Then We Die Page 27

  ‘Where’s Goya?’ Lieberman demanded.

  Carlyle gestured at the door in the corner. ‘In the basement.’

  ‘Well, what are we waiting for?’ Swain demanded, pointing the way with her semi-automatic. ‘Let’s get down there.’ Rising from his chair, Carlyle hauled Dom after him. ‘Hurry up,’ Swain shouted. ‘Open it!’

  The small wooden door, only about five feet by two feet, looked like it should give access to a cupboard or pantry. Grabbing the handle, Carlyle tried pulling and then pushing. ‘It’s locked.’

  ‘No problem,’ Swain grinned. ‘Step aside.’

  Carlyle barely had time to jump out of the way before she blasted the lock three times. The door disintegrated and they were left looking at a steep set of narrow wooden stairs, leading down into darkness.

  ‘On you go,’ the military attaché said. ‘Both of you.’

  Carefully taking one step at a time, Carlyle led the way, followed by Dom. When he reached the bottom, he groped for a light switch. Flicking it on, the space was illuminated by a single bare bulb hanging from the middle of the ceiling itself. A couple of large flies buzzed around it before settling for the view from the ceiling. The large, windowless room smelled of damp and decay. The walls were whitewashed brick, and the floor of rough, untreated concrete was covered in plastic sheeting. In the centre, a man sat tied to a chair. Slumped forward, he did not respond in any way to Carlyle’s presence. Naked to the waist and barefoot, the smell coming from his jeans suggested he had been left alone there for a long time. The blood on his head and chest were evidence of multiple beatings, presumably at the hands of the Somalis.

  Breathing through his mouth, Carlyle stepped over to the chair and placed a hand on the man’s neck until he found a pulse. What had Lieberman called him? Goya? Carlyle gingerly pulled back the man’s head by the matted hair. Even through the blood, it was easy to recognize the face. He glanced at Dom. ‘That’s the guy who shot Joe.’

  ‘Result,’ Dom grunted without enthusiasm.

  ‘Is he alive?’ Swain pushed Dom further into the room and stepped away from the stairs, allowing Lieberman to follow her down.

  ‘Yes,’ Carlyle nodded, ‘but he’s in a bad way.’

  ‘Let’s get him upstairs,’ Swain commanded. ‘Quickly.’

  Carlyle grabbed the front legs of the chair and signalled for Dom to get hold of the back.

  ‘When you reach the top,’ Lieberman barked, ‘untie him and put him on the kitchen table.’ Turning, he disappeared back up the stairs.

  ‘Then the pair of you get yourselves back down here,’ Swain added, ‘and we’ll have some fun.’

  Carlyle let Dom take the lead and they shuffled awkwardly towards the stairs. With his front foot on the bottom step, Carlyle thought he heard a noise upstairs. Pushing forward, he knocked Dom off-balance.

  ‘Hey!’ Dom half-tripped on the stairs but didn’t lose his grip on the chair.

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Get on with it!’ Swain pushed the muzzle of the Browning’s silencer into the nape of Carlyle’s neck.

  ‘I’m trying,’ the inspector protested, ‘but he’s heavy.’ With another large grunt, he began the climb.

  At the top of the stairs, Carlyle quickly dropped the chair and skipped away from the door, leaving Goya blocking Swain’s view into the kitchen. Stepping round the table, he saw Sid Lieberman lying face down between the two dead Somalis, his hands tied tightly behind his back with plastic cuffs. The size-ten boot of Gideon Spanner was placed firmly in the small of the military attaché’s back. Spanner had a SIG Sauer P226 pointed at Lieberman’s head and a bored expression on his face.

  Pulling a couple of cans of Stella Artois out of the fridge, Dom handed one to Carlyle and swiftly downed most of the other. ‘What about the bitch in the basement?’ he asked.

  ‘She’ll be up in a moment,’ said Carlyle, cracking open his can. ‘No need to go and get her.’

  Dom looked over at Spanner, who gave the impression of being less than impressed with their drinking on the job but said nothing. Instead, he signalled to another of Dom’s boys loitering in the hallway. Immediately, the man took up position to one side of the stairwell, P226 at the ready.

  Dom finished his beer and dived into the fridge for another. ‘She’s got thirty seconds or we just go down and shoot her.’

