Buckingham Palace Blues ic-3

by James Craig

  ‘John,’ she said warmly. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Fine,’ Carlyle replied. ‘And you?’

  ‘I’m good,’ Simpson said evenly.

  A seagull started yapping overhead. ‘Are you at the seaside?’ Carlyle asked.

  ‘Yes, I’ve just come out from visiting. .’ She stopped short. Their relationship had warmed considerably since Carlyle had been one of the few, one of the very few people on the Force to offer her any sympathy and support after Joshua was nicked, but the relationship was still a formal one. Professional. There was a better understanding between the two of them, but they still weren’t close.

  ‘How is Joshua?’ Carlyle asked, not picking up on her sense of discomfort as it came down the line.

  ‘He’s fine.’ Simpson sighed. ‘Sometimes I think he quite likes it in there, with all his books and his small group of students to teach, and no distractions from the outside world.’

  When you put it like that, Carlyle thought, it sounds quite good. Like a little holiday. ‘He’ll be out in no time.’

  Yes, he will, Simpson thought, not altogether happily. ‘What can I do for you, John?’

  ‘Well. .’ Carlyle quickly outlined what was contained in his report.

  Jamming the phone between her shoulder and her ear, Simpson rummaged in her bag until she found her BlackBerry Curve 8900. Scrolling down through her emails, she opened the latest one from Carlyle. ‘I’ve got it here. Let me read it tonight and we can discuss it tomorrow.’

  ‘All right,’ said Carlyle, trying to ignore the stab of impatience that he felt.

  ‘But,’ Simpson continued, tossing the machine onto the passenger seat, ‘it sounds from what you’ve said as if we should hand this one over.’

  No bloody way, Carlyle thought. Not a fucking chance. ‘Maybe,’ he said.

  ‘The girl is now in care,’ Simpson said. ‘You don’t think it’s a domestic, so you should speak to Vice.’

  ‘Joe is doing that right now,’ Carlyle said, wondering now if that was such a good idea.

  ‘Good.’ Simpson eased herself into her seat. ‘Let me know how that goes. It’s best that the right people handle it.’

  Meaning: it sounds nasty, it looks like a dead end, the kid’ll probably get sent back home, so let’s make sure we can pass the buck.

  ‘Sure,’ he said, as casually as he could manage. ‘In the meantime, I thought that I would check in with some of my old friends in SO14.’

  There was a pause on the line. He heard some muffled noises in the background as she closed the car door, smiling as he imagined his boss banging her head on the steering wheel. ‘John,’ she said finally, ‘you don’t have any friends in SO14 — old or otherwise.’

  ‘Yes, but-’

  ‘Anyway, why would you want to talk to the Royal Protection Unit about this?’

  ‘Because that’s where I found the girl.’

  ‘You found the girl in Green Park,’ Simpson corrected him. ‘Thousands of people use Green Park every day. The Queen, as far as I know, is not one of them.’

  ‘The girl said she lived there,’ he persisted. ‘At Buckingham Palace.’

  ‘That’s what you think she said,’ Simpson snapped, tired of holding this conversation on what had been a stressful day to start with. ‘Even if that’s what she did say, so what? She’s a little girl. All little girls want to be a princess and live in a castle.’

  ‘I know-’

  ‘Look, John,’ she sighed. ‘I-’

  ‘I know,’ he repeated hastily. ‘I know.’

  Simpson looked out at the grey horizon. ‘You say that you do, but then you act like you don’t.’ She felt herself slipping into schoolteacher mode, but kept going anyway. ‘It’s like my dad used to say: you should ignore everything that a boy says, and pay very close attention to everything that a boy does. Best advice I ever had. And it applies just as well to my professional life as it ever did to dating boyfriends. I remind myself of it every day.’

  I must remember to tell Alice that one, Carlyle thought.

  ‘Leaving aside the fact that, based on what you’ve told me, you have absolutely no grounds for snooping around Buckingham Palace,’ Simpson continued, on a roll now, ‘your history with SO14 is such that I can’t honestly believe that there is anyone there who would even give you the time of day.’

  ‘Are you telling me to abandon this child?’ Carlyle asked.

  ‘No one is abandoning anything,’ Simpson said, aggrieved. ‘From what you have told me, she is not your responsibility any longer.’

  ‘I found her.’

  ‘John. .’

  He kept pushing. ‘Nine years old.’

  ‘Don’t come all Mother bloody Teresa with me, Inspector Carlyle.’ Despite herself, Simpson laughed audibly, allowing them both to step back from the row that was brewing.

  Interesting, Carlyle thought. Having a husband in prison has helped her develop something approaching a sense of humour. ‘Look, all I’m saying is-’

  ‘Don’t push me, John. Let me read the report tonight, and we’ll discuss it tomorrow.’

