Buckingham Palace Blues

by James Craig

  Falkirk grinned lecherously. ‘Maybe you could drop by and see me at the Palace later . . . have some champagne?’

  Olga glanced at Ihor, then smiled slyly at Falkirk. ‘Maybe. That could be fun.’

  Ihor frowned. ‘How did you know we were here?’

  ‘I didn’t,’ Olga said sweetly. ‘It’s just a coincidence.’ Turning to Elstree-Ullick, she upped the wattage on her smile. ‘So – what are you two boys conspiring about here?’ she asked.

  ‘Just discussing business,’ Elstree-Ullick said airily.

  ‘Oh?’ Glancing at Ihor, Olga arched an eyebrow. ‘And is business good?’

  ‘Not bad,’ Ihor said quickly, giving Elstree-Ullick a look that said Shut the fuck up.

  ‘Not bad?’ Olga repeated slowly. ‘That’s good.’

  ‘Yes,’ Ihor nodded.

  Olga made a show of thinking about things for a second. ‘But what about the girl that died?’

  ‘These things happen,’ Ihor said stonily, his gaze now firmly fixed on the table.

  ‘Yes,’ said Olga brightly, ‘I guess they do.’ She emptied her glass in two gulps and stood up. ‘Ihor, I will see you later.’ Hands on hips, she fixed her eyes on Elstree-Ullick, her smile beginning to erode at the edges. ‘Business must be extremely good if you can bring a child over from the Ukraine and just let her walk out in front of a car,’ she said, not waiting for a response before sauntering to the door.

  Gordon Elstree-Ullick watched her go, the grin still fixed on his face and the erection still in his trousers. Inhaling her lingering scent, he tried to make sense of what he had just heard.

  On the second floor of the Westminster Public Mortuary in Horseferry Road, the stern gaze of Barbara Enereich looked down upon the Forensic Suite that bore her name. Next to the portrait of the former President of the British Association in Forensic Medicine was a small plaque. The legend on it read: Hic locus est ubi mors gaudet succurrere vitae. Below, in a smaller script, for those like Carlyle whose Latin wasn’t quite up to it, was the translation: This is the place where death rejoices to help those who live.

  Bollocks, he mused, returning his gaze to the bank of four LCD monitors hanging from the ceiling. Three of them were blank; the fourth showed the scene inside Lab Number 2 – twenty yards further down the hallway. Biting his lip, he watched as the three forensic pathologists went calmly about their business, preparing for the autopsy of the young girl lying on the slab in the background.

  Sticking his hands into his trouser pockets, Carlyle began pacing from one side of the cramped CCTV viewing room to the other. Autopsy, he remembered from somewhere, meant see for yourself. See for yourself? He would rather not, thank you very much. For Carlyle, this part of an investigation was something to be avoided whenever possible. He had been delighted when Westminster’s new £1 million facility had opened, ending the need for him to be in the same room as the actual corpse. Watching the proceedings on television was far better than being in there along with her, but he still felt queasy. Nausea, mixed with the rage that had been bubbling through his guts in the days since the child had died, was creating a foul brew. Try as he might, he couldn’t bring himself to believe that Alzbetha had now left them all behind while her body was still so shockingly present.

  Looking over at Joe Szyszkowski, who was sitting on a plastic chair at the back of the room, eating yet another bacon sandwich, Carlyle felt his stomach do a double somersault. ‘Let’s go.’

  Joe quickly finished chewing and gave him a funny look. ‘But we’ve only just got here.’

  Carlyle buttoned up his jacket and headed for the door. ‘We know what happened, and we can read the report later. I don’t feel any need to watch.’ Without waiting for a reply, he pulled open the door and fled.

  Out on the street, he gazed at the passing traffic and waited for the nausea to subside. His feelings of inadequacy would take a lot longer to pass. He had failed Alzbetha; failed her completely. There was no way around that – and there was nothing he could do to make amends.

  Joe appeared a few minutes later and placed a careful hand on his boss’s shoulder. ‘We will circulate a picture,’ he said quietly, ‘and the fingerprints. Try to get an ID.’

  Carlyle nodded.

  Joe removed his hand and took a step back. ‘We still have no real idea how she ended up on South Audley Street at one-thirty in the morning.’

  ‘We know exactly how she got there,’ Carlyle hissed.

