Buckingham Palace Blues (16 page)

She watched Merrett trudge off, feeling sorry for himself, and then she started off in the opposite direction, heading towards the footbridge over the Thames that would take her to Charing Cross on the north side. From there she could walk back to the office in about fifteen minutes. Approaching the Eye, she passed the fast track ticket booth, which was now empty. The last flight of the day had started and there would be no more customers this evening. On a whim, Rose stepped over to the booth and looked inside. It was empty, apart from a large black refuse sack that had been left, tied at the top, in the back, next to an open bin. She glanced around. There were a couple of staff tidying up litter, getting ready to usher the last visitors off the wheel and then go home for the night. But no one was paying any attention to her. Ducking into the booth, she opened her handbag and pulled out a large pair of tweezers and a small plastic bag that she’d saved from her last trip to Boots. Putting her handbag on the floor, she lifted up the sack, weighing it in her hand. It was full of used tickets, cardboard cups and empty plastic bottles; in short, a lot of crap to have to sort through. Rose sighed; she simply didn’t have the time right now.

Carefully returning the sack to where she had found it, Rose peered into the bin itself. It was empty apart from a couple of tickets. Reaching inside, she pulled out both of them with the tweezers and placed them carefully on the ground. In the poor light, she picked up the first ticket and brought it close to her face. It was for the 7.30 flight, pod 12, in the name of Cunningham. On the back were the terms and conditions of use. Nothing else of any interest. Crumpling the ticket up, she tossed it back into the bin.

The second ticket was also for the 7.30 flight, this time for pod 8. It had the legend SEG Ent. typed in the bottom right-hand corner.

‘Bingo!’ said Rose under her breath.

Dropping the ticket into her plastic bag, she noticed that something had been scribbled on the back. Grabbing it again with the tweezers, she took another look. There was a name and a mobile number.

‘Double bingo,’ she whispered.

FOURTEEN

Standing under the gloomy strip-lighting, Carlyle stared at the three corpses on the table and felt a bit queasy. He now wished that he had delayed his breakfast until after this visit to the East End. Pacing the concrete floor, he rubbed his hands together in a feeble attempt to keep warm. The room was cold, just as cold as it had been in the street outside. The weather had taken a turn for the worse and Carlyle reminded himself again that it was time to deploy the winter wardrobe. He cursed himself for not choosing a heavier overcoat. Through an open door, he could see several young assistants silently going about their business. All of them wore the same uniform of black jeans and a black fleece. None of them came into the room. None of them so much as glanced at him as they went past. Even more gallingly, no one had even offered him a cup of coffee.

Carlyle yawned, noisily.

‘Inspector?’

‘Yes.’ He quickly finished his yawn and turned to face a smiling blonde woman, her hair tied back in a ponytail. About his height, in her late twenties or early thirties, she was wearing jeans and a heavy orange jumper over a grandpa shirt; a pair of thick, black-framed glasses were perched on the top of her head. ‘John Carlyle, from the Charing Cross station.’

He extended a hand and she shook it limply.

‘Fiona Allcock.’

‘Thank you for seeing me.’

‘Not a problem,’ she smiled. ‘Thank you for coming to the studio.’ She gestured towards the table. ‘Do you like my birds?’

‘Well . . .’ Carlyle forced himself not to take another peek. He didn’t like dead things. And, as a London boy through and through, he thought animals were best suited to the countryside. ‘What are they?’

‘Sparrows.’ Allcock stepped over to the table and picked up one of the birds, placing it face up in the palm of her hand. She lifted the bird towards Carlyle and two little dead eyes stared up at him. He swallowed uncomfortably. ‘We got sent these little beauties from Lincolnshire only yesterday.’

‘What will you do with them?’ he asked, although he was not interested in the slightest.

‘One of my assistants will skin the creatures today,’ Allcock said, placing the dead bird back on the table along with its two chums. ‘It’s like removing the skin from a chicken before you cook it.’

‘I see.’ Carlyle, who had never skinned a chicken in his life, nodded wisely.

‘Once that is done, the muscle fibres and bones are measured and posed,’ she continued, reciting what was clearly a practised monologue. ‘The carcass is then moulded in plaster and we make a final polyurethane mannequin. The skin is tanned and then fitted to the mannequin. Finally we add glass eyes and put it in a display.’

‘Interesting.’

‘These little ones are already sold.’ Allcock perched herself on the edge of the table. ‘They are going to a collector in Bristol.’

