Acts of Violence (Inspector Carlyle) Page 11

  Trying to hide his embarrassment, Carlyle began trying to tidy the papers on the desk. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘I’m Laurie.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, Laurie.’

  ‘Did you know my dad?’

  ‘Yes, I did. We worked together when he was in the police. I liked him a lot. He was very good at his job.’

  Laurie nodded. ‘Are you going to be here long?’

  ‘Not very long.’

  ‘Do you want to hear a joke?’

  ‘Sure, why not?’

  ‘OK, and maybe you want this for your pile.’ From behind her back she produced a sheet of A4 paper that was covered in crayon of different colours and placed it carefully on the table.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’ She looked at him earnestly. ‘So, what do you call a crazy chicken?’

  ‘A crazy chicken . . .’ Carlyle rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘A cuckoo cluck, ha. Geddit?’

  ‘That’s a good one,’ Carlyle chuckled.

  The girl folded her arms. ‘Your turn.’

  ‘OK.’ Carlyle thought about it for a moment. He only ever had the one joke but it was a good one. ‘What do you call an exploding monkey?’

  ‘A what?’ The girl frowned.

  ‘An exploding monkey.’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘A ba-boom.’

  He watched her face fall.

  ‘That’s terrible.’ Pushing herself away from the table, Laurie skipped out of the room and disappeared down the hallway.

  ‘I quite like it,’ Carlyle mumbled to himself. Returning to the mess on the desk, he picked up the sheet of paper the child had left behind. It was immediately clear that Laurie had spent quite a bit of time colouring in one of her dad’s invoices. The mess reminded him of the art on the wall of the Garden Hotel. He should show it to Deborah Burke; maybe she could hang it in the lobby. Underneath a smear of orange crayon he noticed the date; the invoice had been raised barely a week ago.

  Then he saw the name. Tallow Business Services.

  ‘Bingo.’

  Folding the sheet of paper into quarters, he stuffed it into his pocket. Getting to his feet, he headed quickly for the door, leaving the mess of papers for someone else to deal with.

  Fifty yards down the road, the phone started vibrating in his pocket.

  ‘Carlyle.’

  ‘Boss, where are you?’

  ‘Tsk.’ The inspector was in no mood to be quizzed by his sergeant.

  ‘I think you’d better get back here sharpish,’ Umar continued. ‘Simpson’s on the warpath.’

  ‘What’s the problem this time?’ Carlyle asked, adopting the blasé tone of a man long past caring.

  ‘It’s your Germans.’

  My Germans? When did they become my bloody Germans? ‘What about them?’ he snapped. ‘We had a meeting scheduled for this morning. They didn’t turn up.’

  ‘That might be because they were beaten to a pulp in Soho last night.’

  ‘Fuck,’ Carlyle sighed, lengthening his stride. ‘OK, I’m on my way.’

  FIFTEEN

  Standing on the top floor of one of London’s most expensive private hospitals, Carlyle looked over the nearby rooftops. It had turned into the kind of typically grey London morning that suited the inspector’s sombre mood perfectly. Having spent the morning running around like a blue-arsed fly, he wanted nothing so much as a sandwich and a decent coffee. More than that, however, he just wanted to be left alone. There was nothing that irked him more than feeling the Commander’s controlling hand on his shoulder. Carlyle simply did not respond well to being managed.

  Following the call from his sergeant, he had rushed over to A&E at St Thomas’s, only to be cheerily informed by a senior staff nurse that his quarry had flashed his Platinum health insurance card on arrival and had been promptly transferred to the Len Cohen Medical Centre. There was nothing your average NHS operative liked better than being able to pass a patient off to the private sector with a minimum of fuss.

  ‘He wasn’t even British,’ the woman observed, shaking her head at the temerity of these bloody foreigners, coming over here and getting sick just so they could take advantage of our wonderful health service.

  With a growl of frustration, the inspector had turned around and retraced his steps as far as Portland Street, in the heart of Fitzrovia. Twenty-five minutes later, he was standing in the hotel-style reception of the LCMC, being told that Mr Gregori was undergoing ‘tests’ and could not be seen for another half an hour at least.

  ‘Fuck’s sake.’

