Buckingham Palace Blues (17 page)

After several minutes, Alzbetha began to feel safe. She slowed to a walking pace and started looking around. She had no idea where she was, but that was no surprise. Apart from the Palace, nothing in this city had ever looked familiar. The streets were empty of people, but there was still a steady stream of traffic moving past. Standing on the kerbside, she counted one, two, three cars go by. Waiting until a fourth was almost upon her, she walked resolutely out into the middle of the road, her eyes closed against the glare of its headlights.

Rose Scripps sat on her couch with a large glass of Chardonnay and gazed vacantly at the television. Louise had finally gone to sleep and she now had some time to herself. Taking a sip of her wine, she tried to focus on the programme – yet another BBC costume drama but with extra shagging in an attempt to keep everyone interested. However, after a few minutes of watching women running around in bonnets, she could feel her eyes glazing over. With a sigh, she took the remote control from the arm of the sofa and switched off the television.

Getting up, she wandered over to the tiny dining-table. There, along with the wine bottle and her mobile, lay a small notebook open at the page where she had copied the name and number scribbled on the back of the London Eye ticket that she had rescued from the bin. The ticket itself had been logged at the station and filed along with her report. As she had promised, the latter contained a suitably sanitised version of the fiasco down by the river.

Rose wasn’t sure how best they should proceed from here. She had arrived home assuming that it was something to be discussed with Merrett in the morning. Now, however, she didn’t want to wait any longer.

After another mouthful of wine, she put her glass on the table and picked up the phone. Quickly, before she could change her mind, Rose dialled in the number from the ticket and waited for the ring tone. It seemed to take forever to get a connection. As she looked at the handset, checking that there was a signal, the number eventually started ringing. She could feel her heart beat faster, but still no one answered. After what seemed like an eternity, the voicemail kicked in:
This is Warren Shen’s mobile. Please leave a message and a number that I can get back to you on
.

Warren What? Shed? Zen? Shen? What kind of a name was that? Without leaving a message, Rose ended the call and scribbled down the possible variants on this name. Placing the phone back on the table, she finished the last of her wine and refilled the glass. Then she took her laptop from the sideboard and powered it up.

After firing a few blanks on Google, she typed in
Warren Shen
. There were 795,000 results. Rose clicked on ‘news’: 12 results. Scanning down, she found
Police close Central London lap-dance bar
. Clicking on the link, she went to the short story on the
Daily Mirror
’s website:

A West End lap-dancing club used as a brothel where rich clients could buy sex and drugs has been shut down by police. Vice Squad detectives arrested seven people accused of helping to run the basement Capricorn Club and seized cocaine and cash. ‘It is hard to believe that in the middle of a busy neighbourhood, these shady dealings were blatantly going on,’ said Detective Inspector Warren Shen of the Metropolitan Police. ‘This type of criminal activity is a nuisance and a blight on the community and we will continue to root it out wherever it occurs.’

Rose sat staring at the computer screen for a long time. If this was the right Warren Shen – and it was an unusual name, so how many of them could there actually be? – what did that mean for the CEOP investigation? The only conclusion to be reached was that she had no idea. Anyway, there was nothing more for her to do tonight. The wine was now making her feel sleepy. Yawning, she switched off the computer and headed for bed.

SIXTEEN

Sitting at a table near the door, Gordon Elstree-Ullick sipped at his Potocki vodka and scanned the interior of Palermo, one of his favourite Mayfair drinking dens. The Gucci furnishings, Swarovski crystals, dark marbles, nutty-brown woods and abstract art above the long marble-topped bar gave Palermo the atmosphere of an American martini lounge in the late 1950s. If the Bond Street shoppers filling out the afternoon crowd didn’t quite fit with that image, at least he could pretend.

‘Why do you drink that Polish stuff?’ Ihor Chepoyak finished his glass of Heineken and pointed at Elstree-Ullick’s glass. ‘Ukrainian vodka is much better.’

‘Which is why you’re drinking Dutch beer, I suppose,’ Elstree-Ullick commented.

‘When I drink vodka, I drink Ukrainian vodka!’

Elstree-Ullick inspected his glass. ‘I like this stuff. Anyway, I don’t think they serve any Ukrainian brands here.’

‘They should,’ Ihor grunted.

Elstree-Ullick took another dainty sip. ‘Maybe you could make them an offer they can’t refuse.’

