Buckingham Palace Blues Page 19

  Carlyle listened to the background hum of the city traffic getting closer. Arm-in-arm, they walked back towards daily life in comfortable silence.

  Sitting in the back booth of Il Buffone, Carlyle finished his omelette and pushed the empty plate away from him, right up to the urn at the far end of the table. Marcello clearly wasn’t happy about having Alzbetha’s ashes in his café but, other than crossing himself theatrically and muttering a few things in Italian under his breath, he kept his own counsel.

  As Marcello cleared away his plate, Carlyle ordered a double macchiato and an apple Danish for dessert. While he waited, he watched an elderly gentleman on a rickety old bicycle turn into Macklin Street and come to a stop outside the café. After locking his bike to a lamp post and removing his crash helmet, he came inside and sat down opposite the inspector.

  ‘Mr Carlyle?’ he asked, with a mischievous twinkle in his pale blue eyes. He had the cheeky demeanour of an eight-year-old boy in a sixty-five-year-old body.

  ‘Inspector Carlyle,’ Marcello shouted from behind the counter.

  ‘Of course,’ the man beamed. ‘I do apologise, Inspector.’ He held out a hand. ‘Ewen Mayflower.’

  Carlyle shook it. ‘Can I help you?’

  Mayflower ran a hand through his cropped silver hair. ‘It’s me who can help you, I think.’

  Just then, Marcello arrived with Carlyle’s macchiato and pastry. Placing them on the table, he hovered expectantly.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Carlyle’s new dining companion, picking up a menu and peering at it over the top of his glasses. ‘Could I please have a cup of tea and two slices of brown toast, with no butter. Thank you.’

  Marcello repeated the order and retreated behind the counter.

  Munching on his pastry, Carlyle watched the other man remove his reflective yellow vest, under which he was wearing a brown jacket and a white shirt, topped off with a blue cravat. Mayflower adjusted the handkerchief in his breast pocket. ‘A bit casual in the wardrobe department today. I’ve got the day off, you see.’

  Declining to point out that, however casual he felt, Mayflower was still rather overdressed for Il Buffone, Carlyle sat back on his bench. ‘And what is it that you do, Mr Mayflower?’

  ‘Sir Ewen, please.’

  Carlyle’s heart sank. How had this nutter arrived at his door?

  Marcello quickly arrived with the tea and toast. Mayflower declined milk. Blowing on his tea, he smiled. ‘Only joking.’

  Carlyle frowned.

  ‘My full title,’ the fellow continued, ‘if you’re the type of person for whom these things matter . . .’

  I’m not, thought Carlyle sharply. But he let it slide.

  ‘. . . is Sir Ewen Mayflower, GCVO – which stands for Grand Cross of the Royal Victorian Order.’

  ‘Interesting,’ Carlyle said, already wondering how he was going to make his escape.

  ‘But you can call me Ewen.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘According to my job title, I am the Lord Chamberlain.’

  Carlyle looked confused.

  ‘Head of the Royal Household.’

  ‘As in the guy in charge of Buckingham Palace?’

  ‘You could say so, yes.’

  ‘And what does that involve?’ Carlyle asked, his interest now piqued.

  ‘Well,’ Mayflower finished munching on a piece of toast, ‘the Royal Household aims to provide exceptional advice and support to the Queen, enabling her to serve the nation and its people.’

  Spare me the pitch, Carlyle thought. ‘Which means what?’ he cut in. ‘In layman’s terms?’

  ‘I was warned that you were . . . direct.’ Mayflower smiled politely. ‘In layman’s terms, I am the operational head of the ‘‘below stairs’’ elements of the royal palaces. I am responsible for the domestic staff, from the royal kitchens, the pages and footmen, to the housekeeper and her staff.’

  ‘How very Victorian.’ Carlyle let his gaze wander. Out in the street, Trevor, a local pre-op transsexual, was shouting at a couple of the dossers from the nearby halfway house, his oversized Adam’s apple bobbing up and down thirteen to the dozen.

  ‘It’s a very big operation,’ Mayflower continued, determined not to be put off by Carlyle’s snide response. ‘We employ something like a thousand staff, give or take, across a wide range of professions, whose varied skills include catering, gardening and furniture restoration. There are even two employees whose job it is to look after the three hundred clocks.’