  The nurse, who looked barely half his age, shot Carlyle a disapproving look.

  ‘Sorry,’ he stammered. ‘What about the other one?’

  ‘The other one?’ the girl asked. He noticed the name on her badge: Siddle.

  ‘Yes.’ Carlyle tried to recall the name of the second German, but his mind was resolutely blank. ‘There was another one.’

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ Nurse Siddle said, ‘but let me see what I can find out for you.’ And she scurried off before he could ask any more questions.

  Nurse Siddle did not reappear. However, after nipping out to a nearby sandwich shop to rebalance his blood-sugar levels, Carlyle felt somewhat calmer. Eventually, after flicking through various back issues of Motorboat Monthly, he was collected by another nurse who escorted him up to the HS Thompson Suites on the eighth floor. As they exited the elevator, turning right, Carlyle immediately knew the room he wanted; it was the one with the guard outside.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said to the nurse. ‘I know where I’m going.’

  ‘Very well.’ Turning on her heel, she headed off down the corridor in pursuit of her next chore. From somewhere nearby came the sound of a daytime TV programme. There was a smell that he couldn’t quite place; it made his stomach feel a bit queasy after its recent lunch. Nodding at the constable sitting by the door, he flashed his ID and stepped inside.

  Sitting up in bed, a brief look of panic spread across Sebastian Gregori’s face until he belatedly recognized his new visitor. Ignoring the two chairs, Carlyle took up a position at the end of the bed. ‘How are you feeling?’

  Gregori smiled weakly. The private investigator looked like he’d taken a bit of a beating, but he was hardly on life support. He had the beginnings of a shiner around his left eye, beneath which there was a plaster on his cheekbone. Otherwise, apart from a gash on his chin, he looked in reasonable condition.

  Hardly enough cause for me to rush halfway across London and then back again, Carlyle thought sourly. ‘What happened?’

  ‘We were heading back to our hotel from dinner at the Countdown Club just after midnight,’ Gregori explained. ‘We were walking down a kind of alleyway and some guys jumped us from behind.’ He looked aggrieved. ‘I thought London was supposed to be a safe city?’

  It is. ‘You can be in the wrong place at the wrong time, anywhere,’ the inspector mused.

  ‘I suppose so.’ Gregori sounded less than convinced. ‘Anyway, I was punched in the face and went down. They were kicking me on the ground and then it all went black. The next thing I knew, I was waking up in the ambulance.’

  ‘And what about Mr Kortmann?’ Carlyle felt pleased with himself for finally remembering the name.

  Without any warning, Carole Simpson appeared at his shoulder, making him jump. ‘Werner Kortmann,’ she said grimly, ‘appears to have been kidnapped.’

  ‘Kidnapped?’

  Taking a sheaf of papers from her briefcase, Simpson thrust a single sheet into his hand. ‘This is a copy of a picture that was sent to the hotel earlier this morning.’

  Scowling, Carlyle scanned the image: Kortmann sitting cross-legged on the ground in front of a brick wall. It looked like he was inside a garage. His clothes were dishevelled, but he appeared to have taken less of a beating than Gregori. In his hands, he held a copy of The Times. The date wasn’t discernible, but Carlyle assumed i
t was today’s edition. There was a picture of a member of the Royal Family on the front page; then again, there was a picture of some royal or another on the front page most days.

  ‘History is repeating itself,’ Gregori groaned. ‘It’s the same as Uli Eichinger.’

  The poor sods in these types of pictures all looked the same to Carlyle. ‘That was a very long time ago,’ he pointed out.

  ‘We have to assume there’s a connection of some sort,’ Simpson put in, ‘for the moment at least.’

  ‘It was certainly not a random mugging.’ Carlyle handed the picture back to Simpson. ‘What are they asking for?’

  ‘So far,’ she said, ‘they haven’t made any demands.’

  Was that a good thing? Carlyle tried to retrieve what little he knew about kidnappings from the recesses of his brain. There was, however, next to nothing to recover. Other than a young boy who had been snatched by his father – a nasty domestic from years earlier – he had no real experience of dealing with this kind of thing. ‘Who’ve you got on the case?’

  Simpson looked at him as if he was an idiot.

