Buckingham Palace Blues (32 page)

‘Rather appropriate, don’t you think?’ Falkirk remarked grimly. His pupils seemed as big as pennies. For the first time, it occurred to Carlyle that he might have a real problem on his hands.

‘You are about to be done in by the finest technology that the Swiss have to offer,’ Falkirk continued. He pulled the knife from Carlyle’s neck and waved it airily above his head. ‘It was either that or drowning you in chocolate.’

‘There are worse ways to go, I suppose.’ The inspector gingerly felt the back of his head. Even more gingerly, he gave it a gentle shake. The pain bounced around his brain for a few seconds, then resumed its residency in the base of his skull. He tried to step away casually from his drugged-up captor, but Falkirk skipped forward, pressing the knife firmly against his windpipe.

‘This is getting out of hand,’ Carlyle coughed.

‘You should have left me alone,’ Falkirk snarled.

‘What are you on?’ Carlyle asked, injecting as much reasonableness into his voice as he could manage. ‘Crystal meth? Speed? Cocaine?’

‘Poppers,’ Falkirk replied casually.

Poppers, okay. Carlyle struggled to sift through what he knew about poppers – amyl nitrite, used to enhance sexual pleasure. As far as he could recall, they weren’t supposed to make you violent. ‘Look,’ he said quietly, taking each word slowly in case he had called it wrong and Falkirk tried to chop out his Adam’s apple, ‘we have to go back. This needs to get sorted out. It
will
get sorted out, but we have to go to London to do that.’

‘No!’ A look of panic flashed through Falkirk’s eyes as he flicked the blade away from Carlyle’s chin and thrust it twice into the inspector’s stomach, sawing at his ribcage.

‘Fuck!’ Carlyle staggered back, holding his gut.

He looked down, expecting to see his own entrails spilling through his fingers. Almost disappointingly, there wasn’t that much to see – and only a little blood. The pain, however, was intense.

Am I dying?
he wondered.

How fucking banal.

Is this really it?

THIRTY-THREE

Tripping over an exposed root, Carlyle fell backwards. Looking up, he focused on a patch of grey sky between two trees. I need to see blue sky, he thought, spitting out a lump of phlegm. I need to see blue sky again before I die.

Falkirk fell on top of him before the inspector could move. With one hand on Carlyle’s neck, he brandished the knife in front of the policeman’s face. ‘You should have done what you were told and left well alone,’ he hissed. ‘Because now you will die.’

Feeling all the energy drain from his body, Carlyle closed his eyes and waited. Still there was no sign of sirens coming to his aid.

What he did hear was the click of the safety-catch on a semi-automatic being released.

‘Get up!’

Carlyle opened his eyes to see Ihor Chepoyak pulling Falkirk up by the collar of his T-shirt. Dressed in full combat gear, complete with green and black face-paint, Ihor had the barrel of a Fort-12 CURZ pistol gently caressing the Earl’s temple.

‘Throw away the knife.’

Doing what he was told, Falkirk threw the Swiss Army knife into a muddy puddle about three feet away. ‘What are
you
doing here?’ he asked, a nervous quaver betraying any attempt to sound indignant.

‘I’m here to kill you,’ Ihor said, almost apologetically.

‘Why?’ Falkirk asked, his bottom lip visibly trembling now.

‘Why? Why?’ Ihor made a face. ‘This is not like one of those movies where you have to explain everything just to give the victim time to escape. What does it matter anyway? Your life has less than a minute left to run. Less than ten seconds, in fact.’

‘But—’

‘But nothing.’ Ihor pulled the trigger, and the crack of the 9mm Kurz round sent the birds flying from the surrounding trees. Slowly, Falkirk keeled over into the undergrowth, a surprised look on his face.

Ihor turned to Carlyle. ‘Not at all like the movies, huh?’

‘No.’ Thinking of Shen and Merrett, Carlyle remembered rule number one – always humour the man with the gun. ‘When it comes to the cinema, I’ve always been a fan of more violence and less dialogue myself,’ he said.

‘Me also,’ said Ihor.

Now at last he could hear the fucking sirens. This had been a truly outstanding effort by the Swiss police.

‘Time for me to go,’ Ihor declared. He saw Carlyle eyeing the Fort-12 nervously. ‘Don’t worry,’ he grinned, ‘I’m not going to pop you. Olga gave me strictest instructions that you were not to be hurt.’

Feebly trying to massage away his headache, Carlyle rubbed the back of his neck. Not hurt was stretching it a bit, but at least he was still alive. ‘Olga?’

The sirens grew louder.

