Buckingham Palace Blues (31 page)

‘My mother’s off on holiday,’ Rose explained apologetically, ‘so she can’t look after Louise any longer.’

‘Where’s she going?’

‘Devon.’

‘A bit cold there at this time of year?’

‘She has a sister down there, near Totnes. We’ve visited a few times. It’s nice.’

Carlyle grunted. He’d never been to Devon in his life and didn’t feel like he was missing anything.

‘Anyway, I’ll have to pick up my daughter.’

‘Of course.’ Carlyle felt embarrassed by the amateurishness of their set-up: the fight against international crime laid low by a lack of childcare. He was unhappy with Joe for putting him in this position; unhappier with
himself
for putting him in this position. Joe had half-heartedly volunteered to come along, but he had family problems too. Come to think of it, so did Carlyle. Helen’s patience regarding this case was wearing mighty thin. And when he explained he’d be heading for Switzerland with Rose Scripps in tow, his wife had become decidedly frosty. ‘Do what you have to do,’ had been her final comment.

‘I’m sorry,’ Rose continued, ‘but it has been three days already, and I didn’t know how long you were thinking of waiting here.’

‘No problem,’ he said.

‘Anyway,’ she went on, ‘this is looking like a wild-goose chase.’

‘Yeah,’ he agreed reluctantly.

‘Even if Falkirk turns up,’ Rose persisted, already talking herself on to the flight home, ‘and we get him, he’ll try and stay here in Switzerland.’

‘We have a warrant.’

‘Mm.’ She glanced at the clock on the dashboard. It read 10.53 a.m. ‘The afternoon flight is at five-thirty.’

‘I know,’ Carlyle nodded, admitting defeat. If Rose was heading back home, there was no point in him staying either. Apart from anything else, he needed her to get him around, as he couldn’t drive. ‘We’ll call it a day at two o’clock, get something to eat, and be at the airport by four. Plenty of time.’ Gazing down over the town of Villeneuve, past the Grangette Nature Reserve and across Lake Geneva, he felt a very long way from Charing Cross. ‘It must be tough,’ he said diplomatically, ‘being a single parent.’

‘You just get on with it.’ Rose shrugged. ‘Most of the time it’s fine. It’s not like I have to worry about juggling trips abroad too often.’

Carlyle smiled. ‘Me neither.’

‘What about your wife?’

Carlyle tensed. ‘What about her?’

‘Doesn’t she mind you being here?’ Meaning:
being here with me
?

Carlyle chose his next words carefully. ‘She understands that sometimes I don’t have control over where my job takes me – although I work very hard at making sure I’m not away from home any more than is absolutely necessary.’ Meaning:
subject closed
. Bored, he flipped through the glossy brochure for the Kippe Clinic resting on his lap. ‘How much is 30,000 Swiss Francs?’

‘About . . .’ Rose Scripps did the calculation in her head, ‘almost twenty thousand pounds – something like that.’

‘Fucking hell!’ Carlyle let out a low whistle. ‘Imagine spending twenty grand on two weeks of revitalisation and regeneration stress reduction therapies.’

‘Is that what Falkirk is doing?’

‘No idea.’ Carlyle flipped the page. ‘Listen to this:
We are leading international experts in illnesses common in the global, de-industrialised, post post-modern society in which we live – disorders and illness related to an individual’s capability of coping with factors such as stress, daily frustrations, highly competitive work environments, anxiety and unsorted anger
.

‘Stress is for rich people,’ Rose mused. ‘The term itself was only invented in the 1930s.’

‘What is it, anyway?’ Carlyle asked, though not interested in the slightest.

‘Technically it is defined as a non-specific response of the body to a demand for change.’

‘Sounds like crap to me.’

‘What a sensitive soul you are!’ Rose laughed.

‘That’s me.’ Carlyle tossed the brochure into the back and grabbed a pair of binoculars from under his seat, bought specially for their trip at Field & Trek on Maiden Lane in Covent Garden. Getting out of the car, he scanned the vista with the practised incompetence of the occasional tourist. The clinic lay off to his left, maybe 300 feet further down the mountain. On one side extended lush green fields, on the other a small forest. A small group of gardeners was tending flower beds at the front of the building, and a couple of cleaning staff stood enjoying a cigarette and a natter by a side door.

