Buckingham Palace Blues (21 page)

‘Boss!’

Turning, he saw Joe Szyszkowski frogmarching Falkirk across the road towards him.

‘This is our guy?’ Joe asked.

‘Yes, indeed,’ beamed Carlyle.

‘Good,’ the sergeant grinned. ‘Otherwise we might have been facing a few civil liberties issues.’

Swaying on the tarmac, Falkirk tried his best to glare at the pair of them, saying nothing.

‘What shall I do with him?’ Joe asked.

‘Where’s Dolan?’

Joe gestured to the unmarked Volvo parked twenty yards up the road. ‘In the car.’

‘Okay. Stick this guy in there too and we’ll go back to the station. I’ll just collect my coat.’

Simon Merrett jerked awake as he felt the toe of a boot in the small of his back. It took him a second to realise that he was still chained to the concrete floor of an empty office. His head was thick and there was a sour, metallic taste in his mouth. Before him stood the gangster’s sidekick wearing an outsized Jack Bauer T-shirt, a blank expression on his face. In his right hand, hanging limply by his side, was a small black pistol. Merrett’s eyes widened. Artem grinned, obviously revelling in the patent fear of the prisoner. Slowly, he made a show of clicking off the safety. Wincing, Merrett clenched both his teeth and his buttocks.

‘Enough!’ Ihor Chepoyak stepped out of the shadows and placed a hand on Artem’s shoulder. Reluctantly, the smaller man put the safety-catch back on. Stuffing the gun into the back of his stonewashed jeans, he retreated to the far side of the room.

Gazing out of the window into the North London darkness, Ihor felt a terrible longing for home. It often came when he was in the presence of death. His greatest fear was that he would die in this shit-hole and never make it back to the Ukraine. His final resting place in Lychakiv Cemetery, in Lviv, had long since been chosen and paid for. A substantial crypt, close to the tomb of the poet Ivan Franko, had been secured with the help of a large bribe to a local official, who had overseen the removal and cremation of the remains of the Jewish merchant and his family who had resided there for the previous 120 years. Of course, someone could easily come along and do the same to Ihor himself in due course. But his mother had already been interred there, and Ihor took comfort in knowing that he would join her when his time came.

Finally, he looked down at Merrett. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said quietly. ‘Artem here is not going to kill you.’

Merrett’s mouth went dry. Shivering against the cold, he tried and failed to think of something to say.

‘But we have to do something,’ Ihor continued.

‘Let me go!’ Merrett croaked.

Ihor smiled. ‘I’ve been thinking about that. The problem is that you are a problem.’ His expression hardened. ‘And I have to deal with problems.’

Merrett’s brain finally started working. ‘People will be looking for me.’

‘No one will find you here,’ Ihor snorted.

‘I am a policeman. There will be a massive search.’

Ihor made a face. ‘Oh? So now you admit to being a policeman?’ His laugh was harsh. ‘Well, Mr Policeman, let them look.’

Merrett wiped his nose on the arm of his jacket. ‘If you . . . harm me, what will Shen say?’

‘Shen?’ Ihor stepped closer to his captive. ‘Shen doesn’t even know that you exist. But I am sure that he will be delighted to know that you and your colleague Miss Scripps think that he is a corrupt officer.’ Lifting his gaze to the ceiling, Ihor stroked his chin theatrically with his free hand. ‘Yes, I wonder what he will think about that?’

Jesus, Merrett thought, how did he find out about Rose? There was nothing he could do about that right now. ‘Shen?’ he asked. ‘Is he bent?’

‘That is not your problem.’ Moving behind Merrett, Ihor slipped a Fort-12 CURZ pistol out of his pocket. Bringing the barrel to the man’s head he squeezed the trigger once . . . twice. By the time Merrett had pitched forward, his blood immediately pooling on the concrete alongside his corpse, the staccato whine of the gunshots had already dissipated through the empty building, to be replaced by the background hum of the traffic noise outside. Putting the gun back in his pocket, Ihor stepped round the body and headed for the door. He nodded to Artem, who was propped against the wall, looking bored. ‘Let’s go.’

Leaning up against the front desk, Carlyle watched Falkirk and his lawyer scuttle out into the London night. It had taken the Earl less than an hour and a half to get legal representation down to Charing Cross police station. And it had taken his lawyer, an overly self-confident young blonde, less than ten minutes to have their interview terminated and her client released. Falkirk had said nothing and made no visible response when Carlyle had placed a series of photographs of Alzbetha’s corpse in front of him.

