Buckingham Palace Blues

by James Craig

  Not for the first time he was grateful for his wife’s level-headedness. She knew how much this case had troubled him, and he was deeply grateful for her calm support.

  The only funeral that really troubled Carlyle was his own. As a child, he had dreamed of travelling through space in a coffin, on a serene journey that would go on for ever. How he got into space in the first place was never made clear, but the idea appealed. Even now it seemed far preferable to any of the earthbound options. Carlyle felt a fear of being buried; nor did he much fancy being incinerated. Assuming he couldn’t eventually make it into orbit, he had decided that he would prefer being interred in his own crypt – situated somewhere windswept, but with a nice view.

  Over the years, he had given this considerable thought. When he tried to discuss it with them, however, Helen and Alice just laughed. He knew that, when the time came, he would be dead and therefore past caring, but still . . . The idea that he should get it properly written into a will gnawed away at the back of his mind.

  After experiencing two in quick succession, he wondered how many funerals he would attend before his own. Not all of them would be work-related, of course. His grandmother, well into her nineties now and living in a care home in Glasgow, would go in due course. His parents, Helen’s mother, a couple of aunts . . . they all added up.

  At least Simon Merrett had commanded a decent turnout. Carlyle counted thirty-seven people graveside, excluding the priest, the staff from the funeral parlour, and the two gravediggers sitting in their van a discreet distance down the road. He hoped that this would be some kind of comfort to Merrett’s wife, but suspected it would not.

  The inspector glanced at his watch – 11.18 a.m. – and had a sudden hankering for a glass of Jameson. But that was never a good sign at this time of day, and he pushed the thought away. Feeling self-conscious, he did a small jig under the tree, shifting from foot to foot, impatient to be on his way.

  Finally, the service was over. Slowly, the group began to disperse, breaking up into twos and threes as they made their way back to the car park. Carlyle watched Rose Scripps briefly hug the wife and step away, dabbing at her eyes. As Rose headed towards him, he took in the bleak expression on her face. In black trousers and a black overcoat, her hair cut shorter than previously and wearing minimal make-up, she looked older than before.

  Carlyle smiled weakly, by way of greeting.

  Rose nodded.

  ‘I didn’t know Merrett was a Catholic,’ Carlyle remarked, watching the priest in deep conversation with one of the mourners.

  ‘Neither did I,’ Rose replied, her voice sounding a little shaky. ‘It’s amazing how little you know about the people you work with.’

  Not really, Carlyle thought.

  ‘I’ve probably spent more time with Simon over the last year than his wife did,’ she continued. ‘In fact, I know I have. But I still know very little about him.’ She let out a brittle laugh. ‘In fact, I didn’t even know which football team he supported.’

  ‘Oh? Which one was that?’

  ‘Chelsea. He even had a season ticket there, apparently.’

  ‘Mm.’ A grossly crass and uncharitable thought popped into Carlyle’s head. He slapped it away. ‘Shall we get going?’

  ‘Yes.’ Rose fell into step beside him, slipping her arm through his as they headed for the gate. Taken by surprise, Carlyle felt himself go tense. Unsure how to react, he kept walking and said nothing.

  Dressed in a pair of jeans, New Balance trainers and a Hannah Montana sweatshirt, Yulia Boyko looked relaxed and happy. Ensconced in one of the meeting rooms at CEOP, she daintily sipped a can of Coke Light while flipping through the pages of a celebrity magazine. Looking up, she saw Rose standing in the corridor outside and smiled.

  ‘She seems like a sweet kid,’ Rose mused. Gently pulling the door closed, she looked up at the inspector. ‘I think that she understands that she’s had a lucky escape.’

  ‘Very lucky,’ Carlyle quipped, thinking about her impending deportation.

  ‘I did some research,’ she continued, ignoring his sarcasm. ‘Apparently, there are about 100,000 kids in the Ukraine who are either homeless or have been abandoned by their parents, for one reason or another. Yulia lived with her father, stepmother and three sisters until she was six. When the father did a runner, she was sent to a grandmother, but the old woman died when Yulia was nine. That’s when she ended up in an institution.’