Despite himself, Carlyle was curious. ‘And how much will they cost?’

‘The final display will cost £8,500, plus vat.’

Eight grand?
‘Interesting,’ he repeated politely.

She gave him a suspicious look and slipped back into salesperson mode. ‘Of course, what you’ve got to remember is that you are looking at weeks and weeks of work. It’s a highly skilled professional job.’

‘And you have many takers?’

‘Oh, yes,’ she beamed. ‘Taxidermy is really fashionable at the moment. We’re rushed off our feet.’

‘I won’t keep you long, then,’ Carlyle said briskly. ‘I wondered if I could have a quick word with you about Joe Dalton.’

‘Ah yes, Joe.’ She folded her arms and stared into the middle distance.

‘I know that you already spoke to the officers who investigated his death,’ he said gently, ‘and I really don’t want to go over old ground, but I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions.’ He had read her statement in the original report; it had been perfunctory in the extreme.

‘Of course,’ she nodded. ‘Are you reopening the investigation?’

‘No, but there may be a connection with something else that I am looking into.’

‘Oh?’ She studied him carefully. ‘How so?’

Carlyle smiled. ‘That’s what I’m trying to work out. Do you happen to know why Joe decided to kill himself?’

‘No, not really.’ She sighed, staring at the floor. ‘Joe could always be a bit up and down. I saw him about a week before he died; I remember that he was rather gloomy but nothing off the scale.’ She shrugged. ‘I could put up with it, in small doses.’

‘He was your boyfriend?’

She grinned. ‘He was
a
boyfriend, Inspector. I liked Joe a lot, but he wasn’t the love of my life or anything like that.’

Carlyle felt himself redden slightly, but kept going. ‘Did he see your relationship differently? Is that what pushed him over the edge?’

She glanced at the dead birds, as if for inspiration. ‘I don’t think so. It was more than just a casual thing, but neither of us was prevented from seeing other people.’

‘How did you meet?’

‘At some party a few years ago. I remember he was quite a novelty. You don’t meet many policemen in my social circle.’

‘I suppose not.’

‘No offence.’

‘Of course not,’ he smiled. ‘I know exactly what you mean. I don’t meet many taxidermists in
my
social circle. So . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘What was the connection? What was a copper like Joe Dalton doing hanging out with the beautiful people of the arts set?’

Allcock didn’t rise to the bait. ‘It’s not so surprising really. We work—’ she corrected herself, ‘he
worked
for similar people.’

‘What kind of people?’

‘Some of my clients are royalty.’

Carlyle raised an eyebrow.

‘Well, minor royalty.’ She looked at him with an amused smile. ‘Don’t you read the papers?’

‘Sometimes,’ he grinned. ‘But usually only the football pages.’

‘Let me show you.’ Allcock marched over to a pile of magazines in the corner, rising about four feet from the floor. Rooting through the stack, she found what she was looking for, five or six down from the top. Holding up an old copy of
ES Magazine
, she fetched it over. ‘Here.’ She opened the magazine at page 7 and handed it to Carlyle. Under the headline
Bright Nights, Big City
were a dozen or so photos of rich, successful, smug-looking people drinking champagne at an after-party celebrating the opening of an exhibition. Top right was a photo of Allcock herself, hair up, looking very glamorous in a black Chanel dress. She pointed to a hand that was just visible in the edge of the shot. ‘Joe was standing next to me when this picture was taken, but he got cropped out.’ Her index finger moved to the picture below. ‘And that’s the Earl of Falkirk.’

‘The Earl of Falkirk.’ Carlyle immediately recognised the arrogant-looking man wearing a dinner jacket, black tie undone.

‘One of my clients. He’s taken an ocellated turkey and a Japanese raccoon dog from me so far this year.’

‘Did he know Joe Dalton?’

‘Of course. Falkirk’s twentieth to the throne or something. It was Joe who introduced us a couple of years ago. He worked as one of the guy’s bodyguards.’

‘He was a CPO?’

She looked at him blankly.

‘A Close Protection Officer, CPO.’

Allcock frowned. ‘Like I said, he was a bodyguard. It seemed like a cool gig. Joe liked the travel and the overtime. He said that some of the other bodyguards could be right sods, though.’

‘How so?’

‘Just, you know, annoying. He never really specified anything in particular.’

‘Did he ever mention a guy called Dolan?’