  ‘Okay.’ He knew that was as much as he could hope to get right now. ‘Have a safe journey back to London.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Ending the call, he dropped the phone back in his pocket. ‘Score draw, mate,’ he said to himself. Maybe he had expected too much from the ‘new’, humbled Commander Simpson. At least, however, he could say that he had kept her in the loop. He could argue his case again tomorrow. And, in the meantime, he could continue with his enquiries.

  He picked up a message from Green confirming that the girl had been taken to a small ‘interim holding facility’ i.e. hostel on Bolsover Street, just south of Regents Park. Carver House was a four-storey Georgian building containing six bedrooms and thirteen beds. It was used as emergency accommodation for children between eight and twelve while Social Services sorted something more permanent for them, whether a foster home, a ‘special school’ or maybe deportation.

  Before heading up there, Carlyle made another trip home — Helen and Alice were still out — and ‘borrowed’ some colouring pens and a small cuddly rabbit that he was fairly sure his daughter hadn’t looked at for at least five years.

  The walk up to Bolsover Street took him about twenty minutes, ideas bouncing around his head in a random, desperate fashion. He might not be able to solve this case but he was clear that he still had to help the girl. If he couldn’t do that, he was lost. He was a copper with the full weight of one of the world’s biggest and well-resourced police forces behind him. If, despite all that, he still couldn’t protect a little girl, what was the fucking point?

  Standing on the doorstep of Carver House, he felt tired and anxious. He rang the buzzer and waited. No one came. He rang it a second time, and then a third. In the end, he just kept his thumb pressed down and let it ring incessantly.

  ‘Okay! Okay!’ Finally the door clicked open. A gaunt, middle-aged woman wearing a dark pink tracksuit and green trainers peered out at him. ‘Yes?’

  Carlyle retreated down a step, flashing her his badge. ‘I’m Inspector Carlyle of the Metropolitan Police. I’m here to see Hilary Green from Social Services.’

  ‘It’s like Piccadilly Circus here today,’ the woman grumbled.

  ‘Hilary Green,’ repeated Carlyle impatiently.

  ‘She’s not here,’ the woman replied. ‘Her shift finished hours ago.’ She tut-tutted. ‘Poor woman, do you know how much overtime she has to do each and every week?’

  Biting his tongue, Carlyle made a face that might have been a grimace, might have been a scowl. ‘Is the girl here?’

  Leaning against the doorframe, the woman folded her arms. ‘Which one d’ya mean? I’ve got five of them here at the moment.’

  ‘The one that Hilary brought here earlier. The Ukrainian girl.’

  ‘Ukrainian, is she?’ The woman sniffed. ‘Why am I not surprised? We get all sorts here.’

  ‘Look,’ Carlyl
e snapped, ‘I don’t need the social commentary. I just want to see the girl.’

  Shocked, the woman took a step backwards, as if getting ready to slam the door in his face. He quickly jumped up a couple of steps and put his foot in the door.

  The woman eyed the rabbit in Carlyle’s hand then stared at him suspiciously. ‘Who did you say you were again?’

  With a sigh, Carlyle took out his warrant card a second time and thrust it in her face. ‘Carlyle,’ he said slowly. ‘I work out of the Charing Cross police station. Maybe I should ask you for your ID.’

  ‘Okay, okay.’ The woman moved back out of the way. ‘Keep yer hair on.’

  ‘Now,’ Carlyle hissed through gritted teeth, ‘can I see the girl?’

  The woman edged back further. ‘She’s not here either.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your colleague took her about an hour ago. Not long after Ms Green left.’

  Carlyle frowned. ‘What colleague?’

  ‘The other policeman.’ The woman still gripped the handle of the door tightly. ‘He was far more polite than you.’ She looked Carlyle up and down. ‘Far better dressed too. Much more of a gentleman.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake!’

  ‘He didn’t swear either.’

  ‘Fuck!’ Carlyle hurled the rabbit at the woman, who ducked out of the way.

  ‘Hey!’ she cried. ‘I’ll report you for that. Wait ’til I tell Ms Green what you did.’

  Carlyle stepped inside, slamming the door against the wall. Ignoring some whispering at the top of the stairs, he demanded of the cowering woman: ‘This ‘‘colleague’’ — what did he say his name was?’

  She made a hissing noise, but said nothing.

  Carlyle had to resist the almost overwhelming temptation to give her a kick. ‘Did he show you a badge?’

  Arms wrapped around herself, the woman nodded.

  ‘What did it say?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she whimpered. ‘It was like yours.’

  ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘I dunno.’ The woman gingerly lifted a hand to her face and wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. ‘Like I said, he was smarter dressed than you.’ She began edging away from Carlyle. ‘Taller. Blond hair. Younger.’

