Acts of Violence (Inspector Carlyle) Page 9

  ‘Don’t worry about it. Lunch is on me.’

  ‘OK, thanks.’

  ‘Who were the people in the flat?’

  ‘We don’t know.’ Picking up her newspaper, Roche got to her feet. ‘But we think that they might have been Asian.’

  ‘Indian?’

  ‘No.’ Roche edged round the table, towards the door. ‘Chinese. Japanese. Something like that. Thanks for lunch. I’ll give you a shout if I hear anything else.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Carlyle wiped the corner of his mouth with a napkin. ‘But what’ll I tell Naomi Taylor in the meantime?’

  Roche reached for the door. ‘I’m sure you’ll think of something,’ she grinned. ‘After all, if I remember rightly, you’re good with grieving widows.’

  Umar eyed Carlyle expectantly as he approached the sergeant’s desk. ‘Where’s my sandwich?’

  Shit. The inspector stopped in his tracks. ‘Sorry, I forgot.’

  ‘But—’

  Carlyle dismissed the protests with a wave of his hand. ‘What have you found out about our terrorist?’

  ‘Terrorist suspect,’ Umar said grumpily.

  ‘Yeah, yeah. Thank you for that vital clarification, Clive Stafford Smith.’ Carlyle picked a sheaf of papers from Umar’s desk, a selection of pages gleaned from various websites, and began leafing through them. ‘So what have we got?’

  Pushing his chair backwards, Umar lifted his trainers on to the desk. ‘Sylvia Tosches looks like she was a fairly minor figure in Baader Meinhof, aka the Red Army Faction, or RAF. Also known as Hitler’s Children or the 68ers, after the social protests of 1968.’ He looked at his boss and grinned. ‘Were you part of all that?’

  ‘I’m not that old,’ Carlyle said gruffly.

  ‘Anyway, Tosches. Not as well known as Andreas Baader and Ulrike Meinhof or, indeed, people like Gudrun Ensslin or Jan-Carle Raspe – all of whom are dead, by the way – but sufficiently well known to have her face on Wanted posters in police stations all over Europe in the seventies.’

  Carlyle rattled the papers in the air. ‘I can read all this stuff for myself. Anything to suggest that she might be in London?’

  Umar shook his head. ‘She’s not on our system. I haven’t even found anything written about her in the last ten years.’

  ‘And Barbara Hutton?’

  ‘Nothing, so far.’

  ‘OK, why don’t you go and get something to eat? I’ll take a look at what you’ve printed off.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Grabbing his coat, Umar scuttled towards the exit.

  Flopping into his chair, Carlyle settled in for some quiet reading.

  TWELVE

  Not bad. Not bad at all. Pushing back his shoulders, Ren Qi flicked an imaginary piece of dust from the shoulder of his Hermès suit and contemplated himself in the floor-to-ceiling mirror. The man staring back at him – tall, elegant, relaxed – was clearly a member of the international elite; someone who belonged in the pages of GQ or Esquire, whose natural habitat was the streets of Manhattan, or Barcelona . . . or Knightsbridge.

  Ren glanced at his Parsifal Gold Chronograph. He was due in Savile Row in under an hour for a fitting with his tailor, followed by a drink at the Atlantic Bar and dinner with a couple of close business partners at the Delauney. After that, it would be time for some fun.

  A polite cough woke him from his reverie. Turning away from the mirror, Ren blinked at Guo Miao.

  ‘What do you want to do?’ the MSS man asked, pointing at the TV in front of them. On the screen, Wang Lei continued to shuffle in and out of shot, while Ren Jiong played with his computer game.

  Does the boy ever do anything else? his father wondered. All that money spent on his education and all he can do is fornicate, drink and play games. He let out a brittle laugh. Maybe we have turned him into an English ‘gentleman’, after all.

  ‘Sir?’

  Ren Qi looked at Guo carefully. The Major was one of his most trusted retainers in the Ministry but Ren knew that his loyalty was being stretched to the limit. Overseas adventures like this took a lot of explaining away back in Beijing. ‘The flight is ready?’

  ‘Yes. We can leave when you wish.’

  Ren nodded. ‘Good.’ He turned to go.

  ‘But—’

  ‘Yes?’ Ren paused.