Allcock thought about it for a moment.

‘Tommy Dolan,’ Carlyle repeated.

She shook her head. ‘No. I don’t think so.’

Carlyle closed the magazine and rolled it up. ‘Can I keep this?’

She shrugged. ‘Of course.’

‘Thank you for your time.’

‘No problem.’ Allcock edged him towards the door. ‘Can I interest you in an animal?’

Never in a million years, Carlyle thought. ‘Out of my league, I’m afraid,’ he mumbled, keen to leave the little dead birds behind and get out on to the street.

Gordon Elstree-Ullick lay on the bed in one of the guest rooms in Buckingham Palace, talking quietly into his mobile phone. After a while, he looked up and gestured towards his Protection Officer. ‘Tommy, stick this on the corporate card, will you?’

Tommy Dolan looked at the outstretched mobile in Elstree-Ullick’s hand and sighed. ‘What is it this time?’

‘Just a couple of plane tickets,’ Elstree-Ullick told him. ‘Let me know when the bill comes in.’

Dolan accepted the phone with as much enthusiasm as he would a steaming dog turd. Jamming it between his ear and his shoulder, he fished his Met-issue American Express corporate card out of his wallet. ‘Hello?’ he said grumpily.

Five minutes and fifteen grand later, he had paid for two first-class British Airways tickets from Heathrow to Jomo Kenyatta International airport in Nairobi. Gritting his teeth, Dolan told himself that this was just a cost of doing business. All the same, it took his current Amex bill to well over £20,000. That would mean more scrutiny from the SO14 Accounts Department. And that was the kind of attention that Dolan didn’t like.

Sticking his card back in his pocket, he gave Elstree-Ullick a sharp look. The Earl of Falkirk, twenty-second in line to the British throne, just grinned in a way that let him know he had Dolan over a barrel. Everyone knew that royals borrowing funds from bodyguards was commonplace. According to the Unit Guidelines:

It is often inappropriate for the Royal Family to execute financial transactions due to ‘confidentiality and security reasons’. Therefore, if the need arises, Protection Officers will incur expenditure on behalf of principals, which is then repaid.

Of course,
when
that cash would actually get repaid was never specified.

Dolan tossed the phone back to Elstree-Ullick, who caught it clumsily. ‘Off on a trip?’

‘No, the tickets are for a couple of chums.’

‘Nice,’ Dolan remarked sarkily.

‘Don’t worry, Tommy,’ Elstree-Ullick snapped back, ‘it’s not your money. Anyway, they might be of help with our operation.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes, indeed.’ Elstree-Ullick slipped the phone into an inside pocket of his jacket. ‘We need to move on to pastures new. I’m thinking about Africa.’

‘Is that such a great idea?’ Dolan sniped. ‘Doesn’t everyone there have AIDS?’

‘Don’t be so prejudiced, man,’ Elstree-Ullick drawled. Getting off the bed, he headed for the door. ‘Anyway, I’ve got stuff to do now. We can discuss it at the party later.’

FIFTEEN

Alzbetha was woken by an almighty fart from the fat man in the bed beside her. Shivering, she realised that he had taken almost all of the duvet from her and she was left uncovered. Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, she sat up, listening to his calm, regular snoring. Her body ached all over, her head felt fuzzy and there was a strange foul taste in her mouth that she didn’t recognise.

As the clock on the table flipped from 1:11 to 1:12, she stood up and tiptoed over to the small pile of clothes lying on the floor. Slowly, noiselessly, she pulled on her jeans and her pullover. Where were her trainers? She looked under the bed, but couldn’t see much in the dark. The man coughed and pulled the duvet over his shoulders. Was he about to wake up? She decided that she could do without the shoes.

Padding out of the bedroom, she walked down the hallway to the front door of the flat. Holding her breath as it clicked open, she listened for any further signs of movement from the bedroom. Hearing nothing, she stepped out on to the landing. Leaving the door open, she ran down the stairs.

Two floors down, the night porter dozed fitfully at his desk on the ground floor, an almost empty half-bottle of Highland Park blended whisky resting snugly in the pocket of his jacket. A talk radio station burbled quietly in the background. Alzbetha surveyed the scene and walked briskly across the foyer, hitting the big green button that allowed you to exit the building. The glass door was heavy but, grunting with the effort, she managed to open it just enough to squeeze through. On the wet pavement outside, she turned left and started running.