Buckingham Palace Blues Page 7

  An appointment? Carlyle wondered.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘No problem.’ Shen patted the inspector on the shoulder and headed for the door. ‘Meantime, I need to go and sort out these shitheads we’ve just nicked.’

  SEVEN

  Sitting at his desk on the third floor of Charing Cross police station, Carlyle flicked through the autopsy report on Joe Dalton, the decapitated part-time cabbie. It was clear that the case had been written off as a straightforward suicide, so the investigation had been perfunctory in the extreme. Both cocaine and ecstasy had been found in Dalton’s system, but this had attracted no comment whatsoever, either from the pathologist or from the officer investigating the case. For his part, the inspector could let that slide. Getting coked up before you topped yourself seemed quite reasonable. The thing that really surprised Carlyle was that this case had been closed as a result of the intervention of SO14. Chief Superintendent Charlie Adam himself had signed off the final report, whereupon it had been completed and sent off to the central archive within less than a week.

  Joe Szyszkowski ambled up to the desk, grazing on a chocolate doughnut. ‘I checked the newspapers,’ he explained, once the last of the sugary snack had been polished off and he’d licked his fingers clean in a frankly disagreeable manner. ‘There were a couple of mentions of the . . .’ he paused, grasping for the right word ‘. . . accident at the time when it happened. But no follow-up. And, bizarrely, no one mentioned that Dalton was a copper.’

  ‘It seems unusual that SO14 got involved in the investigation,’ Carlyle mused.

  ‘Very,’ Joe agreed.

  ‘Why not just leave it to the locals?’

  ‘Maybe they just wanted to sit on the drugs thing. That could have come back on them. I’m sure a spate of ‘‘random’’ drugs tests over at the Palace wouldn’t have gone down too well.’

  ‘Maybe not.’

  Joe scratched his ever-expanding belly. ‘I spoke to the original investigating officer, down at Elephant and Castle. He arrived on the scene about twenty minutes after it was called in. Also spoke to the guy who saw it happen. Even though there was no suicide note, it sounds like that is definitely what it was.’

  ‘Yes,’ Carlyle said. ‘The question is, why did Dalton feel the need to top himself? He had no problems that anyone seemed to know about – no money worries, no history of mental illness. Okay, so he did some drugs, but plenty of coppers do. In Dalton’s case, it seems to have been purely recreational, and kept well under control. He turned up for work when he was supposed to and always put in a regular shift.’

  ‘Hadn’t taken a single sickie this year, apparently,’ Joe put in.

  Carlyle raised his eyebrows. They both knew that a copper who didn’t take regular sick leave was a rare creature indeed. Slack rules and a ‘sick-note culture’ meant that the average British policeman took as much as an extra three weeks a year off for supposed illness. And then, at the end of it all, around a third of all police retired early due to ‘ill-health’. The scam was so institutionalised that it was widely considered a legitimate part of the job. Carlyle hated the lazy, skiving mentality behind the numbers, but even he knew better than to open his mouth and express an opinion on it. If Dalton was one of the few coppers not on the skive, that suggested he liked his job and took it seriously. ‘So, there was nothing to suggest a problem with the execution of his duties?’

  ‘Apart from the fact that he was moonlighting and doing X,’ Joe pointed out helpfully.

  ‘At least he didn’t pass out in front of Her Majesty,’ Carlyle grinned.

  Joe laughed out loud. ‘Or try and mount the Duke of Edinburgh, while under the misapprehension that the old bugger was Charlize Theron.’

  ‘Urgh!’ Carlyle made a face. ‘Enough already! It would take more than ecstasy to mistake Big Phil for Charlize Theron. Seriously though, it must have something to do with the missing girl.’

  ‘Could be.’ But Joe was clearly not convinced.

  ‘That’s the direct implication of the steer which Alexa Matthews gave me.’

  ‘Why don’t we just press her for more information?’

  ‘I got as much out of her as I could,’ Carlyle said tartly.

  ‘Want me to have a word with her?’ Joe asked.

  Carlyle shook his head. ‘No . . . maybe – well, not yet. We’ve still got plenty of other leads to follow up.’ His train of thought was interrupted by the phone on his desk starting to ring. He leaned over and picked it up. ‘Hello?’

  ‘John? It’s Warren Shen.’

  Carlyle jumped to his feet. ‘Are we on?’

