Buckingham Palace Blues (25 page)

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 started 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.

Rose wondered if she should have argued harder for more bodies for her team. There was no one else from CEOP. Simon Merrett hadn’t been replaced yet and the rest of the team were thinly spread. Rose wasn’t exactly thrilled to be here herself; paying Sasha, her au pair, £10 an hour that she didn’t have, to look after her daughter, while she was hanging around on the other side of London. Rose began fretting as she wondered whether Louise had gone to bed yet.

In addition to Haddon, she’d been given three Armed Response Officers: little more than teenagers with guns, who were hovering in the darkness outside. Should she have called Inspector Carlyle? Then again, what could he do that three strapping young men kitted out with Heckler & Koch G36s couldn’t? Would he have even agreed to come all the way out here, if she’d asked? She knew that she wasn’t the only one with family commitments.

Rose turned away from the arrivals gate and took a few steps towards the only restaurant in the terminal that was still open. ‘Remember,’ she said quietly into the microphone boom, ‘let her come all the way through. She’s bound to be picked up. We want
both
of them.’

‘Yes, Mother,’ Haddon teased.

She turned back to the arrivals gate. Passengers had started appearing, and Rose felt her heartbeat accelerate till she was conscious of the pulse in her neck. She had a sudden need to pee and grimaced – that would just have to wait.

‘She’s here.’

Rose spotted the girl immediately among the grey morass of business travellers. Her name was Yulia Boyko. Looking older than thirteen, but not by much, she was travelling on a fake Italian passport in the name of Camilla Gaggioli. Left Simferopol at 7 a.m. this morning, travelling to Milan and on to Basel before catching the SwissAir flight into City.

Welcome to the East End of London, thought the CEOP officer. You think you’re coming here to work as an au pair and study English. She shook her head sadly. Don’t they all . . .

Yulia was pretty, if tired-looking and a little thin. Moving slowly, she tried to look like she knew where she was going and who she would be meeting. Passing barely five feet in front of Rose, she walked tentatively to the front entrance of the terminal building and looked out into the grubby darkness. Seeing nothing to comfort her, the girl turned and headed back in Rose’s direction. Rose wanted to reach out and stop the girl, and give her a hug. But she knew that she couldn’t do that now; she couldn’t do that ever. What was she going to give her? A one-way ticket back to the Ukraine, and to God knows what problems back home. Just make her someone else’s problem. That was all that mattered.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw a man in his twenties walk up to the girl. He had curly black hair, and wore a dark suit with a pale blue shirt open at the neck.

‘He’s here.’ Rose watched as he took Yulia Boyko by the arm, leaning towards her to say something. The girl nodded.

‘Let’s go.’

Haddon walked casually over to join Rose. Together they watched the man validate his parking ticket and lead the girl out of the terminal.

‘He’s heading for the short-stay car park. We are fifteen feet behind him. We will be there in two minutes.’

A reassuring voice came out of the darkness:
‘Understood.’

Rose winced as they stepped outside into a sharp wind. She zipped up her parka as she moved forward. Looking up, she realised that there was no one else on the pathway between them and their quarry. For no apparent reason, the man looked round and stared directly at them. Rose fought to avoid making eye-contact. Haddon quickly slipped his hand into hers. ‘Keep walking,’ he said quietly, a casual grin plastered over his face. ‘If we walk past them it’s not a problem.’

Clasping her fingers in his, she felt the ring on his wedding finger. Embarrassed, she tried to remember the last time she had held the hand of anyone other than her daughter. The man turned away from them and took the girl by the arm. Haddon let Rose’s hand drop as he whispered into his microphone. ‘Almost there . . .’

‘We have you covered. We will follow your lead.’

Reaching the car park, the man ducked in between two vehicles, and the girl followed. Just then, Haddon broke into a jog. Falling in step behind him, Rose realised that he had unholstered his Glock 17. Suddenly she felt extremely vulnerable. They slipped behind a green Toyota and watched the man walk across the car park, the girl in tow, towards a large black BMW SUV parked next to the perimeter fence. The scene was illuminated by floodlights from the sugar refinery next door. Rose peered into the shadows. Where were those Armed Response guys?

‘It’s the BMW,’ Haddon hissed.

‘Got it.’

As Rose and Haddon began to walk across the car park, they heard the beep of the SUV’s doors unlocking. The young man hustled the girl into the front passenger seat and slammed the door behind her. Walking around the front of the car, he opened the driver’s door and slipped inside. The two officers were about five yards away when they heard the engine purr into life and the BMW started edging out of its parking space. Without waiting for Haddon, Rose ran up to the back and hammered on the rear door. ‘Hey!’

