Buckingham Palace Blues (22 page)

Gavin stood mute as his brain tried to process what he was seeing – the hook, the handcuffs, the blood. He swallowed hard, twice, to stop his dinner from creeping back up his throat. Clamping his jaw shut, he concentrated on breathing through his mouth. Once he had that under control, he stepped close enough to the corpse to scare off the rats. ‘Get out of here, you bastards!’ he screamed, wafting a boot in the general direction of their fleeing backsides.

Pulling out his mobile, he called into Despatch. Jessica answered on the second ring.

‘Jess,’ he said, almost calm now, ‘you need to get the police here
ASAP
.’

The three of them were sitting in the interview room that had been vacated by the Earl of Falkirk barely fifteen minutes earlier. Sipping his latest cup of tea daintily, Joe Szyszkowski eyed Carlyle with interest. Knowing what was coming, Carlyle thought that he should get his retaliation in first. ‘What we’ve got,’ he said, ‘is—’

Simpson held up a hand. ‘What we’ve got,’ she said sharply, ‘is another classic John Carlyle bull-in-a-china-shop episode. Do you know how many calls about you I’ve received this evening?’

Catching Joe’s eye, Carlyle had to suppress a schoolboy smirk. It was like being thirteen again, staring at the prospect of double detention and a letter of reprimand.

Simpson counted them off on her fingers. ‘I’ve had Singer from the Federation. Charlie Adam, of course, and Mazar Corrigan . . .’

Carlyle gave her a quizzical look.

‘My oppo in SO14,’ Simpson explained. ‘Charlie Adam’s boss. And those were just the calls about Dolan.’

Joe stared deeply into his cup.

‘In terms of Falkirk—’

This time Carlyle held up his hand. ‘Okay, okay, we get the picture.’

Clasping her hands together, Simpson bent across the table. ‘So tell me what the bloody hell is going on here.’

Carlyle leaned back in his chair and stuffed his hands in his pockets. ‘Falkirk is the guy who was in Green Park when I found the girl.’

Simpson’s eyes narrowed. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Absolutely. He recognised me tonight. Which is why he tried to do a runner.’

Joe nodded in agreement. ‘That’s right.’

‘But,’ Simpson said slowly, ‘so far, you have no evidence linking him to child trafficking.’

‘There is a Child Exploitation and Online Protection investigation currently ongoing,’ Carlyle countered, deflecting the question, ‘that we think is chasing down the same group.’

‘Why is it,’ Simpson sighed, raising her eyes to the ceiling, ‘that you spend all your life chasing investigations that are the responsibility of other people?’

‘But . . .’ Carlyle protested.

Simpson forced herself to make proper eye-contact with the troublesome inspector. ‘It is time,’ she said slowly, ‘to put this business aside.’

Holding Simpson’s gaze, Carlyle told himself to stay calm.
Don’t raise your voice. Just talk your way out of this.
His mind, however, was suddenly blank. When his phone started buzzing in his pocket, he took it out, playing for time. ‘Hello?’

‘Carlyle? It’s Rose.’ The voice on the line was tremulous.

‘Who?’

‘Rose – Rose Scripps, from CEOP.’

‘Yes, yes?’ Carlyle ignored Simpson’s impatient glare.

‘They’ve found Simon,’ Rose cried.

‘Who?’ Carlyle snapped.

There was nothing but a sob on the line.

‘Hello?’

‘They’ve found Simon,’ she said eventually. ‘Simon Merrett.’

‘Yes?’ Carlyle said, but gently this time. Realising where this was going, he was annoyed by his earlier churlishness.

‘He’s dead.’ She fought for a breath. ‘He was shot in the head.’

TWENTY-ONE

Stepping past one of the forensics crew, he took in the rodent footprints in the congealing blood, the chains and the smell of piss. Then he looked at the victim’s face. It came to him almost immediately. Without a doubt, he had seen this guy before. Even the where and when popped into his head without a moment’s further thought. He closed his eyes and saw the same guy sitting in that bar, sipping his beer, playing with his mobile phone. It was just like watching a video.

Why had he been there?

Why was he here?

And why had he been executed?

Warren Shen moved out of the way and let the ambulance crew lift the corpse onto the stretcher. Adopting the air of a curious onlooker, he watched the forensics team packing up before they headed back to the West Hampstead station. One of the bullets had been recovered, lodged in the wall by the door. The other, as far as anyone could tell, was still in Merrett’s brain. Shen had a pretty good idea who had put it there. Wandering over to the window, he gazed down on the ambulance waiting by the kerb.