  ‘What about the Englishman? Wouldn’t it be better to leave him here?’

  ‘Definitely not,’ Ren snapped. ‘He comes too.’ Clearly not happy, the Major nevertheless declined to argue the point any further. ‘Think of it as a special delivery.’ Ren let his frown melt away. He placed a hand on Guo’s shoulder and gave it a firm squeeze. ‘I am very grateful for all of your assistance in this matter.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good.’ This time he did head for the door. ‘Now, I need to see a man about a suit . . . or two.’

  Two doors down from the Charles Dickens Museum, number 46 Doughty Street looked like it had been spruced up recently. The front door of the four-storey Georgian terraced house had been given a coat or two of bright red paint and the wooden-framed windows had been newly installed. Compared to the crumbling pile next door, the place looked very sprightly indeed.

  Pressing the doorbell, Carlyle gazed down the street, counting three houses with scaffolding outside. Clearly, the tree-lined street was going through one of its periodic bouts of gentrification.

  Having reflected on the state of the local property market, he was just about to reattach his finger to the bell when the door opened and a head appeared. ‘Yes?’

  Ignoring the cross tone in the woman’s voice, Carlyle said politely, ‘Mrs Hutton?’

  ‘I’m her daughter.’ Suspicion personified, the woman kept the door between them. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I was wondering if I could have a word with your mother.’

  ‘About what?’ The woman’s eyes narrowed; she rocked backwards as if getting ready to slam the door in his face.

  ‘It’s all right, Caroline.’ The door opened wider and an older woman appeared. Somewhere in her sixties, she had a neat bob of grey hair and a friendly face. Tall and slim, with high cheekbones and warm eyes, she must have been quite a looker thirty years ago. Hell, she was quite a looker now, Carlyle thought. Whether or not she was the woman in the picture that Gregori, the German private eye, had shown him, however, was another matter entirely. It was impossible to tell. ‘I can handle this.’

  Caroline gave an irritated sigh before disappearing back inside.

  The woman gave Carlyle an apologetic smile. ‘I am Barbara Hutton. Can I help you?’

  The inspector couldn’t help but notice that her accent was pure Home Counties. Flashing his warrant card, he invited himself inside.

  Hutton led him to a large reception room on the ground floor at the back of the house. She gestured for him to take a seat on a sofa that had been covered with a pale yellow throw.

  ‘I hope I’m not in any kind of trouble,’ she said lightly, remaining on her feet, even when he sat down.

  So do I. Having decided to pre-empt Sebastian Gregori and Werner Kortmann by coming to see Barbara Hutton for himself, the inspector had given careful consideration as to how he would explain his presence on her doorstep. At the time it had seemed plausible; now, as the woman folded her arms and fixed him with an amused stare, it seemed woe-fully inadequate. Playing for time, he made a show of glancing around the room: the policeman analysing his surroundings.

  The room was dominated by a large black and white image, which hung on the wall to his right. At first glance it looked as if it was a photograph, but on closer inspection he decided it was a painting. It showed the profile of a woman lying on her back, eyes closed, her dark hair merging with the black background. Mesmerized, Carlyle fumbled for his glasses. Slipping them on, he pointed at the picture. ‘There’s a line around her neck.’

  Hutton turned to study the painting. ‘That is the German . . . terrorist, Ulrike Meinhof. She hanged herself on the bars of her cell.’ She saw t
he look of surprise on Carlyle’s face and added: ‘It’s a very arresting image but rather intense, in my view. My husband bought it but I insisted that he put it in here. I don’t think I could bear to look at it every day.’

  ‘Is it valuable?’ was all he could think of to ask.

  ‘No, not that one. It’s just a print. The original is in the Museum of Modern Art in New York.’

  ‘Aha. A particular interest of your husband’s, is it?’

  She shot him a curious look. ‘Art?’

  ‘Terrorism.’

  ‘Not particularly, I don’t think. He was simply taken by the image.’

  ‘When did she die?’

  ‘Pff.’ Hutton looked back at the picture. ‘A very long time ago.’ Did a tiny smile cross her lips – or did he imagine it? ‘Anyway, Inspector, what is it that I can do for you?’

