Shoot to Kill by James Craig Page A

wanted to end the call, but didn’t. ‘How are you doing?’
    ‘Fine,’ said Roche dully, like a monosyllabic teenager. Even when they’d been working out of Charing Cross, Carlyle was not really the kind of guy to show much interest in her private life or her mental state, and that was the way she liked it. Now that they didn’t work together, there was even less reason to share.
    ‘I hear the IIC gave you a clean bill of health.’
    ‘Yeah.’
    Carlyle ploughed on. ‘I also hear we’re sharing the same shrink.’
    ‘Wolf?’ Roche let out a shrill laugh. ‘He’s useless. Look, thanks for the info. I’ll give you a call when I know what’s happening. Speak later.’ The line went dead before he had the chance to say anything else. For a moment, he looked blankly at the handset before dropping it in his pocket and heading off in search of a bus that could take him in the direction of the station.

    Carole Simpson gazed at the solid gold crown, thought to belong to a high-ranking nomadic woman more than twenty centuries earlier. The champagne glass in her hand was empty and she felt both light-headed and weary. The special viewing of the surviving treasures from the National Museum of Afghanistan came at the end of a long day. Pulling Dino Mottram close, she slipped her arm through his.
    Smiling, he bent over and kissed her on the cheek.
    ‘Dino,’ she whispered, ‘how long do we have to stay?’
    His furrowed brow gave her all the answer she needed. Entomophagous Industries had spent more than twenty thousand pounds sponsoring this evening’s reception and, true to form, Dino was determined to get his money’s worth. Realizing that she would be on her feet for a while yet, Simpson felt even more tired. This time, she made no effort to conceal the boredom as she returned her gaze to the crown.
    Stepping into interview room B3 in the basement of Charing Cross police station, Carlyle nodded to the WPC, indicating that she could leave. Dropping the thin file onto the desk, he pulled up a chair and sat down. Flipping open the file, he scanned the three sheets of paper inside before eyeing the tired-looking woman sitting opposite him dressed in a T-shirt and sweat pants. ‘Well, Christina,’ he began, ‘that was quite a show you put on for us at Everton’s.’
    Christina O’Brien shrugged. ‘I was high. Some guy came chasing after me. How was I supposed to know he was a police officer?’
    Carlyle pushed out his lower lip, indicating thought. ‘Because he was wearing a uniform?’
    ‘I told you,’ she said in an increasingly affected, mid-Atlantic drawl. ‘I was high.’
    Carlyle slipped into bureaucratic mode. ‘PC Lea, the officer you assaulted, will make a full recovery.’
    ‘Great.’ Christina’s face brightened considerably. If it didn’t manage to make her pretty, at least she didn’t look quite so hard. ‘So, can I get out of here?’
    ‘That is not going to be possible,’ Carlyle replied. ‘You have been charged with Actual Bodily Harm. Given that the assault was witnessed by numerous police officers and was also recorded on camera, I think it’s reasonable to assume that you will be convicted.’
    Christina raised her eyes to the ceiling. ‘Oh, man.’
    ‘If I were you, I would just plead guilty.’
    She thought about this for a moment. ‘Will I get sent to jail?’
    ‘Probably. Or, given that you’re a US citizen, they might just deport you.’
    ‘Fuck.’ Sitting back in her chair, she folded her arms.
    Carlyle closed the file.
    Christina eyed the miniature camera hanging from the ceiling in the corner of the room. Leaning across the table, she lowered her voice. ‘Is that thing on?’
    Carlyle turned to check the red blinking light below the lens. ‘Looks like it.’
    ‘Can you turn it off?’
    ‘No,’ Carlyle lied.
    Christina ran her tongue across her top lip. ‘I give great head,’ she whispered, ‘truly re-markable. Switch that thing off and I’ll do you right