by Craig, James
James Craig has lived and worked in London for thirty years. The first two novels in his Inspector Carlyle series, London Calling and Never Apologise, Never Explain, are also available from Constable & Robinson.
For more information visit www.james-craig.co.uk, or follow him on Twitter: @byjamescraig.
Praise for Never Apologise, Never Explain
‘Pacy and entertaining.’ The Times
‘Engaging, fast paced . . . a satisfying modern British crime novel.’ Shots
‘Never Apologise, Never Explain is as close as you can get to the heartbeat of London. It may even cause palpitations when reading.’ It’s A Crime! Reviews
Also by James Craig
London Calling
Never Apologise, Never Explain
BUCKINGHAM
PALACE BLUES
James Craig
Constable & Robinson Ltd
55–56 Russell Square
London WC1B 4HP
www.constablerobinson.com
First published in the UK by Robinson,
an imprint of Constable & Robinson Ltd, 2012
Copyright © James Craig 2012
The right of James Craig to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental
All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser
A copy of the British Library Cataloguing in Publication
Data is available from the British Library
ISBN 978-1-84901-585-1 (paperback)
ISBN 978-1-78033-582-7 (ebook)
Typeset by TW Typesetting, Plymouth, Devon
Printed and bound in the UK
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
This is the third John Carlyle novel and, quite rightly, the list of people I need to thank continues to grow. Among others, I am very pleased to acknowledge the help and support of: Polly James, Paul Ridley, Michael Doggart, Luke Speed, Andrea von Schilling, Celso F. Lopez and Peter Lavery, as well as Mary Dubberly and all the staff at Waterstone’s in Covent Garden.
Particular mention has to go to Chris McVeigh and Beth McFarland at 451 for all their help in promoting John Carlyle online. Of course, nothing would have come of any of this without the efforts of Krystyna Green, Rob Nichols, Martin Palmer, Emily Burns, Jamie-Lee Nardone, Jo Stansall, Clive Hebard and all of the team at Constable. Thanks too to copy editor Joan Deitch and the eagle-eyed Richard Lewis.
Above all, however, I have to thank Catherine and Cate who have put up with all of this when I should have been doing other things. This book, and all the others, is for them.
Do not put your trust in princes, in mortal men, who cannot save. When their spirit departs, they return to the ground; on that very day their plans come to nothing.
Psalm 146. iii–iv
ONE
‘Urgh.’ Joe Dalton took a bite out of his fried-egg roll, chewed it a couple of times and spat it out of the window of the Austin FX4. Despite having eaten little for more than three days now, he could feel the bile rising instantly in his throat and knew that no food would stay down. Disgusted, he chucked the rest of the roll into the gutter and wiped his hands on his grubby Nickelback T-shirt. Gingerly taking the cardboard cup from the drinks-holder on the dashboard, he removed the lid and blew gently on his oily black coffee. He took a tiny sip and winced. Horrible.
Wearily he opened the cab door and climbed out. Pouring the steaming liquid down a drain leading into one of London’s crumbling sewers, he then dropped the cardboard cup and its plastic lid into a nearby bin. Shivering in the cold, he went round to the back of the cab and opened the boot. Coiled on top of the spare wheel inside was the length of cord that he had been carrying around with him for weeks: three-strand 6mm white nylon – excellent shock-absorption properties, with a guaranteed break load of 750kg. With a sigh, he pulled it out, knowing that it was more than capable of doing the job required.
Sticking it under his arm, Dalton slammed the boot shut and walked towards the streetlight beside which he had parked the taxi. Looping one end of the rope around its metal pole, he tied it securely with a simple overhand knot. Stepping back to the cab, he tossed the rope through the driver’s window, opened the door and got back in. After putting on his seat belt, he took a couple of deep breaths. Then he wound the free end of the rope round his neck three times, tying it off with the same kind of knot.
It was tight, but not too tight. The nylon cut into his neck, but he could still breathe. Gritting his teeth, he switched on the ignition and pushed the stick into first gear.
‘Fuck it!’
Tears welling up in his eyes, he released the handbrake and stomped on the accelerator.
Fernando Garros returned his cup of tea to its saucer and idly watched the taxi driver getting in and out of his cab. He recognised the grinning face of Chad Kroeger on the guy’s shirt and gave a small nod of approval. Nickelback were cool! Fernando had spent more than a day’s wages to go and see them at Wembley the year before. The extra £20 for a T-shirt had been beyond him, but at least he had seen an awesome show. He hummed a few bars of ‘Burn It to the Ground’ before turning around, embarrassed, to check that no one had heard him. He needn’t have worried; sitting by the window, he had Goodfellas café to himself. Apart from the cabbie, there had been no other customers through the door in the last hour. Xavi, the café’s Spanish owner, had been fast asleep behind the counter for the last twenty minutes.
