Buckingham Palace Blues (33 page)

‘I thought it was the consul,’ Carlyle grinned.

‘You think it’s funny, John,’ she admonished, ‘don’t you?’

‘What?’

‘Going over to Switzerland – how can anyone cause trouble in Switzerland, for God’s sake? It’s the place where you go to die! – and creating just about the biggest international incident since World War Two.’ She ran a hand through her hair. ‘For goodness’ sake, how do you manage it?’

‘I was simply executing a warrant,’ Carlyle said humbly.

Sticking her credit card and the receipt safely in her bag, she leaned over the table and lowered her voice. ‘Just as long as you didn’t execute a member of the ruddy royal family.’

‘No, no.’ Carlyle stiffened. ‘As I said, I had nothing to do with that.’

‘Nothing? Are you sure?’

‘Completely,’ he nodded solemnly. ‘As you know, I was assaulted myself.’

‘Don’t try and play the victim with me, Inspector,’ Simpson said tartly, ‘it simply doesn’t suit you. Those two goons you put in hospital have hired some ambulance-chaser over here in London. This isn’t going to go away quietly – the Met is facing an embarrassing civil suit.’

‘It won’t be the first time,’ Carlyle replied sullenly. He’d had enough of acting the penitent soldier, and wondered if there was going to be a point to this meeting.

‘I have had to tell the authorities, both here and in Berne, that you will be disciplined very harshly.’

Here we go, Carlyle thought. ‘Which means what?’

‘Which means,’ she said slowly, ‘that you had better keep a very, very low profile for a very, very long time.’

Carlyle stared at her.

‘Amazingly,’ said Simpson, ‘despite causing chaos abroad and a tabloid media frenzy here at home, there are still some people who think you have done a good job.’

Carlyle felt his stomach rumble. There were two small chocolates that the waiter had brought with the bill. He grabbed one. ‘Some people as in you?’ he asked, stuffing it in his mouth.

‘No.’ Simpson shook her head. ‘I think that you have been very unprofessional.’ She handed him the final chocolate. ‘Not to mention economical with the truth.’

Caryle bit into the other one. It was easier to lie with something in your mouth. ‘I have told you what I know,’ he said, with a small shrug.

‘Anyway,’ said Simpson, obviously knowing when she was flogging a dead horse, ‘Sir Ewen Mayflower seems to have taken quite a shine to you.’

‘He didn’t mention the vase, then?’

Simpson gave him a funny look. ‘What?’

Carlyle coughed. ‘Nothing.’

‘He says that there are people in Buckingham Palace – ‘‘very high-up people’’, were his precise words – who are very pleased with your efforts.’

‘What?’ Carlyle laughed. ‘You think the Queen herself wanted Falkirk offed?’

‘I don’t know,’ Simpson grinned, getting to her feet, signalling that their little chat was at an end. ‘Maybe the Duke of Edinburgh?’

‘Yeah,’ Carlyle laughed, finally catching the eye of a waiter and gesturing to him for a menu. ‘I could understand that. You wouldn’t want to mess with that old bugger.’

THIRTY-SIX

Sitting at his desk in Charing Cross, the inspector aimlessly surfed the internet while studiously avoiding doing any work. If Simpson wanted him to keep a low profile that was fine by him. Picking up his mobile, he rang Helen. It was a while since he had taken his wife to lunch, and he fancied a burrito from the Mexican place near her office. But the call went straight to voicemail, and he hung up without leaving a message. If she didn’t call him back in time, he would grab a sandwich. Yawning, he returned his attention to the story of an Oscar-winning actress whose husband was being ‘linked’ with a tattoo model. ‘Tattoo model,’ Carlyle mused, marvelling at the girl’s picture. ‘Now that’s what I call a proper job.’

Joe Szyszkowski appeared at his shoulder, holding an oversized doughnut, covered in white icing, in front of his mouth. In his other hand he carried a page ripped from a magazine. ‘Take a look at this,’ he said, waving the story at Carlyle, ‘from the
Sunday Times
Rich List. It says: ‘‘
like us, the Queen has suffered from the effects of falling share prices and property values . . .’’
yada, yada, yada . . . ‘‘
excluding the vast Crown Estate and royal art collection, worth more than £16 billion – but her wealth in jewellery, horses, stamps and paintings takes her to £270 million . . .
’’’

Carlyle was still captivated by the tattoo model. ‘My heart bleeds.’

‘I thought it might.’

‘Only in England could you try and claim someone worth more than sixteen billion quid was only worth two hundred and seventy million.’

