by James Craig
Like fuck I might. If I don’t drown, all the poison in there will kill me. Carlyle imagined Adam’s index finger tightening on the trigger. Had he taken the safety-catch off? Above all, he wondered how he might dodge the bullet.
‘I beg your pardon?’
Adam took half a step back and Carlyle turned to see a tall man with white hair and a white beard standing in front of them. In his hand was a German-language City Guide to London. Behind the man stood a middle-aged woman and two teenage girls, presumably the pair’s daughters.
‘We are looking for the London Eye,’ announced the man, speaking in the kind of precise, clear English that only the Germans used. ‘We have a booking for a flight in thirty minutes.’
Adam and Carlyle both turned to look at the 400-foot wheel, lighting up the night sky as it revolved serenely, barely 100 yards from where they were standing.
Charlie Adam turned back to the clueless tourist. ‘What the bloody hell do you think that is?’ he growled.
The man glanced at the Eye and then, realising his mistake, smiled apologetically. As he did so, Carlyle took a small step towards Adam. Moving up on to his toes, the inspector smashed his right elbow into the chief superintendent’s face. Adam’s legs sagged and Carlyle gave him the elbow a second time. As Adam’s hands went to his face, he dropped the Walther. The German family looked on disbelievingly as they watched the pistol bounce once, twice on the bridge before disappearing through the railings and into the river.
Everything was happening in slow motion. Carlyle’s blood was up now. Grabbing Adam by the collar of his coat, he threw him against the railings and launched a drop kick between his legs.
‘Ooof!’ As he struggled for breath, Adam tried to spit blood from his mouth. Carlyle could see that the fire had gone out of his eyes. It was time to end it. Stepping forward, he wound up a right hook to the man’s chin, which connected perfectly. Adam’s head snapped back. He tried to hold on to the rail, but stumbled sideways and slumped to the ground.
Seeing that Adam was done, Carlyle turned to the small crowd that had gathered to watch. He fumbled in the pocket of his trousers and pulled out his warrant card. Waving it above his head, he made eye-contact with as many of the onlookers as possible. ‘Has anyone called the police?’ he shouted.
The sirens approaching on the Embankment below gave their own answer.
‘Oh, my God!’ A woman started screaming.
Carlyle turned round to find that Charlie Adam had disappeared. By the time he stepped to the rail and gazed down into the floodlit murk, there was no sign of the man at all.
FORTY
In a restaurant just to the north of the piazza in Covent Garden, Carlyle looked at the Rajasthani puppets hanging from the ceiling. The scene depicted a royal wedding: bridegroom seated on a traditional white horse, surrounded by an array of priests, acrobats, musicians and dancers. In one corner, he spied a group of snake charmers and smiled. Across the table from him were Helen and Alice. It was time for their belated ‘family meeting’.
Charlie Adam’s body had been washed up on the south bank of the Thames near Tower Bridge two days earlier. The four German tourists had corroborated Carlyle’s version of events, missing their flight on the London Eye in the process. Now, finally, the case was closed.
Returning home in the early hours of the following morning, Carlyle had given Helen an only slightly sanitised version of what had happened. After some deliberation, he was excused, if not forgiven, for having missed the circus. He still had to take them to dinner.
Taking a gulp of his Cobra beer, the inspector sat back in his chair. He already knew what he wanted to eat but waited patiently while Helen played with her tap water and carefully scanned a menu that she had seen many times before. Alice, her head deep in a vampire story called Never Bite a Boy on the First Date, ignored them both.
‘I think I’ll have the dhaba rogan josh.’ Helen placed the menu on the table and turned to Alice. ‘What about you?’
‘Not hungry,’ said the voice behind the book.
‘You’ve got to have something,’ her father snapped.
‘No, I don’t!’ Alice protested, briefly looking up from her book. ‘Just because you managed to turn up this time, you think you can tell me exactly what to do. Well, you can’t.’
Out of his depth, Carlyle felt a wave of consternation wash over him. What was all that about?
Helen gave him an amused look that said, Welcome to my world, Mister Policeman.
The brewing argument was interrupted by the cheery hum of a mobile phone. Carlyle and Helen both checked their phones, but neither had received a call.
‘It’s for me,’ Alice said, her petulance immediately giving way to a genuine cheeriness, as she pulled a mobile out of the back pocket of her jeans.
Finishing his beer, Carlyle gave his wife a hard stare, which she ignored.
‘Hello? Stuart . . . hi!’ Jumping to her feet, Alice jogged towards the door, nearly sending a waiter and his tray of thalis flying.
Carlyle felt a migraine building at the base of his skull. He watched Alice standing on the street, talking away animatedly. His Alice? Still? Not yet a young woman, but not his little girl any more.
He gestured to the waiter for another beer.
‘When did she get that phone?’ he asked his wife.
‘She bought it with money my mother sent her.’
‘Great,’ Carlyle sighed.
‘Come on,’ Helen shrugged, ‘you’ve got to ‘‘get real’’, as Alice would say. All the girls in her class at school have got one. Anyway, she needs it to be able to call us when she’s out and about . . .’
She’s never called me. Carlyle looked helplessly at his wife. ‘And who the bloody hell is Stuart, anyway?’
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
This is the third John Carlyle novel and, quite rightly, the list of people I need to thank continues to grow. Among others, I am very pleased to acknowledge the help and support of: Polly James, Paul Ridley, Michael Doggart, Luke Speed, Andrea von Schilling, Celso F. Lopez and Peter Lavery, as well as Mary Dubberly and all the staff at Waterstone’s in Covent Garden.
Particular mention has to go to Chris McVeigh and Beth McFarland at 451 for all their help in promoting John Carlyle online. Of course, nothing would have come of any of this without the efforts of Krystyna Green, Rob Nichols, Martin Palmer, Emily Burns, Jamie-Lee Nardone, Jo Stansall, Clive Hebard and all of the team at Constable. Thanks too to copy editor Joan Deitch and the eagle-eyed Richard Lewis.
Above all, however, I have to thank Catherine and Cate who have put up with all of this when I should have been doing other things. This book, and all the others, is for them.
BOOKS BY JAMES CRAIG
A Man of Sorrows
Then We Die
The Criminals We Deserve
Buckingham Palace Blues
Time of Death
London Calling
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
JAMES CRAIG has worked in London as a journalist and consultant for almost thirty years. He lives in Covent Garden with his family.
www.james-craig.co.uk
Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.
COPYRIGHT
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are drawn from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
This book was previously published by Constable & Robinson in 2012.
BUCKINGHAM PALACE BLUES. Copyright © 2012 by James Craig. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system,
in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub Edition NOVEMBER 2014 ISBN: 9780062365330
Print Edition ISBN: 9780062365347
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