  ‘Well . . .’ Bracing himself, he launched into a fictitious tale about a serial burglar who was thought to be targeting the street. ‘He has been known to go for works of art,’ he concluded lamely, nodding in the direction of Ulrike Meinhof.

  ‘I should be so lucky,’ Hutton muttered.

  ‘So we are just going round talking to local households about their security arrangements.’

  ‘I see.’

  The conversation was interrupted by the sound of the front door slamming and footsteps in the hallway. Carlyle got to his feet in time to see a short, rotund man walk into the room, loosening his tie as he did so. Clocking Carlyle, the man stopped in his tracks.

  ‘Derek,’ Barbara Hutton explained, ‘this is Inspector Carlyle, from the police. He’s come to warn us about a cat burglar in the neighbourhood.’

  Derek Hutton grunted something that sounded very much like ‘bollocks’ to Carlyle. Pulling the tie from his neck, he tossed it onto the sofa, close to where the inspector had been sitting. His wife rolled her eyes.

  ‘Inspector, my husband.’

  ‘Since when do the police send an inspector round to talk about a potential burglary?’ Derek Hutton huffed, removing his jacket and throwing it on top of his tie.

  Carlyle remembered that the bloke was a lawyer and began edging towards the door.

  ‘He also likes your print.’ Barbara Hutton offered a wry smile in the direction of Ulrike Meinhof.

  ‘What?’ Flicking a bead of sweat from his brow, the lawyer glared at his unwelcome visitor.

  Ignoring the husband, Carlyle gave Mrs Hutton a big smile as he slipped into the hall. ‘Well, nice to meet you. Remember, if you see anything suspicious, please let us know immediately.’ Not waiting for a reply, he made a break for the door.

  ‘What the hell is this?’ Carlyle waved the letter in the direction of the kitchen doorway.

  ‘What?’ asked Helen, over the sound of the kettle coming to the boil.

  ‘This letter.’ He was momentarily distracted by the opening bars of Blondie’s ‘Atomic’ coming from Alice’s bedroom. Further proof that his daughter lived in something of a musical time warp; then again, a good song was a good song, however old it was.

  Helen appeared from the kitchen, a mug in each hand. One bore a picture of Captain Haddock, the other the legend: Keep Calm and Drink Tea. ‘I haven’t read it.’ She handed the Captain Haddock mug to her husband. ‘What does it say?’

  Carlyle peered into his mug.

  ‘It’s green tea.’

  Carlyle would rather have had a whiskey, but he kept his mouth shut.

  ‘What does it say?’ Helen repeated, leading him into the living room.

  ‘It’s from a TV production company called Laxative Productions,’ he said, following after her.

  ‘Charming!’ Helen picked up a copy of that afternoon’s Standard from the floor and eased herself into the armchair by the TV.

  ‘Listen to this.’ Carlyle placed his tea on the coffee table and dropped on to the sofa. ‘Does your child take drugs? Are drugs destroying your family? We are an award-winning independent production company, responsible for hit shows such as Britain’s Biggest Chavs, Travellers from Hell and Born in Prison.’ He looked at his wife. ‘Born in Prison?’

  ‘Never heard of it,’ Helen said innocently. Before he could interrogate the truthfulness of that statement, she opened up the newspaper and started scanning the pages.

  ‘We are currently researching a show called My Teenage Drug Hell and are looking to talk to potential interviewees aged ten and above.’ A thought crossed his mind and he let out a low chuckle. ‘Maybe Alice could do it.’

  Not wishing to be reminded of their daughter’s problems with drugs at school, Helen glared at him over the paper.

  ‘I was only joking.’

  ‘That’s not funny.’ Helen went back to her reading. ‘We’ve put all that firmly behind us.’

  ‘Let’s hope so.’

  ‘Make sure he doesn’t see it,’ Helen commanded. ‘Tear it up and put it in the recycling bag.’

  After doing as he was told, Carlyle recovered his tea and took a sip.

  ‘How was work?’ Helen asked.

  ‘Fine.’ Not sure which recent lowlight to recount for his wife’s amusement, he finally plumped for the conversation between Umar and the statuesque Amelia Elmhirst about the former’s mysterious photograph.

  Looking up from the newspaper, Helen eyed him suspiciously. ‘Is she good-looking, this girl?’

