Buckingham Palace Blues (30 page)

‘My apologies for keeping you waiting, Ms Stuart,’ the inspector said politely, ushering her past the desk and into the station proper.

‘Your apologies are not going to be good enough, Inspector,’ she replied haughtily, ‘especially given your track record when it comes to harassing my client.’

‘I assume that you’ve seen the charges against him,’ Carlyle continued evenly. ‘And don’t forget that we will be throwing in resisting arrest, assaulting a police officer and,’ he failed to avoid a smirk, ‘criminal damage as well. He’s turned into a right little one-man crime wave, your client.’

Stuart sighed. ‘Criminal damage? What criminal damage?’

‘He destroyed a priceless vase,’ Carlyle said through pursed lips, ‘while trying to evade arrest. It belonged to the Queen. I don’t think Gordon will be getting his invitation to Balmoral this Christmas.’

‘As far as I am aware, my client likes to spend the winter months in the Bahamas,’ Stuart said icily.

‘I’m not surprised,’ Carlyle quipped. ‘Does he like to take a few little girls along with him?’

She gave him a flinty stare. ‘Not only will we be taking this matter up at the highest level within the Metropolitan Police Force,’ she said grimly, ‘but we will also be making a complaint to the Independent Police Complaints Commission.’

‘That’s very interesting,’ Carlyle replied, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible. ‘But I would have thought you would want to avoid the publicity.’

‘Hardly,’ she snorted. ‘This is by far the worst case of harassment I have ever encountered.’ She looked him up and down. ‘The average policeman makes only nine arrests a year – and that includes drunks, fare dodgers, television licence fee evaders, people like that. Assuming that you are indeed
average
. . . almost a quarter of your arrests for this year as a whole have involved my client.’

‘Your point being?’

‘My point being,’ she extended a carefully manicured index finger to within half an inch of his nose, ‘that you do
not
arrest people like the man who is sitting – once again – in your police station.
No one
arrests people like him.’

Carlyle fought to keep his temper in check. ‘No one is above the law.’

The finger veered away from his face and poked him on the shoulder. ‘Grow up, Inspector. Just grow up!’ Turning away, she headed briskly towards the interview room. ‘Of course, once this matter has been sorted out, we will be pushing for your immediate dismissal.’

‘You know that is never going to happen.’ Carlyle skipped after her, hoping that he was right.

Ambrose Watson was flushed bright red, and sweating heavily as if he’d just run a half-marathon. ‘Dolan had a heart attack,’ he said sheepishly, ‘while he was being interviewed.’

‘Fatal?’ Joe asked.

‘Yes,’ Watson admitted reluctantly. ‘The paramedics say he was dead before his head hit the desk.’

‘Shit happens,’ said Carlyle, trying not to look too pleased about it.

‘It’s just a shame he couldn’t have lived another twenty minutes,’ Ambrose lamented. ‘He died before he could sign his confession. It was being typed up when it happened.’

‘That,’ said Joe, ‘is not good.’

‘For fuck’s sake, Ambrose,’ Carlyle complained, ‘couldn’t you have stuck a pen in Dolan’s hand and approximated his scrawl?’

Watson stared at Carlyle in horror. His mouth opened but no words emerged.

‘He’s only joking,’ Joe said limply. He glared at Carlyle and then smiled at Watson. ‘The inspector’s sense of humour can be a bit off at times,’ he added quickly. ‘They’ve sent him to see a police psychologist about it several times. Basically, stress seems to short-circuit some of the synapses in his brain. It’s like he’s got a kind of mild version of Tourette’s Syndrome, or something.’

Fuck off, thought Carlyle.

Watson kept his own counsel.

‘What did Dolan’s statement say?’ Joe asked, trying to move the conversation on.

‘Basically,’ Watson explained, ‘he blamed everything on the Earl of Falkirk. He admitted being party to conversations about Matthews, but denied plotting to kill her. According to Dolan, the incidents involving Merrett and Shen were down to Ihor Chepoyak. Rather convenient, given that the Ukrainian gentleman has gone to ground somewhere, but there you go.’

‘So where does that leave us?’ the inspector asked.

‘Well,’ said Watson, mopping his brow with a ragged paper tissue that he had fished out of his pocket, ‘the statement is obviously no longer usable in court. You’ll have to find other evidence you can use against Mr Elstree-Ullick.’

‘No problem,’ said Carlyle, suddenly energised. Ignoring the funny look that Joe was giving him, he shook Watson by the hand. ‘Thanks for letting us know about Dolan. But don’t bother to tell us about the funeral arrangements. We won’t be sending flowers.’