  ‘Jesus.’ Carlyle hated these kinds of stories. The shit that some people – some children, for fuck’s sake – had to put up with was just too horrifying. Poverty porn wasn’t his thing; not when he could do sweet fuck-all about it.

  Rose ploughed on, not picking up on his discomfort. ‘Children dumped in orphanages normally grow up lacking the most basic social skills. But this is one smart kid. She hasn’t had much in the way of formal education, but she can still read and write. She says she picked up English from watching TV shows. When the traffickers told her she was going to London, she jumped at the chance.’

  ‘What’s going to happen to her now?’ Carlyle asked, trying to move the conversation along.

  ‘She’s going back there in two days.’

  ‘Very lucky.’

  ‘At least she’s still alive.’

  ‘Good point.’

  ‘I know we’re not doing much to help her,’ Rose shrugged, ‘but there’s no way she’s going to be allowed to stay.’ She looked down at her hands. ‘What I have done though, is to contact the British Embassy in Kiev.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘They put me in touch with the British Council. They are sponsoring some educational programmes over there, and I think we can get Yulia enrolled on one of those.’

  ‘Great.’

  She punched him gently on the arm. ‘It is great. From there she can go on to be a peer educator within a UNICEF-supported Life Skills Education for the Prevention of Trafficking and Unemployment Project . . .’

  ‘Mm.’

  Rose didn’t let his cynicism interrupt her flow ‘. . . which tries to help social orphans to understand and exercise their rights.’

  ‘You’re right,’ said Carlyle, actually impressed, ‘it’s a real start. Well done.’

  Rose blushed ever so slightly. ‘Let’s see what happens,’ she said, smiling. ‘In the meantime, she has been very cooperative.’

  ‘Isn’t that unusual?’

  ‘Very. But the traffickers have no real leverage over her.’

  ‘Because she’s an orphan? With no family for them to threaten?’

  ‘Because she’s a smart kid who realises that she will have to fight for everything she gets in this life. And because we can offer her a decent alternative.’

  Carlyle held out a hand, and Yulia shook it politely. He nodded towards Rose, who smiled brightly. ‘Thank you for talking to us.’

  ‘No problem,’ the girl said quietly, her eyes lowering to focus on the pages of her magazine.

  ‘Yulia . . .’ Rose placed a gentle hand on the girl’s forearm, causing her to look up again. ‘This is the policeman I told you about. Inspector Carlyle.’

  The young girl glanced at Carlyle and nodded.

  ‘It would be great,’ Rose continued, ‘if you could tell him what you already told me – so that he can understand how you came to England.’

  ‘Okay.’ She took a deep breath and launched into a short monologue that had obviously been perfected during various conversations with Rose: ‘I spent the last four years at the Sandokan International Children’s Camp. Three times I run away. This time, the Director tells me to go with the Englishman who comes to our camp. His name was Gordon.’

  Carlyle looked at Rose. ‘Falkirk?’

  Rose nodded. ‘She identified him from a photograph yesterday. We now have a full statement, signed in the presence of a lawyer.’

  ‘Did you speak to this man?’ Carlyle asked the girl.

  ‘No.’ The girl toyed with a page of her magazine. ‘He was too importan
t to speak to any of us. Anyway, he didn’t know that I understood English.’

  ‘What happened next?’

  ‘They took us to a hotel.’

  The girl’s composure was slipping. Carlyle wondered how hard he should push. ‘How many girls?’

  ‘There were four of us. They split us up. I was given my tickets and told to meet the man at the airport.’

  ‘And the others?’

  Yulia’s eyes glistened with tears. ‘I don’t know.’

  Carlyle looked over at Rose, who just shrugged. He stood up and said, ‘Thank you, Yulia. You have done very well talking to us. We are very grateful.’

  The girl smiled shakily. Carlyle had one more question for her, but he wanted to let the child regain her composure. Turning to Rose, he asked: ‘Have we spoken to the Ukrainian authorities?’

  ‘I spoke to someone in the Ministry of Internal Affairs. Apparently there is a big investigation going on into the children’s camp being run by the Kiev Deputy Prosecutor – some general or other.’

  ‘A general?’ Carlyle laughed. ‘We could do with some of that over here – I mean the smack of firm leadership.’