‘She likes you,’ Ihor smirked. ‘It is your good fortune that you are already married!’

The sirens suddenly stopped and were soon replaced by shouting and a general commotion somewhere in the middle distance. Presumably the gendarmes would be here within a few minutes.

Ihor helped Carlyle to his feet. ‘You didn’t see me.’

Carlyle looked down at Falkirk sprawled on the ground with a bullet in his brain, and liked what he saw. He shook his head.

Ihor tapped the handle of the pistol. ‘Also, this is the same weapon as the one used in London, so no ballistics comparisons.’

Carlyle thought about Merrett and Shen. What about justice for them? Surely he owed them better than this shabby deal?

Seeing how the inspector’s mind was now working, Ihor gripped the pistol tightly. ‘I gave you Falkirk,’ he said slowly. ‘He was the main man. Either we are even, or there is a problem . . .’

Carlyle stared at the gun. Under the circumstances, ‘even’ sounded good. He nodded. ‘Understood.’

‘Good!’ Ihor stuck the pistol in the waistband of his combat trousers and extended a hand.

Carlyle shook it. ‘Thank you.’

‘It’s nothing.’ Ihor shrugged. ‘You were lucky. If you want my advice, maybe being a policeman is not right for you.’ He spat in the direction of Falkirk’s corpse. ‘Not if a guy like that can get the better of you. You should really think about doing something else.’

Carlyle laughed weakly. ‘Maybe you’re right.’

The shouting was louder now. Carlyle reckoned that they must be almost into the forest, perhaps less than a 100 metres away.

‘I’d better get going,’ Ihor said. He turned and began jogging away, heading along the trail. In less than ten seconds, he was out of sight. Wearily taking a seat on a fallen tree, the inspector waited for his rescuers to arrive.

THIRTY-FOUR

No question, if you had to go to jail, Switzerland was a good place to do so. The Service de Police holding cell on Rue du Lac 118 was cool, quiet and spotlessly clean. Sitting on a tiled bench, his back resting against the wall, Carlyle rather liked it. His wounds were far less serious than Carlyle had originally feared and a generous supply of painkillers left him feeling quite mellow as he dined on takeaway pizza. The coffee left a little to be desired but, happy to be alive, he didn’t feel the need to be too picky.

After a couple of hours, he was brought to an interview room and ushered inside. Cleaner and airier than the interview rooms at Charing Cross, it still retained the air of disappointment and despair that infused police stations the world over.

‘Any chance of another cup of coffee?’ Carlyle asked, as he sat down at the empty desk.

‘Someone will be here to interview you soon, Mr Carlyle,’ said the young officer who had delivered him here, his English angular and precise.

‘It’s
Inspector
Carlyle,’ Carlyle mumbled. He forced a smile on to his weary face. ‘Look, son,’ he said, trying to keep the exasperation from his voice, ‘I’m a police officer, too.’

The policeman looked at him blankly. ‘You are here,’ he said stiffly, ‘under suspicion of committing a crime.’

‘I know, but—’

‘In Switzerland, no one is above the law,
Mr
Carlyle,’ he said earnestly, ‘not even police officers.’ Turning, he left the room without another word.

‘Inspector Carlyle?’

He must have dozed off. Slowly coming to, he focused on the small paper cup that had been placed on the table in front of him. Grabbing it, he downed the espresso in two gulps and sat back, waiting for the caffeine to do its job. ‘Thank you.’

The man in front of him nodded. Not in uniform, Carlyle guessed he must be in his late thirties. He had short, salt-andpepper hair and a day’s stubble, which suggested to Carlyle that this little incident had interrupted the man’s day off. That would help explain his pissed-off expression.

Dropping a thin folder on the desk, the new arrival sat down on the opposite side of the table. ‘I am Jonas Chauzy,’ he said quietly, in accentless English, ‘First Deputy Chief at Fedpol.’

Carlyle looked at him blankly.

‘
Office fédéral de la police
,’ Chauzy explained. ‘We are part of the Federal Department of Justice and Police. I deal with socio-political issues such as the co-existence of Swiss and foreign nationals and the fight against crime.’ He gave Carlyle a hard look. ‘Normally it is a fairly straightforward job, but today . . .’

Carlyle shrugged. ‘Sorry about any inconvenience.’

‘Inconvenience?’ Leaning back in his chair, the look on Chauzy’s face was part-smile, part-grimace. ‘Inspector, I have one man dead and two more in hospital.’

‘The dead man was nothing to do with me,’ Carlyle said evenly.

Chauzy opened the file to look at his notes. ‘Just before he died, you were pursuing him . . .’