Ihor looked confused. ‘What?’

‘Never mind.’ Elstree-Ullick placed his glass carefully on the table. ‘Anyway, that’s not what we’re here to talk about.’

Ihor smiled. ‘No.’

Elstree-Ullick began: ‘About the girl . . .’

‘You are getting careless, my friend.’

‘It was hardly my fault.’ Elstree-Ullick looked to Ihor for some words of support or sympathy. When none were forthcoming, he went on: ‘You’ve got to look at it positively. At least it solves that particular problem.’

‘Solves it?’ Ihor gave him a hard look. He again lifted his glass to his mouth, forgetting that it was empty. ‘How does it solve it? The police have her back now.’

‘Even if she is identified, it remains a dead end,’ he grinned. ‘So to speak.’

‘Let’s hope so, for your sake.’

‘For
all
our sakes.’ Elstree-Ullick finished his drink and signalled to the waitress, a horsey-looking girl with an unfortunate smile. ‘Two more, please.’ After the woman had retreated to the bar, he leaned over the table. ‘We’re in this together, remember?’

Ihor grunted noncommittally. As far as he was concerned, all business partnerships had a finite lifespan, and it looked like this one could soon be coming to an end.

‘In the meantime,’ Elstree-Ullick continued, ‘there is a more pressing problem.’

‘There is?’ Ihor sat back in his chair and closed his eyes, allowing himself to imagine whipping out his Fort-12 CURZ pistol and putting a 9mm Kurz round between the eyes of the bastard Earl of Falkirk. He smiled to himself. It might very well come to that yet.

‘I’ve made my last trip to the Ukraine. It’s too much hassle to go back. And, rather more importantly, we need to find something new to keep the clients interested.’

Ihor opened his eyes. ‘Like what?’

‘I’m looking at some opportunities in East Africa,’ Elstree-Ullick said. ‘Kenya, to be precise.’

‘I know nothing about Africa – neither do you.’

‘No, but—’

Ihor yawned. ‘The Ukraine is fine. You should be more worried about developments here in London.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I hear that one of your customers nearly got arrested down by the river. Chased by some cops just as he was getting on to the London Eye.’

How the hell did you know about that? Elstree-Ullick wondered. ‘No, no,’ he said hastily, ‘the guy just bottled it. There was no problem.’

‘I see.’

‘Yes, so – it is very much business as usual.’

‘Maybe you should tell your clients to be a bit more low-key for a while,’ Ihor said grumpily.

The waitress reappeared with their fresh drinks. She smiled widely and Elstree-Ullick wondered if she knew who he was. I’m so out of your league, sweetheart, he thought. He sat back in his chair and watched her buttocks shimmy inside her jeans, as she wandered off. Not a bad arse. Not bad at all. ‘The thing is,’ he drawled, still staring at the woman’s rear end, ‘the clients don’t like being told what to do.’ He eyed Ihor as if he was imparting some great wisdom. ‘They want – they
need
– to be able to do whatever they want. Some of them are really quite competitive about it. If we cut down on the thrill factor, that’s our USP out of the window.’

‘A fuck is a fuck,’ Ihor mumbled, sucking the head off his beer.

‘But we are selling so much more than that,’ Elstree-Ullick persisted. ‘Plenty of people can supply a pretty girl. With us it’s the whole experience.’

Keeping the glass near his lips, Ihor wondered just what the idiot was talking about. If you wanted an
experience
you went to Disneyland. What was wrong with good old-fashioned fucking behind closed doors? He looked at the boy in front of him, one of the most privileged people on the whole planet, yet a guy who knew nothing about the realities of life for normal people. He was a bloody Earl, for God’s sake – so why was he getting involved in all this shit? And, more to the point, could he be relied on not to fuck things up? ‘Just be careful,’ he said finally.

‘Of course,’ Elstree-Ullick replied stiffly.

‘Business is good,’ Ihor went on, trying to ignore the fact that this boy would just not listen, ‘which is all the more reason not to be complacent.’

‘Never.’

Yeah, right, Ihor thought, as he drained his glass.

‘Good afternoon, gentlemen.’ The smell of perfume filled the air. Both men looked up to see Olga arrive at their table, a large glass of white wine in her hand.

She was dressed in a tight-fitting charcoal jacket with a matching skirt that fell to just below the knee; her powder-blue shirt had the top three buttons undone, giving a tantalising glimpse of décolletage.

