Stepping forward, she greeted him with a limp handshake. ‘Hello, Inspector.’
‘Sergeant.’
She looked him up and down. ‘Like the specs. They make you look . . . different.’
‘So I’m told.’ Carlyle glanced down the suburban street. There was no sign of the two dozen or so police officers stationed within 100 yards of where they were standing. The neighbourhood looked deserted. ‘Are you ready to go?’
‘Just about.’ Roche pointed to a large, unmarked van parked twenty yards down the road. ‘My boss is in there,’ she mumbled. ‘I’d introduce you, but you wouldn’t like her.’
‘Fair enough.’ Roche might have lost her edge but she still knew him well enough. There were already plenty of police officers the inspector didn’t like; he didn’t need to meet another one.
‘The target address is the next street over,’ Roche said. ‘It’s called Fortune Street – a top-floor flat. As far as we can tell, Costello is in there alone. We’re going in, in around five minutes. Straight through the front door. There is no alternative exit.’
Third time lucky, Carlyle thought. Don’t fuck it up this time. If you have to shoot the bastard, that’s fine by me. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I’ll stay in the background.’
As if reading his thoughts, Roche lovingly patted the Glock on her hip. ‘Are you armed?’ she asked.
‘No,’ Carlyle said. ‘Not really necessary, is it?’
Roche made a face that suggested his statement lacked a certain degree of wisdom.
‘Anyway,’ Carlyle continued, ‘I am not an Authorized Firearms Officer. As it happens, I’ve never fired a gun in my life.’
‘No? Maybe you should learn,’ Roche replied as she turned and headed off down the street.
‘Maybe I will,’ Carlyle lied as he watched her disappear round the corner. There was no way on God’s earth you would get him anywhere near an armed weapon. He knew that if he ever ended up with a gun in his hand, most likely the only person he would end up shooting would be himself. No, guns were definitely not on his agenda. He glanced at his watch; a couple of minutes to kick-off. After a moment’s reflection, he began walking down the street at a brisk pace, heading in the opposite direction to Roche.
At the end of the street, Carlyle crossed the two-lane road and went and sat on a grubby red plastic bench in a bus shelter that offered him a clear view down the length of Fortune Street. Arms folded, he watched as the snatch party of half a dozen uniformed officers smashed down a door halfway down the street, about 150 yards from where he was sitting. Carlyle saw an old woman, tartan shopping bag in hand, shuffling along the far side of the street, oblivious to what was going on around her. Otherwise, the place was deserted. Three buses trundled down the road in convoy, not bothering to stop. By the time they had passed, the police had disappeared inside, leaving a lone constable to stand duty outside. Carlyle heard a couple of quiet thuds and some indistinguishable voices, which quickly disappeared beneath the relentless hum of the traffic.
Another bus passed. Carlyle watched as the scruffy figure of a young man slipped out of the front door of the house at the end of the street, nearest to the bus stop. Head bowed, he crossed the road while still playing on his games console. Stepping into the bus shelter, he looked up at the indicator board, which said the next bus was due in one minute.
Bloody good service here, Carlyle thought, as he watched the single-decker lumber into view. Standing on the kerb, he fished his Oyster Card out of his pocket. Slipping his computer game in his pocket, the other passenger reached out and signalled to the driver to stop. The bus came to a halt and Carlyle listened to the familiar hiss of pressurized air as the doors opened. Stepping behind the man, he gripped the back of his neck and smashed his face into the side of the bus. Looking up, he caught the gaze of a middle-aged black woman who quickly glanced away, obviously not wanting to get involved. When Carlyle realized that the dazed man wasn’t going down, he grabbed the back of his jacket and hoisted him backwards towards the plastic bench. Taking his cue, the bus driver quickly closed the doors and moved off.
Carlyle’s target tried to wriggle free. As he did so, the games console fell out of his pocket and onto the pavement.
‘Fils du pute!’
Ignoring his attacker, the man reached down to pick it up, allowing Carlyle to give him a swift, gratuitous kick in the ribs. With a groan, the man went down on one knee. Pulling his hands behind his back, Carlyle clipped on a pair of handcuffs, relieving him of his console as he did so. ‘Alain Costello,’ he said in his most official-sounding voice, ‘you are under arrest.’
Struggling upright, Costello spat against the Perspex of the bus shelter. With a mixture of annoyance and despair, he watched Carlyle place the console into his pocket. ‘Give me back my PSP,’ he whined.
‘Shut the fuck up,’ Carlyle snorted. Resisting the temptation to drop the bloody thing down a drain, he took Costello by the arm and frog-marched him back across the street and into the waiting arms of SO15.
Sandy Carroll chucked her handbag towards the chair in the corner of the room and watched, mortified, as it hit the arm and fell onto the floor, emptying half its contents onto the carpet. Grinning, Gavin Swann bent down and picked up a packet of Durex Extra Safe.
‘I see you’ve come prepared this time!’
Sandy blushed. ‘Where’s Kelly?’
Swann made a face. ‘Dunno.’ Undoing the white towel around his waist, he tossed it on the bed, inviting her to appreciate his nakedness.
Sandy felt a flutter of concern in her stomach. Kelly was supposed to be bringing the recording device that Frank Maxwell’s PA had set them up with. ‘I thought you wanted another threesome,’ she said, keeping her gaze at eye-level.
Swann’s grin grew even wider. ‘We do.’ He gestured towards the open bathroom door and Sandy realized for the first time that the shower was running.
‘Who’s in the . . . ?’
Before she could finish the question, the water stopped. Through the door appeared a massive-looking guy, easily six five, drying his hair in a bath towel. This time, Sandy could not keep her gaze from heading south, past the guy’s well defined abs towards a piece of equipment that, on first glance, was easily twice the size of Swann’s.
‘I don’t-’
‘This is Paul, our reserve goalie. Big boy, isn’t he?’
Looking pleased with himself, Paul dropped his towel back onto the carpet, saying nothing.
Mesmerized and horrified in equal measure, Sandy watched as he started getting bigger.
‘He’s a shit goalie,’ Swann joked, ‘but he can screw for England.’
‘Fuck off,’ Paul laughed.
‘I wanna go,’ Sandy sobbed.
‘Strip!’ Swann commanded, pushing her onto the bed.
‘No!’ Sandy screamed. Bouncing back off the mattress, she got to her feet and made a grab for her bag. Dropping on one knee, she tried to scoop as much of the contents back inside as possible. Standing upright, Swann clasped her hair from behind, yanking her towards him. His hot breath on her cheek smelled of a mixture of beer and cheese and onion crisps. ‘You bitches were going to sell me out to the papers.’
‘No,’ Sandy snivelled unconvincingly. Turning her head, she could see his face turning puce with rage, beads of sweat forming on his brow. Behind him, the goalie laughed nervously.
‘Do you think I am stupid?’ Swann roared, pulling her head back as far as it would go.
Sandy shook her head. Her eyes blurred with tears.
‘Do you know how much I pay Frank every bloody year to keep me out of the papers? Do you think he’s going to give all that up for a few extra quid?’
‘Please . . .’ The laughing behind her had been replaced by a series of animal grunts and Sandy was horrified when an arc of semen flew past her right shoulder and splattered across the LCD screen in front of her, hitting the Sky Sports News weather girl smack in the face.