London Calling - James Craig [70]
Someone took a step closer. There was the dull clink of metal on brick. ‘Get up!’
Slowly, Carlyle worked himself into a sitting position. One of the bags had burst and some spoiled fruit had spilled out. He plucked a rotten banana skin from his tunic and, as casually as he could manage, tossed it in the direction of the voice. Pushing himself out of the garbage, he stood up, looking at a third man now in front of him, with the two he had been chasing leaning against the wall further back.
‘Hello, Trevor.’
Trevor Miller tapped the length of lead pipe against the leg of his jeans. In the semi-darkness, he looked bigger and uglier than Carlyle remembered. ‘I warned you, Carlyle. Why did you go and talk to that tart’s lawyer? Why did you put me in the frame?’
Carlyle could feel his heart going like the clappers under his uniform. ‘Why didn’t you leave her alone?’
Without replying, Miller stepped forward and chopped the pipe into Carlyle’s ribs. A searing pain shot through his torso and he went down again. ‘My career could have been fucked because of you.’
‘You’re a big boy, Trevor,’ Carlyle said, struggling to his feet and glancing back down the alley. ‘You have to take responsibility for your own actions. Anyway, I don’t think you were ever going to make Commissioner.’
Trevor had caught his glance, and also looked back towards the street. ‘No one’s going to come and help you,’ he spat, waving the pipe in front of his face. ‘Everyone knows you’re a complete cunt. When I fuck you up, loads of people will be cheering. You have to take it.’
Carlyle decided that his only chance was to run for it. There was only Miller between him and the entrance to the alley. The other two were maybe ten yards further back, each enjoying a cigarette, neither paying a great deal of attention. If I could sell Trevor a dummy, Carlyle thought, I might get a couple of yards start. Who knows? That dickhead Slater might even put in an appearance. At the very least, he could have called for assistance.
Carlyle knew that he might not be able to outrun all three of them, but worrying about that wouldn’t help. He sprang forward, feinting to Miller’s right, before pushing off with his left foot and sprinting, head down, arms pumping, to his left. Miller, momentarily wrong-footed, screamed in fury. Carlyle felt the pipe whistle past his head before clattering to the ground. Reflexively he ducked but didn’t stop running. Bloody hell, he thought as he reached the mouth of the alley, I’m going to make it! Then his right foot went down and gave way beneath him as he slipped on the same discarded banana skin. Careering into a wall, Carlyle fell in a heap by the side of the road.
The footsteps behind him stopped and were replaced by mocking laughter. Someone kicked him in the back, and then he took a boot between the legs that, literally, made him see stars. Dazed, he was dragged by his legs back into the darkness of the alley. This time, all he could do was curl up as tightly as possible and wait for his beating. The next blow hit him behind the left ear. His last thought before blacking out was that he still had no idea where he should take Helen on their first date.
TWENTY
‘Who is in charge of the police investigation?’
‘Err …’ William Murray glanced at his boss, who nodded his approval, before leaning forward and speaking slowly into the star-shaped conference phone in the centre of the table. ‘He’s called …’ he checked his notes, ‘Inspector Carlyle. He works out of the Charing Cross station.’
‘But it was a woman at the press conference.