Into the Valley

Book 14: Inspector Carlyle

by James Craig

Genres: Mystery

Synopsis

To everyone's surprise, John Carlyle has been promoted to Commander. The new job comes with its own office, a PA, and a diary filled with meetings. Struggling to come to terms with his new responsibilities, Carlyle finds his position threatened by investigative journalist Bernie Gilmore. Gilmore is digging into Carlyle's relationship with ex-drug dealer Dominic Silver and the pair's involvement in the killing of gangster Tuco Martinez. Carlyle hopes he can put Bernie off the scent but Dom favours more drastic measures. Meanwhile, Carlyle's new boss, Deputy Assistant Commissioner Michelle Mara, wants him to help out mysterious 'security consultant' Gregory Cosneau. Pining for his old job, Carlyle has to try and keep everyone happy, or face losing everything.

Release date: February 6, 2020

Publisher: Constable

Print pages: 304

Sample

Just past dawn, the sky was blue, cloudless, the air chilled. Obeid Idris slipped on a pair of sunglasses and contemplated the copse standing on a small hill in front of him. It was like looking at one of the landscape paintings in the National Gallery, and he was reminded of an exhibition he had promised his girlfriend they would visit. Making a mental note to book some tickets, he let his gaze drift towards the narrow road that snaked between the fields. Their quarry was somewhere on the other side of the hill, heading towards them.

Now was the time for maximum calm. Soothed by the autumnal colours, Idris heard the words of Moshe Izaki, his Kendo instructor, in his ear: ‘You are not fighting your opponent.’

‘You are fighting yourself.’ Idris ran a palm across his bald head. His breathing was shallow and regular. Closing his eyes, he let all distractions fall from his mind.

A burst of static was followed by the familiar voice of Fuad Samater: ‘They’re here.’

A murmur of anticipation rose among the assembled team.

‘Six cars in the convoy. We want the penultimate vehicle. The people-carrier.’

Idris slowly opened his eyes and spoke into his radio. ‘Understood.’

‘They should be with you in three minutes. We will be ninety seconds behind them. Over and out.’

‘Over and out.’ Reaching for the pistol in the waistband of his jeans, Idris scanned the expectant faces in front of him, six heavily built young men armed with serious expressions and Heckler & Koch submachine guns. Each one had been recruited by Fuad, based on word-of-mouth recommendations from trusted associates. These were not the kind of guys you found at the Job Centre.

Idris pulled on a pair of gloves in almost ceremonial fashion before addressing the crew: ‘Remember, the guns are just for show. No one will put up any resistance. There will be no need for any shooting, no need for any violence at all.’

He determinedly ignored the disappointed looks. ‘Let’s do this thing right ‒ no drama. If we’re calm and professional, it’ll take less than five minutes.’ Taking their silence as agreement, he began picking his way across the freshly ploughed earth, heading towards the road.

Biggin Hill, 5 miles. Standing beside the road sign, Idris checked his watch. One minute to go. He watched impassively as a trio of red BMWs, stolen from a garage in Manchester two days ago, rolled into place, blocking the junction in front of him. As the target convoy approached, another two cars – also red ‒ would block off the rear, trapping the target on the narrow road.

‘You should be able to see them now.’

Right on cue, the first of the black Mercedes vehicles that made up the convoy rolled around the corner, travelling at a cautious thirty miles an hour.

‘We have them in sight.’

‘Perfect. See you in a couple of minutes. Over.’

Idris tossed the radio to one of his men and began marching towards the roadblock.

The convoy came to an obedient halt, the drivers patiently awaiting developments, their engines still running. Somewhere overhead a couple of crows squawked noisily. Stepping in front of the first Merc, Idris counted seven in the convoy. Fucking Fuad, he never was any good at maths. At least there was only one people-carrier. It was easy enough to spot, sitting a good four feet higher on the road than the vehicles in front and behind. He signalled for the team to move forward.

The driver in the first Merc watched impassively as the heavily armed men took up their positions on either side of the road. The sound of boots on tarmac was obliterated by the throaty roar of Fuad’s team approaching from the rear, cutting off any chance of retreat. As their cars screeched to a halt, the doors flew open and another six men jumped out. They were identical to the guys already deployed, right down to the brand of gum they chewed. Not for the first time, Idris wondered idly if they might have been cloned.

