by James Craig
Fuck off, thought Carlyle.
Watson kept his own counsel.
‘What did Dolan’s statement say?’ Joe asked, trying to move the conversation on.
‘Basically,’ Watson explained, ‘he blamed everything on the Earl of Falkirk. He admitted being party to conversations about Matthews, but denied plotting to kill her. According to Dolan, the incidents involving Merrett and Shen were down to Ihor Chepoyak. Rather convenient, given that the Ukrainian gentleman has gone to ground somewhere, but there you go.’
‘So where does that leave us?’ the inspector asked.
‘Well,’ said Watson, mopping his brow with a ragged paper tissue that he had fished out of his pocket, ‘the statement is obviously no longer usable in court. You’ll have to find other evidence you can use against Mr Elstree-Ullick.’
‘No problem,’ said Carlyle, suddenly energised. Ignoring the funny look that Joe was giving him, he shook Watson by the hand. ‘Thanks for letting us know about Dolan. But don’t bother to tell us about the funeral arrangements. We won’t be sending flowers.’
Carlyle and Joe patrolled the lobby of Horseferry Road Magistrates’ Court in Victoria, situated close to New Scotland Yard. For more than two hours, they had been waiting for a judge to make an initial ruling on the charges against the Earl of Falkirk. It was now well past normal business hours for the court. While Joe mumbled into his phone, explaining to his wife why he would be home late, Carlyle paced about nervously.
In the normal way of things, getting a judge to hear anything after four o’clock in the afternoon was well-nigh impossible. The inspector would have happily let Falkirk spend a night in the cells, but the Earl and his lawyer had enough clout to persuade a Crown Court Recorder by the name of Harold Stephenson to hear their request for bail the same evening. Stephenson, known among the tabloid press as the Hanging Judge of Horseferry, because of his no-nonsense approach towards dealing with miscreants, was very much a nine to five or, rather, a ten to four man. Being prepared to turn up outside of normal working hours was not a courtesy that would have been extended to any regular member of the public. And if he would sit late for the Earl, who knew what other favours might be granted? Unbelievably, Falkirk might actually be allowed to walk free while awaiting trial.
It crossed Carlyle’s mind that Stephenson might even be one of Falkirk’s clients. The idea made the acid in the inspector’s stomach bubble, but it was complete speculation and he forced himself to drop such a thought.
As Joe finished his call, the look on his face suggested that his wife, Anita, had shown only a limited understanding of his circumstances. He slumped on a nearby bench and yawned. Carlyle sat down next to him. All they could do now was wait.
Ten minutes later, the click-clack of heels on the stone floor caused both of them to look up. Out of uniform, Commander Carole Simpson looked like she was heading off for a night on the town. As she approached them, however, even the make-up could not hide the ashen look on her face.
The pain in Carlyle’s stomach intensified. ‘What’s going on?’ he asked by way of greeting.
Simpson signalled for Joe to come closer, then looked around to make sure no one was within earshot. ‘The judge has granted bail,’ she said quietly.
‘That’s not possible,’ said the two policemen in angry unison.
‘Keep your voices down!’ she hissed, stepping even closer. ‘You know very well that it is.’
‘We’ve been hanging around here for ages, waiting for the hearing to be called,’ Joe objected.
‘The judge didn’t ask to hear from you. The Crown Prosecution Service vigorously opposed bail, but his lawyer gave the necessary assurances.’
‘Necessary assurances, my arse,’ Carlyle snorted. ‘The bloody CPS have fucked us.’ All of them knew that the track record of the Crown Prosecution Service in London was extremely poor. Mismanagement of cases meant criminals were far more likely to skate before or during a trial than anywhere else in England and Wales. Cases were poorly prepared, and results were generally so bad that defendants had more chance of having their cases dropped than of being found Not Guilty by a jury.
‘That’s it,’ said Joe, shaking his head. ‘He’ll be off.’
‘He’s going into a clinic,’ Simpson explained. ‘His lawyer claims he has suffered from a mental and physical breakdown as a result of police harassment, and therefore needs to go into rehab.’