The brake-lights came on and the BMW stopped.

‘Watch where you’re going!’ Rose shouted into the wind. Haddon stepped round behind her, keeping on the driver’s blind side.

‘Moving in . . .’

The driver rolled down the window and craned his neck to look back at Rose.

She gave him a pained expression. ‘You could have run me over here!’

‘Get out of the way,’ he snarled. The BMW started rolling backwards again.

Rose stepped out of its path just in time to see one of the Armed Response Unit step up to the driver’s door and stick the barrel of his G36 through the window. ‘Turn the engine off NOW!’

Another armed officer appeared on the passenger side.

The driver did a double-take and slowly did as he was told.

The tension drained out of the scene.

‘Step out of the vehicle.’

Slowly, the young man got out of the car and allowed himself to be placed face-down on the tarmac and cuffed.

Yulia Boyko sat silently in the passenger seat, tears rolling down her face.

Rose smiled at Haddon, who looked relieved to be reholstering his Glock. ‘Thanks.’

‘Our pleasure.’ He smiled weakly. ‘It’s nice when it all works.’

‘Tell me about it.’ Rose gestured towards the SUV. ‘I’ll get these two back to CEOP.’

‘Let me know how it goes.’

‘Will do.’ But she was talking to the back of his head. Haddon was already heading back to the terminal, this messy little scene in the airport car park no longer his problem.

‘Sit down, please.’

Keeping his gaze focused on a spot somewhere outside the window, Carlyle took the spare chair in front of Simpson’s desk and waited to be introduced to the fat, thirty-something man with the receding hairline sitting next to him.

Tapping at the keys on her mobile, Simpson studiously ignored them both.

After ten or so seconds had crept past, the man let out a large sigh and turned to introduce himself. ‘Ambrose Watson.’

Carlyle stared at the outstretched hand and, after a moment’s hesitation, shook it limply.

‘IIC,’ Watson explained. Loosening his tie, he wiped a bead of sweat from his pink brow.

Carlyle grunted noncommittally. In the wake of Alexa Matthews and her girlfriend getting barbecued, it was no surprise that he’d been called in for a chat with Internal Investigations Command.

Still not looking up, Simpson cursed under her breath as she struggled to complete her text message.

Watson glanced at his watch and sighed again. ‘I’m looking into the Matthews killing,’ he remarked, to no one in particular, ‘and I was wondering where the inspector was on the night in question?’

Berk, Carlyle thought. Why would I ever do anything to Matthews? He tried to look nonplussed. ‘I was at home.’

Watson coughed. ‘Alone?’

Simpson finally completed her message and hit the send button. ‘Ambrose,’ she said, suddenly looking up, ‘for goodness’ sake, we don’t have time for this nonsense.’

Carlyle, taken aback by this evidence of his boss’s clear support, suppressed a smirk and said nothing. Indeed, he felt a small stab of affection for the commander that, until recently, he wouldn’t have thought possible.

‘But,’ Ambrose huffed, going even pinker in the face, ‘I have to—’

‘You have to deal with a difficult situation,’ Simpson cut him off, ‘and we understand that. The reason why we are all here is not because the inspector might be a suspect,’ she gave Carlyle the briefest of looks, ‘but because he might be able to assist you in getting to the bottom of this.’ She placed her mobile carefully on the desk. ‘Don’t burn your bridges before you’ve even started.’

Failing to hide his annoyance, Watson dropped his eyes to his lap.

‘It’s not like the IIC are ever particularly popular.’ Simpson grinned.

Fuck me, Carlyle thought, she’s even taking the piss. Seeing the glint in her eye, he wondered if she might have found a boyfriend while her old man was inside. That might explain her good mood.

Watson started chewing his lower lip, and Carlyle almost felt sorry for him. The reality was that he didn’t really have any particular views of the Internal Affairs guys. He took coppers – from traffic cops to the commissioner himself – like he took criminals: in other words, just as he found them. One of the biggest mistakes you could make was to mark someone’s card just because of their job. For Carlyle, it was a basic fact of life that any group of individuals, whether collected together by profession, religion or, rather more importantly, allegiance to a particular football team, would provide a mixed bunch: good, bad and indifferent. ‘All things are relative,’ his father would always say, ‘and all people, too.’ Alexander Carlyle had arrived in London from Glasgow in the 1950s, escaping de-industrialisation and relentless economic decline at home. Pragmatic to the core, he had taken a variety of jobs to keep the family unit together. ‘Don’t judge a book by its cover,’ he would also tell his son over the dinner-table, ‘and don’t cut off your nose to spite your face.’ It was sound advice that the inspector had often taken to heart. That, as much as anything else, made him happy to be his father’s son.