Buckingham Palace Blues

by James Craig

  Sir Ewen Mayflower appeared at his shoulder. ‘Are we ready?’

  Carlyle looked around for Helen. She was standing fifty yards away, examining some plants that he didn’t recognise. In one hand she clutched her bag, in the other the urn itself. There was not another soul around. The three of them had the whole of the Palace garden to themselves. He looked at his watch: Alexandra Gazizulin and the girl’s mother were almost thirty minutes late. That could just be a problem with traffic, but the inspector doubted it. Anyway, he couldn’t keep the Head of the Royal Household waiting any longer.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, turning back to Mayflower. ‘I think that we should get started.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Thank you again for making this happen.’

  ‘Don’t thank me,’ said Mayflower benignly. He gestured back towards the Palace. ‘You should thank the owners.’

  Looking up, Carlyle thought he saw a small, grey figure at a ground-floor window, looking out across the lawn at this melancholy scene. He did a double-take and the figure was gone. Maybe he was imagining things. ‘The owners of this place . . . do they know about Falkirk?’

  Mayflower let out a sly smile. ‘Yes and no.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘I would have thought that was fairly obvious. They know enough to know that they don’t want to know.’

  ‘Of course,’ Carlyle replied. ‘That’s a key establishment skill – dodging the shit.’

  ‘An interesting way of putting it, Inspector, but basically correct.’

  ‘Whatever,’ Carlyle said quietly, ‘we are very grateful. I am sure that you will convey our sincere thanks to the relevant parties.’

  ‘Of course,’ Mayflower nodded. ‘Of course.’ He hooked his arm under Carlyle’s and started walking them both across the lawn towards Helen. ‘There is also,’ he said, after a few moments, ‘something that you can do for me.’

  ‘I will certainly try,’ said Carlyle, wondering what favour he could possibly do for this distinguished old gent.

  ‘I want you to keep an eye on Carole Simpson.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Carlyle frowned. ‘She’s my boss.’

  ‘Yes,’ Mayflower grabbed his arm more tightly, ‘but she respects you and you respect her.’

  Well, kind of, Carlyle thought.

  ‘And now is a time when the poor woman desperately needs the help and support of those close to her.’

  And that means me? Carlyle wondered. Poor woman indeed.

  Mayflower halted them about ten feet away from Helen. ‘Her husband is still in hospital.’

  ‘Still?’

  ‘Yes, they’ve found something nasty. Cancer of the colon, I believe. It looks like Joshua will now be released from prison early on compassionate grounds. The expectation is that he has maybe six months.’

  ‘Carole Simpson told you all this?’

  Mayflower looked at him sadly. ‘Not everyone is as buttoned up as you, Inspector.’

  Buttoned up? Carlyle thought. We’ve met, what – three times – and you’re dissecting my character already? However, realising that this was not about him, he quickly pulled himself together. ‘How is she going to look after him?’

  ‘I think that Joshua may be back home only a few weeks before entering a hospice.’

  ‘Jesus!’

  ‘So, you can see, Carole needs all the kindness and understanding she can get at this time.’

  ‘Yes, of course. I will do whatever I can.’ Carlyle looked up to the grey heavens, wondering what exactly that might be.

  Mayflower patted his arm. ‘God bless you, Inspector.’

  As they finally reached Helen, a mobile started ringing to the tune of ‘Land of Hope and Glory’. Mayflower pulled a handset out of his jacket pocket. ‘Yes, I see,’ he said. He looked over at Carlyle. ‘Your guests are here.’

  ‘Excellent timing,’ said Carlyle.

  ‘Very well,’ Mayflower spoke into the handset, ‘I’ll be right there.’ Ending the call, he excused himself and headed back across the lawn towards the Palace.

  Carlyle stepped up to Helen. Putting his arm around her, he gently kissed her forehead. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Helen smiled. She gestured with the urn towards an empty flower bed. ‘This is where Sir Ewen said we should put her ashes.’

  ‘Not very glamorous,’ Carlyle commented.

  ‘They will plant some summer damasks next year,’ Helen said. ‘Then it will be nice.’