‘Rubbish!’ said Joe. ‘What that little arsehole needs is a good thrashing.’
‘It might have helped if you had got a police doctor to see him,’ Simpson rebuked them.
‘There wasn’t time,’ Carlyle said. ‘Did they make him surrender his passport?’
‘No.’
‘For fuck’s sake!’ Carlyle stamped his foot on the floor in frustration. ‘He’ll do a runner.’
‘He left along with his lawyer fifteen minutes ago,’ Simpson said matter-of-factly. ‘For us it’s now over.’
‘Bollocks,’ Carlyle raged.
Again, Simpson ignored his petulance. ‘You’ve done a good job,’ she said, ‘and more than a good job. I’m proud of you both.’
Carlyle felt a frisson of embarrassment slither down his spine. Never good at accepting compliments, particularly in the face of abject failure, he stared at the floor.
‘That’s the truth.’ Simpson smiled weakly. ‘I know you boys don’t do all that touchy-feely stuff, but I am truly proud of the way in which you haven’t let this one go, but pursued it all the way to the end. You did the right thing.’
‘It’s not the end,’ Carlyle protested.
‘It is for us,’ Simpson said firmly. ‘It’s down to the CPS now and you have to leave it to the lawyers. This guy will not get a free ride just because of who he is. This whole thing has gone too far, way too far. No one is forgetting that a policewoman died here. Or that Merrett was tortured to death. Or that Shen was seriously injured.’
‘The fucker has just walked!’ Carlyle looked around helplessly, as if for something to kick.
‘The judge also granted a media-gagging order,’ Simpson stood her ground, giving Carlyle a knowing look, ‘so no running off to your friends at the bloody BBC.’
Trying to look inscrutable, Carlyle said nothing.
‘I will speak to you later in the week,’ Simpson concluded, buttoning up her coat. ‘I am sure you have plenty of other things to be getting on with. There always comes a time when you have to leave a case behind. This is such a time.’
Carlyle kept his eyes to the ground as he listened to her footsteps receding across the stone floor. The only thought filling his head was how he continued to fail that little girl he had found in the park.
Joe gave him a consoling pat on the shoulder. ‘Drink?’
Carlyle pondered the offer for a moment. ‘Won’t Anita be pissed off if you don’t get home?’
‘Fuck it,’ said Joe. ‘Just a quick drink . . . or maybe two.’ He grinned. ‘We need it. She’ll understand.’
‘Good woman,’ Carlyle said, trying to smile.
‘Yes,’ said Joe happily. ‘Yes, she is.’
THIRTY
With his finger hovering over the send button, Carlyle scanned his report one last time. In conclusion, it read, it appears that the victim died as a result of asphyxiation while indulging in a sex act on his own. Nice word ‘indulging’, Carlyle thought. The silly little sod had accidentally hanged himself with a pair of women’s knickers. According to the pathologist’s report, he hadn’t even climaxed. He shook his head. ‘What a way to go!’
The fact that the victim had been some mini-television celebrity had got the papers interested, and the story had lasted for a couple of days. If nothing else, it had provided the inspector with an amusing interlude in the slow, boring weeks since Falkirk had escaped his grasp.
As expected, the Earl had disappeared. Having been due in court two days ago, Carlyle was not in the least surprised when the man failed to turn up. His lawyer – the s
tatuesque Ms Stuart – had explained to the judge that her client was being treated for depression ‘at an unknown location’. Happily, the judge was not Harold Stephenson this time round, but a low-key and sensible magistrate called Joe Davies. Having examined the paperwork, Davies issued a warrant for Falkirk’s immediate arrest, with a minimum of fuss.
However, that was a warrant that no one expected would be served any time soon.
As he pushed his latest report into police cyberspace, the inspector’s mobile started vibrating on his desk. He picked it up: no number identified. Did he want to answer it? Probably not. He hit the receive button. ‘John Carlyle . . .’
‘John?’
Didn’t I just say that? he thought crossly. ‘Yes.’
‘It’s Rose – Rose Scripps from CEOP.’
‘Of course,’ he said, his mood instantly softening. ‘How are you?’