Joe shook his head. ‘Imagine being down to your last two hundred odd mill.’

‘But she isn’t,’ Carlyle snapped. ‘That’s the point.’

‘I suppose.’ Taking a large, almost ceremonial bite of his doughnut, Joe sent pieces of icing flying all over Carlyle’s desk.

‘Hey!’ Carlyle squawked in protest.

‘Sorry,’ said Joe, in a manner suggesting that he was not sorry in the slightest.

‘Messy pig,’ Carlyle fussed, sweeping the crumbs on to the floor.

Dropping the magazine story on Carlyle’s desk, Joe pointed the remainder of his doughnut at the image on his boss’s computer screen of a blonde bimbo in a tiny powder-blue bikini pouting for the camera. The tattoos covered so much of her body that it was impossible to work out exactly what they were supposed to represent. ‘I see that you’re broadening your taste in pornography then,’ he joked.

‘I’m not sure if I go for the excessively inky look,’ Carlyle pondered.

‘No need to be coy, Inspector.’ Sticking the remainder of the doughnut in his mouth, Joe flopped into a nearby chair.

‘Really?’ huffed Carlyle. ‘Would you go for something like that?’

‘Who is she, anyway?’

‘Don’t you keep up with current affairs?’ Carlyle laughed. He then explained the situation with the tattoo model, happy to be talking about something other than his Swiss adventure.

Joe chewed thoughtfully. ‘There’s no accounting for taste.’

‘I guess not.’

‘Speaking of which, did you hear that they’ve closed down Dolan’s investment company?’

‘United 14?’

‘Yeah. Apparently it had assets of more than twenty million quid.’

Carlyle let out a low whistle. ‘Not bad. Not exactly in Her Majesty’s league, but not to be sniffed at.’

‘And they think there might be more of it, stashed away in various companies in the Caymans and the British Virgin Islands. There were loads of documents in Dolan’s garage – the finance guys are still going through them.’

‘Mm.’

‘He had a Porsche and a Range Rover there, too – almost a hundred grand’s worth of motors. Plus, he had almost twenty grand in cash under his bed.’

‘A real business big-shot,’ Carlyle snorted.

‘United 14 had almost thirty SO14 or former SO14 guys as its investors,’ Joe continued. ‘Of those still working, six have already resigned . . .’

‘Including that little shit Charlie Adam?’

‘Yeah,’ Joe nodded, ‘he was one of them.’

Carlyle thought about that for a second. ‘So maybe he did rather more than just look the other way?’

‘Another two have been suspended,’ Joe carried on, ‘pending a formal investigation. The ones that had already retired have had their police pensions frozen.’

‘What about the connection to Falkirk?’ Carlyle asked.

‘Falkirk’s company, Black Prince Elite, was also an investor in United 14.’

‘What will happen to the cash?’

‘It will either be confiscated or squandered on legal fees if they try and fight it in the courts.’

‘Result!’ Carlyle punched the air in triumph. ‘With a bit of luck, those bent bastards will lose all their cash and run up big legal fees as well.’

‘Yeah,’ Joe laughed.

‘And end up living in cardboard boxes under Charing Cross arches. Sleeping in their own piss and getting arse-raped for their last can of Special Brew.’

‘You are a right vindictive bastard,’ Joe said admiringly, ‘aren’t you?’

‘Someone’s got to be,’ said Carlyle humbly.

‘There’s more,’ said Joe, grinning. ‘The chief financial officer at Black Prince was identified as the guy who was in that pod at the London Eye with the underage girl. He was picked up a couple of hours ago. CEOP are questioning him right now.’

‘Fuck me sideways,’ said Carlyle, grinning himself now. ‘I didn’t realise that it was bloody Christmas!’ He grabbed the mobile from his desk. ‘I’d better give Rose a call.’

Joe had sloped off again, presumably in search of another doughnut. He’s putting on too much timber, Carlyle thought. The fitness levels required of policemen these days was abysmal but, even so, there were limits. Joe didn’t look like he could run ten yards without suffering a coronary.

His mobile started vibrating on the desk. Helen? Or Rose? He answered it cautiously. ‘Hello?’

‘Hello, Inspector . . .’

The accent was familiar, but for a second he was thrown. ‘This is Carlyle,’ he said, sticking to what he knew.

‘And this is Olga!’

Olga? Olga! Carlyle struggled to remember her real name. Alexandra . . . Alexandra something. This was not a call that he had ever expected to receive. Sifting one-handed through a pile of papers on his desk, he tried to concentrate. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘Nice to speak to you too,’ Alex Gazizulin replied tartly.