  Trying to affect the air of the mythical male creature who never considered such things, he took a moment to pretend to give the matter some thought. ‘Yes,’ he said finally, trying to make the whole thing sound as abstract as possible, ‘I suppose you would say that she is.’

  ‘Then he’ll be sexting her, or sending her photos of his willy or something,’ Helen said.

  ‘Eh?’

  She looked at him as if he was particularly dense. ‘That’s what boys do these days, if they fancy a girl. Apparently, sending someone a photo of your privates is considered a part of normal social discourse among the younger generation.’

  ‘But he’s not a boy,’ Carlyle protested.

  Arching her eyebrows, Helen shot him a look that said All men are boys, present company included.

  ‘He’s married.’

  ‘And Christina will no doubt have a total fit when she finds out.’

  ‘Not to mention Simpson.’

  ‘Yes,’ Helen agreed. ‘If someone complains at work, I expect he’ll be out the door in almost less time than it takes to email your todger round the world. We had to sack a guy for something similar last year. When it comes to the Met, he’s bound to be breaking dozens of employment rules. I doubt if even the Police Federation would be able to save him.’

  Carlyle lifted his feet on to the coffee table. ‘I’m beginning to think he has a bit of a death wish about The Job. It’s almost like he wants to get the sack.’

  ‘Maybe. It happens. But the sexting thing is more about him coming on to women, rather than a cry for help about his job. Probably, in his mind, it’s just an extension of flirting.’

  There was a lull in the conversation. Helen returned to her paper. Carlyle tuned back in to the sounds of Blondie coming from the back of the flat. ‘Do you think we need to speak to Alice about this kind of thing?’ he asked. ‘You know, in terms of the boys at school?’

  ‘Only if you want her to explain it more to you,’ Helen said drily. ‘Alice has had to be alert for this kind of nonsense ever since she got her first smartphone.’

  Carlyle grimaced at the thought of some degenerate little scrote sending . . . aaargh. He didn’t want to imagine it. ‘And?’

  ‘And what?’

  ‘Has she ever received—’

  ‘No, thank God.’ Helen, not wishing to dwell on it either, cut him off. ‘At least, not as far as I know.’ She gestured at the letter on the table. ‘It’s like the drugs issue, just another thing we have to try and keep an eye on.’

  ‘I suppose,’ said Carlyle glumly, wondering if he would ever get to the point where he could feel like he had th
is parenting thing even remotely under control.

  THIRTEEN

  This time of the morning was far too early for the beautiful people who haunted the Garden Hotel to make an appearance. For a few moments, it seemed as if he was the only person in the entire building.

  Tapping the toe of his shoe on the limestone floor, Carlyle contemplated the empty lobby. They’d changed the artwork again, he noted, inspecting the massive canvas that ran almost the whole length of one wall. Paint of all colours had been smeared on with gusto and, to his mind at least, it looked like nothing so much as the contents of an ill child’s nappy. Even Derek Hutton’s picture looks better than that, muttered Carlyle’s inner peasant.

  ‘Striking, isn’t it?’

  Carlyle turned to find a pretty, twenty-something girl at his shoulder. She wore the grey Mao tunic that denoted a member of staff, and her flat shoes meant that he could just about avoid having to look up to her. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a ponytail and she had the fresh-faced look of someone who had just started her shift. Above her left breast was a small badge that said: Deborah Burke, Chief Concierge.

  ‘What happened to Alex?’ Carlyle was well acquainted with Alexander Miles, who had been Chief Concierge at the hotel for many years. During that time, Alex had benefited on several occasions from the inspector’s ability to overlook a range of indiscretions on the part of both staff and guests. As a result, he still owed Carlyle more than a few favours.

  ‘He left a couple of months ago,’ the new Chief Concierge smiled. ‘He was headhunted to go and work in a new destination hotel in Battersea.’

  What’s a ‘destination hotel’? Carlyle wondered. No matter, if the silly sod had gone south of the river he was unlikely to be of much use to anyone working out of Charing Cross. For Carlyle, the ultimate metropolitan snob, London stopped being London by the time you got to Fulham Broadway. As for Battersea, it might as well be Bournemouth.

  ‘Did you know Alex?’