‘I’ve found Falkirk!’
Carlyle took the phone from his ear and held it in front of his face, looking at it in quiet bemusement.
‘John?’
He returned it to his ear. ‘Yes?’
‘I said, I’ve—’
‘How?’
‘He’s in Paris Match.’
‘What?’
‘Last week’s Paris Match – it’s like a French version of Hello.’
‘Yes, yes.’ He knew what the damn magazine was. Helen would bring home an occasional copy, and Carlyle wasn’t averse to taking a sneaky peek at the photos of the topless actresses.
‘Someone left a copy on the tube, and I picked it up and started leafing though it. There’s a small picture and story on page seven – Royal bad boy drying out at Swiss clinic . . . yada, yada . . . then a quote from a ‘‘friend’’ saying that he’s trying to turn over a new leaf.’
‘So he’s in Switzerland?’ Carlyle asked, more than interested now.
‘Yes. Or at least he was recently. Some place called the Kippe Clinic.’ She spelt out the name. ‘Does this mean we can get him now?’
‘It means that we can bloody well try!’
THIRTY-ONE
‘Okay, Mum, no problem. I’ll definitely be back by then. Of course I understand. Bye.’
Rose Scripps tossed the mobile onto the dashboard of their unmarked Peugeot, the cheapest rental they could find at Geneva Airport. After drumming her fingers on the steering wheel for several moments, she turned to Carlyle and sighed. ‘I’ve got to be back home by tomorrow morning.’
Sitting in the passenger seat, a mute Carlyle stared through the windscreen at the almost empty car park. Less than a quarter of a mile away, the Kippe Clinic glinted in the weak sunshine. Nothing had travelled along the narrow tarmac road leading down to the single-storey glass building for more than an hour.
‘My mother’s off on holiday,’ Rose explained apologetically, ‘so she can’t look after Louise any longer.’
‘Where’s she going?’
‘Devon.’
‘A bit cold there at this time of year?’
‘She has a sister down there, near Totnes. We’ve visited a few times. It’s nice.’
Carlyle grunted. He’d never been to Devon in his life and didn’t feel like he was missing anything.
‘Anyway, I’ll have to pick up my daughter.’
‘Of course.’ Carlyle felt embarrassed by the amateurishness of their set-up: the fight against international crime laid low by a lack of childcare. He was unhappy with Joe for putting him in this position; unhappier with himself for putting him in this position. Joe had half-heartedly volunteered to come along, but he had family problems too. Come to think of it, so did Carlyle. Helen’s patience regarding this case was wearing mighty thin. And when he explained he’d be heading for Switzerland with Rose Scripps in tow, his wife had become decidedly frosty. ‘Do what you have to do,’ had been her final comment.
‘I’m sorry,’ Rose continued, ‘but it has been three days already, and I didn’t know how long you were thinking of waiting here.’
‘No problem,’ he said.
‘Anyway,’ she went on, ‘this is looking like a wild-goose chase.’
‘Yeah,’ he agreed reluctantly.
‘Even if Falkirk turns up,’ Rose persisted, already talking herself on to the flight home, ‘and we get him, he’ll try and stay here in Switzerland.’
‘We have a warrant.’
‘Mm.’ She glanced at the clock on the dashboard. It read 10.53 a.m. ‘The afternoon flight is at five-thirty.’
‘I know,’ Carlyle nodded, admitting defeat. If Rose was heading back home, there was no point in him staying either. Apart from anything else, he needed her to get him around, as he couldn’t drive. ‘We’ll call it a day at two o’clock, get something to eat, and be at the airport by four. Plenty of time.’ Gazing down over the town of Villeneuve, past the Grangette Nature Reserve and across Lake Geneva, he felt a very long way from Charing Cross. ‘It must be tough,’ he said diplomatically, ‘being a single parent.’
‘You just get on with it.’ Rose shrugged. ‘Most of the time it’s fine. It’s not like I have to worry about juggling trips abroad too often.’
Carlyle smiled. ‘Me neither.’
‘What about your wife?’