  Rose flicked through the pages of her notebook, looking for the name. ‘General Dmy-tro Gaziz . . . ulin.’

  ‘General Gazizulin is a big man in Ukraine,’ Yulia chipped in.

  ‘Yes.’ Rose nodded. ‘I spoke to one of his assistant assistants or something. They are sending me over some files.’

  ‘Are they investigating Falkirk?’

  ‘I didn’t ask.’

  ‘Let’s find out.’ He turned back to the girl. ‘Is it okay if I ask you one final question?’

  The girl nodded.

  ‘Do you know a girl called Alzbetha? She is maybe eight or nine years old. I think she may have been at the same camp as you.’

  Yulia thought about it for a second, before making a face. ‘No, I don’t think so. I am older than that and they kept the younger children separate.’

  ‘Fine. Thank you again for talking to me.’ Carlyle stuck a hand in his pocket and pulled out a £10 note and some change. He placed the money on the desk next to the girl. ‘Get yourself something to read on the flight home.’

  The girl flashed him a small smile. ‘Thank you.’

  He was saved from a feeling of utter uselessness by the mobile phone vibrating in his pocket.

  ‘Carlyle.’ He smiled weakly at the girl and fled the room.

  ‘Inspector, this is Alex the concierge from the Garden Hotel.’

  ‘Yes?’ said Carlyle warily, expecting that he was about to be asked a favour.

  ‘The girl’s back.’

  ‘Eh?’ Relief at being out of the interview room was now mingled with irritation at the concierge’s cryptic statement.

  ‘The girl you were with last time,’ Miles explained. ‘She’s booked the penthouse suite. Paid for it this time, as well.’

  Fuck. He was about fifteen minutes away by foot; maybe something less than that if he jumped in a taxi. Or maybe not. ‘Is she there now?’

  ‘She went up about ten minutes ago,’ Miles replied with the enthusiasm of a man making a big inroad into his debt at the Bank of J. Carlyle.

  ‘Alone?’

  ‘As far as I know.’

  Carlyle thought for a second. ‘Okay, get me her booking details, including the credit card she used. And call me if she makes a move. I’ll be there in ten minutes.’

  ‘Ah, Inspector. I was wondering when you would manage to get here.’

  Standing in the doorway of the hotel’s penthouse suite, feeling rather sweaty and dishevelled after jogging across Soho, Carlyle looked Olga up and down as he caught his breath. She wore a white dress shirt with the top two buttons undone, over a pair of expensive-looking jeans. Barefoot, sipping from a small bottle of Evian, she was looking good. More than good, just like an expensive hooker should.

  ‘I didn’t think we’d see you again,’ he said, once he was confident that he could open his mouth without his tongue falling to the floor.

  ‘Why not?’ A look of mock surprise moved carefully across her face. ‘Because the unfortunate Mr Ihor Chepoyak happened to go a little bit crazy?’

  Carlyle sat himself on the bed. The lady clearly had an agenda, and he might as well hear it sitting down. ‘I thought you worked for him?’

  ‘Are you responsible for the actions of your boss?’ she asked, not confirming or denying anything.

  Carlyle smiled. He was more than capable of answering a question with a question himself. ‘Do you know where he is?’

  ‘Not any more.’ She sipped her water and grinned, enjoying the game.

  ‘So what are we talking about?’ Carlyle asked.

  The woman gave him a serious look. ‘I heard about the girl.’

  Which one? Carlyle wondered. She knew about Alzbetha, but did she know about Yulia as well? He steeled himself, so as not to give anything away. Attractive women were the worst for getting you to say too much. ‘Alzbetha? I still have her ashes.’

  ‘Urgh.’ Olga shivered.

  ‘She had to be cremated,’ Carlyle said evenly. ‘If we don’t find her family soon, we will have to do something with them.’

  ‘Are you still investigating her death?’

  Carlyle stood up and gave her a stern look. ‘A young girl is trafficked and killed – that is not the kind of case that you just walk away from.’

  ‘No.’ The woman’s face darkened. ‘I understand.’ She carefully screwed the top back on the water bottle and let it fall on to the bed. ‘Did you find anything at the house?’

  Carlyle wondered if he should try and nab the bottle for fingerprints. Was it worth the cost – spending another couple of hundred quid that the Met didn’t have on forensics services? Probably not. ‘Which house?’

