Xue allowed herself the smallest of smiles. The boy was appalling, but all the same, he was easier to deal with than the grotesque mother.
‘Ren.’ Wang glared at her son. ‘Now is not the time.’
‘It’s always the time, Mama,’ the boy smirked as he returned his attention to FIFA 22.
For a moment, Wang looked as if she was on the point of an aneurysm. Lifting the glass to her mouth, she gulped down the last of her water, before returning her gimlet eye to Xue. ‘And where is my adviser, Michael Nicholson? What have you done with him?’
A snort of derision came from the corner. ‘Who cares about your adviser?’ Ren gestured towards Xue with his controller. ‘I hope she’s killed the bastard. I never understood why you were fucking him in the first place.’
‘Enough.’ In one fluid movement, Wang arched her back, raised her right arm and hurled the glass at her son’s head.
Her aim was high and wide. Ren did not even flinch as the glass smashed on the wall behind him.
What a family. Xue Xi watched the glass fragments bounce across the oak floor and come to rest near her feet. If it were down to me I would have shot the lot of you. The MSS agent was not yet out of her twenties, but she liked to think of herself as a traditionalist when it came to matters of personal deportment and discipline. Her father, a Commissar in the People’s Armed Police, had always taught her that there could only be one fate for people who betray the faith and the Party: a single bullet to the back of the head with the cost of that bullet invoiced to the surviving family members. All of this skulking around in the shadows, trying to gather up the Politburo’s dirty laundry, was both demeaning and an abuse of privilege. She had no doubt what her father, dead almost a decade now, would have made of it all.
Wang stepped forward until her forehead was almost under Xue’s chin. ‘Well? Where is he?’
‘You’d better tell her what she wants to know,’ Ren Junior warned Xue. ‘She can be terrible when she’s angry.’
Maybe you would be worth two bullets. ‘He is in a secure location,’ was all Xue offered by way of reply, her English clean and classical by comparison to the boy’s drawl.
‘More important than the fate of that English fool, what about my mother and I?’ Ren asked. Getting to his feet, he dropped the controller onto the chair and took up a position at his mother’s side. ‘What are you planning to do with us?’
Steely Dan’s ‘Dirty Work’ was playing in his head as Carlyle finally walked into the Box Café on Henrietta Street.
‘Hey.’ Alison Roche looked concerned as he hobbled towards her table. ‘What happened to your foot?’
‘Nothing, nothing.’
Folding her copy of that morning’s Metro, she dropped it on the chair next to her and watched him sit down opposite.
‘Sorry I’m late.’
‘No worries.’ After a year or so working with the inspector during a stint at Charing Cross, Roche took his shortcomings in her stride.
Carlyle tried to catch the eye of the owner, Myron, so that he could place his order. Ignoring his loyal customer, Myron allowed himself to be distracted by a pretty blonde who proceeded to order a complicated smoothie. Carlyle’s stomach rumbled with dismay and he stared forlornly at Roche’s empty plate. ‘What did you have?’
‘Just a salad. Look, I don’t want to be rude, but I’ve got a few things I need to do this afternoon and-’
‘Sure, sure.’ Carlyle sat back in his chair and looked her up and down. Catching him staring, Roche grinned from behind her cup of builder’s tea.
‘Are you checking me out, Inspector?’
‘No, no.’ Blushing slightly, he quickly turned his attention to the street outside. Across the road, on the south-west corner of the Piazza, they were turning an office building into a selection of eye-wateringly expensive flats. Carlyle calculated that the cheapest studio cost more than he had earned in the last twenty-five years. The thought made him more than a little depressed.
‘So . . . Chelsea.’
‘Yes. Marvin Taylor.’
Roche placed her tea cup on her saucer. ‘It’s all a bit of a mess.’
‘So I’ve heard.’ Carlyle was distracted by the sight of the blonde girl leaving the café with her drink. This time he waved at the owner for some service but Myron had already ducked into the kitchen. Turning back to the smirking Roche, he tried to look philosophical. ‘But all Naomi really needs is a few kind words and the return of the body. That shouldn’t be so difficult, even for you geniuses at SO15.’
‘Ha,’ said Roche mirthlessly, ‘you’d be surprised.’
Carlyle raised an eyebrow. ‘Getting a bit bored with the big guns and the fast cars?’
‘Mm. Maybe a little. Sometimes.’ Roche gestured at Myron, who had reappeared behind the counter. Waiting patiently for him to lumber over, she let the inspector order some food before continuing. ‘Marvin,’ she said sotto voce, ‘as you know, had his head sliced off. Two of his staff were shot in the head; both of them were serving soldiers who were supposed to be on leave.’
‘Yeah,’ Carlyle said, ‘a massacre.’
‘The official line is that it was some kind of organized crime dispute,’ Roche continued, ‘and people have bought that, so far.’
Carlyle folded his arms. ‘But that wouldn’t explain why you are involved.’
‘No. SO15 took control of the scene less than two hours after the initial 999 call. A man reported six quote-unquote “ninjas” entering the building Taylor’s men were guarding around the time of the murders.’
‘Have you spoken to him?’
Roche shook her head. ‘He didn’t leave any details. We haven’t found him.’
Showing some belated urgency, Myron arrived with a cheese and tomato sandwich and a Diet Coke. Carlyle nodded his thanks, opened the can and took a swig. ‘Neither have the media though, which is a big plus.’
‘Whoever he was, the guy sounded a bit drunk on the tape but he definitely described them as “ninjas”.’
‘So what were Marvin and co. doing there?’ Carlyle took a bite of his sandwich, chewing rapidly.
‘They were looking after some clients in one of the penthouse flats. The assumption is that the ninjas got rid of the bodyguards, grabbed the clients and took off. We’ve got a bit of CCTV coverage showing a van going into the basement garage and then leaving twenty minutes later. That’s about it.’ Roche fished a tenner out of her pocket.
‘Don’t worry about it. Lunch is on me.’
‘OK, thanks.’
‘Who were the people in the flat?’
‘We don’t know.’ Picking up her newspaper, Roche got to her feet. ‘But we think that they might have been Asian.’
‘Indian?’
‘No.’ Roche edged round the table, towards the door. ‘Chinese. Japanese. Something like that. Thanks for lunch. I’ll give you a shout if I hear anything else.’
‘Thanks.’ Carlyle wiped the corner of his mouth with a napkin. ‘But what’ll I tell Naomi Taylor in the meantime?’
Roche reached for the door. ‘I’m sure you’ll think of something,’ she grinned. ‘After all, if I remember rightly, you’re good with grieving widows.’
Umar eyed Carlyle expectantly as he approached the sergeant’s desk. ‘Where’s my sandwich?’
Shit. The inspector stopped in his tracks. ‘Sorry, I forgot.’
‘But-’
Carlyle dismissed the protests with a wave of his hand. ‘What have you found out about our terrorist?’
‘Terrorist suspect,’ Umar said grumpily.
‘Yeah, yeah. Thank you for that vital clarification, Clive Stafford Smith.’ Carlyle picked a sheaf of papers from Umar’s desk, a selection of pages gleaned from various websites, and began leafing through them. ‘So what have we got?’