  ‘Hold on a sec.’ Stepping away from the bed, Carlyle lowered his voice to the point where it would be impossible for Gregori to hear.

  ‘Your mess,’ Simpson hissed. ‘You have to clean it up.’

  ‘My mess?’ Carlyle stifled a wail. ‘But this has nothing to do with me.’ He gestured half-heartedly towards the bed. ‘It’s hardly my fault what happened.’

  ‘The kidnappers think differently,’ the Commander said tartly, stuffing the picture back into her case.

  Carlyle frowned. ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘The picture. They sent it to you.’

  Back on the front step of 46 Doughty Street, Carlyle peered through the ground-floor window, searching in vain for any signs of life. He counted to ten as he gave another blast on the front-door bell, waiting patiently as it reverberated through the old Georgian house. Still nothing; no one was coming out to play. Looking over the wrought-iron railings, he stared into the well that ran along the front of the house, a six-foot wide, ten-foot deep trough that separated the building from the pavement. A small set of iron stairs led down from street level to a basement door. At the top of the stairs was a gate set into the railings.

  The gate was open.

  Carlyle looked up and down the tree-lined street. Giving the doorbell one last try, he waited a few more seconds then nipped down the stairs.

  Like the house proper, the basement appeared to have been spruced up recently. Turned into a granny flat perhaps, or rented out to give the Huttons a little extra income. Either way, a quick squint through the window suggested that the place was also empty. Carlyle rapped on the window with his knuckles.

  ‘Hello? Anyone home? Police.’

  Not getting any response, he turned his attention to the door.

  The top half consisted of six small panes of glass; wood on the bottom. It looked flimsy. The inspector considered giving it a good kick, then thought better of it. It wouldn’t look too clever if he left an identifiable footprint. Instead, he pulled out a pair of latex gloves from his jacket pocket and slipped them on. On the pavement, above his head, a young woman walked past, squealing on her mobile phone.

  ‘Whatever. That little cow’s gonna get a good slap when I see her, skanky bitch.’

  Ah, the solidarity of the Sisterhood. Listening to the young woman disappearing down the street, Carlyle smacked the pane nearest the handle with his elbow.

  ‘Fuck. That hurt.’

  It took three more determined blows before the glass gave way. Pulling out the largest pieces of glass, he made a hole large enough to get his hand inside and unlock the door. Careful not to stand on the broken glass, he then slipped inside.

  The flat had a heavy, musty smell. Carlyle quickly checked out the three rooms – a bedroom, kitchen/living room and a tiny bathroom with the smallest shower he had ever seen. Everywhere was clean and tidy, but there was no evidence that anyone was currently residing there. On a counter in the kitchen was a set of tourist leaflets and a ring binder on which someone had written USEFUL INFORMATION + THINGS TO DO IN LONDON in black marker pen.

  Holiday let, the ace investigator concluded. In the distance, he heard a siren and froze, letting out a deep breath as he realized it was moving away from him.

  ‘Let’s get on with it, shall we?’ At the back of the flat were stairs leading to the house. At the top was a door. He tried the handle.

  Locked.

  ‘Shit.’ Carlyle stared at the door for several moments, on the off-chance that it might open of its own accord. When it didn’t, he scratched his head.

  ‘OK, genius, what are you going to do now?’

  ‘Well, stop talking to myself, for a start.’ Returning to the kitchen, he rummaged around the drawers until he found a substantial-looking knife. Having already faked a break-in (or rather, committed a break-in) now was no time for subtlety. Knife in hand, he climbed the stairs and set about jimmying the lock.

  Two minutes later, he was standing in the room where he had previously spun the line to Barbara Hutton about a burglar being on the prowl. He glanced up at the painting on the wall and gave Ulrike Meinhof a quick nod of recognition. She didn’t respond.

  Belatedly, an alarm went off somewhere in the house. Carlyle glanced at his watch. A couple of minutes and then he was out of here. Even his recklessness had limits.