  ‘I see.’ Outside, Trevor had flounced off and the drunks were now arguing among themselves.

  Mayflower was on a roll: ‘There are five departments in the Royal Household. There is the Private Secretary’s Office, the Master of the Household’s Department, the Privy Purse and Treasurer’s Office, the Lord Chamberlain’s Office, and the Royal Collection Department.’

  A thought belatedly popped into Carlyle’s head. ‘So you work with SO14?’

  ‘Yes!’ Mayflower’s eyes danced with glee, like a teacher who had just got through to a particularly slow pupil. ‘The Royal Household appointed a Director of Security Liaison a few years ago. I believe we have a number of acquaintances in common, such as Mr Adam and Mr Dolan.’

  Slowly Carlyle re-established eye-contact. ‘Why are you here?’

  Mayflower picked up the second slice of toast. ‘Carole Simpson asked me if I could be of assistance.’

  ‘You know Commander Simpson?’

  ‘Oh, yes!’ Mayflower waved his piece of toast in front of his face. ‘I’ve known Carole for a very long time. She is a wonderful woman.’

  Carlyle said nothing.

  Mayflower nibbled again on his toast. ‘Such a shame, what happened to her husband.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And for this latest . . . upset to happen to her, just when it looked as if she was getting things back on an even keel.’

  Carlyle’s eyes narrowed. He knew he was being toyed with. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Didn’t you know?’ Mayflower asked, as if amused. ‘Joshua was beaten up last month by one of the other inmates. Nothing too serious, but he was in hospital for a few days. The prison authorities then insisted on having him handcuffed to his bed – outrageous! Carole was mortified, and rightly so.’

  ‘Oh.’ Carlyle felt a slight pang of guilt. All the extra aggravation he’d caused Simpson in the last few weeks, while she’d had this stuff on her plate.

  ‘He was teaching a maths class,’ Mayflower said cheerily, ‘and apparently he shouted at one of the more stupid pupils, who took offence. He’s always been too arrogant for his own good, that fellow. But, even so . . . Carole has been in quite a state about it all.’

  ‘I can imagine.’

  Mayflower put a tactful hand on Carlyle’s forearm. ‘Don’t say I mentioned it.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I don’t suppose she’d want many people to hear about it.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And,’ Mayflower removed his hand and took a sip of his tea, ‘she’s worried about you too, you know.’

  The inspector was genuinely surprised. ‘She is?’

  Mayflower placed his cup back on its saucer. He glanced at the urn, but said nothing. ‘This case of yours – very nasty.’

  ‘She told you about it?’

  ‘She mentioned some of the details.’ The sparkle went out of Mayflower’s eyes and he was all business now. ‘Obviously, anything to do with the Palace is of interest to me.’

  ‘Simpson doesn’t seem to think it has anything to do with the Palace,’ Carlyle said, aware of sounding churlish.

  ‘Carole is a very open-minded and fair person,’ Mayflower said evenly. ‘She also has a great deal of faith in you, and respect for your judgement.’

  Feeling himself redden slightly, Carlyle said nothing.

  ‘At the same time,’ Mayflower continued, ‘she told me that you can be a bit of a bull in a china shop.’ Carlyle started to protest, but the other man held up a hand
. ‘You simply can’t take that approach at the Palace. You will get nowhere.’

  ‘I used to work there.’

  ‘I know.’ Mayflower crossed his arms and sat back on his bench, his point made as far as he was concerned. ‘And look how that ended. A particularly unhappy chapter of your career, as I understand it.’

  ‘That would be a fair description of it,’ Carlyle sighed.

  ‘So, this is where I come in. I can help you satisfactorily pursue your investigation, while ensuring that the interests of the Royal Household are also properly looked after.’

  ‘And what if the two collide?’

  ‘Inspector,’ Mayflower said firmly, ‘I can assure you that if there is anything at all to your suspicions regarding Thomas Dolan and the Earl of Falkirk, you will have my full support and assistance in ensuring that they are brought to justice.’

  ‘Falkirk?’ Carlyle asked, fully engaged now.

  ‘Carole says that you have some serious concerns about our Mr Elstree-Ullick.’ Mayflower looked around theatrically. ‘Between us, I too have concerns. They may be the same concerns, or they may be different, but the basic point is that Gordon and his cronies could end up doing a great deal of damage to the Royal Household.’

