Buckingham Palace Blues (23 page)

‘She paid cash, and she paid a tip in advance for the delivery girl, which was nice. Quite a few people don’t even bother these days. You’d be surprised.’

‘Was she English?’

‘No,’ Greene said firmly, ‘definitely not. Her English was good, but she had a strong accent. I assumed that she was Eastern European.’

Close enough, Carlyle thought. ‘That’s been very helpful, thank you. And thanks again for the cakes.’

‘It was our pleasure,’ Greene purred. ‘Come and visit us some time, Inspector. We’d be delighted to see you.’

‘I will, thank you.’ He put down the receiver just as the welcome screen finally appeared on his computer. Typing in his log-in and password, he went straight to Google. As someone who had struggled with a typewriter in his early years at work, Carlyle knew that he would always retain a small sense of wonder when it came to computers; even more so with the internet. The amount of useful information that was out there, just waiting to be grasped, was truly miraculous. All you had to do was type in the right things in the little search box.

Carlyle typed in ‘AUFS’.

50,300,000 results in 0.15 seconds.

Adelaide University Film Society.

Another Union File System.

Linux patch aufs package.

He scrolled down the first five or six pages of search results, finding nothing that seemed remotely relevant. He went back to the top of the page and hit the Advanced Search button.

Find web pages that have all these words.
Slowly he typed in ‘AUFS and Falkirk and orphanage’.

74 results in 0.3 seconds.

That was more like it.

The first two, in Cyrillic script, he ignored. The third one down was a website for the Anglo-Ukrainian Friendship Society – AUFS. Carlyle clicked on the link. The front page displayed the Union Jack alongside the yellow and blue Ukrainian flag. Looking along the top, he hit the Directors button. In front of him suddenly appeared the smiling face of the Rt Hon. Gordon Elstree-Ullick, Earl of Falkirk, the society’s chairman. Carlyle sat back in his chair and pondered how much further this took him. Noticing a button called ‘Photos’, he clicked on that and scrolled down through a selection of events, including one entitled
Sandokan International Children’s Camp
.

On 7 September, Gordon Elstree-Ullick, Chairman, led an aid delegation to visit the camp . . .
Carlyle looked through multiple pictures of sad, pale-looking children receiving boxes of clothes and toys out of the back of an AUFS-branded lorry. At the bottom was a group photo of maybe seventy or eighty kids posed, along with the aid workers. In the middle, smiling for the camera, was Falkirk himself. Carlyle increased the size of the photo so that it filled the whole screen.

Peering at the computer, he tried to make out each child individually. However, it was a low-resolution image and therefore hard to focus on. I need to get glasses, he thought glumly. My eyesight is going. Leaning closer, he studied each face individually. Reaching the end, he went back to carefully study each one again. There were a couple of girls who maybe looked like Alzbetha, but he couldn’t be sure. He wondered if this Sandokan place would have proper records and whether he would be able to get hold of them. But that wasn’t the kind of information he could hope to access without Simpson’s help.

After sending a copy of the photo to a nearby printer, he looked along the line of adults on the back row. Three from the end, over on the right, he spotted someone who looked familiar.

A hungry-looking Joe Szyszkowski appeared at his side. ‘Got any more of those cakes?’

Ignoring the question, Carlyle pointed at the man in the picture. ‘Who does that look like to you?’

Joe peered at the screen for a couple of seconds. ‘No idea.’

‘That,’ said Carlyle, tapping the screen, ‘is Ihor Chepoyak. I’m sure of it.’

‘Shen’s mate?’

‘The very same.’ Pushing back his chair, he jumped up. ‘Let’s go.’

Ignoring an offer of coffee, Warren Shen stood facing Ihor Chepoyak in the back room of Janik’s café and wondered about the wisdom of coming up to Kentish Town on his own. There were two messages from that funny, distracted policeman from Charing Cross on his mobile, neither of which he’d responded to. Carlyle had stirred up this hornet’s nest, so maybe he should have brought him along. Whatever, it was too late now. ‘Where’s the gun?’

Ihor stubbed out his cigarette and exhaled a long line of smoke in the direction of a poster, advertising a Christina Aguilera concert in Kiev, which had been stuck on the wall since his last visit. ‘What gun?’

‘The gun you used to kill that policeman,’ Shen said, as casually as he could manage.

‘What policeman?’