  Clearly he didn’t have time to search the whole house, so where should he start? He contemplated the idea of grabbing a DNA sample – from a hairbrush perhaps – that could be compared with the sister. But how could he explain acquiring it? Moving into the hallway, he began climbing the stairs. Reaching the second floor, he found a small study, situated at the back of the house, with a window overlooking a walled garden. Almost half of the floorspace was taken up by a large oak desk on which sat an Apple Mac, largely hidden behind piles of papers. On the wall to his left was a large framed movie poster, showing a couple embracing under the legend Angst essen Seele auf. Below the poster was a small bookcase on which sat a framed black and white photograph. In the picture, a man and a woman seemed to be aping the pose of the couple in the poster. Carlyle lifted the picture in front of his face. The pair were standing outside in the sunshine. From the selection of people and banners in the background, it looked like they were taking part in a demonstration of some sort. Carlyle guessed it had probably taken place some time in the 1970s, or maybe the eighties. The man was a youthful Derek Hutton, hidden behind a thick, bushy beard. The woman he didn’t recognize; it clearly wasn’t Barbara Hutton, however. An old girlfriend? Wouldn’t that be a strange thing to keep on display in the family home?

  He was still staring at the picture when the doorbell rang.

  Stay calm.

  Putting the photograph back in its place, Carlyle slowly counted to ten. Nothing. Relaxing, he went back to his task. The bookcase was filled with legal texts. On the bottom shelf was a battered red box-file. Opening it, Carlyle stared at a jumble of yellowing newspaper cuttings, some in English, some in German. At first glance, they all seemed concerned with Baader Meinhof and various terrorist attacks in Germany in the seventies. He glanced at his watch. His time was up. But what had he learned from his little criminal adventure?

  Then he saw it.

  It was an undated clipping from a German newspaper. Only four paragraphs and the headline had been cut off. Beside the text was a grainy photograph of a pretty girl and, beneath, the name: Sylvia Tosches. Interesting. It wasn’t exactly proof of anything, but it was something. He squinted at the image. It could have been Barbara Hutton. It could have been a million other women.

  From outside came another blast on the doorbell.

  Time to go.

  Placing the clipping back in its place, he returned the file to the shelf and headed for the stairs. As he descended, a third blast led him to conclude that there was no merit in trying to exit through the basement.
Instead, reaching the ground floor, he pulled open the front door to find a young PC standing on the doorstep. At the kerb, his partner sat in their police vehicle, watching developments with interest.

  ‘Excuse me, sir. Is this your house? Your alarm’s been going off.’

  Carlyle turned to look at the blue light flashing insistently from the box above the front door before reaching for his warrant card.

  The constable looked at it suspiciously and glanced at his partner.

  ‘I was just passing and saw there had been a break-in.’ Putting his ID back into his pocket, Carlyle pointed to the mess in the basement. ‘So I went to have a look.’ He knew it sounded lame, but as long as he stood his ground he would be able to get away with it.

  ‘Without calling it in?’

  ‘No, sorry. It was kind of an impulse thing.’

  ‘Didn’t you hear the bell when I rang it the first time?’

  ‘No.’

  The PC clocked the latex gloves Carlyle was still wearing. It was clear that he was becoming more suspicious by the minute.

  It was time to go on the offensive. ‘What is your name, Constable?’

  ‘Wilson,’ the uniform said stiffly.

  Carlyle eyeballed the officer in the car, who was now busy talking on his radio. ‘And your partner?’

  ‘Garner.’

  ‘From the Holborn station?’

  A nod.

  ‘OK,’ Carlyle sighed. ‘There is a bit of damage downstairs but nothing serious. Difficult to say what, if anything, was taken. The owners are out, obviously. You probably just need to leave them a crime number and we can be on our way.’

  ‘What about Forensics?’

  Carlyle shot the youngster a look of disbelief. ‘Are you kidding? Have you guys got nothing better to do?’

  ‘Standard procedure.’

  ‘Not if you’re broke, it’s not. And the Met is most definitely broke.’

  ‘But—’

  His irritation rising, Carlyle pushed open the door and invited Constable Wilson inside. ‘Want to take a look around?’

  Sitting on the stairs, Carlyle checked the messages on his BlackBerry while Wilson poked about upstairs. After five minutes or so, the constable reappeared on the first-floor landing, filling out a pre-printed sorry you’ve been robbed form.