  ‘Yes, we are. Can you meet me at Chalk Farm tube station in half an hour?’

  ‘Yes. See you there.’ Grabbing his coat, Carlyle turned to Joe. ‘That was Shen.’

  Joe looked at him blankly.

  ‘The guy from Vice.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘I’m off to see this Ukrainian mobster that he knows. Let’s have another chat when I get back.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘In the meantime, see if you can find out anything about a woman called Fiona Allcock. She was Dalton’s girlfriend. She’s into animals, apparently.’

  Joe raised an eyebrow.

  ‘I know, I know.’ Carlyle chuckled. ‘I thought you’d like that. But try to avoid getting your computer closed down by IT. It’ll take you weeks to get your access restored.’

  ‘Good point.’

  ‘Just see what there is. We’ll talk when I get back.’

  In the event, Carlyle – more than ten minutes late himself – had to wait almost twenty minutes outside Chalk Farm tube station before Shen pulled up behind the wheel of an aged white BMW. Carlyle jumped into the passenger seat, and nodded to the two very large blokes squeezed into the rear.

  ‘Constable Hamilton and Sergeant Frost,’ Shen told him, glancing at the rear-view mirror.

  ‘John Carlyle.’

  The two men grunted acknowledgement.

  ‘I’ve explained to them who you are – and why you’re here,’ Shen added.

  Carlyle fastened his seat belt. ‘So we’re going in mob-handed?’

  Shen pulled away from the kerb into some late-afternoon traffic. ‘When it comes to Ihor, this is not mob-handed,’ he said, casually cutting in front of a number 168 bus and heading north up Haverstock Hill.

  Taking a right turn past the Royal Free Hospital, they turned east, heading away from the bourgeois splendour of Hampstead towards the somewhat grittier delights of Kentish Town. After about five minutes, Shen turned the car into Arkan Street, a mix of blocks of council flats, offices and light industrial units. After slowly making his way almost the full length of the pothole-ridden road, he brought the car to a halt, parking it in a motorcycle bay outside a decrepit-looking café called Janik’s.

  Inside, the place was empty. Hamilton and Frost took a table near the door, nodding eagerly when the woman behind the counter offered them coffee and a selection of babka cakes. Tempted by the cakes, Carlyle reluctantly followed Shen into a small room at the back. There, sitting at a round table, casually smoking a Marlboro was a huge, shaven-headed man dressed in a black leather jacket and a grey shirt which was open at the neck. Apart from the table and a couple more chairs, the room was bare. Behind the giant was another door. It was open a couple of inches, and Carlyle noticed some movement behind it. He glanced at Warren Shen but his colleague seemed relaxed enough. It looked like the superintendent had been here many times before.

  The man nodded towards the two spare chairs and waited for the policemen to sit. Just then, the woman brought in a tray carrying three double espressos and three plates of babka, covered in melted chocolate. Placing the tray on the table, she quickly and silently retreated into the main café, closing the door behind her.

  ‘Gentlemen.’ Ihor Chepoyak gestured at the table. His accent was more North London than it was Kiev. ‘Please.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Shen picked up a demitasse and took a
sip of coffee.

  Carlyle pounced instantly on one of the cakes and took a deep bite. He took care to chew it several times, savouring the taste before swallowing. ‘Delicious!’

  Chepoyak nodded happily.

  Quickly finishing the babka, Carlyle resisted the temptation to ask Shen if he would be eating his. Indeed, he could have easily eaten all three. Instead, he settled for draining his espresso and sat back, ready to watch the show.

  Chepoyak stubbed out his cigarette in an ashtray advertising Khortytsa Vodka and drank the rest of his coffee. ‘So, Superintendent,’ he asked, ‘to what do I owe this pleasure?’

  ‘Well . . .’ Shen cleared his throat. ‘This is my colleague, John Carlyle.’

  Chepoyak ran a meaty hand backwards and forwards across the top of his head. As he did so, his eyes narrowed until they were almost slits. ‘So we have a new face in Vice?’

  ‘No, no.’ Carlyle shook his head. ‘I work out of Charing Cross. Superintendent Shen and I simply have a common interest in a particular case.’

  Chepoyak folded his arms and leaned back in his chair. ‘Which is what?’

  ‘We are looking for a Ukrainian girl,’ Shen said evenly.

  Chepoyak leaned even further back in his chair. ‘There are lots of girls,’ he smiled.