‘Merrett. Simon Merrett. The guy we found chained to the floor in that empty office block in North London.’

Ihor made a face as he slurped his espresso. ‘That was quick.’

Shen stiffened at this confession of sorts. ‘You left a bullet in his brain.’

‘Two.’

‘One entered the back of his head,’ Shen said mechanically, ‘and exited through the front. One of them did not exit.’

Ihor shrugged. ‘Does it make a difference?’

‘Not really. The point is that you’ve overstepped the mark. This will have to be dealt with. You can’t kill policemen in this country.’

Ihor emptied his demitasse. ‘He wasn’t a policeman; he was just some kind of social worker.’

‘He was CEOP,’ Shen said wearily, clearly bored by the semantics, ‘part of the team. Anyway, why was he investigating you? Was it because of this girl?’

‘Me?’ Ihor laughed. ‘He wasn’t investigating
me
. He was investigating
you
. They think you are corrupt.’

Shen thought about that for a moment, then decided it was irrelevant to the matter in hand. ‘Have you got the gun?’

Ihor pulled the Fort-12 CURZ pistol out of his pocket and aimed it at Shen. ‘Of course I have.’

‘There – that one! Down at the far end.’

Joe Szyszkowski steered the unmarked Ford Focus between the potholes on Arkan Street, until Carlyle pointed to a space opposite the shabby café. ‘Park it there.’

‘Shit!’ said Rose Scripps, sitting in the back. ‘I’ve lost my signal. My au pair’s going to kill me.’

Joe glanced at Carlyle, who shrugged. Rose had insisted in coming along for the ride and he couldn’t be bothered to argue with her. Getting out of the car, he crossed the road. The café looked empty of customers, just like the last time he was here. It was late in the day. He wondered if there was any
babka
left.

Reaching out to open the front door, he heard the shot. For a moment he paused, his hand on the door handle, signalling to Joe that he should call for back-up. Then he stepped cautiously inside. There was no one behind the counter and, Carlyle noted sadly, no cake either.
Matter in hand
, he told himself,
matter in hand.

‘Police!’ he shouted. The silence grew louder. Gliding across the linoleum floor to the back room, he thought he heard something – a groan. Joe had arrived at his shoulder. Wisely, Rose had stayed on the street outside.

‘Reinforcements?’ Carlyle whispered, waiting for the welcome sound of sirens approaching.

Joe nodded.

This time the noise from behind the door was louder. It definitely sounded like someone in pain.

Still no sirens.

‘Fuck it!’ Carlyle turned the handle and burst inside, Joe following behind. The pair of them walked straight through the pool of blood spreading on the floor.

‘Fuck!’

Shen sat slumped, dazed, in a chair. He had been shot in the stomach. With some effort, he raised his chin and looked at Carlyle. ‘Get me an ambulance,’ he rasped.

‘It’s on its way,’ Carlyle said, leaving Joe to check Shen’s pulse and make him more comfortable.

‘I’ll be okay,’ Shen continued. ‘He didn’t want to kill me, just slow me down.’

‘Ihor?’ Carlyle asked.

‘Yeah.’ Shen tried to nod. ‘It was the same weapon he used to shoot Merrett. He legged it out the back.’

Conscious that he was trailing blood all over the place, Carlyle quickly slipped off his shoes and checked the alley behind the café. By now, of course, Ihor was long gone. The inspector went back inside and – still in his stockinged feet – looked through the two rooms upstairs, without finding anything of interest.

By the time he came back down to recover his footwear, Shen was being wheeled out to a waiting ambulance, while Joe and Rose were talking to a couple of the dozen or so uniformed officers who had arrived on the scene in response to reports of an officer down.

Once they had been abused for trashing the crime scene, given their statements and extricated their car from behind the police cordon, Carlyle insisted that the sergeant drive Rose home. ‘Drop me at the nearest tube,’ he told Joe. ‘We’ll call it a day.’

‘What are our next steps?’ Rose asked.

‘I don’t know that we have any,’ Carlyle said wearily. ‘Simpson will be mad when she hears about these latest developments, so it’s doubtless back to the day job for me. Ihor is probably on his way out of the country by now. The Border Agency may or may not be able to stop him disappearing. He could be on the Eurostar already. If he gets to Paris or Brussels, forget it.’

‘We have the link to Falkirk,’ Joe reminded him.