  ‘I want all of them alive,’ said Carlyle firmly.

  ‘No, you bloody don’t.’ Dom defiantly killed the second beer. ‘You let them walk out of here, they get sent on a plane straight home and that’s the end of that. No justice for Joe Szyszkowski’s family.’

  Or David Ronan’s for that matter. Frowning, Carlyle finished his beer.

  ‘Anyway, we’re not standing around all night, arguing the toss about it.’ Dom chucked his empty cans into a plastic bag lying by the sink and gestured for Carlyle to do the same. ‘We need to clean up and get going.’ Picking up a dishcloth from the draining board, Dom wiped down the handle of the fridge. ‘I’ve kept to my end of the deal, now we need to vamoose.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘So why don’t we just whack them?’

  ‘Like you did with Sam Hooper?’

  Dom gave him a dirty look. ‘Careful, Johnny boy.’

  ‘Sid? What’s going on?’ Sylvia Swain’s head popped out through the doorway at the top of the stairs, to be greeted with an unceremonious smack in the face with the P226. There was a half-shriek, followed by the sound of her tumbling back down the stairs.

  ‘Told you she’d be right up,’ Carlyle grinned.

  Dom gestured at his man to go and get her. ‘Can’t we at least just shoot the fucking psycho bitch?’ he pleaded.

  It took a couple of minutes to finally retrieve Swain from the basement and place her next to Lieberman and Goya. Lost in thought, Silver gazed at the three of them, sullen and brooding, trussed up on the kitchen floor. After a few moments Gideon cleared his throat, breaking the silence. He looked at his boss, who gestured to the back door. Nodding, Gideon and his colleague slipped out into the night. ‘At last,’ Dom sighed as he watched them go. ‘Now we can go and really get pissed. Or at least I can.’ He looked at his watch. ‘The call to the police will be made in five minutes. Let’s see what they make of this mess.’ Stepping round the bodies, he stood at the kitchen table, on which had been piled the Somalis’ Uzis and the Israelis’ Browning semi-automatics. Using the kitchen cloth, he carefully picked up one of the Uzis and tossed it down the stairs into the basement. Then he did the same with the second Uzi and one of the Brownings. The final gun he took in his hand and stepped over behind the three Israelis, shooting each one in the back of the head.

  ‘Dom!’

  Carlyle slumped against the kitchen wall as a wave of nausea washed over him. ‘For fuck’s sake,’ he whimpered.

  ‘Don’t be such a fucking pussy,’ Dom scowled. ‘How can we leave any witnesses?’

  ‘But – we’ve . . . you’ve . . .’ Tears welled in the inspector’s eyes. He felt as if he was ten years old again, on the receiving end of a monster shoeing from some fat bully in the school playground.

  Ignoring his sobs, Dom calmly wiped down the grip of the gun and tossed it into the basement with the others. ‘That was for Joe.’

  SIXTY-FIVE

  They repaired to the Old Swan pub. Only a couple of blocks from the horrors of Peel Street, life was proceeding pretty much as normal. Stepping into the saloon bar, Carlyle let Dom order him a double of Jameson’s while he himself went to the gents to clean himself up. Before returning to the bar, the inspector took his private mobile out of his pocket and removed the SIM card. Dropping it down the toilet, he flushed and watched it disappear into London’s crumbling sewerage system. Then he smashed the handset against the porcelain and dropped it in the waste-bin by the door.

  Dom was sitting at a table when he returned. On a TV fixed to the wall, Chelsea was playing some foreign team that Carlyle didn’t immediately recognize. Squinting at the scree
n, he could see that the chavs were winning 1-0. ‘Wankers,’ he hissed.

  ‘Too right,’ said Dom, who was a West Ham man.

  ‘I’m changing my phone number,’ Carlyle said as he took a seat. ‘The old one isn’t working any longer.’

  ‘Okay.’ Dom took a mouthful of his Theakston’s Paradise Ale and nodded. He was already three-quarters of the way through his pint, with a second one waiting on the table.

  Carlyle swallowed about half of his whiskey. ‘I’ll let you have the new number in the next couple of days.’

  ‘Fine.’