The driver in the first Merc was a small Asian guy with a thin moustache. He kept his eyes firmly on an imaginary spot in the middle distance, his hands still on the wheel in the classic ten-two position. Beside him, in the front passenger seat, a bodyguard glared at Idris from behind a pair of tinted sunglasses. The guy was ex-Saudi Special Forces, as were his colleagues in the remaining cars. His hands remained below the dashboard, doubtless cradling a Glock handgun, wondering if he would get the chance to use it.

Slipping past the first car, Idris continued at a casual pace, eyeballing each driver in turn. The exhaust fumes were beginning to irritate his throat, but he tried to ignore them. In the back of each vehicle, behind the tinted glass, he knew that some very important people would be cursing their phones when they realised that out here – in the middle of nowhere – there was no cellular coverage.

Reaching the people-carrier, Idris glared at Fuad. ‘You can’t bloody count.’ He pointed at the line of expensive motors. ‘There’s seven vehicles, not six.’

Fuad’s gaze dropped to the tarmac. ‘Does it matter?’

‘Not as long as we get what we came for.’ Idris pointed at the people-carrier. ‘Is this the one?’

‘Yeah.’

‘For sure?’

‘For sure.’

From behind the bulletproof glass, the driver eyed them both with an air of professional detachment. Like all of his colleagues, he came from the Ashkona neighbourhood of Dhaka. To all intents and purposes indentured labour, the Bangladeshi earned barely five hundred dollars a month, in return for being on call seven days a week, with two weeks off each year to return home to see his family. Small and skinny, his leathery skin stretched across prominent cheekbones, the driver was almost invisible inside his ill-fitting suit. Not someone who was used to being centre stage ‒ an extra in the drama of his own life ‒ he wasn’t going to try to play the hero.

Idris locked eyes with him for a few seconds, then turned back to Fuad. ‘How many people inside?’

‘Four in the back, plus the two in the front.’

‘All right.’ Stepping over to the driver’s door, Idris tapped on the window with the barrel of his pistol. Showing considerable force of will, the man kept his eyes front. Idris counted to three and hit the glass again, harder this time. ‘Open the window,’ he barked. ‘Nothing is going to happen to you if you do what I say.’

After several moments, the driver’s right hand moved slowly from the steering wheel. There was an audible click and the whir of an electric motor as the window opened.

Idris placed a hand on the rim of the door and leaned forward. The inside of the vehicle smelled of stale cigarettes and citrus air-freshener. The driver put his hand back on the steering wheel and resumed staring at the car in front. In the passenger seat beside him, the bodyguard had sensibly placed both hands on the dashboard, palms down. The passengers in the rear were hidden behind a partition of tinted glass.

‘How many in the back?’

The driver weighed his answer carefully. ‘Four.’

At least Fuad got that right.

‘All women.’

The bodyguard muttered something to the driver. Idris missed the words, but the sentiment was clear: Shut up.

‘Don’t worry. We’re not here to steal your women.’ Idris waved his gun at the driver. ‘Get out of the car.’

The driver hesitated.

Taking a step back from the door, Idris glanced towards the front of the convoy. There was no sign of trouble. None of the bodyguards were trying to make a name for themselves. Everything was going according to plan. It’s almost as if they were expecting us. Discarding the thought, he jerked open the door. ‘Quickly.’ Under his T-shirt, he felt a bead of sweat roll down his spine. ‘We are simply taking the car. Neither you nor your passengers will be hurt.’

The driver released his seatbelt.

‘Step out.’

The driver obliged. Shivering on the tarmac, the top of his head barely reached Idris’s shoulder.

‘What’s your name?’

The man looked thrown by the question. Lifting his gaze, he squinted against the glare of the early-morning sun.

‘Your name,’ Idris repeated.

‘Niaz. Niaz Hom.’