Switching his attention to the spa centre on the far side of the clinic, he could make out the half-Olympic-size pool, surrounded by recliners, through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The pool itself was empty but, in the far corner, Carlyle could discern a blonde masseuse vigorously working on a guest on a massage table. Readjusting his towel, the man sat up as she handed him a small bottle of water.

‘At last.’ Plonking the binoculars down on the car roof, Carlyle slipped round the bonnet of the car and headed rapidly across the car park.

‘Where are you going?’ Rose yelled after him, struggling to get out of the vehicle.

‘It’s him. Hurry up!’

‘John . . . here!’

He half-turned, just in time to catch the small canister as it flew towards him. He looked at it nestling in his hand: it was about as tall as a Coke can, and half as wide. It could have been a small container of shaving foam, or maybe an asthma inhaler.

‘Pepper spray,’ Rose explained. ‘If he gives you any trouble, aim for the face.’

‘Nice one,’ he grinned, shooting off a little burst downwind. ‘Thanks.’

‘I brought it specially from London.’

‘Excellent!’ Another gold star for Heathrow airport security. ‘Not necessarily legal, but just the job.’ He began moving again.

‘What are you going to do?’ she called.

That, Carlyle thought, is a very stupid question. Lengthening his stride, he hit the grass beyond the tarmac and began running downhill towards the building.

THIRTY-TWO

By the time Carlyle reached the clinic, he was out of breath. A kitchen helper was standing by an open door, an unlit cigarette in her mouth. The woman nodded at Carlyle and began fiddling in her pocket for a box of matches. Nodding back, Carlyle slipped past and stepped inside, moving into a long corridor which, he guessed, led towards the back of the building. Ten yards down, on his left, was a set of doors leading to the swimming pool. Pushing them open, he found Falkirk standing in front of him, dressed in jeans, T-shirt and a pair of loafers.

‘Inspector.’ Falkirk frowned. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I’m here for you.’ Stepping closer, Carlyle could see that his quarry’s pupils were hugely dilated, a clear indication of drug use, and he looked unsteady on his feet. There were dark rings round the eyes and his face was puffy. He looked exhausted. All in all, the man was hardly an advert for two weeks’ R&R in the Alps.

‘Me?’ Falkirk made a half-hearted attempt at a smile.

Carlyle’s smile was equally false. ‘I have a warrant for your arrest,’ he said stiffly, patting his jacket pocket. After the cold outside, the heat of the spa made him feel suddenly drowsy. He stifled a yawn, the strong smell of chlorine reminding him of the days – more than thirty years before – when his dad had made him train with the Hammersmith Penguin Swimming Club at the Fulham Baths.

‘A warrant? I don’t think so,’ said Falkirk warily, not coming any closer.

Snapping from his reverie, Carlyle pulled the envelope out of his pocket and held it up for the Earl to see. ‘It’s all over, Gordon,’ he said. ‘Now we have to go back to London.’

‘No one calls me that.’ Falkirk took a couple of steps backwards. ‘And no one tells me what to do.’

Carlyle moved towards him. ‘We have to go now. We have a flight to catch.’

Falkirk grinned as he looked past Carlyle. ‘I don’t think so.’

Carlyle half-turned to see two security guards take up position on either side of him. Each man had a 9mm SIG-Sauer P220 semi-automatic pistol holstered at his side, standard Swiss Army issue.

‘Police,’ proclaimed Carlyle, holding up a hand.

‘Do they look like they give a toss?’ Falkirk snorted.

Not in the slightest, Carlyle thought, girding his loins for the trouble ahead.

As the first man reached for his gun, the inspector gave him three seconds of the pepper spray. Just like in the training video, the guy dropped his gun, fell to his knees and began clawing at his face. Carlyle then turned to his colleague, who backed away rapidly, tripping over a handily placed float and stumbling into the swimming pool. Ignoring Falkirk’s hysterical laughter, Carlyle waited for the guy’s head to pop back up to the surface, and gave him a spray too. With the security guards now engaged in synchronised screaming, Carlyle regarded the tube in his hand with barely concealed admiration. This is great stuff, he thought. I must remember to get some of my own once I get home. Stepping back, he gave the kneeling man a satisfying kick in the ribs that sent him tumbling into the water after his colleague. Carlyle booted the SIG-Sauer into the pool for good measure, and looked up.

Falkirk was gone.