‘That’s him.’

Shen turned to see the victim’s colleague, Rose Scripps, identify the body with a nod. Standing with arms crossed, she watched as Merrett was quickly covered with a sheet and carried off. Shen waited for her to notice him and come over. She looked deathly tired, and had clearly been crying, but now she was all business. ‘What are
you
doing here?’ she asked, her voice cracking round the edges.

‘I’m very sorry,’ he said, placing a hand on her shoulder. ‘I’ve never lost a colleague like this, and I can’t imagine how terrible it must be.’

She took a step back from his touch, her eyes dropping to the floor. ‘It will be a lot worse for his wife . . . and for the kids.’

Shen stared at his trainers. ‘Yes, quite.’

‘At least I was able to identify the body, so I could spare her that.’

‘I heard it on the radio,’ Shen said, finally addressing her original question. ‘I recognised his name. I told them to call you.’

‘How did they know it was Simon?’ she asked.

‘He still had his wallet on him. They identified him from his credit cards.’

‘No evidence of robbery?’

‘I don’t know,’ Shen said vaguely. ‘His CEOP ID is missing apparently, but you’d have to speak to the investigating officer.’ He gestured to a portly, middle-aged man talking quietly into a mobile on the far side of the floor. ‘Kevin Ellington, over there. I know him a little. He’s a decent bloke.’

Rose nodded silently.

Shen glanced out of the window as the ambulance pulled away. ‘What was Simon working on?’ he asked, as casually as he could manage.

Rose thought about that for a second. Turning to face her, he could see that she was torn about what to reply. ‘I don’t know,’ she said finally.

You don’t want to play then? Fair enough, Shen thought. In that case, we won’t play. But you sought me out, remember? He felt a stab of resentment towards this woman who had asked for his help but who clearly didn’t trust him.

‘I don’t actually know what he was doing when he went missing.’

I do, thought Shen, up to a point. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I’m sure Ellington will get to the bottom of it. Let me know if there’s anything I can do.’ Without waiting for a reply, he headed for the door, his mind already focused on what he had to do next.

Slowing to walking pace, Alice started looking around her. She had no idea where she was. The streets were empty of people, but there was still a steady stream of traffic on the road. Standing on the kerbside, she counted one, two, three cars go past. Waiting until a fourth was almost upon her, she walked out into the road, her eyes closed against the glare of the headlights.

Shit!

Carlyle woke with a start. Rolling on to his back he blinked once, twice. He had been drooling on to his pillow and felt the damp coldness of his saliva behind his ear. Helen, her back to him, snored quietly beside him. The pale green numbers of the alarm clock by the bed read 3.23. He knew that further sleep was unlikely and he needed to piss. Even so, he was reluctant to get up for fear of waking his wife.

He was not the kind of man to dream. In the grainy, orange darkness, he stared at the ceiling and thought about his nightmare. From some nearby street, Kingsway perhaps, or Shaftesbury Avenue, he heard the rise and fall of a siren – maybe an ambulance, maybe a police car – on its way to try and clean up someone’s late-night mess. Whatever it was, he was glad that it did not involve him.

TWENTY-TWO

The weather was foul, in keeping with his mood. With his right shoulderblade leaning against the cold windowpane, Carlyle felt the rain lash against the glass and listened to the wind whining as it whipped down William IV Street. He had been standing here in one of the larger meeting rooms on the second floor of Charing Cross police station for almost an hour, effectively doing nothing. Now he sullenly sipped his cold coffee and glanced up from the screen of his mobile to watch Rose Scripps and Joe Szyszkowski as they rearranged a series of photographs and documents that were laid out on the table. The combined efforts of their respective investigations were there in front of them. The display featured all the major players, known and unknown, with a picture of a grinning Falkirk, clipped from a glossy magazine, at its centre. All three of them now stared intently at the installation, as the seconds ticked past. Nothing jumped out at them.

The energy levels in the room were sinking fast. Not for the first time that morning, Carlyle wondered about Shen. He had called him twice since last night; but with no reply. Carlyle’s mobile showed no missed calls, no messages. The superintendent was clearly ignoring him. He shoved the phone back in his pocket and stifled a yawn. ‘So what do we have?’