  ‘Ihor’s safe house,’ she pouted. ‘The one I told you about. Thane Villas.’

  ‘Nothing. It was empty.’ He paced in a small circle, hands in pockets, trying to wear out the carpet just to annoy Alex the concierge. ‘That address cost me a lot of money, as I remember.’

  ‘Okay, okay. Let me make it up to you.’ Olga lifted a large shoulder bag on to the bed and pulled out a number of A4 sheets of paper.

  ‘What are these?’ Carlyle asked.

  ‘These documents show that 75 Thane Villas is ultimately owned by a company called . . . United 14.’

  Good to know, thought Carlyle. That’s another nail in Tommy Dolan’s coffin.

  ‘I believe,’ Olga said archly, ‘that this is a company owned by the police.’

  ‘It is privately owned by a group of policemen,’ Carlyle said stiffly. ‘That is not the same thing.’

  ‘Whatever,’ said Olga, handing over the papers. ‘But the mortgage is paid by a second company . . .’

  ‘You wouldn’t have thought that these guys would have needed a mortgage.’

  ‘It’s all about leverage,’ Olga said breezily, having satisfied herself that she was dealing with a financial idiot. ‘The mortgage is paid by a company called Black Prince Elite Enterprise Holdings.’

  Ho, bloody ho, thought Carlyle, seeing now where this was going.

  ‘Which is owned by . . .’

  Don’t jump in.

  ‘A very important man . . .’

  Giving her good eye-contact, Carlyle nodded to show he was listening.

  ‘Called Gordon Elstree-Ullick, who is . . .’

  Don’t smirk. Let her tell it.

  ‘The Earl of Falkirk.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘He knows the Queen!’ she squealed. ‘He is something close to the English throne!’

  ‘Do you know him yourself?’

  ‘Yes,’ she grinned. ‘As a matter of fact, I do.’

  Carlyle found Alex the concierge in the gloom of the otherwise empty Light Bar on the ground floor of the Garden Hotel. He was sitting in a booth at the back, drinking a cranberry juice and catching up with his paperwork. ‘I hope you two didn’t mess the
sheets,’ he said, stabbing at the keys of a outsized calculator and not looking up.

  Ignoring the barb, Carlyle took a seat nearby. ‘What have you got?’ Feeling the need for a £6 fruit juice himself, he tried to catch the eye of the bartender, but the guy studiously ignored him as he went on drying glasses and placing them under the bar. Berk, Carlyle thought, returning to the matter in hand.

  Miles pulled a sheet of paper from the bottom of a pile and placed it in front of the inspector. ‘This has come from a contact at the credit-card company.’ He jabbed at the document with his index finger. ‘It’s confidential information, so I’m not supposed to have it. And you are certainly not supposed to have it.’

  Carlyle adopted a look of inscrutable officialdom.

  ‘You cannot use this in court,’ Miles said firmly, ‘and it doesn’t go any further than us.’

  ‘You have a contact?’ Carlyle asked. ‘What kind of contact?’

  ‘One that you don’t need to know about in any kind of detail,’ Miles replied sharply, before sipping at his juice through a pair of straws, like an overgrown schoolboy. ‘Fraud is a big issue – both for us and for them. It can easily cost us tens if not hundreds of thousands of pounds, if we don’t keep on top of things. We don’t want that to happen, neither do they. A free flow of information helps us both.’

  Not wanting to annoy his source any further, Carlyle nodded as he scanned the list of names and numbers. ‘Understood.’

  ‘So,’ Miles said, jabbing at the paper again, ‘what this shows you is that the card used to pay for the penthouse suite is registered, in the name of Olga Gladkyy, to an address – a very expensive address – in Highgate.’

  ‘Okay.’ Carlyle was interested, but not that interested. Olga knew how to play him. By his way of thinking, she must have known that they would get to this, which meant it must be fairly useless information. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have used the card.

  ‘There are three other names with cards registered to that address,’ Miles continued, ‘all women. Daria Khudzamov, Anichka Ischenko and Alexandra Gazizulin.’

  Alexandra Gazizulin.

  Carlyle stared at the name on the sheet of paper for several moments.