Buckingham Palace Blues (35 page)

‘Alexa told us that you were assisting her with her transfer,’ said Kelvin Matthews, staring at a space somewhere to Carlyle’s left.

‘Her move out of SO14?’

‘Yes,’ Matthews nodded. ‘Her mother and I always thought that working for the royal family must be the best job going.’ He finally managed to make eye-contact. ‘So why would she want to pack it in?’

‘I worked at the Palace myself for a while,’ said Carlyle, relieved at the modesty of the man’s demands, and even more relieved at how easy it was for him to invent a credible response on the spot. ‘It was certainly a very . . . interesting place to work. The great thing about the Met though, is the variety of things you can do. In the end, I just wanted to try something different. I suspect that it was the same for Alexa.’

Matthews thought about it for a moment, as if not quite prepared to accept that this was the only answer he was going to get.

Carlyle glanced to check whether Mrs Matthews had moved yet. She hadn’t.

‘I see,’ Matthews said finally. ‘And did that have anything to do with her being burned alive?’

‘Not as far as I am aware, sir,’ the inspector said slowly, carefully making sure that the right words came out in the right order. ‘I am not technically part of the investigation into your daughter’s death, but I am, of course, taking a keen interest in how it is progressing. Can I ask one of the officers in charge to speak to you?’

‘That’s all right,’ said Matthews, ‘we are already in contact with an Inspector Petherick.’

The name didn’t ring any bells. ‘He’s a good man,’ said Carlyle.

‘A woman,’ replied Matthews.

Carlyle felt his buttocks clench in embarrassment. ‘Ah, yes, of course.’ He tapped his head lightly. ‘My mistake.’ How could he retrieve this situation? He glanced again at the woman across the road, who was radiating confusion and despair. ‘Would you like me to talk to your wife, sir?’

‘It’s fine, thank you,’ said Matthews stiffly. ‘We just wanted to ask you the question.’

Carlyle dug a card out of his pocket and handed it to him. ‘If I can be of any further assistance, sir, please let me know.’

Matthews put the card in his coat pocket without looking at it. ‘I will, Inspector, thank you. And thank you for trying to help Alexa.’

Feeling like a total shit, Carlyle forced himself to look Kelvin Matthews directly in the eye. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t do more,’ he said gently. ‘We had known each other for a long time.’

The man merely nodded, and they shook hands for a second time. Then, stepping off the pavement, he waited for a van to pass before crossing the road, back to his wife. Without apparently saying anything, he gave her a tender kiss on the forehead and took her hand, before they began walking slowly away, down the street.

THIRTY-EIGHT

The rain came down like a blessing, little more than a fine mist offering the eternal promise of renewal. Pressing one toe of his Oliver Sweeney shoes into the damp lawn, Carlyle listened to the relentless background hum of traffic on Grosvenor Place, on the other side of the wall. Buttoning up his raincoat to protect his beloved, second-hand Paul Smith suit from the elements, he made sure his tie was properly done up. The inspector was wearing what his father would have called his Sunday best. Suited and booted for the first time in months, he had made an effort, just as Helen had done. They were both showing some respect as they gathered to scatter Alzbetha Tishtenko’s ashes.

Sir Ewen Mayflower appeared at his shoulder. ‘Are we ready?’

Carlyle looked around for Helen. She was standing fifty yards away, examining some plants that he didn’t recognise. In one hand she clutched her bag, in the other the urn itself. There was not another soul around. The three of them had the whole of the Palace garden to themselves. He looked at his watch: Alexandra Gazizulin and the girl’s mother were almost thirty minutes late. That could just be a problem with traffic, but the inspector doubted it. Anyway, he couldn’t keep the Head of the Royal Household waiting any longer.

‘Yes,’ he said, turning back to Mayflower. ‘I think that we should get started.’

‘Good.’

‘Thank you again for making this happen.’

‘Don’t thank me,’ said Mayflower benignly. He gestured back towards the Palace. ‘You should thank the owners.’

Looking up, Carlyle thought he saw a small, grey figure at a ground-floor window, looking out across the lawn at this melancholy scene. He did a double-take and the figure was gone. Maybe he was imagining things. ‘The owners of this place . . . do they know about Falkirk?’

Mayflower let out a sly smile. ‘Yes and no.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘I would have thought that was fairly obvious. They know enough to know that they don’t want to know.’

‘Of course,’ Carlyle replied. ‘That’s a key establishment skill – dodging the shit.’

‘An interesting way of putting it, Inspector, but basically correct.’