Rose stepped back from the table. She looked completely exhausted, like she hadn’t slept at all. Her mouth opened but she said nothing.

Joe scratched his head, focusing his gaze on a patch of wall above Carlyle’s head. ‘Is Simpson happy for us to be doing this?’

Carlyle shrugged. He hadn’t spoken to the commander since she had left the station the night before. He didn’t want to speak to her about Merrett until he knew if his death was relevant to Alzbetha. The last thing he needed was Simpson thinking that his wild-goose chase had taken yet another diversion.

The fixed-line telephone sitting on the windowsill next to Carlyle started ringing, causing them all to jump. He leaned over and picked up the receiver. ‘Yes?’ he demanded.

‘John?’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s George Patrick. We’ve got a delivery down here for you at the desk.’

‘Yeah?’ Carlyle asked, surprised. The front desk never took deliveries.

‘Yeah,’ the desk sergeant replied, ‘a large box from Candy Cakes. Looks good.’

‘Cakes?’ Carlyle felt his stomach rumble.

‘It’s kosher,’ Patrick confirmed. ‘We’ve run it through the X-ray machine. There’s a note as well.’

‘Okay.’ Carlyle glanced at Joe who, perking up at the mention of food, gave him a hungry look. ‘I’ll be down in a minute.’

Standing at the front desk of the station, Carlyle looked at the dozen cupcakes in the box, each one topped with a different, brightly coloured icing, and smiled. He picked up an electric-blue one and took a bite. It was delicious and he finished it off in two quick mouthfuls under the wistful gaze of George Patrick and a loitering PCSO. Carlyle gestured towards the box. ‘Help yourself.’ After they had chosen, he picked out another three (one for Joe, one for Rose and another one for himself) and headed back towards the stairs.

‘Don’t forget the note,’ Patrick reminded him through a mouthful of bun.

‘Oh, yes.’ Carlyle did a quick U-turn. Careful not to drop any of his collection of cakes, he grabbed the small envelope that had been taped to the lid of the box, and stuffed it into his pocket.

Five minutes later, he had finished a second cake and was sitting back at his desk with a fresh cup of coffee. Joe and Rose could be left to their own devices; it was time for him to catch up with some of the paperwork he’d let slide in the last few weeks. Waiting for his computer to power up, he remembered the envelope in his pocket. On the front, it simply read
Inspector Carlyle
, carefully handwritten in black ink. Ripping it open, he pulled out a small piece of card, slightly bigger than the size of a cigarette packet. At the top was printed the Candy Cakes logo, a pink cake with a heart on it, along with their company’s website address and phone number. Written on the card, in the same script as the envelope, was a simple message:
Check out the AUFS.

AUFS? Carlyle didn’t like puzzles. He didn’t like the sense that people were toying with him.
If you have something to say, just fucking say it
: that was his motto. Drumming his fingers on the desk, he watched the somersaulting hourglass on his screen, as the computer continued its struggle towards life. While he waited, he picked up the receiver on his desk phone and dialled the number printed on the card.

A cheery young female voice answered immediately. ‘Candy Cakes, Sarah speaking. How may I help you?’

Carlyle slowly and carefully explained who he was and the nature of his enquiry.

The cheeriness in the girl’s voice was immediately replaced by wariness. ‘Hold on, please.’

For almost a minute, he listened to the happy hubbub from the shop. Finding himself craving a third cake, he tried to think of something other than food.

Finally, a different voice came on the line. Older. Sterner. ‘Mr Carlyle?’

‘Inspector.’

‘Yes, of course. I am Julia Greene, the company’s owner. How can I help you?’

Hadn’t the girl who answered the phone – he had already forgotten her name – explained that? Carlyle gritted his teeth and repeated his query.

‘A lady came in this morning,’ said Greene smoothly, once he had finished, ‘and asked us to deliver the box to you. I hope you liked them?’

‘They were delicious.’ Carlyle smiled despite himself. ‘However, I forced myself to stop at two.’

‘Aha! I like a man who can show some discipline.’

Was she flirting with him? ‘What else can you tell me about the customer?’

‘A secret admirer, eh?’

Carlyle felt embarrassed. ‘Hardly.’

‘Well, she was tall, elegantly dressed, wore large sunglasses. Maybe in her early to mid thirties.’

Carlyle thought back to his meeting with Olga in the Garden Hotel. ‘Did she use a credit card?’