  Carlyle, who wouldn’t have known a summer damask from a hole in the ground, grunted his assent. Over Helen’s shoulder he watched Mayflower reappear with two women in tow. One he didn’t recognise – short and stumpy, she was looking around like she had just arrived on Mars. If her jaw dropped any further, it would soon hit the turf. The other woman he did know: she was tall, elegant and, even at this distance, obviously beautiful. Dressed in a dark business suit under a Burberry raincoat, she could have been simply passing through on her way to a much more classy engagement.

  As Alexandra Gazizulin came closer, the inspector stiffened slightly, recognising the amused twinkle in her eye, and belatedly wondered whether having Helen in tow was such a good idea. It was too late to do anything about it now. Giving his wife another kiss, he whispered, ‘Thank you for coming.’

  Taking his arm, Helen pulled him closer. ‘How else would I ever get the run of the gardens at Buckingham Palace?’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  She watched the trio approach. ‘You are a good man, John. Doing this for the poor girl and her mother.’

  ‘It’s not much.’

  ‘But it’s above and beyond the call of duty. And you also had to think of the idea in the first place.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Carlyle sighed. ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘I’m only sorry that there wasn’t a happy ending here.’

  He breathed his wife’s perfume and gave silent thanks for all that she was; all that he had; his immense good fortune. Reflecting on all that Alzbetha Tishtenko, and Yulia Boyko, and God knows how many others didn’t have. ‘There are no happy endings,’ he declared morosely.

  She grabbed his arm tighter. ‘Don’t be so gloomy,’ she chided softly. ‘Remember that old Carlyle saying: it’ll be all right in the end . . .’

  ‘Yes,’ Carlyle laughed. ‘And if it’s not all right, that just means that it’s not yet the end!’

  ‘Exactly.’ Stepping away from him, Helen moved forward to greet the others.

  Alexandra Gazizulin made the introductions, translating for the benefit of Alzbetha’s mother, who nodded once or twice but said nothing. Carlyle watched the woman sway slightly, her eyes glassy and unfocused. He wondered if she was on medication. Helen carefully handed her the urn and they retreated to a respectful distance, while she spread the ashes in the designated spot.

  Helen then took Sir Ewen by the arm and whisked him off to a nearby bench in order to buttonhole him about Avalon, the international medical charity where she worked. Carlyle had been aghast at her plan to try and use the day for a bit of networking, but she had primly informed him that this was a unique opportunity that could not be passed up. For his part, the old man was clearly delighted to be cornered by this handsome younger woman. Sitting down together, they were quickly engaged in an animated conversation.

  Alex followed his gaze. ‘You have a lovely wife,’ she remarked, with only the slightest edge in her voice.

  ‘I do,’ he replied. ‘I am very lucky.’ He watched Alzbetha’s mother empty the last of the urn, replace the lid and mumble something to herself. ‘What will she do now?’ he asked.

  ‘She wants to go shopping.’ Alex looked at the expression on Carlyle’s face and laughed. ‘Why not?’

  ‘It’s not exactly what you would expect after you’ve lost a child,’ Carlyle huffed.

  ‘She had six kids,’ Alex shrugged. ‘She looked after three of them; gave the other three away. That’s not bad by Ukrainian standards. She di
d her best. You can’t afford to be too sentimental.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ It was Carlyle’s turn to shrug. Who was he to judge?

  ‘I’ve given her £200 to go and spend in Harrods on her way back to the airport. Harrods, imagine! She is very excited by it all.’

  ‘Thank you for bringing her over.’

  ‘It was my responsibility.’ Alex stared into the middle distance. ‘We made a bad mistake. The best I can do is to make sure that we don’t do it again. There are limits.’

  ‘Yes,’ Carlyle agreed, ‘there are.’

  Just then, Alzbetha’s mother appeared in front of them. Eyes lowered, she murmured something to Alex and handed her the urn. Without acknowledging Carlyle in any way, she turned and stomped away across the lawn.

  ‘Harrods time,’ Carlyle said to no one in particular. He turned to Alex. ‘You know, I’ve lived my whole life in London and I don’t think I’ve ever gone there.’

  She arched an eyebrow. ‘I’m not surprised. It’s only for classy people.’