*   *   *

Carlyle and Joe patrolled the lobby of Horseferry Road Magistrates’ Court in Victoria, situated close to New Scotland Yard. For more than two hours, they had been waiting for a judge to make an initial ruling on the charges against the Earl of Falkirk. It was now well past normal business hours for the court. While Joe mumbled into his phone, explaining to his wife why he would be home late, Carlyle paced about nervously.

In the normal way of things, getting a judge to hear anything after four o’clock in the afternoon was well-nigh impossible. The inspector would have happily let Falkirk spend a night in the cells, but the Earl and his lawyer had enough clout to persuade a Crown Court Recorder by the name of Harold Stephenson to hear their request for bail the same evening. Stephenson, known among the tabloid press as the Hanging Judge of Horseferry, because of his no-nonsense approach towards dealing with miscreants, was very much a nine to five or, rather, a ten to four man. Being prepared to turn up outside of normal working hours was not a courtesy that would have been extended to any regular member of the public. And if he would sit late for the Earl, who knew what other favours might be granted? Unbelievably, Falkirk might actually be allowed to walk free while awaiting trial.

It crossed Carlyle’s mind that Stephenson might even be one of Falkirk’s clients. The idea made the acid in the inspector’s stomach bubble, but it was complete speculation and he forced himself to drop such a thought.

As Joe finished his call, the look on his face suggested that his wife, Anita, had shown only a limited understanding of his circumstances. He slumped on a nearby bench and yawned. Carlyle sat down next to him. All they could do now was wait.

Ten minutes later, the click-clack of heels on the stone floor caused both of them to look up. Out of uniform, Commander Carole Simpson looked like she was heading off for a night on the town. As she approached them, however, even the make-up could not hide the ashen look on her face.

The pain in Carlyle’s stomach intensified. ‘What’s going on?’ he asked by way of greeting.

Simpson signalled for Joe to come closer, then looked around to make sure no one was within earshot. ‘The judge has granted bail,’ she said quietly.

‘That’s not possible,’ said the two policemen in angry unison.

‘Keep your voices down!’ she hissed, stepping even closer. ‘You know very well that it is.’

‘We’ve been hanging around here for ages, waiting for the hearing to be called,’ Joe objected.

‘The judge didn’t ask to hear from you. The Crown Prosecution Service vigorously opposed bail, but his lawyer gave the necessary assurances.’

‘Necessary assurances, my arse,’ Carlyle snorted. ‘The bloody CPS have fucked us.’ All of them knew that the track record of the Crown Prosecution Service in London was extremely poor. Mismanagement of cases meant criminals were far more likely to skate before or during a trial than anywhere else in England and Wales. Cases were poorly prepared, and results were generally so bad that defendants had more chance of having their cases dropped than of being found Not Guilty by a jury.

‘That’s it,’ said Joe, shaking his head. ‘He’ll be off.’

‘He’s going into a clinic,’ Simpson explained. ‘His lawyer claims he has suffered from a mental and physical breakdown as a result of police harassment, and therefore needs to go into rehab.’

‘Rubbish!’ said Joe. ‘What that little arsehole needs is a good thrashing.’

‘It might have helped if you had got a police doctor to see him,’ Simpson rebuked them.

‘There wasn’t time,’ Carlyle said. ‘Did they make him surrender his passport?’

‘No.’

‘For fuck’s sake!’ Carlyle stamped his foot on the floor in frustration. ‘He’ll do a runner.’

‘He left along with his lawyer fifteen minutes ago,’ Simpson said matter-of-factly. ‘For us it’s now over.’

‘Bollocks,’ Carlyle raged.

Again, Simpson ignored his petulance. ‘You’ve done a good job,’ she said, ‘and more than a good job. I’m proud of you both.’

Carlyle felt a frisson of embarrassment slither down his spine. Never good at accepting compliments, particularly in the face of abject failure, he stared at the floor.

‘That’s the truth.’ Simpson smiled weakly. ‘I know you boys don’t do all that touchy-feely stuff, but I am truly proud of the way in which you haven’t let this one go, but pursued it all the way to the end. You did the right thing.’

‘It’s not the end,’ Carlyle protested.

‘It is for us,’ Simpson said firmly. ‘It’s down to the CPS now and you have to leave it to the lawyers. This guy will not get a free ride just because of who he is. This whole thing has gone too far, way too far. No one is forgetting that a policewoman died here. Or that Merrett was tortured to death. Or that Shen was seriously injured.’