Carlyle had already given an initial statement and he knew his lines well. The key to getting out of here quickly was to keep it simple and not worry about any repetition. ‘Someone hit me from behind. When I woke up again, Falkirk was lying dead on the ground and your guys were just arriving.’

Chauzy studied him doubtfully.

‘The forensics will back that up,’ Carlyle continued evenly.

Chauzy glanced at his folder, but still said nothing.

After a few moments, Carlyle decided to cut to the chase. ‘Am I going to be charged with anything?’

Chauzy closed the folder and rubbed his temples. ‘There is also the question of the assault on Frank Furrer and Marcus Voney at the Kippe Clinic.’

‘That was a simple matter of self-defence,’ Carlyle said quickly. ‘They were threatening to shoot me.’

The First Deputy Chief stood up and leaned across the table, his jaw clenched. A black look passed across his face and, for a moment, Carlyle wondered if he was about to become a victim of police brutality. However, whatever violence may have been in his heart, Chauzy quickly thought better of it. Taking a step backwards, he stuck the file back under his arm and placed a hand against the door. ‘You are free to go, Inspector. Your colleague is waiting for you at the airport.’ He looked at his watch. ‘There is still a flight that you can catch this evening.’

Carlyle bowed his head slightly. ‘Thank you.’

‘Do not thank me,’ Chauzy said sharply. ‘If it was my decision, you would not be walking away from these criminal acts so easily. But unfortunately, it is out of my hands. It would seem that your powerful friends in London have pulled some strings.’

Powerful friends?
Carlyle wondered.
What powerful friends?

‘This has become a political issue,’ Chauzy sighed. ‘The Metropolitan Police made representations to the Department of Justice, and the British Consulate in Geneva also intervened.’

‘You have to remember that I came here with a legitimate warrant,’ Carlyle interjected.

Somehow, Chauzy managed to look even more unimpressed. ‘That is a matter for some debate. However, we are prepared to accept that you personally did not shoot the Earl of Falkirk, and as you clearly know nothing about the person or persons who did . . .’

Sarcasm in Switzerland – who would have thought it?

‘. . . we will not detain you any longer. There is a driver waiting for you outside. Just, please, do not return here. You will not be welcome in Switzerland again.’ Pushing open the door, Chauzy stepped out into the corridor and was gone.

That sounds like a fair deal to me, thought Carlyle, as he savoured his rediscovered freedom. Very fair indeed.

THIRTY-FIVE

Standing at the bar of the Royal China Club, a seafood restaurant on Baker Street, Carlyle scanned the front page of that morning’s
Daily Mirror
.
ROYAL EXECUTION
screamed the 72-point headline, above a photograph of Falkirk partying somewhere with a girl on each arm. Inside, the story was spread across pages 4, 5, 6 and 7. Happily, it was all filler, speculation and reaction – with no mention of the inspector himself. Content that there was nothing in the reporting that could add to his problems, he quickly turned to the sports pages.

Having been summoned to the club by Commander Carole Simpson, he was anticipating a major bollocking. After almost half an hour, he had read the
Mirror
from front to back, and was feeling weak with hunger. Finally, he saw Simpson’s dining companion rise from their table, give the commander a quick peck on the cheek, then take his leave. A few minutes later, the inspector was ushered over to the same table and invited to take the empty seat.

The dining room was full of diners and the noise-level was high. Carlyle sat with his hands on his lap, avoiding eye-contact. Blowing gently on her tea, Simpson adopted an air of serenity.

A drink would be nice, Carlyle thought. He looked around hopefully but the waiters knew better than to offer him anything and steadfastly refused to catch his eye. Deciding that his boss’s inscrutable act had gone on for long enough, he leaned forward and rested his forearms on the table. ‘Thanks for getting me out of jail.’

Simpson replaced her cup carefully on its saucer and signalled for the bill. ‘What exactly happened over there?’

‘Well . . .’ Carlyle proceeded to give her the same story he had told to the Swiss police – throwing in a few extra irrelevant details to give some colour and the suggestion of candour.

Simpson listened impassively. When Carlyle had finished his little story, she said nothing for a few moments. He could sense the debate going on inside her about whether to call him on his dishonesty or whether just to let it slide. The bill arrived, and Carlyle eyed her corporate credit card enviously as it was slipped into the machine. After typing in her PIN and taking the receipt, Simpson looked him directly in the eye. ‘It was a bloody nightmare,’ she said, almost keeping a smile from creeping across her lips. ‘In the end, I had to get the ambassador himself involved.’