  For a few minutes, they watched the game in silence. It was extremely one-sided, and it was no surprise when Chelsea quickly scored a second goal. Carlyle shook his head in disgust.

  In the distance, they heard a succession of sirens.

  ‘Gideon obviously made the call,’ Carlyle smiled.

  ‘Gideon is very reliable,’ Dom replied, now well into his second pint. ‘How long are you going to give it before you put in an appearance?’

  ‘I’ll wait for them to call me.’ Carlyle drained his glass. Taking his work mobile out of his jacket pocket, he placed it on the table. ‘Meantime,’ he said, getting to his feet, ‘it’s my round.’

  SIXTY-SIX

  It started to rain as the inspector stood on the pavement waiting for Anita Szyszkowski to buy her post school-run latte from Caffè Nero. Despite the poor weather, the widow decided that she wanted to drink her coffee while sitting under the awning outside. After giving her time to settle, he braced himself and waited for a break in the traffic, so that he could cross the road.

  By the time he approached her table, Anita had been joined by a miserable-looking blonde, sucking an orange and mango smoothie through a straw while chatting away through the other side of her mouth.

  ‘So I told him that I wasn’t prepared to do that sort of thing,’ she trilled indignantly.

  With her back to Carlyle, Anita nodded while sipping on her coffee.

  ‘It just can’t be hygienic,’ the woman continued, ‘can it?’

  Carlyle tried to tune out of the discussion and yet catch a pause in their conversation at the same time.

  ‘I mean . . .’ The woman caught Carlyle’s eye and stopped in mid-flow. Following her gaze, Anita turned in her chair. A look of surprise and anger swept across her face.

  ‘Hello, Anita.’ Carlyle moved around to where she could see him more easily.

  ‘What do you want?’ She looked pale and drawn, but her eyes sparkled with hatred.

  When she didn’t offer him a seat, Carlyle rocked back on his heels. He had rehearsed what he wanted to say, but the words suddenly stuck in his throat. ‘I’m sorry that I didn’t get the chance to speak to you earlier, but—’

  ‘You have nothing to say to me,’ Anita said bitterly. The blonde, unsure what was going on, pulled a phone from her pocket and began playing with it nervously.

  ‘I just wanted to let you know,’ Carlyle continued, keeping his voice deliberately calm, ‘that we got the man who did it.’ The rain was coming down more heavily now. He could feel the dampness seeping through his jacket but made no effort to find cover. ‘He’s dead.’

  ‘Is that supposed to make me feel better?’ Anita demanded.

  ‘I just wanted to let you know,’ Carlyle told her.

  Anita gripped her cup tightly, spilling coffee over the table. ‘Why should I care?’

  ‘Because it’s important,’ he said gently. ‘The kids can know that the man who killed their dad didn’t get away with it.’

  ‘Important? The only thing that’s important,’ she said, tears welling in her eyes, ‘is that their dad is gone.’

  ‘I know,’ said Carlyle, head bowed.

  ‘And the only thing that would make me feel better was if it had been you rather than him.’

  ‘I just wanted to let you know,’ he repeated.

  ‘Fuck off, John,’ she sobbed. ‘Just fuck off. Leave me alone – and leave the kids alone, too.’

  The blonde bashed at several keys on her handset and lifted it to her ear. ‘If you don’t bugger off,’ she squawked, ‘I’ll call the police.’

  ‘Okay. I’m going.’ Carlyle held up both his hands and watched a solitary tear roll down Anita Szyszkowski’s cheek and fall into her lap. Turning away from the weeping woman, he walked off down the road, relieved that – for him at least – it was finally over.

  SIXTY-SEVEN

  Was Ana Borochovsky giving him the eye? Or was he just imagining it? Either way, after his run-in with Sylvia Swain, Carlyle had vowed that he would never gawp at another woman again. Carlyle quickly broke off eye-contact with Julius Jubelitski’s granddaughter and lifted his gaze to the heavens. He shuffled from foot to foot and stifled a yawn. Turning to Roche, he whispered, ‘Why can’t they just bloody get on with it?’

  ‘Be patient,’ she replied, giving him a gentle smack on the arm. ‘It won’t take long.’

  Carlyle looked at his watch and sighed. ‘It has already been almost forty-five minutes.’

