Buckingham Palace Blues (Inspector Carlyle Novel)

by Craig, James

  Just after the turn of the millennium, Carlyle had been assigned to Royal Protection Duties. What was supposed to be a three-year posting ended after less than two. It had been, by some considerable margin, the worst time of his professional life.

  SO14 was arguably the most boring posting in the Met. The job consisted solely of babysitting some of the most over-privileged, least self-aware people you could imagine, from a threat that largely consisted of over-zealous grannies and the odd harmless nutter. No one had been interested in blowing up royalty since he was a boy; and now even the most senior royals were just an extension of the ubiquitous celebrity culture that seemed to hold the whole country in its thrall. There were so many of them, too: not just the Queen and her immediate family, but dozens of hangers-on, known as ‘collaterals’, who the average man and woman in the street had never heard of. Together, they helped drive the annual cost of SO14 up to an estimated £50 million; estimated because the actual number remained a State secret that even the Freedom of Information Act could not access.

  Carlyle had never given any of this a moment’s thought before he joined SO14. After almost twenty years on the Force, he had become used to being shunted around from place to place. Once he arrived among the horse shit and the tourists, however, it was a different story. Working in SO14 was not policework as Carlyle understood it. Basically he was there to be used as a gofer, a servant and a general dogsbody. The amount of actual policework involved was approximately nil. What there was, however, was the opportunity to make a bit of cash on the side. Sidelines included flogging the odd royal trinket on the internet and hosting informal tours of the Palace when the owners were away. During Carlyle’s time there, one PC had even charged a mate £200 so he could shag a girl on the back lawn. Urban legend had it that one of the Queen’s corgis had almost choked on the discarded condom.

  From the off, Carlyle had been bored silly. So he made a concerted effort to get transferred out of the unit as quickly as possible. However, his lack of connections and good will meant that the harder he tried to get out, the more he was reminded that he would have to complete his full term. Carlyle being Carlyle, however, he would not take ‘no’ for an answer. In the end, he managed to secure an early release. But only by nearly ending his career in the Police Force full-stop.

  Having to chaperone the younger royals when they went out on the lash was the worst part of the job. Watching them drop the equivalent of more than a month’s salary in some Chelsea nightclub, and then stagger out much the worse for wear, to provide fodder for the paparazzi, was simply soul-destroying. One night, Carlyle’s charge, a wretched collateral who was something like twelfth or thirteenth in line to the throne, stumbled blind drunk out of Pomegranate, a fashionable watering-hole – like a school disco but with silly prices – and started rowing violently with his girlfriend. The woman herself, a nice but dim deb from the Home Counties, burst into tears and fled into the night. While Carlyle’s partner chased after her, Carlyle stayed with the boy. Five or six snappers immediately surrounded the young man, like hyenas round a wounded zebra, flash guns illuminating the darkened street. Before he could intervene, Carlyle watched with a mixture of horror and amusement as the young royal stepped forward and took a swing at one of the photographers. Unfortunately for him, the photographer in question was Alex Hutton, a South African soldier who had spent a couple of years in the French Foreign Legion before accepting the much tougher assignment of working for a British tabloid. Just for a moment, Hutton completely forgot where he was. As his training kicked in, he stepped outside the intended punch and downed his assailant with a swift right to the stomach, following by a crunching left to the nose.

  ‘Ouch!’ Carlyle grinned. He was enjoying himself for the first time that day. ‘That has got to be a major breach of royal etiquette.’

  The young royal collapsed on the tarmac in a bloody heap and began vomiting. While Hutton and the other photographers moved in for their close-ups, Carlyle slowly counted to thirty, before stepping in among them and leading the groaning youth to a nearby car.

  On the drive back to the Palace, Carlyle’s passenger slowly recovered his breath in the back seat. ‘Where the hell were you?’ the boy hissed, still holding his nose. ‘I’ve lost a fucking tooth . . . and I think that bastard has broken my nose!’