  That’s hardly my primary concern, Carlyle thought. But he bit his tongue. ‘Do you have any evidence?’

  ‘I like to think that I operate with a light hand on the tiller,’ Mayflower replied, ‘but I hear things and I have seen things.’

  ‘What kind of things?’

  ‘Well . . . he treats the staff terribly. He ran over one of the bodyguards in his Aston Martin a few months ago, broke the poor man’s leg. Did he apologise? No. Did he agree to be interviewed about it by the police? Hardly. He acts as if he is above the law.’

  ‘Isn’t he?’ Carlyle asked. ‘That’s exactly what it sounds like.’

  ‘He most certainly should not be!’ Mayflower banged his fist on the table. ‘It is crucial that justice is seen to be done. The Earl is no different from the rest of us in that regard. Only the Queen herself is immune from prosecution.’

  The inspector raised an eyebrow. ‘The Queen is immune from prosecution?’

  ‘Yes. British justice is administered in the name of the monarch. The sovereign not only has immunity from prosecution, but it has also become accepted that he or she cannot be required to give evidence in court. Historic precedent and tradition aim to protect the dignity of the monarch, and therefore the process that dispenses justice in her name.’

  Carlyle frowned. ‘So if the old girl lost it one day and started down The Mall taking out tourists with an Uzi, she would be able to get away with it.’

  Mayflower smiled indulgently. Simpson had already warned him that the inspector could be most trying, and he was determined not to be riled by Carlyle’s childishness. ‘An arresting image, Inspector, but it’s hardly a plausible scenario, is it?’

  Carlyle’s frown deepened. ‘But what about the principle?’

  Mayflower laughed. ‘What a strange policeman you are, Inspector!’

  ‘What else does Falkirk get up to?’ Carlyle asked, trying to get the conversation back on track.

  ‘He is a very colourful character. There are lots of unaccredited guests, drinking parties, young girls . . .’

  ‘How young?’

  A pained expression crossed Mayflower’s face. ‘Younger than you would have thought necessary, by all accounts.’

  Having no time for the cryptic, Carlyle changed tack. ‘I’ve spoken to Falkirk,’ he said abruptly. ‘And he did not cooperate in any way.’

  ‘So I heard.’ Mayflower pursed his lips and steepled his fingers in prayer. ‘Maybe we could talk to him together?’

  ‘How would that help with my investigation?’

  ‘You have no leverage over him. I, on the other hand, can realistically hope to have some influence on his access to the Palace and on the privileges he enjoys there. Maybe, together, we can have a different type of conversation with him.’

  ‘What type of conversation?’

  ‘Well . . . Gordon has a self-pitying approach to life, something which is surprisingly common among the royals. Maybe we could give him something more tangible to worry about than his usual concerns.’

  Not very likely, Carlyle thought. On the other hand, it would be stupid to turn Simpson’s emissary away. He signalled to Marcello for the bill. Turning back to Mayflower, he tried his best to give a look that might just be considered an approximation of gratitude.

  ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘when did you have in mind?’

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Alexa Matthews sat up in bed and yawned, idly scratching her left breast through the thin cotton of her T-shirt as she watched Heather who was curled up beside her, dead to the world. It was 2.10 a.m., which meant that her disciplinary hearing was due to start in just under eight hours.

  At the hearing, she would be represented by her Federation rep, but the guy was so totally useless that she was seriously thinking about doing it herself. The whole situation was a complete nightmare: her transfer out of SO14 had collapsed and Charlie Adam’s threat to have her thrown off the Force completely was not something that the union had been able to have lifted. By teatime, Alexa thought, she might no longer be a policewoman. No job was bad enough, but it also meant no pension. Last time she looked, there was just over £56 in her savings account. She would be totally screwed.

  Sitting there in the dark, she wondered what she could do for a living if she left the police force. Nothing sprang to mind. A shiver of fear went through her. She desperately wanted a fag. Heather had always insisted on a strict no-smoking policy in the bedroom, but tonight, surely, she should be allowed. She gave Heather a gentle poke to see if she was really asleep. There was no response, so Alexa decided she would risk it. Reaching down alongside the bed, she heaved her bag on to her lap and began rummaging around for a packet of Lambert & Butler’s and her lighter. Underneath the cigarettes, she noticed her mobile was flashing. Someone had sent her a message. Sticking a cigarette in her mouth, she opened it.