  ‘This one is very young,’ Carlyle explained. ‘Just eight or nine years old.’

  Chepoyak made a face that said, Ah, well, it takes all sorts . . .

  ‘She was trafficked,’ Carlyle said quickly. ‘She was abused.’

  ‘I know, Ihor,’ Shen said diplomatically, ‘that you would not have anything to do with such business.’

  Chepoyak leaned forward in his chair and dropped his forearms on the table. ‘That’s good to hear, Superintendent. I wouldn’t want you thinking you could come here to ask for my help and also insult me at the same time.’

  ‘Of course not.’ Shen’s smile was brittle yet sincere. ‘We would never do that.’

  ‘You might not like me,’ Ihor said with a shrug, ‘but I do good work back home. I build nurseries, I fund orphanages.’ He stuck a hand inside his jacket. Carlyle tensed slightly, but all that came out was an A5-sized piece of paper which had been folded in half. He unfolded the photograph and tossed it across the table; it landed on Carlyle’s empty plate. It showed two rows of children, maybe forty in total, with a couple of teachers in their midst. They stood under a large tree, in front of a long, low hut that could have been a classroom. ‘My kids.’

  Carlyle scanned the faces, trying to see if he could find Alzbetha among them, but the image wasn’t clear enough, and there wasn’t enough time. Chepoyak let the two policemen peer at the picture for only a few seconds before scooping it back up and returning it to his inside pocket. ‘That is the Hnizdechko Orphanage Number 3, in the city of Pryluky. Do you know what Hnizdechko means?’

  Carlyle looked at Shen, who made a face and shrugged. ‘No,’ he said quietly. ‘What does it mean?’

  ‘It is translated as ‘‘Little Nest’’.’ Chepoyak snorted. ‘Little fucking nest – hah! It is a total shit-hole. Without me, they have nothing. The situation is terrible. Truly terrible.’

  ‘Which is why you come over here,’ Shen prompted.

  ‘Yes. From here, I can make money. I can make a difference. There are a quarter of a million children in orphanages in the Ukraine. Some have lost their parents. Others have just been abandoned. Alcoholism, drug abuse, prostitution – we have it all.’

  Maybe that’s why you’re so good at what you do, Carlyle thought.

  Chepoyak looked at the two policemen. ‘Like you two give a fuck about who I am and where I’m from,’ he continued in a grim voice. ‘It is a scandal what happens to those children – a disgrace. The only time you hear about all this shit over here is when some pop star or actress goes to my country and tries to adopt one of them.’

  ‘So you do a lot of charity work?’ Carlyle asked, wondering how to get the conversation back on track.

  ‘I do what I can.’ Chepoyak shrugged. ‘The government, of course, does nothing. There is never enough food, never enough clothes, never enough shoes. The children suffer from poor nutrition; they get ill but they don’t have medicine when they are sick. All the orphanages depend on charity for survival. It is a living hell.’

  ‘This girl could have come from an orphanage,’ Carlyle mused.

  ‘It’s possible. I wouldn’t know about it, but I can ask around.’

  ‘If you hear anything . . .’ Shen interjected lamely.

  ‘Yes, yes, of course.’ Chepoyak waved a hand dismissively.

  What exactly was the point of this meeting with Ukraine’s answer to Robin Hood? Carlyle was wondering where his investigation could go from here when there was a sudden kerfuffle outside, and two women burst in. They were followed by a man who looked like a much smaller version of Ihor.

  Carlyle glanced back out into the main café. Hamilton and Frost were both happily shooting the breeze, apparently oblivious to the new arrivals. Just as well it’s nothing serious then, boys, he thought sourly.

  Chepoyak said something to the mini-him, and the other man disappeared somewhere into the back. The women then took a seat at the table on either side of the boss. Both were bottle-blondes; one with a page-boy cut, the other with her hair longer and tied up in a ponytail. Each wore plenty of make-up and each had a smouldering cigarette dangling from her lower lip. The pair of them wore warm-looking winter overcoats, buttoned up to the neck. Without being able to see what was concealed underneath, Carlyle marked them down as a pair of Eastern European hard bodies, the kind of girls that had swamped the prostitution market in London over the last decade or so.

  The only real difference between the two of them was in the eyes. Whereas the ponytail had dark, dead eyes, black as coals; page-boy’s blue irises sparkled with curiosity and mischief.

  Throwing an arm round each of his girls, Chepoyak smirked at the policemen and raised his eyebrows suggestively.