  ‘Don’t be so grumpy.’ She pointed to a large black limousine that had just pulled up outside the northern gate of Lincoln’s Inn Field. They watched as the back door opened and a small silverhaired man climbed out. Accompanied by a young female aide, he walked briskly over to the small group of friends and family standing close to the spot in the park where the skeleton of Julius Jubelitski had been dug up a few months earlier. After shaking hands with the Council Services manager, he stepped over to the piece of ground where what looked like a large navy towel was lying on the ground. Lifting a hand for quiet, he pulled a piece of card from his pocket.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he began, after quickly checking with his notes, ‘this is my first official engagement as Israel’s new Ambassador to London. And it gives me great pleasure to be unveiling this memorial to Julius Jubelitski, who was a great Jewish freedom-fighter.’ He nodded to the aide, who knelt down and whisked away the towel to reveal a small round plaque fixed on a granite plinth. The legend, in white text on a blue background, read: In memory of Julius Jubelitski, victim of fascists in this park during WWII. RIP.

  There was a small ripple of applause, and a couple of photographers stepped forward to take pictures.

  After a few minutes, the Ambassador’s aide started to escort him back towards his car.

  ‘Sir!’

  The Ambassador stopped at the open door.

  Ignoring the aide’s scowl, Carlyle approached, hand extended. ‘Inspector John Carlyle, Metropolitan Police.’

  ‘Ah, yes.’ The Ambassador reluctantly gave the hand a weak shake. ‘I believe that I’ve heard of you,’ he said, lowering himself to slide into the limousine.

  ‘I had some dealings with your predecessor,’ Carlyle smiled, holding firmly on to the car door.

  ‘Yes, you did,’ the Ambassador agreed wearily.

  ‘I was just wondering, what happened to her?’

  ‘After a life devoted to public service, Ms Waxman resigned in order to take up a very lucrative job with a technology company in Tel Aviv. It will make her very rich.’

  ‘Lucky her,’ Carlyle said.

  ‘Luck has nothing to do with it, Inspector. I have known Hilary for many years. She is a very talented and hard working woman.’

  ‘That’s one way of looking at it.’

  ‘That is the way most people look at it.’ The Ambassador looked up at Carlyle and added: ‘I will let her know that you were asking after her.’

  ‘You keep in regular touch?’

  ‘Of course. You will not be surprised to hear that Hilary is keeping a close eye on the police investigation into the horrendous murders of our citizens in Peel Street. Like me, she is disappointed and frustrated by the complete and utter lack of progress you are making in finding the killers.’

  ‘Not my case,’ Carlyle shrugged, releasing his hold on the door and stepping away from the car. Keeping his thoughts to himself, the Ambassador pulled the door
closed and signalled to his driver that he was ready to go.

  Stepping into Il Buffone, Roche was disappointed to see that her AC Milan poster was no longer displayed on the wall.

  ‘What happened, Marcello?’ she asked, pointing to the empty space.

  ‘Kids,’ Marcello sighed. ‘They graffiti all over it. Write disgusting things. Nasty pictures. In the end, I had to take it down.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Roche told him. ‘I’ll get another one.’

  ‘Maybe we should go for a different team this time,’ Carlyle said.

  Each of them brooded on that for a few moments, but no one could come up with a decent suggestion. Leaving the matter in abeyance, Marcello headed behind the counter to fetch their drinks.

  Carlyle joined Roche at the small table by the window.

  ‘They’ve asked me to go back to Leyton,’ she announced.

  ‘Asked you or told you?’ Carlyle enquired, sitting down.

  ‘I dunno.’

  ‘I thought that the Commander had sorted it out that you would stay at Charing Cross.’

  ‘She did,’ Roche agreed, ‘but Leyton’s got some kind of staffing problem and they’re pressing to have me back.’

  Carlyle looked at her carefully. ‘What do you want to do?’

  Staring out of the window, she shrugged.

  He thought about it for a minute. ‘I want you to stay.’

  She looked at him and smiled. ‘Okay.’

  ‘It’s not always as . . . dramatic as this, but it’s never dull.’ He paused, letting Marcello place their drinks on the table. ‘And I think we get on okay.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I think we do.’

  ‘Good,’ he smiled, ‘that’s settled, then. I’ll have another word with Simpson.’