It took the inspector a couple of seconds to spot the Earl, who was now sprinting across the lawn outside, heading for the nearest trees, which were maybe 300 metres further up the mountain. Carlyle shook his head. ‘Where the hell are you going?’ he said to himself, wondering if he had the stamina to catch the younger man.

Outside, the air had darkened. Vicious-looking black clouds scudded across the sky and Carlyle could smell rain in the air. A fat droplet of water exploded on the gravel right in front of his feet, with the promise of much more to come. Head down, blood pumping, he took a deep breath and charged ahead – running straight into Rose, who had suddenly appeared in front of the clinic.

‘Falkirk!’ she gasped, as he bounced off her.

‘I know,’ said Carlyle, hopping from foot to foot, reluctant to stop moving as he eyed the fleeing figure in front of them. Belatedly, he realised that she was clutching her face. Pulling her hand away, he saw a nasty cut under her right eye, which was already half-closed. ‘Did he hit you?’

‘I tried to stop him.’

‘Are you okay?’

‘Yeah. Can you catch him?’

‘Sure,’ Carlyle quipped, despite the fact that Falkirk now had a lead of about 150 metres as he headed for the treeline. He handed the pepper spray back to Rose. ‘Get inside. Make sure the security goons don’t do a runner. Give them another blast of the spray if necessary. And get someone to call the local police.’

Setting a steady pace, Carlyle tried to ignore the burning sensation in his chest. Not for the first time recently, he wished that he’d spent more time in the gym. The adrenaline rush gained from clobbering those two security guys was wearing off, and he began to feel a creeping heaviness in his legs. The fact that he wasn’t exactly dressed for the occasion didn’t help either.

Not wishing to completely knacker himself before he caught up with his quarry, he let Falkirk stretch his lead slightly, confident that ultimately the man had nowhere to go. As far as the inspector could tell, the Earl had left the clinic with nothing that might help him evade capture for any length of time. Maybe he had a little cash in the pockets of his trousers but without a credit card, mobile phone or passport, he was well and truly fucked. That thought made Carlyle smile. Despite his own discomfort, he was perfectly happy to let the bastard continue spending his day running round a Swiss mountain in the cold and rain – with a bit of luck the blue-blooded bastard might even catch pneumonia.

As Falkirk disappeared among the trees, Carlyle slowed his pace even further. It took him another couple of minutes to reach the edge of the forest. Peering into the gloom, he could see that it was composed of a mix of pine and spruce trees, planted closely together in precise rows. Hesitating, he looked back the way he had come. Rose had disappeared inside the building. Surely, someone must have called the gendarmerie by now. Assuming that the cavalry would be coming from Villeneuve, situated just down the mountain by the side of the lake, or maybe from Montreux next door, the police should be able to reach the clinic in ten minutes or so. But when he listened for the sound of sirens, there was nothing.

Bloody cops, Carlyle thought. They are all the same the world over; always taking their own sweet time; never around when you need them.

He tried to imagine what Falkirk’s plan of action might be. To his right was a narrow, muddy path leading deeper into the forest. Carlyle could make out a number of footprints, although he had no idea whether any of them belonged to Falkirk. Careful not to lose his footing, he set off again.

Less than twenty yards into the trees, he could no longer see back to the open ground at the edge of the forest. Apart from the path he was following, the inspector had no sense of where he had come from: it was just trees, trees and more trees. They all looked the same to him. Surrounded by nature, he suddenly felt rather sorry for himself.

Any feelings of self-pity were cut short when a lump of wood was smashed across the back of his head. Carlyle staggered forward. A second blow sent him to his knees and he felt cold mud seeping through the fabric of his trousers. He stretched his hands out in front of him to halt his fall, but a third blow sent him down fully. The last thought to pop into his head, before the lights went out, was,
Oh shit!

A boot in the ribs brought him back out of the blackness. As he came to, Carlyle realised that he had mud in his mouth, a piece of twig up his nose, and the mother of all headaches. Blinking, he waited for another kick. When it did not come he lay still, trying to clear his head. He listened as hard as he could, but still there were no sirens. A bird squawked overhead and he heard footsteps approaching from somewhere behind him.

‘On your feet!’ Falkirk grabbed him by the hair and, with a grunt, pulled him upright. Feeling a serrated blade against his neck, Carlyle found his feet. Looking down along the end of his nose, he recognised the familiar red handle of an outsize Swiss Army knife.