  ‘Well,’ Joe said gently, ‘what I mean is, we don’t know where she came from. We have CCTV images showing the girl entering from South Street, but how she got there in the first place we don’t know.’

  Carlyle looked at him. ‘There are quite a few blocks of flats around there . . .’

  ‘Yeah. And quite a few hotels. We have a couple of uniforms doing the rounds but they haven’t come up with anything yet.’

  ‘A couple?’

  Joe shrugged. ‘You know how it is. We’ve got two constables for the day. That’s it.’

  ‘Fuck’s sake.’ Carlyle kicked at a discarded cigarette packet on the pavement and missed. ‘Anything else?’

  Joe thought for a minute. ‘We know that she had alcohol in her system, and zaleplon.’

  Carlyle gave him a quizzical look.

  ‘It’s used in sleeping pills. And also she had been—’

  Carlyle held up a hand. He didn’t need any more details. ‘You concentrate on trying to find her family. I’ll go and have another word with Shen.’ He watched Joe trudge off down the road, before disappearing into St James’s Park tube station. Pulling his mobile out of his jacket, Carlyle found the number he was looking for and hit the call button.

  ‘Hello?’

  He was taken aback when Simpson answered immediately.

  ‘Hello?’ she repeated quickly, the irritation obvious in her voice.

  ‘It’s John Carlyle.’

  ‘Yes?’ Almost like she’d never spoken to him before.

  ‘We’ve located the girl.’

  ‘What girl?’

  ‘The girl I found in Green Park.’ He was regretting making this call now, just as she was probably regretting taking it. Still, he persevered. ‘The Ukrainian girl who was snatched from Social Services.’

  There was a pause while Simpson belatedly got herself on to the right page. ‘Ah, yes. Good. Is she okay?’

  ‘She’s dead,’ Carlyle replied matter-of-factly. ‘She walked out in front of a car in Mayfair a couple of nights ago.’

  ‘Oh.’ The pause was longer this time. ‘I’m sorry about that, John,’ she said finally. ‘I know that this was very important to you.’

  ‘It still is,’ he snapped.

  ‘Yes, well, quite. Do you have anything to go on?’

  ‘We are chasing a few things,’ he said vaguely.

  ‘You are working with Shen?’

  ‘Yes, me and Shen . . . that’s why I was ringing. How well do you know him?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘I have my doubts.’

  ‘John,’ she said gently, ‘you always have your doubts.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Carlyle said grudgingly, ‘but I’ve seen him in action and—’

  ‘And what?’ she chided. ‘He doesn’t fit the John Carlyle template for the perfect copper?’

  Ten yards down the road, a taxi driver almost mowed down a woman pushing a child in a buggy as she stepped on to a zebra crossing. The woman flipped the driver the finger and screamed abuse at the cab as it was driven hurriedly away. Carlyle returned to his conversation. ‘I just want to know more about him.’

  ‘All I know is that he is considered an up-and-comer in Vice,’ Simpson said. ‘But I will make some discreet enquiries.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘In the meantime, remember what I told you.’

  What was that exactly? Carlyle wondered ‘Of course.’

  ‘Keep going with it. But when you get to the end of the road, it’s time to stop. I can’t let you chas
e this forever.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘Good. Thank you for keeping me informed. Let’s speak later.’

  ‘Will do.’ Carlyle ended the call and immediately pulled up a number for Warren Shen.

  Standing in the doorway of the former SNCF office on Piccadilly, CEOP Detective Simon Merrett watched Warren Shen as he stood on the kerbside ten yards away, obviously checking the number of an incoming call on his mobile. Deciding not to take it, Shen dropped the phone into the pocket of his jacket and crossed the road, heading north up Dover Street. Taking his life into his hands, Merrett danced across the four lanes of traffic, and followed at what he hoped was a discreet distance.

  A couple of minutes later, Shen took a left down Hay Hill and stepped into an expensive-looking bar called Palermo. Standing on the corner, Merrett pondered what to do next. He was cold and tired, and the dull ache from his broken wrist was driving him mad. Scratching at it under the plaster cast, he cursed himself for giving up a day off to follow this guy around Central London, on the basis of what? A hunch? A desire to be seen to be doing something after the cock-up at the London Eye? Probably more the latter than the former. The truth was, he didn’t really have much of a clue about what he was hoping to achieve.

