t be going back.’

Not wishing to think about the implications of that bald statement, Carlyle changed tack. ‘What about the woman?’

His father looked at him sharply. ‘The woman I had the affair with?’

‘Yes.’

‘Maureen Sullivan. You don’t remember her?’

‘No.’ Carlyle shook his head. ‘Not at all.’

‘Well, it was a long time ago now. She was a perfectly nice woman, but it was just a passing thing. I only saw her for a couple of months, while your mother was up in Scotland. She was never a threat to our marriage, if you know what I mean.’ He paused for a moment, reflecting on what he’d just said, before adding, ‘At least, not as far as I was concerned.’

‘I see,’ Carlyle lied. He took a couple more mouthfuls of lager. What the fuck was the old fella on about?

Alexander finished off his first pint and started on the second. ‘Anyway, she’s dead.’

‘Oh?’ Carlyle mumbled into his glass.

‘About fifteen years ago now. Cancer.’

‘Bummer.’

‘These things happen.’ Alexander shrugged. ‘Your mother and I went to her funeral. It was a horrible day, terrible weather. I remember it quite well, for some reason.’

Carlyle drained the last of his pint.
That
’
s enough
, he told himself.
You shouldn
’
t have another
.

‘My round,’ said his father, grabbing Carlyle’s glass and heading for the bar.

He was staring into space when Roche appeared at his desk, sipping a mug of black coffee. Still recovering from her run-in with Sylvia Swain, she looked tired and a bit spaced.

‘How’s the head?’ the inspector asked.

‘Not too bad.’ Roche carefully placed a hand on the tender spot behind her left ear, where she had been sandbagged. ‘I got given a dozen stitches and as many painkillers as I can swallow. It’ll be fine.’

‘Shouldn’t you take some time off? Go and let Ronan make a fuss of you?’

Roche grunted something into her coffee. ‘Have you tracked that Canadian bitch down yet?’

‘Not yet.’ After four pints of lager with his father, Carlyle didn’t really feel on top of his game. ‘The hotel room was empty of her stuff. And I haven’t heard anything from Dave – David. He’s trying to track her down.’

‘Good luck with that,’ she scowled. ‘Anyway, you’ve got a message from another woman.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yeah. Someone called Louisa says you need to give her a call. You have her number apparently.’

Louisa? It took Carlyle a moment to place the name.

‘Turning into a right babe-magnet,’ Roche grinned, ‘aren’t you, Inspector?’

‘Hardly,’ Carlyle sighed, picking up the phone.

The inspector had chosen Speakers’ Corner in Hyde Park as the location for the meeting. It was a venue that he had used many times before – one of the few Central London locations where you could hide in plain sight, while also not having to worry about being overlooked by dozens of security cameras. Louisa had wanted to come straight to the station, but Carlyle, conscious of his ‘deal’ with Sol Abramyan, wished to keep his options open. He wanted to find out what Fadi Kashkesh was able to deliver before deciding how best to proceed. Assuming the little bugger turned up at all, of course.

At least on that score he was pleasantly surprised. When the inspector arrived, Fadi was already sitting on a bench next to a fast-food kiosk, staring at his trainers. Next to him sat an unshaven man in a Fila tracksuit. Standing over both of them was Louisa Arbillot, munching on a hotdog.

Leaning on a nearby fence, Carlyle studied the strange trio. He needed a piss but was reluctant to nip to the toilets next to the kiosk in case the two men decided to do a runner. He was fairly confident that he could be back in less than a minute, but still didn’t want to risk it. Waiting for Louisa to finish her snack, he walked over to confront Fadi. ‘So,’ he said, placing a shoe on the bench, ‘are you going to introduce me?’

Fadi looked up at his wife.

Louisa scowled at her estranged husband. ‘For God’s sake,’ she said, ‘how many times do I have to tell you? Here, in England, you help the police.’

Carlyle exchanged a glance with the guy in the tracksuit. The pair of them knew that they were thinking the same thing: Fadi was a very lucky man.

‘Inspector . . .’ Fadi began, as if every word was being torn from his throat, ‘this is Adnan.’

About fucking time
, Carlyle thought. He smiled and did a little bow. ‘Good to meet you, Adnan.’

Adnan nodded, but did not say anything.

‘He doesn’t speak any English,’ Louisa interjected, pulling the tab on a can of Coke and drinking down half of it in one go. ‘Only German and Arabic.’

‘Can you translate?’ Carlyle asked her.

‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘I’ve got a little Spanish but no German. But Fadi can.’

The two men on the bench mumbled something to each other.

‘Adnan is the man you are looking for,’ Fadi said quietly. ‘He is the only one of them that the Israelis have not killed.’

Yet
. ‘So why is he still here?’

‘Very good question,’ Louisa interjected, before finishing off her Coke.

More mumbling, rather more animated this time, with some hand-waving and what sounded like cursing to Carlyle.