  Shen glanced quickly at Carlyle and held up a hand. ‘Ihor, you know we don’t take freebies.’

  The one with the dead eyes glared at Shen. Her companion kept her amused gaze fixed on Carlyle.

  ‘We are looking for a girl,’ Carlyle repeated for the benefit of the women, ‘maybe as young as eight or nine. A Ukrainian girl brought to London and pimped out to rich men.’

  ‘I told you,’ Chepoyak said, pushing back his chair and getting slowly to his feet, ‘I don’t know anything about it. But I will . . . how do you like to say it,’ he grinned, ‘make some investigations.’

  Shen stood up. Carlyle followed suit.

  ‘That is much appreciated,’ Shen said, extending a hand. ‘Thank you for your time.’

  Chepoyak shook his hand vigorously. ‘No problem,’ he said. ‘Any time.’

  Chepoyak and the women followed the two policemen out into the café. At the counter, Carlyle looked longingly at the remaining cakes sitting on a plate behind the glass. Digging into his trouser pocket, he found a handful of change. Smiling at the silent woman behind the counter, he pointed at the babka. ‘Could I take two of those?’

  The woman nodded. Picking up a paper bag from the shelf behind her, she carefully picked out a couple of cakes from the plate.

  Not sure about the price, Carlyle placed four pound coins on the top of the counter.

  ‘Please!’ Chepoyak stayed his arm. ‘There is no charge.’ He said something to the woman that Carlyle didn’t understand. He held out a hand again. ‘Until the next time, Inspector . . .’

  ‘John Carlyle.’ Carlyle shook his hand.

  ‘Ah, yes.’ Chepoyak had already turned away and was heading towards the back room. ‘Inspector John Carlyle, I will see you next time.’

  Carlyle watched him disappear and accepted the bag of cakes from the woman, leaving the small pile of coins on the counter as a tip. Shen and the others had already gone outside and he heard the BMW’s engine start up.

  ‘You ha
ve a sweet tooth, Inspector?’ The girl with the sparkling eyes had appeared at his shoulder.

  ‘I’m afraid I do,’ Carlyle admitted.

  The girl nodded sympathetically. ‘I also love a nice pastry. Perfect with a coffee.’

  ‘Yes.’ Carlyle couldn’t agree more.

  ‘In fact,’ she sighed, ‘I could do with an espresso right now.’ Turning to the woman behind the counter, she pointed at the ancient-looking Gaggia by the wall. ‘Anichka, could you get me one, please? A double.’

  The woman grumbled under her breath before turning away from the pair of them to work the battered machine. As it rumbled noisily into action, Carlyle flinched slightly as he felt a hand on his backside. Holding his breath, he let the girl slip something into the back pocket of his jeans.

  She studiously ignored his quizzical look, instead peering over the counter in anticipation of the arrival of her coffee. ‘Maybe just a little hot milk, too, if that’s possible . . .’

  Remembering to exhale, Carlyle turned on his heel and left.

  EIGHT

  Helen gazed out of the window, looking south across the river, towards the London Eye. She watched Carlyle enter the tiny kitchen and grab a couple of Jaffa Cakes from a box sitting on top of the microwave. Waiting until he had stuffed the first one in his mouth, she waved the business card in her hand. ‘What is this?’

  Carlyle swallowed. He felt the chocolate from the second Jaffa Cake melting on to his fingers. ‘It’s a girl’s phone number,’ he replied as casually as he could manage, resisting the urge to make a grab for the card itself. He knew that his only way out of this situation was a careful blend of insouciance and full disclosure. ‘She’s a Ukrainian prostitute. I met her yesterday.’ He took a nibble from Jaffa Cake number two. ‘On business.’

  ‘Yours? Or hers?’

  ‘Mine, obviously.’

  Somewhat reluctantly, she handed him back the card and he slipped it into the pocket of his jeans. He waited patiently as Helen sipped her green tea and made a show of looking her husband up and down. She had never tried to set any rules when it came to his job, but she had always been secretly relieved that he had managed to steer clear of working in Vice. There were plenty of other things he could do on the Force where there was much less in the way of temptation. This latest case was making her uneasy, but she knew that she had to try to keep things light. He was a policeman, after all. He had always been a policeman, even before they had met. There were limits to how far she could circumscribe his career. ‘Do many working girls give you their phone number, Inspector?’