  Carlyle glanced in the rear-view mirror at the puffy-faced hooligan, and smiled to himself.

  ‘Fucking useless plod! You people are all the same . . . I’ll have your bloody goolies for this!’

  Carlyle said nothing.

  Once he got back to the Palace, he handed the boy over to the servants and headed to the SO14 office to write his report. This would be all over the papers in a couple of hours and Carlyle knew that he had to get his explanation in first. In considerable detail, he described how the snapper had acted solely in self-defence, and stressed that the young royal had been ‘instantly’ rescued from the consequences of his folly.

  The next day, Hutton was arrested, charged with grievous bodily harm and threatened with deportation.

  Two days later, Carlyle himself was suspended.

  With half a dozen witnesses, and dozens if not hundreds of photographic images to support the snapper’s defence, the Crown Prosecution Service quickly realised that this was one case they did not want to bring to court. Knowing the score, the snapper’s lawyer politely but firmly refused to settle, and waited for the CPS to fold. In the end, it took more than three months for the charges against Hutton to be dropped. Shortly afterwards, Carlyle received a letter from the Police Federation saying that he would be returning to duty the following week. That was the good news. The even better news was that he would be going back to Charing Cross. His unhappy stint at Buckingham Palace was over.

  Unable to believe his luck, Carlyle had to restrain his glee when the union representative gave him a call to tell him that he had been very lucky: he had kept his job and his pension was secure – but he had used up all his last chances, whatever that meant. Being an inspector at Charing Cross would be the end of the line. That’s fine by me, Carlyle thought, just as long as I don’t have to deal with these idiots any more.

  At the top of the stairs, Carlyle turned right and headed for the door furthest along. Taking a deep breath, he knocked.

  ‘Come!’

  He stepped inside and smiled at the chief superintendent sitting primly behind the desk in his small, cluttered office which enjoyed a fine view over the carefully manicured lawns on the west side of the Palace. Normally used for landing the royal helicopter, the lawns also provided the setting for the Queen’s annual garden parties, and were large enough to take 8,000 people at a time for tea and cucumber sandwiches.

  ‘John Carlyle,’ he announced.

  ‘Charlie Adam.’ Standing up, the man leaned over the desk to offer his hand.

  The senior SO14 officer on site, Adam was not much more than five foot six, round and totally bald. The lack of hair made him hard to age, but Carlyle reckoned him to be in his late fifties. ‘Thank you for seeing me.’

  ‘My pleasure.’ Adam smiled. They shook hands. ‘Take a seat,’ he said, sitting down himself. ‘Cup of tea?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Adam pulled a ‘Coat of Arms’ tea caddy from a drawer and waved it at Carlyle. ‘These are HRH Originals. Top-notch organic stuff.’ Opening the lid, he pulled out a bag and held it in front of his nose. ‘The leaves are rolled on the thighs of West Country virgins, or something.’

  ‘I didn’t know there were any virgins in the West Country,’ Carlyle leered.

  ‘Probably not,’ Adam grinned, ‘not after about the age of ten, anyway. Still, it’s good stuff. A tin like this sells for seven quid in the tourist shop.’

  Carlyle held up a hand. ‘I’m fine.’

  Adam placed the caddy on his desk, adjusted his tie and sat up straight. ‘So, you are the infamous John Carlyle.’

  Carlyle grimaced. ‘Hardly infamous.’
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  ‘Don’t be so modest,’ the chief superintendent smiled slyly. ‘They still talk about you round here.’ He mentioned a few names from the past. ‘I’m guessing that you’re not looking at coming back.’

  Carlyle winced. ‘No.’

  ‘Just as well,’ Adam conceded. ‘So, what is it that I can do for you?’

  For what seemed like the hundredth time, Carlyle explained the story of the young foreign girl he had found just beyond the gardens outside.

  Adam listened intently, fingers pressed together as if in prayer. ‘That’s very interesting, Inspector,’ he said, once Carlyle had finished, ‘but what has it got to do with us?’

