Buckingham Palace Blues (34 page)

In many ways, the case had been successfully concluded. And now, as an unexpected bonus, it looked like he would get the chance to arrest Alex Gazizulin on suspicion of being an accessory to murder, attempted murder and child-trafficking. He knew that he should focus on the positives of his investigation, even as he continued to focus on the negatives. As the ancient Gaggia machine wheezed into action, he let out a heavy sigh. As far as he could see, the glass would always be half-empty.

Marcello placed the reheated coffee back on the table just as Joe Szyszkowski pushed his way through the door and slumped into the booth opposite Carlyle.

‘We’re closed,’ said Marcello. ‘Can’t you read the sign on the bloody door?’ But his smile gave him away. ‘What you havin’?’ he asked, as he retreated behind the counter.

Joe held up a hand. ‘I’m good, Marcello, thanks. I just need a word with the inspector.’

Marcello grunted and disappeared into his storeroom at the back.

Carlyle took a sip of his coffee and waited for his sergeant to elucidate.

Out of his pocket, Joe pulled a small box, about half the size of a paperback book and a couple of inches thick. He placed it on the table next to Carlyle’s mug. ‘This arrived for you by courier this afternoon.’

Carlyle could see that the box, wrapped in brown paper, was addressed to him at the station. He looked up at Joe. ‘Has it been X-rayed?’

‘Yeah,’ Joe nodded. ‘The scan was a bit inconclusive, but I read the note and assumed it would be okay.’ He handed over a crumpled envelope that had already been slit open along the top.

Carlyle unfolded a small sheet of paper and scanned the handwritten note:

Inspector Carlyle,

I wanted to thank you for completing the investigation into the background to Joe Dalton’s suicide. From what I gather, my Joe was caught up in some very horrible things, but it is always better to know the truth.

Enclosed is a little memento from my studio, I hope you like it.

Kind regards, Fiona Allcock

Always better to know the truth? I’m not sure about that, Carlyle thought morosely, not much cheered by the fact that the taxidermist had sent him a present. He eyed the box suspiciously. ‘Open it,’ he said to
his
Joe.

Sensing his boss’s uncertainty, the sergeant sat back in his seat and shook his head. ‘It’s addressed to you.’

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake!’ Carlyle stood up and grabbed a knife from behind the counter. Returning to his seat, he carefully removed the wrapping paper. Inside was something resembling an oversized matchbox. Pushing out the inner tray, he peered inside. Two little black eyes stared back up at him.

‘Fuck!’ With a shudder, he dropped the box back on to the table.

Laughing, Joe yelled out, ‘Marcello, come and see this!’

Wiping his hands on a tea towel, the café proprietor moved round the end of the counter to stand by their table. ‘What have you got?’

Carlyle gingerly tilted the box so that he could see inside.

Marcello’s eyes grew wide. ‘
Madre di Dio!
Get that thing out of here! I can’t have a dead mouse in my café!’

‘But, Marcello,’ said Joe, laughing even harder now, ‘it’s not a rodent – it’s a work of art.’

THIRTY-SEVEN

‘Get rid of that bloody thing! I don’t want it in the house!’

‘But it’s a piece of art,’ Carlyle protested feebly. ‘It’s probably worth a few quid.’

‘I don’t care,’ Helen hissed venomously. ‘Get it out of here!’

‘Okay,’ Carlyle shrugged. Closing the box, he dropped the stiffed mouse into the Tesco plastic bag containing the rest of their non-recyclable rubbish. Tying the bag by the handles, he walked out of the kitchen and down the hall. Opening the front door, he placed it carefully beside their welcome mat on the landing. He would take it down to the street on his way to work next morning for the bin men to collect on their 7 a.m. round.

Returning to the kitchen, he boiled the kettle to make a cup of chamomile tea for his wife. In the living room, he found her sitting on the sofa, watching a cooking programme on the television.

‘Sorry about the mouse,’ he said, carefully handing over the steaming mug.

‘Sometimes, John, really!’ Helen said. Blowing on her tea, she took a tiny sip and signalled for him to sit beside her. On the screen, a fat bloke was shovelling forkfuls of food into his mouth while making vaguely orgasmic noises.

‘We have a problem with Alice,’ Helen said, staring at the screen.

‘Great. Where is she, by the way?’

‘She’s having tea at a friend’s house. She should be home by eight.’

‘Okay, so what’s the problem?’

Helen took another sip of her tea. ‘She wants to give up karate.’