  ‘Thanks a lot!’ he gasped, in mock indignation.

  ‘I’m more of a Harvey Nichols girl myself,’ Alex told him.

  ‘I can imagine,’ Carlyle replied. And he could. It was clear that the term ‘high maintenance’ did not even begin to cover Alexandra Gazizulin.

  ‘Hopefully they will open a franchise in Kiev one day. Here.’ Alex handed the urn to Carlyle. ‘She wants you to keep it.’

  Carlyle turned it over in his hands. A squat brown box, it looked like a tea caddy. ‘Thanks.’

  Alex sighed. ‘It is time for me to go.’

  ‘Shall I get Sir Ewen to show you out?’

  ‘No. It looks like he is getting on well with your wife,’ she murmured. ‘I would not wish to interrupt. We can see ourselves out.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Alex teased, ‘we will not steal anything on the way to the gate.’

  Carlyle laughed, but said nothing.

  ‘We might visit the gift shop though.’

  ‘It’s expensive.’

  ‘I guess they need the money.’ She gestured towards the Palace. ‘It’s a bit run-down, no? It could do with a makeover.’

  He shrugged. ‘These type of places always need a lot of upkeep, I suppose.’

  Bored with the conversation, she held out a hand. ‘Good to know you, John Carlyle.’

  Carlyle hesitated. Then he took her hand, holding it for the shortest moment. ‘Good to know you . . . ‘‘Olga’’.’

  She leaned over and kissed him lightly on the cheek. ‘In your dreams, policeman,’ she whispered. ‘‘‘Olga’’ would have eaten you alive, many times over.’

  Feeling himself blush violently, Carlyle looked over towards his wife. Mercifully, Helen was still deep in conversation with Mayflower, so didn’t pay him any attention.

  By the time he had composed himself, Alex was almost halfway across the lawn. A firm breeze caught him in the face, and he realised that it had stopped raining. A tiny patch of blue had appeared in the sky, displaying token resistance against the inexorable advance of winter. Sticking his hands deep into the pockets of his raincoat, Carlyle watched Alexandra Gazizulin catch up with Alzbetha’s mother and lead her towards an attendant who was waiting by a doorway, ready to show them off the premises.

  As they disappeared from view, the inspector pulled an envelope from one of his pockets. Inside it was the warrant for Alexandra Gazizulin’s arrest. Tearing the document up, he tossed the pieces into the air, watching as they were carried off on the breeze. When the last shred of paper had vanished, he walked over to join his wife and her new friend.

  THIRTY-NINE

  Carnival, football, samba!

  Bollocks.

  It was a cold, dark, wet evening and the wind whipping spitefully off the Thames made it harder to imagine any place on God’s earth less like Brazil. Checking the time on his mobile phone, Carlyle hurried across Charing Cross footbridge, cursing under his breath. He was supposed to be at a performance by the South American Circus at the Royal Festival Hall, but that had started ten minutes ago.

  Damn, damn, damn.

  Helen had spent a fortune on tickets for the show. Afterwards they were going for a pizza at one of the restaurants on the South Bank – a relaxed setting for their family meeting. That, at least, had been the idea. A train rumbled noisily past on the railway bridge nearby as he felt his phone buzzing angrily in his pocket. Another text from Helen, no doubt, wondering where the hell he was. He only hoped that she and Alice had taken their seats and left his ticket at the desk in the foyer. If not, he could meet them in the interval, assuming that there even was one. At the very least, he could pay for their dinner as a gesture of goodwill.

  He struggled forward. The footbridge was barely eight feet wide. There was just enough space for four people, two moving in each direction, less if people stopped to take photographs or just admire the view. ‘Excuse me!’ Slaloming round an elderly woman, Carlyle barged past a man standing by the railings, looking west, towards the Houses of Parliament. Ignoring the man’s complaint, he tried to increase his pace.