  Wakey, wakey!

  She looked at the time of the weird message: 2.06. Some tosser had obviously texted the wrong mobile number. Grunting, she tossed the phone back into her bag and pulled out her lighter. There was the sound of footsteps on the street outside, then the door to their building opened. The couple downstairs had been out partying again, Alexa assumed, lucky buggers. Lighting her cigarette, she took a deep drag. ‘Ahh!’ As soon as the nicotine entered her bloodstream, the world suddenly seemed a less scary place.

  She was carefully blowing the smoke away from the bed, when the door was kicked in. In the doorway stood two men with balaclavas covering their heads. One carried a small wooden rounders bat, like a half-sized baseball bat. The other was carrying two large plastic bottles filled with liquid, one in each hand.

  Alexa stared at them dumbly. Was she dreaming?

  Heather grunted and pulled a pillow over her head.

  Alexa snapped out of her stupor. ‘Get up, you stupid bitch!’ she hissed, struggling out from under the duvet.

  She had barely got her feet on the floor when the man with the bat stepped forward and smashed a fist into her face. ‘Back on the fucking bed!’

  Holding her broken nose, Alexa moaned as the other man unscrewed the cap from one of the bottles. She could smell the petrol even as he began pouring it over the bedcovers.

  ‘Hey!’ Belatedly coming to life, Heather sat bolt upright. Dropping one of the bottles on the bed, her attacker grabbed her by the throat and started pouring petrol from the other over her head. She tried to cry out but the fuel flowed into her mouth and she began to gag.

  ‘No! Please!’ Alexa tried to push herself up again, but her legs had turned to jelly. Then she saw the spark of the lighter. Her bowels loosened, and then gave way completely, the stench mixing with the smell of the petrol. She looked at Heather trying desperately to clean the petrol from her eyes, and start
ed to cry. ‘There’s no need,’ she sobbed. ‘I’ll go quietly. I’ll say nothing.’

  The men emptied the last of the petrol from the bottles and stepped away from the bed. ‘You were told to keep your mouth shut,’ one of them replied flatly. ‘But you didn’t, did ya?’

  ‘I won’t tell,’ Alexa moaned.

  ‘We know you won’t,’ he sneered, tossing the lighter towards her. For a moment, there was silence, then a whoosh and the smell of burning. The last thing she heard was Heather’s screams.

  Rose Scripps looked up at the arrivals board located in the middle of the tiny terminal of City Airport in East London. It indicated that SwissAir LX462 had arrived on time. Standing to her left, a cluster of taxi drivers were waiting by the gate, holding up name-boards for their passengers. As casually as she could manage, Rose strolled past them, glancing at each one in turn. None of the boards had the name Boyko scrawled on it. That, in itself, was of no particular significance but it did nothing to quell the gnawing worry in her stomach. This operation would end up costing thousands of pounds. Had their intelligence been wrong? It wouldn’t be the first time.

  A disembodied voice reporting from airside gave her the answer. ‘Here we go. The girl is moving through customs now. Just like her picture. Stick-thin, short blonde hair, dark eyes.’ Rose pushed the Bluetooth Headset deeper into her ear. The ubiquitous technology wouldn’t draw any unwanted attention from civilians but she didn’t want the bloody thing falling out once it all kicked off. She glanced over at Colin Haddon, the liaison from the UK Border Agency. Haddon was part of the Agency’s Operation Paladin, responsible for unaccompanied children arriving at British ports and airports. He was in charge of the operation so long as they remained on airport property.

  ‘She’s wearing a denim jacket and red trousers. Carrying a small red holdall. Easy to spot.’

  Standing at a news kiosk, flicking through a driving magazine, Haddon made eye-contact but didn’t otherwise acknowledge her. He had been less than pleased at being dragged out on this foul night, moaning about having to go on ‘another wild-goose chase’. Rose had been sympathetic but had stood her ground. They’d had precise intelligence for once and now the thirteen-year-old runaway from an orphanage in the Crimea had turned up just as anticipated. They were on to something here, just as long as they didn’t lose the girl.