Carlyle sighed. This was an ongoing battle that he knew he would lose sooner or later. Getting Alice to go to her weekly karate lesson had become a war of attrition. The Wednesday-night class at Jubilee Hall, on the south side of the Covent Garden Piazza, was made up of a friendly group of kids ranging from six to sixteen. The teacher was an urban saint – not only a former World Champion, but also fantastic with the children. Alice had struggled towards her blue belt, but now was demanding that she be allowed to quit. The more her parents tried to persuade her to stick with it, the more insistent she got.

‘She seems very determined,’ Helen continued. ‘She’s even called a family meeting.’

The inspector made a face. Everyone in the Carlyle household had the right to call a formal ‘family meeting’ in order to try and resolve certain issues. It was part of the domestic democracy to which both he and Helen strongly subscribed. Meetings were invariably called by Alice, however, and they normally only had one or two a year. Sometimes they worked, sometimes they didn’t. The point was that Alice felt she was being taken seriously.

‘I said we’d take her out for her tea next week, to discuss it,’ Helen told him.

‘Sure,’ said Carlyle, wondering if he could afford it.

‘My treat,’ said Helen, reading his mind.

‘Fine,’ he said, with no great enthusiasm.

Conversation over, Helen returned her attention to the cooking programme. Bored, Carlyle went back to the kitchen to make himself a cup of green tea. As he was dunking the bag in boiling water, his mobile started buzzing on the worktop next to the sink.

He picked it up. ‘Hello?’

‘John? It’s Carole Simpson.’

‘Commander . . .’

‘Sorry to call you so late.’

Leaning against the sink, Carlyle took a sip of his tea. ‘It’s not a problem.’

‘Good. Well, I just wanted to let you know of a few developments.’

She sounds distant, Carlyle thought, distracted. He wondered if that meant more problems with her husband. ‘Joe already told me about United 14,’ he ventured.

‘Yes? Okay. I think that we’ll get quite a lot out of that – thanks to Mr Dolan’s record-keeping.’

‘Good.’

‘There are a couple of other things though. The first is that there is going to be a review into the workings of SO14. It will be announced next week. The commissioner will try to slip something out under the radar, but the media will probably get hold of it all the same.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Carlyle told her. ‘I will keep my mouth shut.’

‘I wasn’t suggesting—’

‘I know, I know. But just for the avoidance of doubt, you don’t have to worry about me blabbing to any journos.’

‘Good. Thank you.’

‘The whole thing will be a load of bollocks anyway,’ Carlyle said sourly. ‘There will be an investigation that takes months, if not years, then there will be a few cosmetic changes and everyone will go on wasting taxpayers’ money with gay abandon.’

Simpson sighed. ‘Doesn’t being so cynical all the time tire you out?’

‘It’s not cynicism,’ Carlyle harrumphed, ‘it’s realism.’

‘The other thing,’ said Simpson, clearly keen to move the conversation along, ‘is Alexa Matthews and Heather Ramsden. The case is now being closed. Their deaths will be attributed to Dolan.’

‘I think that he probably
was
responsible,’ Carlyle mused. ‘Anyway, thanks for letting me know.’ He ended the call and looked out of the kitchen window, across the London gloom towards the Thames, and the lights of the London Eye, thinking of nothing.

*   *   *

The next day, wrapped up in an overcoat and scarf, Carlyle sat under one of the large paraffin heaters outside Bar Italia on Frith Street, cradling a demitasse containing the last drops of his double macchiato, in order to stop the over-zealous waitress snatching it away too soon. It was a beautiful morning, clear blue skies, with an invigorating nip in the air, and the good citizens of Soho were going about their business in their usual desultory fashion. Having nothing to say, Carlyle idly watched a young woman walking a trio of small dogs towards Soho Square. As she stopped to let one of her dogs take a piss on a bag of rubbish, a police car pulled up. A young officer got out of the passenger seat and crossed the road, heading towards the café. Seeing Carlyle, he nodded. Carlyle responded in kind and watched him disappear inside.

‘Who was that?’ Rose Scripps asked, popping the last bite of a ham and cheese panini into her mouth.

‘No idea.’ Carlyle shrugged. ‘Maybe he works out of Charing Cross.’

‘You’re not very curious, are you?’ she teased. ‘For a policeman, I mean.’