‘That went well, then,’ said Joe Szyszkowski, appearing behind the desk with a mug of steaming tea in one hand.

The desk sergeant, catching the murderous glint in Carlyle’s eye, shuffled off promptly in search of some paperwork that might need his attention.

Joe noisily slurped the tea. ‘Dolan’s Federation rep called as well. He says that they will be making a formal complaint.’

‘Fuck him,’ Carlyle growled. ‘Is he still here?’

‘No,’ Joe sniffed. ‘He walked out even quicker than his boss.’

‘Great.’ Carlyle felt rage and frustration bubbling in his guts, all the more corrosive because he wasn’t sure what he realistically could have hoped for from tonight’s little escapade. Patience wasn’t his strong point, and he’d reached a place in this investigation where he just had to shake things up a bit.

‘At least we’ve rattled their cage,’ Joe remarked, more or less reading his thoughts, before placing his mug on a coaster on the desk. ‘They’ll have to move more carefully from now on.’

‘Right.’ Carlyle yawned. It was time to go home. They could work out what to do next in the morning. ‘Oh, Christ!’ Gazing across the waiting room, he saw Carole Simpson sweep through the front door. She looked tired but there was a grim determination in her eyes. He tried to remember the last time he had seen her here, at Charing Cross; it had to be the best part of six months. One thing was sure: she wasn’t dropping in at almost ten o’clock at night for a social visit.

Simpson spotted Carlyle and her expression darkened further. Standing up straight, he waited for her to make her way over.

‘John,’ she said, nodding brusquely to Joe Szyszkowski, ‘we need to talk.’

TWENTY

Gavin Heath sat behind the wheel of his Peugeot Bipper Pro, carefully nibbling on his Italian tuna sandwich. Mancini’s café on Brecknock Road, 250 yards south of Tufnell Park tube station, was his usual stop-off, just over halfway through his eight-hour shift. Working for Column Security was boring but straightforward. Over the last three years, Gavin had worked his way up from a temporary summer job guarding a building site to becoming a supervisor on the North London circuit, touring a range of empty offices and shops between Kings Cross and Wembley. The job paid less than £12 an hour, plus he had to wear a stupid, fake uniform, but it helped pay for his Business Studies course at UEL – the University of East London.

Finishing his food, Gavin daintily wiped his mouth with a napkin and lifted his coffee from the passenger seat. Removing the lid, he blew on it gently before taking a cautious sip, as he watched the world go by. Tufnell Park was still lively at this time of night and he eyed a couple of pretty black girls laughing and joking as they waited at a bus stop.

When he’d stared at the girls for a few seconds too long, he let his gaze slip ten yards further along the road to Carleton House, which was his next port of call. Gavin studied the ugly, squat office block, stuck between a pawnbroker’s and a discount supermarket, and wondered why anyone would build a speculative office block here. It was completely the wrong part of town even before the economy had gone tits up.

Unsurprisingly, there had been no takers for this ‘premium’ space, and the developer had gone bust. To date, Carleton House had never been occupied, and Gavin thought there was a fair-to-middling chance that it never would be. Inside, it had never even been fitted out. Even though it was less than three years old, the place already looked well on the way to becoming derelict.

The radio on the dashboard crackled. ‘
Gavin? How are things going?
’

The caller was Jessica in Despatch. She was a nice girl and, not for the first time, Gavin wondered if maybe she fancied him a bit. She’d even asked him out for a drink once, but he’d declined. He didn’t want to get involved with anyone at Column other than doing his shift. Security was just a temporary thing. When he left it behind, he would leave it all behind.

‘Everything’s fine. I’m just at Carleton House in Tufnell Park.’

‘
You haven’t called in.
’ Jessica dropped her voice. He could imagine her leaning across the desk, breathing into her microphone. ‘
That’s not following protocol.
’ She giggled, somehow making the word ‘protocol’ sound vaguely rude. ‘
And Clinton has gone off on one again.
’

Clinton Roache, the office manager, was always complaining about people not following the company’s standard reporting procedures. Out on the road, you were supposed to check in with the office every hour.