‘We do, but that’s not enough.’ They turned a corner and Kentish Town underground station appeared before them. ‘Let me out here.’

With Joe idling in traffic, Carlyle jumped out of the car. Not realising that his shoes were still leaving faint prints of Shen’s blood on the pavement, he picked up a copy of the
Evening Standard
. Reluctant to join the crowds heading into the tube station, he walked into a pub and ordered a double Jameson. Sitting with his drink and his paper, watching normal people going about their business, he savoured a feeling of relief at rejoining the real world, if only for a little while.

TWENTY-THREE

Carlyle sat on the front pew close to the central aisle in the chapel at the West London Crematorium, in Kensal Green Cemetery. The chapel could accommodate up to 100 people, but he was alone and no one else would be turning up. It was just him and the apologetic piped music. In front of him, Alzbetha’s oak casket sat on the catafalque beneath a high, navy canopy, with floor-toceiling curtains descending on either side. Feeling tense, he glanced at his watch and read through the General Cemetery Company’s leaflet on ‘committal procedures’ for the third time.

Shivering in the cold, he wondered why they couldn’t just press the start button and get on with it, considering that there was to be no service. They were still trying to track down any family that the girl might have back in the Ukraine. It might be a lost cause, but Carlyle had decided to collect her ashes, just in case. If he hadn’t been able to look after her in life, he thought, at least he could do it in death.

He had insisted that the Local Authority should not be allowed to bury the child in a ‘pauper’s grave’ – which was just a pit containing up to thirty bodies. Most people assumed that mass graves had gone out with Charles Dickens, but sadly it was not so. Only a week or so earlier, a fox had taken a baby from another pauper’s grave in Battersea New Cemetery. The grave had not been properly sealed. That was London: all human life was here – all human death as well.

The arrangements had been handled by B. German & Son of Lamb’s Conduit Street and the cost covered by Westminster Social Services. Carlyle had tried to speak to Hilary Green, the social worker he blamed for ‘losing’ Alzbetha, but she was still off on sick leave. He had, however, met the funeral director, politely declined a Rowan Garden Ashes Plot (£1,575) and confirmed that he wanted to have custody of Alzbetha’s ashes at the end of the cremation. ‘Not mixed up with anyone else’s,’ he had insisted grumpily, as he stood in the shop watching another customer being loaded into the back of a hearse.

The director smiled wearily. ‘The cremator has to provide a separate tray for each cremation, sir,’ he said, ‘so it’s impossible that the remains of two bodies could be mixed up.’

‘I see.’ Carlyle wasn’t exactly convinced, but he couldn’t really argue the point.

That had been a week ago. Now he sat waiting on the uncomfortable oak pew. A door squeaked behind him and he heard light footsteps cross the stone floor, but he didn’t look round. Why couldn’t they just get on with it? Carlyle looked again at his watch. It was almost 11.15. It should have been finished by now.

There was suddenly a hand on his shoulder. He looked up. ‘What are you doing here?’

Helen bent over and kissed the top of his head. Unbuttoning her overcoat, she sat down beside him. ‘I wanted to come,’ she said quietly, taking his hand. ‘I know this is important to you.’ She nodded at the coffin. ‘Imagine if . . .’

He squeezed her hand. ‘Don’t.’ He had already imagined it – a lot – and he didn’t want to give the fear and paranoia about his daughter currently bouncing around his head any credibility by talking about it. ‘What about work?’

She shrugged. ‘I told them that I had a funeral to go to.’

The music stopped, replaced by a sudden mechanical rumbling as the coffin began to move. The curtains closed in front of the coffin and they sat in silence, listening to the box trundling towards the two small doors in the rear wall.

*   *   *

Immediately after the cremation, Helen had to go back to work. Carlyle, unable to summon the energy to do likewise, offered to go and pick Alice up from school.

Standing in the crematorium forecourt, Helen put her arm through his and began marching him steadily towards the main road. ‘You can’t,’ she scolded gently. ‘She’d be mortified. She’s too old for that now.’

Carlyle felt a pang of nostalgia for his daughter’s rapidly disappearing childhood. ‘Yes,’ he said slowly, ‘of course.’ He felt a raindrop on his head and quickened the pace. ‘Speaking of school, any more news on the drugs front?’

‘Nothing, thank God.’ Helen matched his stride. ‘I think the school has managed to sort the problem out.’

‘For now.’