‘Where are you?’

‘I’m here in London,’ she said, her tone bright. ‘Why else would I call you?’

Carlyle had long since given up trying to work out what was going on in this woman’s head. Deciding to go with the flow, he tried relaxing into the conversation. ‘I don’t know why you would bother calling me,’ he laughed, ‘other than to show off, since you are always one step ahead.’

‘Very true, Inspector,’ she teased, ‘but at least you are smart enough to understand that. That makes you much smarter than most men.’

It was a compliment of sorts. ‘So? What can I do for you?’

‘I have brought you a present.’

‘Yes?’

‘I have found the girl’s mother,’ Alex said, sounding highly pleased with herself. ‘Alzbetha Tishtenko’s mother. And I have brought her from the Ukraine to London.’

‘Mm.’ Carlyle thought of the small urn still sitting on top of the microwave in his kitchen at home.

‘What’s the matter?’ Alex asked. ‘Has the cat got your tongue? I thought you wanted to find her.’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Carlyle hastily. ‘You have done a good thing. Thank you.’

‘You are very welcome,’ said Alex, sounding somewhat mollified.

‘What about the father?’

‘The father?’ Alex laughed. ‘Who knows? The mother certainly doesn’t. Anyway, who cares?’

Carlyle grunted something that could have been considered assent. Getting to the bottom of his pile of papers, he still couldn’t find what he was looking for. Cursing under his breath, he started again from the top, going through each sheet more carefully this time.

‘Men,’ Alex mused, ‘are basically useless.’

‘Yes.’ Carlyle was familiar with this line of argument, from Helen’s frequent lectures on the subject.

‘This one,’ Alex continued, warming to her theme, ‘is a typical example. He abandoned his child and the mother of his child. Not an uncommon scenario where I come from.’

‘Not an uncommon scenario anywhere,’ Carlyle interjected.

‘He probably drank himself to death years ago. At least, I hope so.’

‘We need to meet up,’ Carlyle said, thinking it through. ‘I’ve had an idea for Alzbetha’s ashes.’ He explained his plan.

‘Inspector Carlyle,’ she purred, ‘you are a very thoughtful man. Maybe a bit sentimental also, but that is good. Make the arrangements. I will call you back later.’

‘What about you?’ Carlyle asked swiftly. He had finally found the piece of paper he was looking for. Tossing everything else on to the floor, he placed the arrest warrant for Alexandra Gazizulin right in front of him.

‘This will be my last trip to London for a while,’ Alex said. ‘We are pulling out of the UK. I have decided it’s not worth trying to rebuild our operations here.’

‘Now that Falkirk is dead?’

‘That wasn’t really the major consideration,’ she said carefully, ‘but it was a factor.’

‘Thank you for saving my life, by the way,’ Carlyle told her. ‘Ihor turned up at just the right moment.’

‘My pleasure, Inspector.’ He could hear genuine warmth in her voice. ‘I am glad that Ihor actually managed to do what he was told, for once.’

‘What will happen to him?’

‘That is not something you need to worry about,’ she snapped, the warmth gone as quickly as it had appeared. ‘He compromised our business here, and it will take him a long time to repair his reputation. He will, as the saying goes, be living in the dog’s house for some time.’

Better than being dead, Carlyle thought. ‘So where will you go next?’

‘I don’t know,’ Alex sighed. ‘There are plenty of opportunities. Choosing one is difficult.’

‘I can imagine,’ he said, though not having a clue.

‘One thing I will promise you, however, is that there will be no more trafficking of children. I have put a stop to that. No one under sixteen will be sent away. That is my new rule.’

A misery merchant with a heart of gold! Carlyle didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. ‘Why not make the minimum age eighteen?’ he replied finally.

‘Half of our girls are under eighteen, Inspector,’ she said calmly – like the CEO of a car-maker explaining the sales breakdown of his different models. ‘You have to be realistic. Less than seven per cent of them are under sixteen.
We
have to be realistic. I had to argue for a long time even to get agreement on that. There are many people who do not have the same concerns about such things.’

This conversation was starting to drive Carlyle insane. ‘Call me tomorrow,’ he said, ending the call before his brain melted.

‘Do you want me to reheat your coffee, or maybe make you a new one?’

In response, Carlyle handed over the untouched latte that had been sitting in front of him for the last twenty minutes. ‘Thanks, Marcello.’ Seated in the back booth of Il Buffone, with the
Closed
sign on the door, he wished he had the energy to do more than brood over his recent conversation with ‘Olga’.