  Good bloody question, Carlyle thought. ‘There are two things . . .’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ Eyes shining, Adam sat up further in his chair.

  He should get a cushion to sit on, Carlyle thought.

  ‘First, the girl said she lived here.’

  ‘Hah!’

  ‘Yes.’ Carlyle gave a small nod. ‘Then there’s the guy who claimed he was her uncle.’

  Adam smiled benignly. ‘Did you actually see him exit or enter the Palace?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘There are more than five hundred people working in here at any given time . . .’

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘At the weekend, there was a State Banquet for the Sultan of Brunei, so you can double that figure – even triple it.’ Adam laid his palms on the table. ‘Then there are the tourists . . . and that’s just inside.’ He let out a long breath. ‘Outside, goodness knows how many people are milling about at any given time. You, my friend, really are looking for the needle in the haystack.’

  ‘Fore!’

  The sound of breaking glass was followed by the angry whinny of a horse.

  Carlyle rose halfway out of his chair and peered through the window. In front of the shrubbery, three men stood holding plastic buckets in which they were collecting the golf balls being pinged across the lawn by a gent in a tweed cap, standing two hundred or so yards away. ‘I see the Duke still likes to practise his game in the back garden.’ He smirked.

  Adam groaned. ‘His youngest son has just taken up the game, too. If anything, he’s even worse than his father.’

  ‘Are those your guys on ball collection duty?’ Carlyle asked, sitting back down.

  Adam coloured slightly, but did not respond.

  ‘A great use of public money, I reckon.’

  ‘Ours not to reason why, Inspector,’ Adam bridled. ‘Is there anything else I can help you with?’

  ‘I was wondering,’ Carlyle said, ‘if I could have a list of all staff currently working at the Palace – including the SO14 roster, of course.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I would like to speak to everyone who was on duty on Saturday night.’

  Adam frowned. ‘Is that really necessary?’

  Carlyle shrugged. ‘I have to start somewhere.’

  ‘Inspector,’ Adam let out an exasperated snort, ‘I have just explained how many people we have here, as if you didn’t already know that. It would take forever to interview them all. And because of what? A hunch?’

  Carlyle said nothing.

  Adam raised an eyebrow. ‘How much manpower would such an investigation require? How much time?’

  Carlyle smiled weakly but said nothing. After almost thirty years in the Metropolitan Police, he knew that efficiency and value for money were alien concepts to the Force. The only time anyone ever raised cost as an issue was when they wanted an excuse to stop you from doing something.

  ‘I have to say,’ Adam continued, ‘that it sounds like a complete waste of time to me. And there was me thinking that you seemed so keen on seeing the efficient use of public funds.’

  ‘It’s my investigation,’ Carlyle replied evenly. ‘I would also like to see the CCTV images taken from the Constitution Hill side of the property around the time I found the girl on Saturday night.’

  Adam eyed him carefully. ‘Does Carole Simpson know about this?’

  ‘Yes.’ Carlyle nodded. It was, he decided, kind of true.

  Adam sat back in his chair and stared at his precious tea caddy. ‘Well,’ he said mechanically, ‘if the commander sends me a formal request, in line with the established and agreed protocols, I will see what I can do.’

  Carlyle realised that this was the best he was going to get. ‘That is very kind.’ He smiled as he stood up. ‘Thank you very much for your help, sir.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ Adam said, reaching across the table and offering him another limp handshake. ‘It’s good to meet you at last. I must say, I’m glad you weren’t here on my watch. We run a tight ship here now.’

  ‘I’m sure you do,’ Carlyle said politely. ‘I’m sure you do.’

  He got back to the office to find a stack of documents sitting on his desk. On top of it was a large yellow Post-it note. Carlyle read the scribble – Don’t ask where these came from and burn after reading, Joe – and laughed. Sitting back in his chair, he put his feet up on the desk and flipped through the papers. They contained summary details of everyone currently working in Royal Protection. It wasn’t as much information as Charlie Adam could have provided, but it was a start.