‘Okay, Niaz.’ Idris pointed at the final vehicle in the convoy. ‘Tell your colleague to put his car in the ditch so we can get out of here.’ He led Niaz towards the last Mercedes while Fuad and two of their crew emptied the people-carrier of its passengers. Relieved of his weapon, the bodyguard stood sullenly on the grass verge, head bowed, hands carefully positioned behind his back. Out of the back spilled four figures, each wearing a full black chador. One, at least three inches taller than her companions, was complaining violently in Arabic, jabbing an angry finger at the bodyguard, who pretended not to notice. Only when Fuad waved his Heckler & Koch directly under her nose, did the woman finally fall silent. Following her companions to the far side of the road, she took up a position as far from the hapless bodyguard as possible.

Fuad ducked into the back of the vehicle.

‘Have we got what we came for?’ Idris asked.

‘Yeah.’ Fuad gave him a thumbs-up.

‘Good.’ Idris watched as the driver in the final car lowered his window slightly and exchanged a few words with Niaz in Bengali. Niaz stepped away from the vehicle and gave Idris a small nod. The two men watched as the Mercedes was carefully manoeuvred off the road, leaving enough space to allow Fuad to jump behind the wheel of the people-carrier and reverse it back towards the BMWs. The roadblock opened to let him pass through.

‘There you go. It’s over.’ Idris gave Niaz a gentle pat on the back. ‘No harm done.’ Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out three identical keys. He held them up for Niaz to inspect before pointing down the road. ‘For the cars at the front.’ He placed the keys in the driver’s hand. ‘Move them out of the way and you will be at the airport in ten minutes. Give His Highness my apologies for any inconvenience caused by the delay but reassure him that he still has plenty of time to make his flight.’

Idris began walking towards the waiting people-carrier, fifty metres back along the road. Fuad had thrown open the passenger seat and was gesturing to him to hurry up. Idris, however, would not be rushed. With everyone watching, his relaxed stride would leave a lasting impression. Off to his left, a flock of starlings swooped across the sky. Conscious of his elevated heart rate, he upped pace slightly as he approached the vehicle.

There was a shout, followed by a loud crack and a sharp tug at his sleeve. Idris looked down and saw that the fabric of his jacket had been torn. Soft white feathers were cascading out, leaving a trail on the tarmac. Idris turned in slow motion. Niaz Hom was lying face down, a pool of blood expanding from underneath him. Further down the road, the bodyguard from the first Merc was taking aim for a second shot. Just as he was about to squeeze the trigger, a controlled burst of fire sent the man jerking across the tarmac, the gun falling from his hand. Instinctively, Idris sought out the second bodyguard, but he had dropped into the ditch, having no desire to get involved in a gun fight.

‘The woman,’ Fuad screamed, ‘to your left.’ Idris spun around in time to see the tall woman in the chador walking towards him, a pistol aimed at his head. A second burst of fire almost cut her in half. ‘Come on. Before anyone else tries to be a hero.’ Leaning across the bonnet of the people-carrier, Fuad squeezed off more rounds from his Heckler & Koch into the sky, sending the other women diving for cover.

Idris jumped into the passenger seat and reached for his seatbelt. ‘Good to see your aim’s improving.’

His sidekick’s reply came in the form of squealing tyres as they shot off down the road.

‘We should go after them.’ Jamal Alsukait pointed in the direction that the carjackers had fled. ‘Once they reach the motorway,’ he waved his hand helplessly in the air, ‘they’ll be gone.’

Khaldoon Ghosn shook his head. ‘We’re not chasing after anyone, Jamal. We’re on a deadline. His Highness does not like delays,’ he ran his fingers over his moustache as he watched the bodies being unceremoniously deposited in the boot of one of the abandoned BMWs, ‘for any reason.’

‘But we must retaliate.’

The youth has a lot to learn. And such a bad attitude, too. Why should I be the one stuck with the job of teaching him? As the trunk slammed shut, it crossed Ghosn’s mind that things might have been easier if Jamal had been one of the fatalities.

Jamal Alsukait was a new addition to the prince’s security detail. Like so many youngsters these days, he didn’t know his place. Jamal imagined he should be in charge because he wanted to be in charge. The fact that Khaldoon Ghosn had almost thirty years of practical experience when it came to protecting royalty was something that Jamal discounted completely. In his underdeveloped mind, Ghosn’s years on the job counted for nothing compared to a degree from some second-rate American university and the backing of an uncle on the National Security Council.

