Buckingham Palace Blues (26 page)

Watson hadn’t made a great first impression, but Carlyle realised that he had to give him a chance to redeem himself. ‘This is down to Dolan,’ he declared evenly. ‘There have now been two violent deaths in SO14, and Tommy Dolan is the connection between them.’

‘But PC Dalton was suicide,’ Watson argued.

‘Yes,’ Carlyle agreed, ‘but why did he kill himself? Dolan was involved in something that Dalton couldn’t stomach being caught up in any longer.’

Watson made a face like he was constipated. ‘So he decapitated himself with some nylon rope?’

‘I think . . .’ Carlyle looked at Simpson who gave a slight nod, signalling that he should proceed, ‘that Dolan is running some kind of prostitution service. Working with various colleagues, he is providing a range of girls to top-end clients. He may even be using some of the rooms at Buckingham Palace for such entertaining. The income goes into an investment company called United 14, which is a secret pension fund for Tommy himself and his cronies.’

Watson sat in silence for some moments, looking like a hungry man who had missed his lunch. ‘Do you,’ he said finally, his voice weak, ‘have any . . .
evidence
?’

‘Nothing that we are in a position to share at this time,’ Carlyle said quickly, while avoiding Simpson’s gaze.

Relieved that this was just a kite-flying exercise, Watson perked up a bit. ‘How could Dolan have done all this?’ he asked.

‘He’s been there a long time.’ Carlyle shrugged. ‘He knows everybody who works in the Palace, and knows everything that goes on there. He has an eye for a fast buck. Also he’s no fool.’

‘But still,’ Watson pushed back, ‘what about his commanding officer? Surely this type of thing couldn’t be going on behind his back.’

‘Charlie Adam is a fool,’ Carlyle said. ‘I don’t think he’s involved but, whether he knows about it or not, I don’t think he could actually do anything to stop it.’

‘Have you spoken to Dolan?’

‘He’s hiding behind his union rep,’ Carlyle said, ‘and saying nothing. I don’t suppose he personally torched Matthews and her girlfriend. Someone else will have done the dirty work.’

How had this meeting gone so badly wrong? Watson wondered. He shifted in his seat, keen to get out of the room.

‘How do you suggest we proceed?’ Simpson said swiftly, before he could bolt.

Carlyle nodded at the unhappy fat man. ‘Ambrose needs to speak to Dolan. Make it known to him that he’s being investigated. That will help undermine any union investigation into Joe and me.’

‘But . . .’

Carlyle stood up and gave Watson a comforting pat on the shoulder. ‘Look into United 14. Then give me a call when you’ve got something. But keep it discreet. I don’t want it known that we’re working together.’

‘We are?’ Watson looked at Simpson pleadingly. All he got in return was a smile.

‘Keep that to yourself,’ Carlyle joked. ‘I have enough image problems as it is without people knowing that I’m working alongside internal affairs.’

‘What will you be up to now?’ Watson asked wearily, ready to play along in order to get this conversation over with.

Carlyle was already at the door. ‘I’ve got a few ideas,’ he said over his shoulder, grinning at the back of the IIC man’s head. ‘Don’t forget to keep me in the loop.’

Five minutes after leaving Simpson and Watson, Carlyle crossed Praed Street and made his way under the arch leading to the old section of St Mary’s Hospital. Letting his mind wander, the inspector contemplated the three things he knew about St Mary’s. Charles Romley Alder Wright, an English chemist, first synthesised heroin there in 1874; Alexander Fleming discovered penicillin there in 1928; and, in 1954, Elvis Costello was born there. Two of those three things he felt very grateful for; as another singer once said, two out of three ain’t bad.

Stepping inside the main hospital building, however, he immediately felt oppressed by the sense of gloom and despair that he always associated with hospitals: patients and family members shuffling about as if they had the world on their shoulders, which they probably had; or members of staff rushing around as if they were trying to juggle impossible workloads, which they probably were.

Being both squeamish
and
morbid, it took a lot to get the inspector inside one of these places. Today, driven by more than a little guilt, he took the elevator to the third floor, where Warren Shen was enjoying the delights of a small private room, paid for by the Police Federation.

When he arrived at Shen’s door, Carlyle was pleased to see the superintendent propped up in bed, talking happily to a petite dark woman who was sitting beside the bed. Appearing tired and drawn, she looked far more in need of a lie-down than Shen himself. Or, at least, she would have done if it wasn’t for the various tubes coming out of Shen’s arm, and the large swathes of bandages visible under his pyjama jacket.

