Buckingham Palace Blues

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 cafe 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 cafe, 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.’