Given the choice, Ghosn wouldn’t have hired the kid in a million years. But Jamal wasn’t the first hire imposed upon him. He wouldn’t be the last, either. That’s the problem with our country, he reflected sadly. In Saudi Arabia, nepotism trumped everything. Talent, experience and endeavour counted for nothing compared to family ties and connections. There was absolutely nothing he – or anyone else ‒ could do about it, but it still irritated Ghosn immensely.

‘Who did this?’ Jamal scratched his head furiously. ‘What did they steal?’

None of your damn business. ‘I know who did this. Don’t worry, I know where to find them. I will take care of it I can assure you.’

‘When you catch them, make sure I’m there.’ Unable to stand still, Jamal pirouetted on one leg and spat into the ditch. ‘Payback for Carlos will be a total bitch.’

It was all a pose. Ghosn was surprised that Jamal could even remember the dead bodyguard’s name. ‘Carlos should have stayed in the vehicle,’ he pointed out. ‘He deviated from the standard operating protocol and got two people killed. Not to mention himself.’

Jamal kicked a small stone down the road. ‘At least he tried to do something.’

‘That’s not how we operate. We’re professionals.’

‘And professionals do nothing?’ Jamal scoffed.

‘Sometimes.’ The more agitated his colleague became, the calmer Ghosn felt. ‘Sometimes you need to concede the game and wait for the next one.’

‘I suppose you’ll have to find a replacement for Carlos.’

‘In due course,’ Ghosn replied warily.

‘Because I have a cousin—’

‘In due course,’ Ghosn repeated. He glanced at the three women still standing by the side of the road, each puffing on a cigarette. ‘Get everyone back in the cars and make sure the scene has been cleaned up as much as possible. It’s time to get moving.’

An adolescent scowl crossed Jamal’s face. He stalked off, muttering to himself.

I’ll have to deal with that one before he causes too much trouble. Approaching the back door of a Mercedes, Ghosn bowed his head and waited patiently as the darkened window slowly opened.

Sitting in the back seat, Mansour Hayek looked up from his newspaper. ‘Hard work?’

Ghosn frowned. ‘Sorry?’

‘Thirty-four down.’ Affecting an air of casual detachment from the morning’s events, the special adviser to Prince Bader Goyalan tapped the crossword puzzle with his gold pen. ‘Hard work – T, something, something, L.’

Buying himself a couple of seconds, Ghosn scratched his nose. ‘Toil.’

‘That fits.’ Hayek jotted down the missing letters. ‘Is everything finally under control?’

‘Yes.’ Ghosn glanced at the prince, sitting next to Hayek. His Highness, engrossed in a game on his iPhone, did not look up. ‘My sincere apologies for the delay.’

‘We can discuss it on the flight. This should never have happened, Khaldoon. There will be repercussions ‒ serious repercussions.’

‘I will deal with it.’

Irritated, Hayek pushed his spectacles up his nose.

‘That remains to be seen. Now, are we ready to resume our journey?’

Ghosn nodded. ‘We will be on our way in the next few minutes.’

The prince’s phone started bleeping. ‘I’ve reached level a hundred and four.’ His Highness let out a squeal of delight. ‘A new personal best.’

‘Congratulations, sir,’ the two men muttered in unison.

The window slid closed. Taking a step backwards, Ghosn scanned the horizon. The blue sky had been replaced by a blanket of cloud, promising rain. A shower would be good, washing away any further trace evidence of the shootings. No evidence, no witnesses. It could have been a lot worse. If they had been hijacked in central London, the shitstorm would have been impossible to control. For that, at least, he should be grateful. As the convoy moved off, Ghosn waited for the final car, plotting his next move. Whatever Hayek imagined, he would be the one to deal with this.

Mike Stoner switched off the engine of his tractor. For a while there was nothing other than the sound of the wind in the trees. Then came a staccato burst of gunfire.

Automatic weapons.

Unmistakable.

Stoner had spent the best part of fifteen years in the Royal Marines, including more than a decade on active service in various trouble spots around the world. It was a sound that he hadn’t expected to encounter while working on the family farm in Kent.