As Carlyle gave a gentle knock on the door, the woman whispered something in Shen’s ear, then shuffled out of the room without acknowledging Carlyle’s presence.

Shen smiled weakly. ‘John,’ he croaked, ‘come in.’

Carlyle took the vacated seat, and watched the woman give him another dirty look before stalking down the corridor. He turned to Shen. ‘Sorry to interrupt.’

‘Don’t worry, it’s nothing personal. My wife isn’t very fond of policemen at the moment.’

Carlyle unbuttoned his jacket. ‘That’s understandable.’

Shen slowly lifted a plastic mug from his bedside table and sucked some water through a straw. ‘Yes, it is.’ His gaze darkened. ‘I think Maria’s going through some form of post-traumatic stress about what happened. Thank God for her mother – and that’s something I never thought I’d hear myself say – looking after the kids.’

‘Mm . . .’ Carlyle didn’t know what else to say.

‘She wants me to quit.’

‘The mother-in-law?’

‘No.’ Shen half-laughed, half-coughed. ‘Well maybe her, too, but Maria is hassling me to pack it in.’

Carlyle watched an attractive young nurse walk past the door. ‘Will you?’

‘No, of course not. What else could I do? I could get some kind of pension but it wouldn’t be anywhere near enough to get the kids through university, assuming that they want to go. Besides, I’m too young. Anyway, I’ve told her that I’m not likely to run into Ihor Chepoyak again, so what’s the problem?’

Carlyle thought about the nurse – very blonde, very pretty. ‘I’m sorry . . .’

‘Ah!’ Shen held up a hand. ‘These things happen. It was my own fault. Maria knows that. I think that’s why she’s so freaked about the whole thing.’

‘What about your friend Ihor?’ Carlyle asked.

Shen let out a long breath. ‘I would assume he’d made it back to Kiev about the time I was coming out of surgery. He’ll never be caught.’

‘No.’

‘But look on the bright side. That probably means he’ll eventually end up face-down in a muddy field somewhere minus the back of his head.’ Shen took another sip of water. ‘At least, that’s what I hope happens to the bastard.’

‘And what’s happening on your patch?’

Shen grimaced. ‘Ah, well, it’s a good time to be off sick. That will be a mess for a while. Lots of arguments, lots of violence until the next alpha male scumbag emerges, just like Ihor did a few years ago.’

‘And the girl . . . Olga?’

‘No idea.’ Shen yawned. ‘Look, John, thanks for coming, but Maria will be back in a minute and—’

‘No problem.’ Carlyle stood up. For a moment he hesitated, wanting to ask Shen why one of Falkirk’s clients had his phone number written on the back of a ticket for the London Eye. After all, that same phone number had got Simon Merrett killed. He looked down at Shen happily playing the victim in his hospital bed. What were the chances of getting a straight answer? The inspector turned to the door. ‘See you later. And you let me know if there’s anything I can do.’

‘Thanks. Let me know how you get on with the investigation.’

‘I will.’ As the words came out, Carlyle was already halfway through the door, happy to avoid another encounter with the formidable-looking Mrs Shen.

TWENTY-FIVE

‘And the Lord God planted a garden eastward in Eden; and there He put the man whom He had formed.’

Sitting on the otherwise empty terrace of the Grand Restaurant, located within the Central Botanical Gardens of the Academy of Sciences of Ukraine, Ihor Chepoyak drank deeply from his bottle of Lvivske Premium beer and gazed north, past the domes of the Mikhailovsky Cathedral, towards the city. Although the cold wind made his eyes water, Ihor had no desire to go inside. It was good to be home.

The nature of his trip back from London had been a little improvised – ferry to Zeebrugge, train to Munich, flight to Kiev – but his Czech passport had been up to the job and, although slow, the journey had proceeded without drama. Sitting here, in the calm beauty of the carefully tended gardens, it was almost as if the grime and violence of London had never existed. Such a horrible city! He was more than pleased that he would never be going back there again.

At the same time, Ihor knew that he would not be staying in Kiev for long. The investigation into the Sandokan International Children’s Camp had been completed, and the Prosecutor General’s Office had called for arrests to be made. Deputy Prosecutor General Dmytro Gazizulin would now have to throw Parliament and the media a bone or two. Ihor knew that Falkirk might be untouchable, but he himself wasn’t. He would have to work hard to prove his continuing usefulness or face a bullet or, at least, a prison sentence. Ihor wasn’t sure which was worse. Going back on the road would be a small price to pay to avoid either.