  ‘English?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Was he English or was he a foreigner?’

  ‘Oh, he was English. He had a very polite accent.’

  ‘Posh?’

  The woman nodded. ‘Very posh.’

  ‘Where did he say he was going?’

  The woman thought about it. ‘He said he had to take the girl back to the police station for some more questions.’

  ‘Which station?’

  ‘He didn’t say.’

  ‘And you just let him go?’

  ‘He was a policeman,’ the woman whined.

  ‘How many posh policemen do you know?’ Carlyle snarled. ‘And what about the girl?’ he asked. ‘How did she react? Was she happy to see him? Did she go willingly?’

  The woman said shamefacedly, ‘I didn’t see her. I was in the back making a cup of tea. They’d gone before I returned.’

  ‘Jesus fucking Christ!’ Carlyle sat himself down on the bottom stair with a thud and the woman scuttled into the rear of the house. If she’s going to try and raise someone from Social Services, good luck to her, he thought. Breathing deeply, he waited for the anger inside him to subside so that he could start to think.

  ‘Mister?’

  Carlyle looked round to see a girl, maybe the same age as Alzbetha, standing at the top of the stairs. ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Sally.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, Sally,’ he said, giving her a limp wave. ‘I’m John. I’m a policeman.’

  ‘I know. I heard you tell that woman.’ Cautiously, she came down towards him. ‘Can I have those pens?’

  Carlyle looked at the packet in his hand and passed it over. Picking up the rabbit from the hall floor, he tossed her that as well.

  ‘Thanks.’ The girl held her new presents tightly to her chest and retreated slowly up to the top of the stairs. ‘I saw the man take that girl.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’

  ‘She didn’t want to go. She tried to hit him, but he stuck her under his arm and carried her down.’

  ‘This man,’ Carlyle said gently, ‘what did he look like?’

  The girl looked him straight in the eye. ‘He looked like a prince.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Yes.’ Sally turned and disappeared. Moments later, she came back with a colouring book. Carlyle recognised it as one of the books he had bought for Alzbetha the night before. She pointed to the cover, where a prince and a princess were dancing in front of a castle. ‘He looked like him.’

  FIVE

  ‘Intervals’ in the Queen’s official programme allowed opportunities for the State Rooms of the Palace to be opened up to the public. With more than four million people taking the tour, it was a nice little earner for one of the richest families in the world. Helen had taken Alice there the year before and had come back moaning about the cost and the petty officiousness that had seen the child’s bottled water taken away from her on ‘security grounds’.

  Today there was still more than an hour to go before opening time, and the queue of tourists patiently waiting outside Buckingham Palace Mews numbered only a dozen or so. Walking quickly past them, Carlyle headed for a small side entrance twenty yards further along Buckingham Gate. As he approached, the door opened and a small man in a green cap and uniform ushered him inside. Nodding to him, Carlyle carried on down a passageway and round a corner. Five yards further on, he showed his ID to another guard sitting in a small Perspex booth. Next to the booth stood a metal detector. Behind that was a floor-to-ceiling turnstile, of the kind you usually saw at football grounds.

  ‘Who are you here to see?’ The man in the booth said it into a small microphone, his voice tinny and distorted by feedback.

  ‘Charlie Adam.’ Carlyle glanced at the CCTV camera above his head and waited as the guard consulted a list of names printed on a sheet of paper. ‘He’s expecting me.’

  After some searching and a bit of head-scratching, the man finally located the right name. ‘Carlyle, yes.’ He picked up a phone.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Carlyle smiled. ‘I know where I’m going.’

  The man shrugged. ‘Protocol.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Be cool, Carlyle told himself. You don’t want to get thrown out of here again.

  Someone answered at the other end of the line. ‘I’ve got Mr Carlyle here,’ the guard announced. ‘Yes, Inspector Carlyle. Okay, I will.’ He put the phone down carefully, as if he was scared that it might break, and nodded to Carlyle. ‘You can go in.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  After emptying his pockets, Carlyle stepped through the metal detector which, happily, did not go off. After first recovering his keys and his change, he was clicked through the turnstile by the guard. On the other side, the passageway continued for a few yards before he proceeded through another door, emerging into a cobbled courtyard about half the size of a football pitch. The smell of fresh horse manure told him that the stables were still where he remembered them. Glancing to his left, he could see a couple of horses happily munching on some hay. To his right was the Royal Mews, and on the far side of the courtyard was a collection of offices used by members of the Royal Household and other Palace workers. Dodging several large piles of horse shit, he set off across the courtyard, heading for a flight of stairs in the far left corner.

  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 thr
eat 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.