  After discussing the situation with Rose Scripps, they had decided that it would be premature to approach Shen directly until they had a better idea at least of what was going on. They had no evidence that Shen was bent but, by the same token, they had nothing to say that he wasn’t. CEOP had experience of dealing with police officers who had got caught up in its investigations, most of it bad. It was hard enough getting a result with civilians; but dealing with people who knew how to hide behind the law, and could effortlessly play the system, made it well-nigh impossible. To protect their investigation, such as it was, they had to tread warily. Equally, to protect any investigation that Shen might be legitimately pursuing, they also had to tread warily. But there was a fine line between caution and inactivity, which was why Merrett had spent the last three hours walking the streets and hanging about in doorways.

  It started to rain.

  ‘Shit!’ Zipping up his jacket, Merrett looked around for some shelter. Finding none, he jogged down the hill to the entrance of the Palermo bar. Arriving at the entrance, he was almost knocked over by a young guy in a suit and a tie on his way out.

  ‘Hey!’

  The man just ignored him and kept on going. Cursing under his breath, Merrett stepped inside. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. Looking casually around the room, he saw Shen sitting at a table near the bar with a large, shaven-headed guy. He caught the big guy’s eye and quickly looked away. The rest of the place was fairly empty. There was a smattering of tourists and shoppers, but at least half the tables were unoccupied. Moving to the bar, he had to wait for a couple of minutes before the barman condescended to serve him. Trying not to wince at paying £4.50 for a bottle of Beck’s beer, he took a seat at a table on the far side of the room, from where he could keep an eye on proceedings.

  Pouring half of his beer into the glass provided, Merrett began surfing the net on his mobile, to give the impression of having something to do. Shen and his companion were still deep in conversation. Merrett resisted the temptation to try and take a photo of the pair, worried that it might attract the attention of the shaven-headed guy, whose gaze swept the room at regular intervals.

  Finishing his beer, Merrett headed back to the bar for another Beck’s. Just as he did so, Shen stood up, shook hands with his associate and walked towards the door. As casually as he could manage, Merrett did a U-turn, and followed him out. However, as he reached the door his exit was blocked by a short, stocky man stepping in front of him.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Merrett brusquely. ‘Excuse me.’

  The man placed a firm hand on his chest. ‘Back,’ he said, his English heavily accented.

  ‘What?’ Merrett took a step backwards, looking the man up and down, and did a double-take. He had the same shaved head and squat features as the man at Shen’s table. Merrett glanced over his shoulder to check that there were, indeed, two of them.

  ‘Yes,’ said the voice, now behind him, pushing him towards the table just vacated by Shen. ‘Over there.’ He pointed to his colleague waiting patiently at the table, an amused grin on his face.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Merrett hissed. He looked around the bar. No one was showing any interest in his predicament, and the bartender had disappeared. What would happen if he kicked up a fuss?

  The man gave him another shove. Then he stuck a hand into the pocket of his denim jacket and pulled out a switchblade. ‘I could gut you with this and walk straight out of the door,’ he said casually. ‘You would bleed to death on the carpet before anyone even noticed.’ He slipped the knife back in his pocket and gestured over to the table with his chin. ‘Now, do as I tell you. Go and sit down.’

  ‘Okay, okay.’ Merrett’s brain had frozen. He stepped quickly over to the table and sat down in front of the large smirking type, conscious of the man with the knife at his back, standing over him.

  ‘Why were you watching me?’ Ihor Chepoyak said by way of introduction.

  Merrett tried to look nonchalant. ‘I wasn’t.’

  Ihor looked at his empty glass and smiled. ‘Don’t lie to me. Are you a policeman? I can smell policemen from a mile away.’

  ‘No.’ The word was out of his mouth before Merrett realised it.

  Ihor looked lazily up, past Merrett. ‘Artem . . .’

  Merrett felt a knee shoved into his back. As he leaned forward, an arm went round his neck. Before he could react, the man behind him had skilfully removed his wallet from the inside pocket of his jacket and dropped it on the table.

  Rubbing his back, Merrett coughed as he watched Ihor pick up the wallet and slowly rifle through it until he found what he wanted. Tossing the wallet back to Merrett, he brought the ID card close to his face. ‘CEOP,’ he mumbled eventually. ‘What is this?’