Yawning, Fernando checked his watch. It was almost 3.15 a.m. Closing his eyes, he folded his arms and stretched out his legs. He was in no rush. He had come off an eleven-hour shift as a hospital porter at St Thomas’s and was enjoying his dinner (or was it his breakfast?) before he made the fifteen-minute walk back to the bedsit he had rented for the last eight years. Elephant and Castle wasn’t the greatest neighbourhood to be wandering around in at night but, if he waited another half hour or so, he could be reasonably sure that all the gangbangers, nutters and general assholes who might otherwise try to impede his journey home would have gone to bed.
Xavi’s snoring grew louder. Opening his eyes, Fernando finished the last of his tea and thought about helping himself to another cup. Deciding against it, he returned his gaze to the cabbie who had now returned to the relative warmth of his taxi. Fernando was amused by the way London cab drivers fussed over their taxis. He found it strange. True, the vehicles were expensive – £30,000 or more, he’d read somewhere – but even so, at the end of the day it was just another car.
‘Mierda!’
Fernando almost fell off his chair as the cab suddenly shot backwards, jumped the pavement, knocked over a rubbish bin and crashed into the front window of a dry cleaner’s.
Immediately, several alarms started ringing.
‘What happened?’ Xavi appeared at his shoulder, yawning, and went over to the door.
‘Car accident.’ Fernando then noticed the rope hanging from the lamp post, trailing along the pavement. He was fairly sure that hadn’t been there before. Then he remembered the cabbie. It was hard to make out what was happening inside the vehicle, but it looke
d like the driver was slumped forward over the wheel. Maybe he’d suffered a heart attack. Meanwhile, something – a football? – had bounced into the road and come to a stop beside the upturned bin.
‘Man,’ Xavi scratched his head, ‘you would have thought a taxi driver could drive better than that.’ He stepped cautiously out of the door on to the pavement, and then into the empty road, heading towards the cab.
Feeling more than close enough to the action already, Fernando watched him cross the street towards the ball. Then, as an afterthought, he pulled out his mobile and dialled 999.
TWO
It was a beautiful evening with the temperature in the low 60s, a bit chilly when the wind blew but as good as you were ever going to get in London on a Saturday evening in the middle of September. A darkening blue sky with only the occasional patch of cloud offered a sad reminder of the summer days past. Now was the steady, painful descent into autumn, and then winter beckoned.
Wiping his brow on his sleeve, Inspector John Carlyle took a swig of water from his plastic bottle as he jogged up The Mall, heading towards Buckingham Palace. Running was not really his preferred form of exercise, but it was cheaper than going to the gym. And just being outside helped clear his head.
He was glad to be out of the flat; his daughter and wife had been bickering all day, and he felt a sense of relief as he pounded the pavement. Alice was fast heading towards so-called ‘tweenager’ status, twelve going on twenty-five, and several years of further conflict seemed inevitable. Carlyle felt bad that there wasn’t more he could do to smooth things out between them, but he had learned a long time ago that there were severe limitations to what he could hope to achieve when it came to dealing with women, whatever their age and however well you thought you knew them.
Leaving the flat in Winter Garden House, he had taken an easy pace down Drury Lane, cutting through Covent Garden Piazza and Trafalgar Square, getting nicely into his stride as he dropped down from Carlton Gardens on to The Mall and made his way up towards Buckingham Palace. Carlyle was no royalist but he appreciated the grandeur of the surroundings. Having all this history on your doorstep was one of the perks of living in Central London. It gave you a sense of being at the centre of one of the great cities of the world. And, hand on heart, it was a great city. But, above all, it was his city. He had been born in London and, apart from a few unhappy but mercifully brief excursions into the provinces, he had lived and worked here his whole life. He was a London boy; it was the only place he had ever wanted to be.
Passing the statues of the Queen Mother and her husband King George VI, he veered on to the gravel cycle-path to avoid a couple of tourists taking photographs. As he did so, another couple stepped into his path and he was forced to do another little sideways dance, knocking him off his stride.
‘Tossers! ’ he hissed under his breath, trying to get a bit of adrenaline going as he lengthened his stride. Looking up, he noticed that the Union Jack hanging from the flagpoles along either side of the road were interspersed with another flag that he didn’t recognise, doubtless celebrating an official visit by some foreign head of state. Kicking on, Carlyle upped his pace as he approached the Palace itself. Nearing the junction with Marlborough Road, he checked the traffic-lights. They were on red, so he speeded up, not wanting to stop. But, as he did so, he saw the little green man that told pedestrians they could cross safely, disappear. Bollocks, he thought. But not wishing to lose his rhythm, he kept going.
Stepping off the pavement, his foot had barely touched the tarmac when a police motorcycle roared past, its lights flashing.
‘Shit!’ Carlyle quickly jumped back on to the pavement and started jogging on the spot, as if that had been the plan all along, ignoring the snickering of a couple of teenagers by his side. A few seconds later, there were some gasps from the gaggle of surrounding tourists, and cameras started whirring as a massive black Daimler slid past. All alone on the back seat, a little old lady in a pale yellow coat and matching hat sat staring into space. The limousine hardly slowed as it took a right and shot down The Mall towards the Palace, followed by another couple of police bikes.
Well, well, Carlyle thought, as he jogged across the now empty road. After more than forty years in London, I’ve finally seen the bloody Queen.