As the woman sat down, crossing her legs, Elstree-Ullick felt a familiar tingling in his groin. Not for the first time, he felt angry at Ihor’s insistence that he should not fuck the help. Did the idiot not realise that that was one of the basic perks of being a royal?

Reaching into her bag, she pulled out a tin of salve and deftly applied some to her lips. ‘May I join you?’

‘I thought that you already had,’ Elstree-Ullick quipped, moving his chair closer to hers.

Ihor eyed her suspiciously. ‘What are you doing here?’

Olga put the tin back in her bag and gently wiped her mouth with a napkin. After taking a sip of wine, she said, ‘I have a business meeting at the Sheraton on Park Lane in forty-five minutes. I’m just killing a little time.’

Falkirk grinned lecherously. ‘Maybe you could drop by and see me at the Palace later . . . have some champagne?’

Olga glanced at Ihor, then smiled slyly at Falkirk. ‘Maybe. That could be fun.’

Ihor frowned. ‘How did you know we were here?’

‘I didn’t,’ Olga said sweetly. ‘It’s just a coincidence.’ Turning to Elstree-Ullick, she upped the wattage on her smile. ‘So – what are you two boys conspiring about here?’ she asked.

‘Just discussing business,’ Elstree-Ullick said airily.

‘Oh?’ Glancing at Ihor, Olga arched an eyebrow. ‘And is business good?’

‘Not bad,’ Ihor said quickly, giving Elstree-Ullick a look that said
Shut the fuck up
.

‘Not bad?’ Olga repeated slowly. ‘That’s good.’

‘Yes,’ Ihor nodded.

Olga made a show of thinking about things for a second. ‘But what about the girl that died?’

‘These things happen,’ Ihor said stonily, his gaze now firmly fixed on the table.

‘Yes,’ said Olga brightly, ‘I guess they do.’ She emptied her glass in two gulps and stood up. ‘Ihor, I will see you later.’ Hands on hips, she fixed her eyes on Elstree-Ullick, her smile beginning to erode at the edges. ‘Business must be extremely good if you can bring a child over from the Ukraine and just let her walk out in front of a car,’ she said, not waiting for a response before sauntering to the door.

Gordon Elstree-Ullick watched her go, the grin still fixed on his face and the erection still in his trousers. Inhaling her lingering scent, he tried to make sense of what he had just heard.

On the second floor of the Westminster Public Mortuary in Horseferry Road, the stern gaze of Barbara Enereich looked down upon the Forensic Suite that bore her name. Next to the portrait of the former President of the British Association in Forensic Medicine was a small plaque. The legend on it read:
Hic locus est ubi mors gaudet succurrere vitae
. Below, in a smaller script, for those like Carlyle whose Latin wasn’t quite up to it, was the translation:
This is the place where death rejoices to help those who live
.

Bollocks, he mused, returning his gaze to the bank of four LCD monitors hanging from the ceiling. Three of them were blank; the fourth showed the scene inside Lab Number 2 – twenty yards further down the hallway. Biting his lip, he watched as the three forensic pathologists went calmly about their business, preparing for the autopsy of the young girl lying on the slab in the background.

Sticking his hands into his trouser pockets, Carlyle began pacing from one side of the cramped CCTV viewing room to the other.
Autopsy
, he remembered from somewhere, meant
see for yourself
. See for yourself? He would rather not, thank you very much. For Carlyle, this part of an investigation was something to be avoided whenever possible. He had been delighted when Westminster’s new £1 million facility had opened, ending the need for him to be in the same room as the actual corpse. Watching the proceedings on television was far better than being in there along with her, but he still felt queasy. Nausea, mixed with the rage that had been bubbling through his guts in the days since the child had died, was creating a foul brew. Try as he might, he couldn’t bring himself to believe that Alzbetha had now left them all behind while her body was still so shockingly present.

Looking over at Joe Szyszkowski, who was sitting on a plastic chair at the back of the room, eating yet another bacon sandwich, Carlyle felt his stomach do a double somersault. ‘Let’s go.’

Joe quickly finished chewing and gave him a funny look. ‘But we’ve only just got here.’

Carlyle buttoned up his jacket and headed for the door. ‘We know what happened, and we can read the report later. I don’t feel any need to watch.’ Without waiting for a reply, he pulled open the door and fled.