London Calling - James Craig [129]
‘Shit!’ Rushing over to the rail, he peered down in time to see the two bodies hit the surface of what looked like a small swimming pool below. From the balcony, the splash sounded like a gentle ripple of applause.
Joe appeared at Carlyle’s side and looked down. ‘Ouch!’ he grinned. ‘That’s got to hurt.’
Carlyle turned quickly away and scanned the room. Both politicians had disappeared. On the carpet, amidst the broken glass, was a smouldering cigar. Stepping in from the balcony, he stamped it out with the toe of his shoe. As he did so, he caught sight of a light flashing under the sofa. Dropping to his knees, he pulled out an expensive-looking mobile phone, quickly dropping it in the pocket of his jacket before he stood up.
Joe was still peering over the rail. ‘Looks like there’s some kind of movement down there.’
‘Come on,’ Carlyle groaned, ‘let’s see if the fuckers can swim.’
Fighting their way past the stragglers on the stairs, it took the two policemen the best part of ten minutes to make it down to the basement. At least the alarms had stopped by the time that they reached the swimming pool. Finding the entrance locked, Carlyle pressed his ear to the door and listened. Other than the hum of the air-conditioning, there was nothing. Once, twice, three times he tried and failed to kick the door in. For a moment, he stood there catching his breath, trying to ignore the pain in his right foot and glaring at Joe, who was struggling to stifle a laugh. ‘You try it then, you fat bastard,’ Carlyle snapped, stepping away from the door.
‘OK.’ Joe, whose experience of kicking doors in was much more current, jogged ten feet back along the corridor, then turned round at a crouch. ‘One, two, three …’ Springing forward, he charged the door head-down, looking like an enthusiastic baby rhino. Carlyle grimaced in expectation of the imminent crunch of bone against wood. But, with Joe just inches from his target, the door suddenly flew open.
Carlyle watched open mouthed as his sergeant steamed through the doorway, tripped over a small flight of steps and belly-flopped into the pool beyond, splashing alongside the face-down floater that the inspector instinctively knew had to be William Murray. A moment later, Trevor Miller stepped out from behind the door. Although soaked from head to foot, he showed no sign of being injured by his fall.
Bloody typical, Carlyle thought, Miller lying face down in the pool would have been a decent result.
The security chief had a large white towel draped round his neck while vigorously drying what remained of his hair with another. ‘Well done, Carlyle,’ he grunted from somewhere behind the fabric. ‘Another crime scene compromised.’
‘Fuck you, Trevor,’ Carlyle snarled, ‘you’re under arrest.’
‘Am I indeed?’ Miller tossed the used towel on the floor and picked up a fresh one from a pile stacked on a white plastic chair nearby. ‘For what?’
Carlyle said nothing. What had he just seen? Murder? He was sure of it. He was equally sure that he couldn’t prove it – even before one considered the queue of people who would be ready to cover it up.
‘You really haven’t learnt anything, have you?’ Miller sneered. ‘Even after all this time, you stupid, stupid little shit.’ Towelling himself down as best he could, he stepped towards the door, tossing the wet towel at Carlyle. ‘Come anywhere near any of our people and we’ll fucking crucify you. It’s case closed. This has finally been dealt with, no thanks to you.’ He jabbed a meaty finger towards Carlyle’s face. ‘Ironically, you might even get a bit of glory if you play your cards right. I’ll at least let you have that.’
‘I don’t think so,’ Carlyle snarled, but he was struggling to put on a brave face. Already, he could see how it would all play out.
The meaty finger retreated into a clenched fist. ‘Don’t fuck it up again,’ Miller smiled. ‘Remember which side you’re on.’ Then, pushing Carlyle out of the way, he squelched out through the door and disappeared along the corridor.
‘Give me a hand, boss!’ Joe called as he struggled to get