‘Whatever,’ Carlyle said quietly, ‘we are very grateful. I am sure that you will convey our sincere thanks to the relevant parties.’

‘Of course,’ Mayflower nodded. ‘Of course.’ He hooked his arm under Carlyle’s and started walking them both across the lawn towards Helen. ‘There is also,’ he said, after a few moments, ‘something that you can do for me.’

‘I will certainly try,’ said Carlyle, wondering what favour he could possibly do for this distinguished old gent.

‘I want you to keep an eye on Carole Simpson.’

‘What do you mean?’ Carlyle frowned. ‘She’s my boss.’

‘Yes,’ Mayflower grabbed his arm more tightly, ‘but she respects you and you respect her.’

Well, kind of, Carlyle thought.

‘And now is a time when the poor woman desperately needs the help and support of those close to her.’

And that means me? Carlyle wondered. Poor woman indeed.

Mayflower halted them about ten feet away from Helen. ‘Her husband is still in hospital.’

‘Still?’

‘Yes, they’ve found something nasty. Cancer of the colon, I believe. It looks like Joshua will now be released from prison early on compassionate grounds. The expectation is that he has maybe six months.’

‘Carole Simpson told you all this?’

Mayflower looked at him sadly. ‘Not everyone is as buttoned up as you, Inspector.’

Buttoned up? Carlyle thought. We’ve met, what – three times – and you’re dissecting my character already? However, realising that this was not about him, he quickly pulled himself together. ‘How is she going to look after him?’

‘I think that Joshua may be back home only a few weeks before entering a hospice.’

‘Jesus!’

‘So, you can see, Carole needs all the kindness and understanding she can get at this time.’

‘Yes, of course. I will do whatever I can.’ Carlyle looked up to the grey heavens, wondering what exactly that might be.

Mayflower patted his arm. ‘God bless you, Inspector.’

As they finally reached Helen, a mobile started ringing to the tune of ‘Land of Hope and Glory’. Mayflower pulled a handset out of his jacket pocket. ‘Yes, I see,’ he said. He looked over at Carlyle. ‘Your guests are here.’

‘Excellent timing,’ said Carlyle.

‘Very well,’ Mayflower spoke into the handset, ‘I’ll be right there.’ Ending the call, he excused himself and headed back across the lawn towards the Palace.

Carlyle stepped up to Helen. Putting his arm around her, he gently kissed her forehead. ‘Are you okay?’

‘I’m fine,’ Helen smiled. She gestured with the urn towards an empty flower bed. ‘This is where Sir Ewen said we should put her ashes.’

‘Not very glamorous,’ Carlyle commented.

‘They will plant some summer damasks next year,’ Helen said. ‘Then it will be nice.’

Carlyle, who wouldn’t have known a summer damask from a hole in the ground, grunted his assent. Over Helen’s shoulder he watched Mayflower reappear with two women in tow. One he didn’t recognise – short and stumpy, she was looking around like she had just arrived on Mars. If her jaw dropped any further, it would soon hit the turf. The other woman he did know: she was tall, elegant and, even at this distance, obviously beautiful. Dressed in a dark business suit under a Burberry raincoat, she could have been simply passing through on her way to a much more classy engagement.

As Alexandra Gazizulin came closer, the inspector stiffened slightly, recognising the amused twinkle in her eye, and belatedly wondered whether having Helen in tow was such a good idea. It was too late to do anything about it now. Giving his wife another kiss, he whispered, ‘Thank you for coming.’

Taking his arm, Helen pulled him closer. ‘How else would I ever get the run of the gardens at Buckingham Palace?’

‘You know what I mean.’

She watched the trio approach. ‘You are a good man, John. Doing this for the poor girl and her mother.’

‘It’s not much.’

‘But it’s above and beyond the call of duty. And you also had to think of the idea in the first place.’

‘Maybe,’ Carlyle sighed. ‘I suppose so.’

‘I’m only sorry that there wasn’t a happy ending here.’

He breathed his wife’s perfume and gave silent thanks for all that she was; all that he had; his immense good fortune. Reflecting on all that Alzbetha Tishtenko, and Yulia Boyko, and God knows how many others didn’t have. ‘There are no happy endings,’ he declared morosely.

She grabbed his arm tighter. ‘Don’t be so gloomy,’ she chided softly. ‘Remember that old Carlyle saying: it’ll be all right in the end . . .’

‘Yes,’ Carlyle laughed. ‘And if it’s not all right, that just means that it’s not yet the end!’

‘Exactly.’ Stepping away from him, Helen moved forward to greet the others.