‘He doesn’t have a passport,’ Fadi said. ‘They took it off him when he arrived. He cannot leave. He is very scared.’

On cue, Adnan nodded and stuck a worried look on his face.

‘He will need to come with me, then,’ said Carlyle. His bladder was demanding that he take a slash right now, and he wanted to get this wrapped up as quickly as possible.

‘What will happen to him?’

‘Well, he won’t get his guns,’ Carlyle said, ‘but he won’t get killed either. So it’s not all bad.’

This time, when Fadi translated, Adnan jumped to his feet. Jabbing Carlyle in the chest with a meaty finger, he began shouting angrily. Amazingly, Louisa had wandered off to buy herself something else to eat from the kiosk.

Carlyle took a step backwards and glanced at Fadi.

‘He says he will be killed if he goes back with you. You will murder him.’

Carlyle held up his hands. ‘I’m not going to kill anyone. I will help him apply for asylum.’ He nodded towards Louisa, who was now returning with a pretzel. ‘You and Louisa will be able to help him too.’

Fadi looked doubtful, even more so at the mention of his wife. But whatever he said had the effect of calming Adnan, who retreated to the bench and sat back down.

‘Thanks for that,’ said Carlyle, still desperate for a pee. Taking his mobile out of his pocket, he said, ‘I just need to make a call, and then we’re good to go.’ Hopping from foot to foot, he watched the last of the pretzel disappear down Louisa’s throat. ‘Keep an eye on these two for a moment,’ he began, striding quickly towards the toilets, ‘while I take a quick leak.’

Shielded from onlookers by a massive oak tree, Richard Assulin slipped on a pair of latex gloves and casually attached the YHM Cobra suppressor to his Glock 19. Clicking off the safety, he turned to Sid Lieberman.

‘Now?’

Lieberman nodded.

‘And the policeman as well?’

Lieberman pulled a face. ‘Up to you. If you can avoid it, fine. But if you have to . . .’

‘Okay.’

Lieberman looked at his watch. ‘You’ve got an hour and a half to get to the airport.’

‘No problem.’

‘See you in Tel Aviv.’ Patting Assulin on the arm, Lieberman ambled away in the direction of the Park Lane underpass.

Running his hand across the top of his shaven head, Assulin counted to five as he watched the military attaché depart the scene. Then, standing up straight, he marched purposefully towards his targets.

* * *

Still feeling hungry, Louisa Arbillot wondered about finishing her fast-food binge with a crêpe and a coffee. She jerked a thumb in the direction of the kiosk. ‘Do you guys want anything?’ Fadi gave her the briefest of glances, shaking his head. Adnan, however, happily overcame both his lack of English and his girth to spring quickly to his feet.

‘Come on,’ Louisa smiled, happy to be able to appeal to at least one man through his stomach. ‘Let’s see what you want.’

She had almost reached the kiosk when she heard a popping noise, followed closely by another. She turned in time to see Adnan hit the ground. Then, looking past him, she saw her husband lying on his back, staring expressionlessly at the sky. There was a bloody hole right in the centre of his forehead.

‘No!’ Louisa felt a warmth spread across her crotch and trickle down her legs as her bladder failed. ‘Fadi!’ As she staggered towards him, Louisa saw a tall skinny man in a Nirvana T-shirt suddenly step between them. As she got closer, he raised the gun but Louisa kept advancing, with tears streaming down her face.

‘
Fils de salope!
’ she hissed, even as she took the third round right between the eyes.

‘Aaahhh!’ Carlyle came to the end of a long, satisfying piss. After a quick shake, he zipped himself up. Not bothering to wash his hands, he headed back outside. As he stepped back onto the path, a constable and a WPC from Westminster’s Cycling Squad rode slowly past on their mountain bikes, chatting away. Not the worst job in the world, Carlyle reckoned. He watched as the woman laughed at something her colleague said, then both of them stopped and were looking at something further down the path, hidden behind the kiosk. Almost instantly, the young woman’s head snapped backwards, and she was thrown from her bike. As the PC reached for his radio, he was hit once, twice in the chest and collapsed on top of his bike.

It took Carlyle less than a second to understand what was going on. Another woman had been walking behind the downed police officers, ice cream in hand: as soon as she saw the blood spreading across the concrete, she started screaming her head off. Racing round to the rear of the kiosk, Carlyle almost tripped over the bodies of Louisa Arbillot and Adnan. Kneeling, he quickly confirmed that they were both dead. Not even needing to check on Fadi, he rushed back to inspect the two coppers.

Someone started retching. Looking up, the inspector saw that a crowd was quickly growing. Waving his badge above his head, he screamed at the gawkers to stay back. As the sirens approached from the direction of Oxford Street, he wondered just how the fuck he was going to explain this latest fiasco.

‘Do you want a drink?’ Alison Roche asked.