Buckingham Palace Blues (11 page)

‘I don’t do anal,’ she said quickly.

More laughter.

Carlyle felt himself getting flustered. ‘But I didn’t—’

‘And, always, we use a condom.’

‘Okay.’

‘Don’t worry, darling, I will show you a good time. You must be horny, for wanting it at this time in the morning.’ The laughter grew louder. ‘Where are you?’

‘Covent Garden.’

‘Which hotel?’

‘Er . . .’

‘Ah. Good.’

‘Huh?’

‘I know it well,’ she told him. ‘I meet you in the lobby of the Garden Hotel in forty-five minutes. Is £175 for an hour, plus my taxis, plus my tip.’

‘Tip?’ Carlyle asked, belatedly getting into the spirit of the conversation.

‘
Da
,’ she giggled. ‘My tip for making you . . .
explode
!’ The laughter reached a crescendo. Olga waited until the hubbub had subsided. ‘Consider it a performance-related bonus.’

‘What if I don’t explode?’ Carlyle joked. ‘Do I get a discount?’

‘Don’t be cheeky. I see you soon.’ The phone clicked and she was gone.

Carlyle sat there for a moment, wondering what to wear.

Putting on his best suit, a navy Paul Smith number that he’d snapped up for eighty quid several years earlier from the Oxfam shop on Drury Lane, he headed out of the flat. Ten minutes later, he was walking through the revolving doors of the Garden Hotel.

The Garden was situated on St Martin’s Lane, just up from Trafalgar Square and round the corner from Charing Cross police station. A boutique hotel fashioned out of a 1960s office block, it was, according to its brochure,
a manifestation of the emotional zeitgeist of the city
. That automatically made it the kind of place that Carlyle himself could never afford to stay in. At the same time, he had spent quite a bit of time pacing the lobby over the years, for one reason or another, so he knew many of the staff by sight if not by name. Giving the doorman a swift nod, he scanned the lobby itself and the Light Bar beyond, in case Olga had arrived early. When it was clear that she wasn’t there, he headed towards the foppish-looking gent who was sitting at a tiny desk behind one of the lobby’s pillars, with a look on his face that suggested he was half reading the copy of
Country Life
propped up in front of him and half-staring into space.

Over the top of his magazine, Alex Miles watched Carlyle approaching. As chief concierge at the Garden, Miles had acted as the hotel’s senior fixer for their more important and demanding guests for over a decade. When it came to doing his job, policemen were a minor irritant. They had to be managed carefully.

Miles gave up on the article he’d been half-reading about the history of highwaymen and replaced the magazine on the desk. Almost managing to keep the look of disappointment off his face, he forced himself to his feet as Carlyle reached the desk. Straightening up the jacket of his grey pinstripe suit, he extended a hand. ‘Inspector . . .’

‘Mr Miles,’ Carlyle replied cheerily. ‘And how are you today?’

Miles eyed him warily. ‘I’m fine. What can I do for you?’

Happy to dispense with any further pleasantries, Carlyle got straight to the point. ‘I need to borrow a room for a couple of hours. A nice one.’

Miles raised an eyebrow but didn’t smile. ‘Why?’

‘I’m meeting a prostitute,’ Carlyle said casually.

Miles raised both eyebrows.

Carlyle smiled faintly. ‘It’s a professional meeting.’

‘Of course,’ Miles said smoothly. ‘Can I get you a packet of condoms as well?’

‘That won’t be necessary,’ Carlyle told him. ‘But our meeting needs to look kosher. She’ll be here in ten minutes.’

The concierge stared at him blankly.

‘Consider it a deposit at the favours bank,’ Carlyle murmured. ‘A small deposit that represents a tiny nibble at your massive overdraft there.’ A few years earlier, Carlyle had overlooked an unfortunate indiscretion occurring in one of the rooms upstairs involving the concierge himself, two transvestite hookers and a large quantity of unusually pure cocaine. The evidence was still safely locked away at the station, and could be brought out at any time. It was preferable, however, to leave it there and be able to call on Miles’s services now and again.

‘But—’

Carlyle gave him a sharp look. ‘Do we need to examine the ledger?’

Miles looked at his shoes. ‘No.’

‘Good.’

‘Okay.’ Miles sighed, before heading off across the lobby. ‘Let’s see what we’ve got.’

Following at a discreet distance, Carlyle watched Alex Miles step behind the reception desk. After a brief conversation with the extremely pretty black girl on duty, he pulled a key card out of a drawer and activated it.