  In all, SO14 had more than 400 officers, including 256 on active duty: of these, 152 currently worked primarily in London, 60 worked at Buckingham Palace itself and 14 had been on shift the previous Saturday evening. For each officer, he now had a name, rank, summary career details and a passport-style photo. He looked through the 14, then the 60, then the 152, but none of them was the posh man from the park. Relief mixed with frustration; the idea of a police colleague being involved in something like this would have been simply too dispiriting – even for a hardened cynic like Carlyle.

  After a couple of hours of careful sifting, he was left with three sorted piles. By his left hand was one for the 126 officers he didn’t know, plus another for the 25 he did. The former had no obvious reason to help him with his enquiries; the latter, he was fairly sure, wouldn’t even piss on him if he was on fire. The third selection to his right was very much smaller. It consisted of just one person; the only person he knew who might, perhaps, be willing to give him some help.

  The number rang for what seemed like an eternity before the voicemail kicked in: This is Alexa Matthews. Leave a message and I might get back to you in due course.

  Friendly as ever, he thought. ‘Alexa, this is John Carlyle. Long time no speak. Give me a call – I’m still at Charing Cross. I wondered if I could ask you about something. Thanks.’

  Two minutes later, his phone rang.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘John,’ Carole Simpson said shrilly, ‘what the hell are you doing?’

  ‘Er . . .’ Carlyle shifted uneasily in his seat. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You know exactly what I bloody mean,’ she snapped. ‘I’ve just got off the phone to Charlie Adam.’

  ‘Did he try and sell you some organic tea?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what he did do,’ Simpson said crossly. ‘He told me, very politely but very firmly, to keep you under control.’

  ‘I’m always under control,’ Carlyle joked.

  ‘John, please, try and listen for once. Adam asked me why you thought you could just bowl up to SO14 and basically look to put the whole bloody lot of them under investigation when you’ve got absolutely no reason to do so. When it’s not even your case.’

  ‘What did you say to him?’

  ‘What could I say?’

  There was a pause.

  ‘Have you read my report?’ he asked finally.

  ‘Adam made it very clear that you are not welcome over there. He doesn’t want you wasting any more of his time.’

  ‘Have – you – read – the report?’

  ‘Er . . .’

  At least she can’t bring herself to lie, Carlyle thought, which puts Simpson a cut above a lot of people I kn
ow. ‘A child has been physically and sexually assaulted,’ he said grimly. ‘And now she has been kidnapped. This is a very serious investigation. A young child suffering horrible and despicable abuse – and yet no one seems interested. No one seems to give a flying fuck.’

  There was another longer pause while Simpson thought of something to say. Finally she asked: ‘What about Social Services? What about the social worker?’

  ‘She knows nothing,’ Carlyle snorted. ‘She wasn’t there when the kid was snatched. Still, it hasn’t stopped her taking stress-related sick leave. She’ll probably be off for months.’

  ‘Have you heard anything from Vice?’

  ‘Not a dickie-bird.’

  ‘Okay.’ Simpson let out a deep sigh. ‘I’ll read the report right now. Come up to Paddington in an hour.’

  The two men stood in the doorway and looked at the sullen girl sitting on the bed in front of them. A single low-energy bulb hanging from the ceiling above her head bathed the room in a grubby light that hid the dirt and the flaking paint on the walls, but only added to the sense of gloom. Outside, from the suburban North London street, came the constant hum of traffic. Inside, there was nothing in the room apart from the girl and the bed. It looked like a prison cell. It was a prison cell.

  ‘So . . . what shall we do with her?’

  The older man looked surprised at the question. ‘It’s business as usual. We have bills to pay.’

  ‘Isn’t that a bit risky?’

  ‘What do you want to do? Shut the whole thing down?’

  The younger man looked at the business card in his hand. ‘No, but—’

  ‘You worry too much. The police will lose interest very quickly. They had already handed the kid over to Social Services before you got her back.’

  ‘That’s how I got her back.’