Draining the last of his beer, he watched the woman’s slow, steady progress up the path towards him. As she got closer, he noticed that she wore no make-up. Her hair was pulled back into a simple ponytail, and she was dressed plainly, in jeans and a red fleece jacket, with a pair of black slip-on, flat shoes. My God, she is beautiful, he thought, in the detached way of a man aware that he has the intelligence and the strength to keep his thoughts to himself.

As she approached his table, he stood up.

‘Let’s go inside,’ she said, not breaking her stride.

The dining room of the Grand Restaurant was as empty as the terrace had been. A couple of waiters hovered around anxiously, possibly wondering if they’d ever see another customer. Choosing a table by the window, the woman ordered a mint tea. Ihor asked for another beer. ‘How are you, Olga?’ he asked, once the waiters had scurried away.

She frowned. Up close, he could see that she looked tired. ‘We’re not in London now,’ she said. ‘You don’t have to call me that any more.’

Ihor bowed slightly. ‘Of course, Ms Gazizulin.’

‘For God’s sake, Ihor.’ Pulling a packet of Marlboros out of her bag, she gestured through the window, towards the city. ‘Here, in the real world, Alexandra is my name.’ She offered him a cigarette. ‘But you know I’m not into formality or hierarchies, like my father. Alex is fine.’

‘Okay,
Alex
.’ Ihor accepted the cigarette, lighting it from a book of matches taken from the table. He lit her cigarette next and dropped the match in an ashtray, before sitting back in his chair, waiting for the lecture to begin.

The waiter arrived and placed their drinks on the table. Alexandra Gazizulin stirred her tea at length, then took a drag on her cigarette and exhaled vigorously. ‘Ah! It’s so nice to be able to smoke where you like.’

‘Yes.’

She flicked some ash into the saucer of her cup. ‘My father is not happy.’

Ihor fingered the full bottle of Lvivske Premium but did not lift it from the table. ‘I can understand that. But there was no real alternative.’

She cut him off with a sharp look. ‘There is always an alternative. You have destroyed a valuable business.’

‘We were going to have to get out of London anyway,’ he said, as casually as he could manage, the relaxed mood he’d been enjoying since his return ebbing away. ‘Your English friend had already had enough.’

‘Falkirk?’ she scowled. ‘He was just being melodramatic.’

Ihor said nothing.

‘He’s confused,’ she continued, a sneer draining the beauty from her face. ‘He thinks he is some kind of entrepreneur, rather than what he really is.’ She stubbed her cigarette out violently in the ashtray.

‘Which is what?’ Ihor asked.

‘A rich pig.’

One of the waiters reappeared with menus in hand. Alex waved him away.

‘So what do we do now?’ Ihor asked, finishing his own cigarette.

‘Any ideas?’

Ihor knew better than to suggest anything. ‘No.’

‘I didn’t think you would.’ She pulled another cigarette from the packet and stuck it in her mouth, this time not offering him one. ‘Finish your beer quickly,’ she said, pulling a match from the book while glancing over his shoulder. ‘We have to go and see my father.’

Ihor felt a dull pain in his stomach. Turning in his seat, he saw the two men standing by the door. Suited, shaven-headed, expressionless, they were facsimiles of himself from fifteen years ago. Faces like granite, while smiling on the inside. Slowly he forced himself to finish the beer. Who knows? It might be his last in this life. Placing the empty bottle on the table, he fished a couple of notes from his pocket and let out a small burp.

‘Urgh!’ Alex grimaced. ‘Let’s go.’

Another night, another drinks reception. It was all so tiring. This time it was abstract paintings by a famous actor. All well and good, but if the old bugger hadn’t won a couple of Oscars, no one would give a hoot. Tiring of the gallery owner’s attempt to sell him one of the canvases for a ridiculous price, Gordon Elstree-Ullick stepped into the street to bum a cigarette from his protection officer.

‘Got a fag, Tommy?’

Stepping out of the shadows, Dolan pulled a packet of Rothmans King Size from the breast pocket of his jacket and tossed it to Falkirk.

Falkirk removed a cigarette, stuck it in his mouth and handed back the packet. ‘Got a light?’

‘Here you go.’ Dolan handed him a lighter, waited for him to light up, and then decided to have a cigarette himself.

For a few moments, both men stood smoking on the pavement eyeing each other carefully. This was the first time in almost a week that the SO14 man had turned up for work. Something was going on but, so far, Dolan hadn’t said a thing about what he had been up to. If there was one thing that Falkirk hated above all else, it was the help being unreliable. Unreliable and secretive.