While Miles tapped away at a computer, the girl gave Carlyle a suspicious look. Pretending not to notice, he waited for Miles to beckon him over.

Miles nodded at the card. ‘There you go. That’ll get you into the penthouse suite. Top floor.’ He cleared his throat. ‘For people with money, it normally costs two grand a night.’

Fuck me, Carlyle thought. Two grand for a night in a hotel? ‘I won’t be there for a whole night,’ he said, somewhat wistfully.

‘Don’t make a mess on the sheets,’ was Miles’s only response.

Carlyle popped the card into the breast-pocket of his jacket. ‘I’ll meet her in the lobby. When the lady comes in, give her a discreet once-over. We’ll have a little chat when I’m done upstairs. I’d be interested to learn if you already know her. If not, maybe you can find out something about her.’

‘Don’t want much, do you? What’s her name?’

‘Olga.’

‘Yeah, right. What’s her
real
name?’

‘Dunno,’ said Carlyle, flopping down on a sofa. ‘But I’m sure that I can find out.’

‘The world’s greatest policeman,’ Miles grumbled, slouching off towards his desk.

‘I know,’ Carlyle smiled, closing his eyes and letting his mind wander, listening to the expensive tap-tap-tap of Miles’s leather shoes on the limestone floor as he walked away.

‘Hey! Wake up!’

Carlyle felt a sharp pain in his shin and sat up quickly. He rubbed his eyes and saw Olga standing over him, a cheeky grin on her face.

She looked around, making sure no one was in earshot. ‘You’re supposed to fall asleep after our business, not before.’

‘Did you just kick me?’ After rubbing his leg, Carlyle struggled to his feet, catching a glimpse of Miles sniggering from behind his desk.

‘Come on,’ Olga said, taking him by the arm and marching him to the lifts. ‘I assume you’ve got a room.’

‘Of course.’

‘Perfect.’ She stood on tip toe and kissed him full on the lips, before pressing the call button.

Blushing violently, Carlyle took a step backwards. ‘What did you do that for?’

‘We have to look the part,’ Olga giggled. She arched an eyebrow back in the direction of Alex Miles. ‘Hotel security is checking out more than just my arse.’

‘Mmm . . .’

‘Did I tell you that kissing costs extra?’ she said brightly.

‘Extra?’

‘Yes. Another two hundred pounds. And no tongues.’

‘Christ!’ Carlyle wished the lift would hurry the fuck up. Not daring to make eye-contact with the concierge, Carlyle kept his gaze firmly on his companion. She was wearing jeans and black cowboy boots, with a grey silk blouse and a tailored navy jacket. There was an expensive-looking watch on her wrist and a thin gold chain around her neck. Discreetly, he sniffed her perfume. He had no idea what it was, but it was nice and doubtless costly. All in all, she fitted in with her surroundings perfectly.

They rode in silence to the top floor. Exiting the lift, Carlyle stepped across the lush carpet and inserted the key card into the door. To his relief, there was a click and he was able to push it open. Stepping inside the suite, he switched on the lights and glanced around. Decked out in the same minimalist style as the rest of the hotel, the room seemed bigger than his entire flat.

Coming in behind him, Olga let out a small shriek of delight. Dropping her bag on the bed, she trotted off to inspect one of the side rooms.

Perching on the end of the bed, Carlyle waited patiently while she completed her tour.

Five minutes later, she returned carrying a handful of toiletries and a selection of spirits from the mini-bar. Dropping them into her bag, she flopped down beside him.

‘Like it?’ he asked.

‘It’s really cool!’ she laughed, angling a toe of one boot in his general direction.

‘You can have it for the afternoon. They won’t kick us out for a while.’

She propped herself up on one arm. ‘Why? You wanna fuck?’

Again he felt himself blush. ‘No, no. I was just saying.’

‘Whatever.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘We’ve got about forty minutes. If I stay longer, Ihor will wonder what is going on. He will want to see more cash.’ She traced a line on the back of his jacket with her finger. ‘So I can’t stay for longer than the hour – unless you decide to pay me more.’

‘So . . . how do you know Ihor?’

She smiled. ‘I met him in church.’

‘Church?’

‘Yes, the Ukrainian Catholic Cathedral in Mayfair. I was at the christening of the daughter of a mutual friend. Ihor was there with his family. He is a big family man. For him, it is everything.’

Carlyle thought about that for a moment. ‘And you joined the family?’ he asked, prepared to go along with this lie.