*   *   *

Alexandra Gazizulin made the introductions, translating for the benefit of Alzbetha’s mother, who nodded once or twice but said nothing. Carlyle watched the woman sway slightly, her eyes glassy and unfocused. He wondered if she was on medication. Helen carefully handed her the urn and they retreated to a respectful distance, while she spread the ashes in the designated spot.

Helen then took Sir Ewen by the arm and whisked him off to a nearby bench in order to buttonhole him about Avalon, the international medical charity where she worked. Carlyle had been aghast at her plan to try and use the day for a bit of networking, but she had primly informed him that this was a unique opportunity that could not be passed up. For his part, the old man was clearly delighted to be cornered by this handsome younger woman. Sitting down together, they were quickly engaged in an animated conversation.

Alex followed his gaze. ‘You have a lovely wife,’ she remarked, with only the slightest edge in her voice.

‘I do,’ he replied. ‘I am very lucky.’ He watched Alzbetha’s mother empty the last of the urn, replace the lid and mumble something to herself. ‘What will she do now?’ he asked.

‘She wants to go shopping.’ Alex looked at the expression on Carlyle’s face and laughed. ‘Why not?’

‘It’s not exactly what you would expect after you’ve lost a child,’ Carlyle huffed.

‘She had six kids,’ Alex shrugged. ‘She looked after three of them; gave the other three away. That’s not bad by Ukrainian standards. She did her best. You can’t afford to be too sentimental.’

‘Fair enough.’ It was Carlyle’s turn to shrug. Who was he to judge?

‘I’ve given her £200 to go and spend in Harrods on her way back to the airport. Harrods, imagine! She is very excited by it all.’

‘Thank you for bringing her over.’

‘It was my responsibility.’ Alex stared into the middle distance. ‘We made a bad mistake. The best I can do is to make sure that we don’t do it again. There are limits.’

‘Yes,’ Carlyle agreed, ‘there are.’

Just then, Alzbetha’s mother appeared in front of them. Eyes lowered, she murmured something to Alex and handed her the urn. Without acknowledging Carlyle in any way, she turned and stomped away across the lawn.

‘Harrods time,’ Carlyle said to no one in particular. He turned to Alex. ‘You know, I’ve lived my whole life in London and I don’t think I’ve ever gone there.’

She arched an eyebrow. ‘I’m not surprised. It’s only for classy people.’

‘Thanks a lot!’ he gasped, in mock indignation.

‘I’m more of a Harvey Nichols girl myself,’ Alex told him.

‘I can imagine,’ Carlyle replied. And he could. It was clear that the term ‘high maintenance’ did not even begin to cover Alexandra Gazizulin.

‘Hopefully they will open a franchise in Kiev one day. Here.’ Alex handed the urn to Carlyle. ‘She wants you to keep it.’

Carlyle turned it over in his hands. A squat brown box, it looked like a tea caddy. ‘Thanks.’

Alex sighed. ‘It is time for me to go.’

‘Shall I get Sir Ewen to show you out?’

‘No. It looks like he is getting on well with your wife,’ she murmured. ‘I would not wish to interrupt. We can see ourselves out.’

‘Okay.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Alex teased, ‘we will not steal anything on the way to the gate.’

Carlyle laughed, but said nothing.

‘We might visit the gift shop though.’

‘It’s expensive.’

‘I guess they need the money.’ She gestured towards the Palace. ‘It’s a bit run-down, no? It could do with a makeover.’

He shrugged. ‘These type of places always need a lot of upkeep, I suppose.’

Bored with the conversation, she held out a hand. ‘Good to know you, John Carlyle.’

Carlyle hesitated. Then he took her hand, holding it for the shortest moment. ‘Good to know you . . . ‘‘Olga’’.’

She leaned over and kissed him lightly on the cheek. ‘In your dreams, policeman,’ she whispered. ‘‘‘Olga’’ would have eaten you alive, many times over.’

Feeling himself blush violently, Carlyle looked over towards his wife. Mercifully, Helen was still deep in conversation with Mayflower, so didn’t pay him any attention.

By the time he had composed himself, Alex was almost halfway across the lawn. A firm breeze caught him in the face, and he realised that it had stopped raining. A tiny patch of blue had appeared in the sky, displaying token resistance against the inexorable advance of winter. Sticking his hands deep into the pockets of his raincoat, Carlyle watched Alexandra Gazizulin catch up with Alzbetha’s mother and lead her towards an attendant who was waiting by a doorway, ready to show them off the premises.