  His phone started vibrating again and he glanced at the screen. It was Joe Szyszkowski. The inspector knew what it would be about, so he let it go to voicemail. They had both been delayed by the latest mini-drama at the Charing Cross station where a WPC had launched a sexual harassment claim against the Met and various officers at Charing Cross. It was a nasty little dispute – involving too much alcohol and too many sex toys – that was rapidly heading towards a tribunal and the pages of the tabloid newspapers. Carlyle didn’t want to have anything to do with the whole sorry mess. He only knew the principals in the vaguest terms and had been less than pleased to find himself pulled into an interview room earlier in the afternoon and required to give a formal statement on the matter. He was even less pleased when the Met’s lawyer then proceeded to spend almost an hour going through a list of seemingly random questions to which the inspector had no answers.

  None of that would cut any ice with Helen, however. His wife assumed that work only got in the way if you let it. At the very least, she would consider Carlyle’s tardiness symptomatic of a subconscious desire to avoid dealing with Alice’s karate issue. Trying to press on, he found his way blocked by a young woman deep in earnest conversation with a homeless guy selling the Big Issue. Carlyle tried to swerve round her, but his path was blocked by a group of schoolkids coming the other way, led by a teacher. Carlyle glared at the magazine seller who, sensing his frustration, smiled mockingly.

  As the schoolkids snaked past, the inspector felt someone push up behind him. That wasn’t a surprise, given the bottleneck, but then he felt something hard being rammed into the base of his spine.

  Carlyle half-turned.

  ‘Eyes front,’ a voice hissed. ‘This Walther P99 goes off, and the best scenario is that you will be spending the rest of your life in a wheelchair. And that’s absolutely the best-case scenario.’

  Carlyle recognised the voice but said nothing.

  A hand between his shoulderblades pushed him forwards.

  ‘Step over there . . . to the side. Put your hands on the rail, where I can see them.’

  Carlyle did as he was told. He stared down at the grey-brown soup that was the River Thames, and shivered.

  The man with the gun stepped close up behind him, almost like they were spooning, giving Carlyle no room for manoeuvre while keeping the semi-automatic out of sight of other people crossing the bridge.

  Carlyle turned his head slightly, so that his words wouldn’t get lost on the wind. ‘So what are you going to do now, Charlie?’ he asked. ‘Shoot me or fuck me?’

  Charlie Adam dug the gun deeper into the small of Carlyle’s back. ‘You always were a complete arse,’ he said with contempt. ‘I’m just going to finish a job that should have been done years ago. Undesirables like you should never be allowed in the Force. You should have left SO14 in a box.’

  �
��Like Tommy Dolan?’

  ‘Dolan was a far better copper that you could ever hope to be.’

  ‘Yeah . . . right.’ Carlyle watched the schoolkids disappear towards the train station. He could feel his pulse racing and his heart was threatening to jump out of his chest. Breathing in deeply, he wondered quite how he was going to resolve this situation. Nothing immediately sprang to mind. ‘I got Dolan, so what?’ he said calmly. ‘What do you care?’

  ‘I don’t give a damn about Tommy Dolan,’ Adam whined, the adrenaline and stress sounding clear in his voice, which was now at least an octave higher than usual, ‘He’s the only one anyone ever talks about. I had more than a million in that bloody firm. What about me?’

  ‘United 14?’

  ‘God, Carlyle, you can be really slow sometimes. Yes, United bloody 14. A million bloody quid! That was a lifetime’s work . . .’

  A lifetime’s graft more like, Carlyle thought. Serves you right for being a bent bastard. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘that’s gone. I can’t get it back for you.’

  Tears welled up in Adam’s eyes. Maybe it was due to the wind. Maybe it was the frustration. Maybe it was the thought of a poverty-stricken old age. ‘I know you can’t,’ he snarled. ‘My retirement is gone – up the fucking Swanee.’

  ‘So what do you want from me?’ Carlyle snarled back. He was getting bored with this. In the absence of a better plan, he decided that he would just have to smack the little twat in the face and take his chances.

  Adam waited as another train went by. ‘I want to see you jump.’

  ‘What?’ Carlyle snorted. ‘You’ve got to be fucking kidding.’

  ‘Jump, or I shoot you and push you in.’

  Would the little shit have the bottle to kill him? The inspector seriously doubted it. On the other hand, he didn’t really want to put it to the test. ‘Fuck off!’

  Adam moved the gun a fraction of an inch away from Carlyle’s spine. ‘Jump and you might survive.’