‘No,’ Carlyle said, amused, ‘I suppose not. You can’t be interested in everything though, can you?’ The waitress, a hard-looking Polish girl, appeared beside their table and made another grab for his cup. This time he gave it up. ‘I’ll have another one, please,’ he said to her, then looked towards Rose.

‘No, I’m fine, thanks,’ she said.

‘And I’ll have the bill as well.’

The young woman nodded and headed back inside.

Carlyle stared into the middle distance. It was barely a week since they had come back from Switzerland, but things had moved on quickly. Their little adventure had already been consigned to the distant past, and that was the way Carlyle liked it.

The waitress reappeared with the bill, but not the coffee. Carlyle dropped a ten-pound note on the tray, digging some change out of his pocket to make up a half-decent tip.

‘Thanks for breakfast,’ said Rose.

‘My pleasure,’ said Carlyle. ‘How are things at CEOP?’

‘Fine,’ she said brightly. ‘Closing down Falkirk’s enterprise is a big win for us. That will keep everyone happy for a while.’

‘Yeah,’ said Carlyle. ‘But it never stops, does it?’

‘No,’ she sighed. ‘I get my new partner next week. A woman this time, which is good. Maybe you know her?’ She mentioned a name.

‘Nope,’ Carlyle said. The waitress brought the fresh coffee and took away his cash.

Rose watched her go. ‘The
really
good news,’ she said, ‘is that Yulia Boyko has got a place in a British Council programme.’

‘Well done.’ Carlyle meant it, but he could hear the uncertainty in his own voice. Not wanting Rose to think that he was being insincere, he ploughed on, ‘Really, I think that is great news.’

‘It’s early days,’ Rose replied chirpily, ‘but they say she’s settling in well.’

‘Let’s hope she learns enough not to try and come back here.’ He meant it as a joke, but the look on Rose’s face told him that his remark had fallen very flat.

‘We are going to keep in touch by email,’ Rose said stiffly. ‘I want to try and help her, if I can.’

‘Let me know if I can do anything, too.’

‘I will.’ Her face softened and she leaned across the table to pat his hand. ‘You can be sure of that.’

Not for the first time, Carlyle felt himself blush in her presence. After a moment, he removed his hand and placed it on his lap.

‘I have to get going,’ said Rose, pushing back her chair and getting to her feet. ‘Did you hear about Shen?’

‘No.’ Looking up at her, Carlyle had to shield his eyes from the sun. ‘What’s happened?’

‘He’s quit the Force.’

‘Interesting.’

‘I reckon that his wife made him do it.’

I can believe that, Carlyle thought. ‘Do you think he was bent?’

Rose frowned. ‘I really don’t know. Not worth worrying about now, I suppose.’

‘Probably not.’

Rose hoisted her bag on to her shoulder. Hesitating, she offered Carlyle a hand in farewell. Without getting up, he shook it. ‘Thanks for all your help,’ he said awkwardly. ‘It was good working together.’

‘Yes,’ she smiled, eyes lowered.

‘I’ll see you around.’

‘Yes.’

She turned and crossed the road. Sipping his coffee, Carlyle watched her head into Old Compton Street and disappear.

Finishing his second macchiato, he became conscious of someone standing in front of him.

‘Inspector Carlyle?’

‘Yes?’ Again he had to squint into the sun to look up at the tall man, easily six foot plus, with silver hair shaved close to the scalp. Dark rings under his watery blue eyes suggested someone who had enjoyed very little sleep in recent weeks.

‘I am Kelvin Matthews, Alexa’s father.’ He gestured back across the road to a large woman standing just outside Ronnie Scott’s Jazz Club; she was eyeing them both with a tortured expression on her face. ‘And that’s her mum, Sandra.’

Oh, Christ, thought Carlyle, his heart sinking. ‘Nice to meet you, sir,’ he said, trying not to let his expression collapse into a grimace. Getting quickly to his feet, he shook the man’s hand. Across the road, the wife seemed to remain in some kind of trance, rooted to the spot.

‘Alexa was our only child,’ Kelvin said wistfully, delivering this line like it had been rehearsed many times at home, in front of a mirror.

Resisting the urge to turn and flee, Carlyle tried to think of something to say.

But Kelvin Matthews didn’t seem to be looking for a dialogue. ‘For that to happen to her . . . well, it’s knocked the stuffing out of us.’ He looked over his shoulder towards Ronnie Scott’s and added, ‘especially her mother.’

Carlyle placed a gentle hand on the man’s shoulders. ‘Is there anything I can do to help, sir?’ he asked kindly.