Gavin checked the clock on the dashboard and sighed to himself. In truth, he had only checked in once in the course of his shift so far. ‘Okay, sorry. It’s all quiet but I’ll definitely report back in during the next hour.’

‘
Thanks . . . I get off at eleven.
’

Gavin smiled, realising that she’d checked his rota.

‘
I thought about getting a bite to eat . . .
’

‘I need to study tonight,’ said Gavin firmly. ‘I have a class in the morning.’ It happened to be true, not that it mattered. He had to deliver 1,500 words on
The Causes of the Banking Crisis
to his course assessor by 10 a.m. – a piece of cake.

‘
Oh, fair enough.
’

‘Sorry.’

‘
No problem. Anyway, see you later.
’

‘Yeah, see you later.’ The girl was a trier.
It’s nice to be asked
, he told himself.
You should be kind to her.
Putting the lid back on his coffee, he placed it in the cup-holder on the dashboard and slipped out of his van.

Shivering against the cold, Gavin buttoned up his jacket, yawning as he did so. Waiting for a gap in the traffic, he glanced up at Carleton House. Frowning, he realised that the third-floor lights were on. The night before, the whole building had been in darkness; he was sure of that. Who had put the bloody lights on? It wouldn’t be the first time someone had tried to see if there was anything inside – copper, wood, even carpet tiles – that they could nick. Vandals were another possibility. Less likely, an estate agent had taken someone round on a viewing and just forgot to switch the lights off.

‘Shit!’ If someone had indeed broken in, it would ruin Gavin’s whole night; they would have to call the police and then he could be stuck here for hours. It would be a fight to claim the overtime, especially if Clinton made an issue of him not reporting in. Worse still, he could forget about getting his essay written in time for the morning.

Opening the van door, he planted one knee on the driver’s seat and hit the call button on the radio. ‘Jess, it’s me.’

‘
Hiya.
’

‘There hasn’t been anyone in to view Carleton House today, has there?’

‘
I don’t think so. Why?
’

‘The lights are on.’

‘
Hold on. Let me check.
’

Slipping back into his seat, he pulled the door closed as he waited.

A minute or so later, the radio crackled back into life. ‘
Gavin? I’ve checked the log. As far as I can tell, no one’s been in there today.
’

Gavin scowled at his reflection in the windscreen. ‘Okay. I’ll go and check it out.’

‘
Do you want me to call the police?
’

‘No,’ he said hastily. ‘It’s probably nothing at all. I’ll call you from my mobile once I’ve taken a look.’

Gavin stepped out of the lift on the third floor and punched the security code into the pad by the door. When he didn’t hear the usual click of the lock releasing, he gently pulled on the handle. As the door opened, he tightened his grip on the aluminium casing of his Led Lenser P17 torch. Conscious of his elevated heartbeat, he stepped inside.

‘Hello?’ he shouted, trying to ignore the lack of confidence in his voice. ‘This is Security.’ No response. He scanned the room. The place looked pretty much as he remembered it from his last visit – bare floors, unfinished walls, a few cables hanging from holes in the ceiling where the polystyrene tiles were missing. More or less what you would expect from thirty square metres of unwanted office space in a shitty part of North London.

There was clearly nothing to report. He was glad they hadn’t called in the police, and even more glad that the rest of his night hadn’t been ruined. It was time to leave. The light switches were situated on the wall to his right. He stepped over to turn them off. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a small dark shape scuttle across the floor ten yards away, where the space dog-legged to the right. Gavin grimaced: the rats were easily the worst part of his job. A second scuttled across the floor in front of him, and it was then that he noticed the smell. Some dosser had obviously used the place as his toilet.

‘Hello? Is there anyone there?’

Caught in two minds, Gavin hovered by the lights. He urged himself to just switch them off and go, then he could finish his shift and get his paper written. On the other hand, what if the guy was still here, lying in his own shit after having downed a couple of litres of Double Diamond? The rats could have his toes off before he woke up. Maybe even his nose. He couldn’t have that on his conscience.

Cursing under his breath, Gavin walked deeper into the empty office space, keeping his eyes glued on the floor for more rats. Turning the corner, he looked up, checking the familiar orange North London vista through the windows. He nearly jumped out of his skin as a third rat rushed past him and joined the other two as they excitedly scrabbled around the body. One by one the creatures skated through the blood pooled by the hook that had been set into the floor, their feet and bellies smearing the concrete.