Another burst of fire. Stoner calculated that it was coming from the far side of a cluster of trees, maybe three-quarters of a mile away. Jumping from the cab of the tractor, he made his way across the heavy ground at a steady pace.

Reaching the trees, he paused to catch his breath. A black people-carrier and two red vehicles moved through his field of vision, heading away from the airport at speed. Stoner tracked the cars until they disappeared. Retracing their path, his gaze fell on a larger, stationary convoy at the Biggin Hill junction. It was hard to make out what was going on in any detail, but the farmer could detect the signs of frantic activity. His gaze fell on two figures, standing away from the main group, having an animated discussion, maybe arguing. The sound of engines encouraged the duo slowly to return to their respective cars. Watching the convoy pull away, Stoner ran through all the things he needed to get done today. It was a long list. Tearing it up, he set off down the hill, heading for the junction.

The blue skies were gone. It had turned into a typically filthy English day with rain bouncing off the vehicle’s windscreen. This was basically how things would be for at least the next six months, Idris reflected. England was a good place to do business but a terrible place to live. Thank God he and Gabriella were heading to Miami. Temperatures in the thirties and guaranteed sunshine. Perfect.

A sign by the side of the motorway announced, London 32 miles. Idris lifted the jacket lying on his lap and stuck a finger into the hole that had been torn in the arm, searching, in vain, for traces of blood or soft tissue. What had the driver been called? Niaz something. The luckless sod had been doing his job one minute and completely out of the game the next.

Idris imagined the bullet had gone straight through poor Niaz’s brain before clipping the arm of his own padded jacket. A couple of centimetres to the left and the round would have hit Idris in the back. In the event, he had escaped without so much as a scratch. That was the difference between life and death.

Poor old Niaz would end up in some unmarked grave, his fate not recorded. Idris remembered a thin wedding band on his finger. He wondered about the man’s wife and kids. When had he last seen them? How long had he ever been able to spend at home?

‘That jacket’s ruined.’ From behind the driving wheel, Fuad Samater expressed his approval of the brand, which was insanely expensive. ‘At least you can afford to buy a new one.’

‘That idiot bodyguard had to try to be a hero, didn’t he?’ Idris tossed the jacket onto the back seat and turned his attention to the small holdall that had been underneath.

‘We should have used the explosives. A big bang always gets people’s attention. It would have focused their minds nicely.’

Idris shook his head. ‘That would have been way over the top. Apart from anything else, we’d have blown the money to bits.’ Unzipping the bag, he flicked through the contents: underneath the thick stacks of euro notes was a selection of bearer bonds that could be easily redeemed at almost any bank in the world. Better than cash. Better than he’d expected.

All in all, the raid had netted more than forty million dollars in cash and cash equivalents. Everyone would be very well paid for this job. His own share could be as high as ten million. Not bad for a morning’s work. ‘We didn’t want to leave a mess.’

‘Three bodies.’ Fuad giggled. ‘That looks like a mess to me.’ Swerving into the outside lane, he accelerated past a van advertising health-food supplements.

‘The Saudis’ll clean it up. They don’t want an investigation any more than we do.’

Fuad’s expression grew serious. ‘They’ll come after us.’

‘Someone will, but we can handle that. Always have, always will.’ Digging into the bottom of the bag, Idris pulled out one last piece of booty: a diamond-studded phone. His first instinct was to open the car window and toss the gaudy bauble under the wheels of an onrushing vehicle. Instead, he powered it up. The screen sprang into life. ‘No password protection. How stupid is that?’ He began flicking through the different functions until he came to a cache of photographs. ‘Urgh.’

‘What is it?’ Fuad asked eagerly. ‘Porn?’

‘Never mind.’ Idris hastily switched off the phone and dropped it back into the bag. ‘Keep your eyes on the road.’

‘Good stuff?’

‘Not your kind of thing.’ Zipping up the bag, Idris tossed it onto the back seat with the jacket.

‘Since when did you become such a prude?’

‘I’m not a prude.’ Idris watched the display on the dashboard tick up past ninety miles per hour. ‘Slow down,’ he commanded, ‘we don’t want to get done for breaking the speed limit.’

‘Don’t be such a chicken.’

‘Imagine if we got stopped right now.’ Idris jerked. . .