Reaching the Victoria Memorial, he veered right. His plan was to complete two circuits of Green Park, and then head for home. It was already approaching 7.30 p.m. and the light was fading. The crowds were thinning and Carlyle could see only one other runner as he headed past Canada Gate and along Constitution Hill. To his right he heard a shout and turned his head to see a group of kids playing touch rugby. Their ball had landed a couple of yards in front of him. Picking it up, he passed it, quarterback-style, to the nearest kid, annoyed that his rhythm had been interrupted but happy for the pause. Taking a sip of water from his bottle, he looked around. Another kid, a girl, was sitting on a stone bench nearby while further on a man was walking his dog. Otherwise the place was fairly empty.
Another day in the city was slowly coming to a close.
His pace having slowed considerably, it was almost twenty-five minutes later when Carlyle passed the same spot for a second time. The man with the dog and the kids playing touch rugby had gone, but the girl was still sitting on the bench, staring into space. He eyed her as he approached – maybe nine or ten, short dark hair, a sleeveless flower-patterned dress and, he now realised, no shoes. She ignored him as he jogged past, the glazed expression on her face a study in inscrutability.
What’s wrong with this picture?
It suddenly struck him that there was no one else within twenty yards of the girl.
No sign of any parents.
No playmates.
No one at all.
He jogged on another ten yards and came to a stop by a tree, letting his pulse subside while he drank the last of his water before tossing the bottle in a convenient bin.
Slowly he jogged back towards the girl, who still appeared lost in thought, and came to a stop a couple of yards in front of the bench.
‘Excuse me?’
The child looked up at him but didn’t say anything.
Carlyle stepped closer. Her eyes were like hard grey pebbles. ‘Excuse me?’ he said again. ‘Are you okay?’
The girl lowered her gaze, but still she said nothing. As she folded her arms, Carlyle could see a series of black and blue marks just above each elbow. Some were faded; others looked fresh. Keeping a respectful distance, he knelt down in front of the child. ‘I am John,’ he said, a mixture of discomfort and anger rising inside him. ‘What is your name?’
The child bit her lip and dropped her chin close to her chest, shaking her head.
‘I am a policeman.’ He was conscious of having no ID on him, but that couldn’t be helped. ‘Are you lost? Do you need any help?’
The girl’s eyes welled up and a single tear ran down her left cheek. Carlyle’s heart sank. He stepped back and looked around. It was getting properly dark now. The cars speeding by had their headlights on and the Palace behind him was bathed in floodlight. Doing a slow pirouette, he scanned though 360 degrees. Still there was no one else in sight who looked like they might belong to this kid. Fuck, he thought, what a pain in the arse. With a heavy sigh, he pulled his mobile from the back pocket of his shorts and called the station.
George Patrick, the fairly new desk sergeant at Charing Cross police station, answered on the first ring. ‘Desk!’
George was probably older than Carlyle, but he was enthusiasm personified compared to his predecessor, Dave Prentice. Earlier in the year, Prentice had finally realised his lifelong ambition by retiring to the eastern suburb of Theydon Bois. Not a minute too soon, thought Carlyle. The inspector had not missed the moaning old sod once since he had left.
‘George,’ he said, ‘it’s John Carlyle. I’m in Green Park, just past the Canada Gates on Constitution Hill. There’s a young child here who appears to be lost.’ He lowered his voice a notc
h. ‘She looks a bit . . . zonked out, so there may be more to it than that. Can you send a car?’
‘Let’s see . . .’ There was the rustling of papers in the background. ‘I’m not sure we’ve got anyone spare at the moment, but I’ll find you something.’
‘Thanks. Who’s on duty at the moment?’
More rustling. Then Patrick read out a list of names.
Carlyle thought about it for just a second before making a decision. ‘Send Nicole Sawyer.’ Sawyer was an extremely pleasant, extremely overweight Afro-Caribbean WPC. At twenty-nine, her social skills were far better than Carlyle’s and better than those of just about anyone else he had ever worked with. She might not be able to catch any criminals running down the street, but she certainly had the knack of simply talking them into giving themselves up. If anyone could be considered the acceptable face of the Metropolitan Police Force, it was Nicole. ‘See if you can get her down here as well.’
‘Okay.’
‘Call me on my mobile when they’re on their way. And check if there have been any reports today of a missing girl. She’s aged about eight or nine, I’d reckon. Grey eyes and short dark hair. Wearing a flowery dress.’
‘I’ll check.’
‘Thanks. See you later.’ Carlyle ended the call and dropped the phone back in his pocket. As he did so, he became aware of someone hovering just behind him.
‘Alzbetha!’ cried a very pukka English voice that contained more than a hint of irritation. ‘Come here! What have I told you about talking to strangers?’
Carlyle turned round to face a handsome man in his late twenties or early thirties. He had light, sandy hair receding at the temples, with sharp blue eyes and slim build. Carlyle put him at around five foot ten. His black suit looked expensive – Armani, maybe – as did his azure-blue shirt, which was open at the neck, and his black penny loafers.