  Sticking the wallet back in his pocket, Merrett said nothing.

  Ihor’s face broke into a broad smile, a gold tooth visible in the back of his mouth. ‘So you are a kind of . . . pretend policeman, Detective Merrett?’

  ‘Give me back my ID,’ Merrett said, with all the authority of a bullied and beaten schoolboy.

  ‘Certainly.’ Standing up, Ihor pushed the card into the back pocket of his jeans. ‘But first you come with us.’

  ‘Like hell I—’ Merrett felt a hand on his shoulder, quickly followed by the tip of the blade at his neck.

  ‘Get up.’ Ihor walked past him, heading for the door. ‘I think you know the alternative.’

  Mouth dry, legs weak, Merrett allowed himself to be hoisted to his feet. He looked round the bar for someone who could help. But, compared to when he had come in, the place seemed almost empty. He felt the beer churning in his stomach. ‘I need to piss,’ he said nervously.

  ‘Piss in your pants,’ said Artem grimly, as he ushered him towards the street.

  SEVENTEEN

  The clock on the wall showed that it was edging towards 5.31 p.m. Well past the time for her to be out of here. Sighing, Rose Scripps switched off her computer and dropped her purse into her bag. She would be late home again. Her commute normally took at least fifty minutes, assuming that the public transport system was working ‘normally’ – a leap of faith that was rarely justified when it came to London’s antiquated tube network – and Sasha, her au pair, was due to clock off at six. Sasha wouldn’t mind waiting, but Rose didn’t like to go into overtime; she couldn’t afford to pay for the extra help and felt guilty about leaving the girl to pick up the slack, even if it only meant twenty minutes here and there.

  Scooping up her mobile, she felt it start vibrating in her hand. It was probably Sasha checking where she was. With a feeling of guilt bubbling up in her stomach, she hit the ‘receive’ button.

  ‘Rose?’ The anxious voice on the line wasn’t Sasha at
all.

  Shit. Rose paused, wondering whether just to hang up. She could blame it on her service provider. Calls dropped off the London network all the time. Her legs were telling her to get going. She glanced again at the clock: 5.32. Shit, shit, shit. ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s Claire.’

  Rose recognised the voice. Simon Merrett’s wife. ‘Oh. Hi, Claire,’ she said, belatedly trying to hide the complete lack of patience in her voice. She had met Mrs Merrett once, when Simon had organised a not particularly successful play-date for their respective kids in Hyde Park. The woman had seemed patronising and slightly aggressive, as if hanging out with single mothers was somehow beneath her. Or maybe she felt just threatened.

  ‘Have you seen Simon today?’ The question was laced with a mix of hostility and concern.

  ‘No,’ Rose said tartly, ‘he’s on a day off.’

  ‘That’s what I thought.’

  You thought? She knew that Mrs Merrett – Ms Somebody-or-Other, using her maiden name – worked for some big law firm in the City. By all accounts, she wore the trousers in the Merrett household and Rose assumed that she kept Simon on a fairly short leash. Her colleague didn’t seem to be the kind of guy who got a day off without his wife knowing exactly what he was going to do with it. But who could tell? Other people’s marriages were rarely an open book.

  ‘It’s just that he was supposed to pick the kids up from gym class this afternoon,’ the woman whined, ‘and he hasn’t showed up there.’

  ‘Well . . .’ It was now 5.36. Rose hopped from foot to foot, like a kid needing a wee. She simply had to get going. She had her own problems to sort, and the whereabouts of someone else’s husband wasn’t one of them.

  ‘I’ve got to go and get them myself.’

  ‘I don’t know where he is.’ Rose looked at her phone. Why couldn’t she just hit the button to end the call? ‘Have you tried his mobile?’

  ‘Of course I’ve tried his mobile!’ Claire Merrett snapped. ‘It’s just going to voicemail.’

  ‘Yes. Of course. Sorry.’ Why was she apologising to this bloody woman? Now 5.37. What was she supposed to do about it, anyway? Simon Merrett had always struck her as fairly reliable – at least, reliable enough to pick up his kids when he was supposed to. But with men you never really knew. ‘I’ll see if I can get hold of him,’ Rose continued, switching her phone from one hand to the other as she struggled to get into her coat and hoist her bag on to her shoulder. ‘I’ll let you know if I manage to contact him.’