‘In a manner of speaking,’ she pouted. ‘It’s quite an extended family, but it works well for me.’

‘Fair enough.’ Carlyle shifted uncomfortably on the bed. ‘I’m not making any judgements.’

‘I don’t care one way or the other about what you think. It is
my
relationship.’

‘A working relationship?’

‘A
professional
relationship.’

‘And he takes what? Half of your income?’

‘That’s one way of looking at it.’

‘What’s the other?’

‘Haven’t you heard of
SuperFreakonomics
?’

Carlyle frowned. ‘Super what?’

‘
Super-Freak-onomics
.’ She bounced on the bed like an excited child being given a chance to show just how clever she was. ‘It’s a book by an American professor. You should read it.’

‘Mm. I’ll add it to the list.’

‘What list?’

‘The list of books I
should
read.’

‘It’s good. A client gave me a copy.’

A book? What kind of punter gives a working girl a book? And what kind of girl reads it?
He felt he was being given some kind of red flag, but wasn’t sure what it signified.

‘One of the chapters is about how prostitutes do better with pimps.’

Just what I need, Carlyle thought, a pseudo-intellectual hooker dosed up on American pop sociology. ‘Uhuh . . .’

Olga closed her eyes, as she dug the key points out of her memory. ‘This guy says that a pimp is just like an estate agent.’

On the other hand, maybe the guy did have a point. ‘Now that you mention it,’ Carlyle grinned.

Ignoring him, she ploughed on, ‘Because they both market your product to potential customers.’

‘Why don’t you use the internet like everyone else?’

‘I’m an old-fashioned girl,’ she said primly. ‘I won’t be doing this forever and I don’t want to leave an electronic trail. I work strictly by referral. Strictly cash. When I’m gone, I’m gone. No one will be able to find me.’

Good luck, love, Carlyle thought.

‘Strictly cash,’ she repeated, holding out her hand.

‘Ah, yes. The money.’ He reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a slender wad of twenty-pound notes.

Reaching over, she took the money and counted it carefully before zipping it into a side-pocket of her bag. ‘No tip?’

‘I’m not going to explode.’ Carlyle sniffed.

‘You don’t know that yet.’ She slid off the bed and stepped in front of him, holding out her hand. ‘Give me another fifty.’

‘Come on,’ Carlyle groaned.

Olga stood her ground. ‘Come on?
You
come on! This is my time we’re talking about.’

‘Okay, okay.’ Carlyle sighed wearily and stuck his hand back in his pocket. ‘I suppose a receipt is out of the question?’ he asked, handing over his remaining money.

‘You suppose right,’ Olga smiled. ‘Thank you.’ Sticking the money in her pocket, she sat down next to him on the bed. ‘Okay. Now we’ve got that out of the way, what do you want to know?’

‘What can you tell me about the girl?’

She edged along the bed slightly and turned to look at him. Her eyes seemed to have lost their sparkle, the smile on her face now looking forced and tired. ‘There are many girls. I am one myself. Sometimes it’s not nice, but it’s better than the alternative . . .’

‘Yes,’ he nodded, hoping that she would hurry up and get to the point.

‘But the children, this is something else.’

‘Is Ihor responsible for bringing them over?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘So all that stuff about helping kids in orphanages is fake?’ Carlyle asked. ‘Is it just a front for people-trafficking?’

‘No – he does pay for things. But there is also business to be done.’ She made a face, like it was obvious and logical. ‘He sees the two things as separate.’

‘Who does he work with?’

She thought about it for a moment, and Carlyle wondered if she was trying to remember a script. It crossed his mind that this could all be a set-up. Maybe she was actually lying to him, but he would have to run that risk. It wasn’t like he had a lot of other leads to follow.

‘Ihor has business associates here in England,’ she said finally.

‘And who are they?’

‘I don’t know.’

Carlyle wondered about the posh man he saw in Green Park. ‘English?’

‘I guess so. Ihor knows lots of people. All different kinds. He likes to talk about how he doesn’t just mix with scumbags and losers. He knows nice people, too. Some of them might be English.’

‘What about the not so nice people? What about the people who go after children?’

She made a face. ‘The young ones are only for very special clients. Very important men, Ihor says. That’s the thing for these guys. It’s not just about the sex. They can fuck any woman they want, so it has to be more edgy. They want under-age, they want exotic locations . . . whatever can give them a bigger, better buzz.’ She held his gaze for one, two seconds. ‘That’s what it’s about – the buzz.’