‘The fucker has just walked!’ Carlyle looked around helplessly, as if for something to kick.

‘The judge also granted a media-gagging order,’ Simpson stood her ground, giving Carlyle a knowing look, ‘so no running off to your friends at the bloody BBC.’

Trying to look inscrutable, Carlyle said nothing.

‘I will speak to you later in the week,’ Simpson concluded, buttoning up her coat. ‘I am sure you have plenty of other things to be getting on with. There always comes a time when you have to leave a case behind. This is such a time.’

Carlyle kept his eyes to the ground as he listened to her footsteps receding across the stone floor. The only thought filling his head was how he continued to fail that little girl he had found in the park.

Joe gave him a consoling pat on the shoulder. ‘Drink?’

Carlyle pondered the offer for a moment. ‘Won’t Anita be pissed off if you don’t get home?’

‘Fuck it,’ said Joe. ‘Just a quick drink . . . or maybe two.’ He grinned. ‘We need it. She’ll understand.’

‘Good woman,’ Carlyle said, trying to smile.

‘Yes,’ said Joe happily. ‘Yes, she is.’

THIRTY

With his finger hovering over the send button, Carlyle scanned his report one last time.
In conclusion
, it read,
it appears that the victim died as a result of asphyxiation while indulging in a sex act on his own.
Nice word ‘indulging’, Carlyle thought. The silly little sod had accidentally hanged himself with a pair of women’s knickers. According to the pathologist’s report, he hadn’t even climaxed. He shook his head. ‘What a way to go!’

The fact that the victim had been some mini-television celebrity had got the papers interested, and the story had lasted for a couple of days. If nothing else, it had provided the inspector with an amusing interlude in the slow, boring weeks since Falkirk had escaped his grasp.

As expected, the Earl had disappeared. Having been due in court two days ago, Carlyle was not in the least surprised when the man failed to turn up. His lawyer – the statuesque Ms Stuart – had explained to the judge that her client was being treated for depression ‘at an unknown location’. Happily, the judge was not Harold Stephenson this time round, but a low-key and sensible magistrate called Joe Davies. Having examined the paperwork, Davies issued a warrant for Falkirk’s immediate arrest, with a minimum of fuss.

However, that was a warrant that no one expected would be served any time soon.

As he pushed his latest report into police cyberspace, the inspector’s mobile started vibrating on his desk. He picked it up: no number identified. Did he want to answer it? Probably not. He hit the receive button. ‘John Carlyle . . .’

‘John?’

Didn’t I just say that? he thought crossly. ‘Yes.’

‘It’s Rose – Rose Scripps from CEOP.’

‘Of course,’ he said, his mood instantly softening. ‘How are you?’

‘I’ve found Falkirk!’

Carlyle took the phone from his ear and held it in front of his face, looking at it in quiet bemusement.

‘John?’

He returned it to his ear. ‘Yes?’

‘I said, I’ve—’

‘How?’

‘He’s in
Paris Match
.’

‘What?’

‘Last week’s
Paris Match
– it’s like a French version of
Hello
.’

‘Yes, yes.’ He knew what the damn magazine was. Helen would bring home an occasional copy, and Carlyle wasn’t averse to taking a sneaky peek at the photos of the topless actresses.

‘Someone left a copy on the tube, and I picked it up and started leafing though it. There’s a small picture and story on page seven –
Royal bad boy drying out at Swiss clinic
. . . yada, yada . . . then a quote from a ‘‘friend’’ saying that he’s trying to turn over a new leaf.’

‘So he’s in Switzerland?’ Carlyle asked, more than interested now.

‘Yes. Or at least he was recently. Some place called the Kippe Clinic.’ She spelt out the name. ‘Does this mean we can get him now?’

‘It means that we can bloody well try!’

THIRTY-ONE

‘Okay, Mum, no problem. I’ll definitely be back by then. Of course I understand. Bye.’

Rose Scripps tossed the mobile onto the dashboard of their unmarked Peugeot, the cheapest rental they could find at Geneva Airport. After drumming her fingers on the steering wheel for several moments, she turned to Carlyle and sighed. ‘I’ve got to be back home by tomorrow morning.’

Sitting in the passenger seat, a mute Carlyle stared through the windscreen at the almost empty car park. Less than a quarter of a mile away, the Kippe Clinic glinted in the weak sunshine. Nothing had travelled along the narrow tarmac road leading down to the single-storey glass building for more than an hour.