Carlyle tensed. ‘What about her?’
‘Doesn’t she mind you being here?’ Meaning: being here with me?
Carlyle chose his next words carefully. ‘She understands that sometimes I don’t have control over where my job takes me – although I work very hard at making sure I’m not away from home any more than is absolutely necessary.’ Meaning: subject closed. Bored, he flipped through the glossy brochure for the Kippe Clinic resting on his lap. ‘How much is 30,000 Swiss Francs?’
‘About . . .’ Rose Scripps did the calculation in her head, ‘almost twenty thousand pounds – something like that.’
‘Fucking hell!’ Carlyle let out a low whistle. ‘Imagine spending twenty grand on two weeks of revitalisation and regeneration stress reduction therapies.’
‘Is that what Falkirk is doing?’
‘No idea.’ Carlyle flipped the page. ‘Listen to this: We are leading international experts in illnesses common in the global, de-industrialised, post post-modern society in which we live – disorders and illness related to an individual’s capability of coping with factors such as stress, daily frustrations, highly competitive work environments, anxiety and unsorted anger.
‘Stress is for rich people,’ Rose mused. ‘The term itself was only invented in the 1930s.’
‘What is it, anyway?’ Carlyle asked, though not interested in the slightest.
‘Technically it is defined as a non-specific response of the body to a demand for change.’
‘Sounds like crap to me.’
‘What a sensitive soul you are!’ Rose laughed.
‘That’s me.’ Carlyle tossed the brochure into the back and grabbed a pair of binoculars from under his seat, bought specially for their trip at Field & Trek on Maiden Lane in Covent Garden. Getting out of the car, he scanned the vista with the practised incompetence of the occasional tourist. The clinic lay off to his left, maybe 300 feet further down the mountain. On one side extended lush green fields, on the other a small forest. A small group of gardeners was tending flower beds at the front of the building, and a couple of cleaning staff stood enjoying a cigarette and a natter by a side door.
Switching his attention to the spa centre on the far side of the clinic, he could make out the half-Olympic-size pool, surrounded by recliners, through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The pool itself was empty but, in the far corner, Carlyle could discern a blonde masseuse vigorously working on a guest on a massage table. Readjusting his towel, the man sat up as she handed him a small bottle of water.
‘At last.’ Plonking the binoculars down on the car roof, Carlyle slipped round the bonnet of the car and headed rapidly across the car park.
‘Where are you going?’ Rose yelled after him, struggling to get out of the vehicle.
‘John . . . here!’
He half-turned, just in time to catch the small canister as it flew towards him. He looked at it nestling in his hand: it was about as tall as a Coke can, and half as wide. It could have been a small container of shaving foam, or maybe an asthma inhaler.
‘Pepper spray,’ Rose explained. ‘If he gives you any trouble, aim for the face.’
‘Nice one,’ he grinned, shooting off a little burst downwind. ‘Thanks.’
‘I brought it specially from London.’
‘Excellent!’ Another gold star for Heathrow airport security. ‘Not necessarily legal, but just the job.’ He began moving again.
‘What are you going to do?’ she called.
That, Carlyle thought, is a very stupid question. Lengthening his stride, he hit the grass beyond the tarmac and began running downhill towards the building.
THIRTY-TWO
By the time Carlyle reached the clinic, he was out of breath. A kitchen helper was standing by an open door, an unlit cigarette in her mouth. The woman nodded at Carlyle and began fiddling in her pocket for a box of matches. Nodding back, Carlyle slipped past and stepped inside, moving into a long corridor which, he guessed, led towards the back of the building. Ten yards down, on his left, was a set of doors leading to the swimming pool. Pushing them open, he found Falkirk standing in front of him, dressed in jeans, T-shirt and a pair of loafers.
‘Inspector.’ Falkirk frowned. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I’m here for you.’ Stepping closer, Carlyle could see that his quarry’s pupils were hugely dilated, a clear indication of drug use, and he looked unsteady on his feet. There were dark rings round the eyes and his face was puffy. He looked exhausted. All in all, the man was hardly an advert for two weeks’ R&R in the Alps.