Buckingham Palace Blues

slam a fist into Matthews’s stomach. Sinking to her knees, gasping for air, she felt the pool of lager rebelling in her stomach. A second later, she was retching violently, sending a stream of vomit bouncing off the sticky tarmac.

‘Fuck!’ Dolan laughed, dancing away from the oncoming mess.

Her attacker then dodged to the side and gave her a firm kick in the ribs.

Happy to stay in the background, the third man laughed too.

Leaning as far forward as he dared, Dolan hissed, ‘You always were a skanky bitch, but why did you go and talk to that fucking wanker John Carlyle? That was really stupid.’

Matthews tasted the puke in her mouth and gagged again. Trying to push herself up, she vomited for a second time. One of her ribs felt like it might be broken. Through the haze of pain she cursed Carlyle. You’ve dropped me in it again, she thought, you stupid, fucking twat. Looking up at Dolan, she groaned, ‘I dunno what you’re talking about.’

Dolan reached down and grabbed her by the hair. ‘You’re a lying fucking slag.’

‘Fuck! Tommy, for fuck’s sake!’

Dragging her through the mess, he pushed her face down until she was prostrate on the stinking ground. ‘What did you tell him?’

Feeling the world spinning around her, Matthews tried to close her eyes. If she could ignore her tormentors. . if she could go to sleep, maybe all this would stop.

Dolan gave her another hard kick. ‘What did you tell him?’

‘Nothing,’ she mumbled. ‘I told him nothing.’

‘Do you want us to go round your house and have a word with your missus?’

‘Leave Heather out of this. .’

A boot glanced off the side of her head and, finally, she felt the world slipping away. As they set about her in earnest, she began dreaming of the stars.

NINE

Sitting on the kitchen floor, Carlyle dialled the number on Olga’s card and listened to the call girl’s mobile ring for what seemed like an eternity. It was 10 a.m. and he wondered if she might still be in bed. Waiting for the voicemail to kick in, he was surprised when someone finally picked up.

‘Da?’

‘Olga?’

‘Yes, darling,’ her voice purred down the line, ‘this is Olga. What can Olga do for you?’

Carlyle could hear voices in the background; maybe she could talk freely, maybe she couldn’t. It dawned on him that he couldn’t even be sure that he was talking to the right woman. Still, he ploughed on: ‘You gave me your card the other day. .’

‘I give my card to a lot of people,’ she laughed. ‘You want business?’

Someone chortled in the background.

Was this a game? ‘Er. . yes.’

‘Good,’ she said seductively. ‘What would you like?’

If his wife could hear him now. . Carlyle felt himself blush ever so slightly. Thank God Helen was at work. ‘Er, what do you suggest?’

‘I don’t do anal,’ she said quickly.

More laughter.

Carlyle felt himself getting flustered. ‘But I didn’t-’

‘And, always, we use a condom.’

‘Okay.’

‘Don’t worry, darling, I will show you a good time. You must be horny, for wanting it at this time in the morning.’ The laughter grew louder. ‘Where are you?’

‘Covent Garden.’

‘Which hotel?’

‘Er. .’

‘Ah. Good.’

‘Huh?’

‘I know it well,’ she told him. ‘I meet you in the lobby of the Garden Hotel in forty-five minutes. Is?175 for an hour, plus my taxis, plus my tip.’

‘Tip?’ Carlyle asked, belatedly getting into the spirit of the conversation.

‘Da,’ she giggled. ‘My tip for making you. . explode!’ The laughter reached a crescendo. Olga waited until the hubbub had subsided. ‘Consider it a performance-related bonus.’

‘What if I don’t explode?’ Carlyle joked. ‘Do I get a discount?’

‘Don’t be cheeky. I see you soon.’ The phone clicked and she was gone.

Carlyle sat there for a moment, wondering what to wear.

Putting on his best suit, a navy Paul Smith number that he’d snapped up for eighty quid several years earlier from the Oxfam shop on Drury Lane, he headed out of the flat. Ten minutes later, he was walking through the revolving doors of the Garden Hotel.

The Garden was situated on St Martin’s Lane, just up from Trafalgar Square and round the corner from Charing Cross police station. A boutique hotel fashioned out of a 1960s office block, it was, according to its brochure, a manifestation of the emotional zeitgeist of the city. That automatically made it the kind of place that Carlyle himself could never afford to stay in. At the same time, he had spent quite a bit of time pacing the lobby over the years, for one reason or another, so he knew many of the staff by sight if not by name. Giving the doorman a swift nod, he scanned the lobby itself and the Light Bar beyond, in case Olga had arrived early. When it was clear that she wasn’t there, he headed towards the foppish-looking gent who was sitting at a tiny desk behind one of the lobby’s pillars, with a look on his face that suggested he was half reading the copy of Country Life propped up in front of him and half-staring into space.

Over the top of his magazine, Alex Miles watched Carlyle approaching. As chief concierge at the Garden, Miles had acted as the hotel’s senior fixer for their more important and demanding guests for over a decade. When it came to doing his job, policemen were a minor irritant. They had to be managed carefully.

Miles gave up on the article he’d been half-reading about the history of highwaymen and replaced the magazine on the desk. Almost managing to keep the look of disappointment off his face, he forced himself to his feet as Carlyle reached the desk. Straightening up the jacket of his grey pinstripe suit, he extended a hand. ‘Inspector. .’

‘Mr Miles,’ Carlyle replied cheerily. ‘And how are you today?’

Miles eyed him warily. ‘I’m fine. What can I do for you?’

Happy to dispense with any further pleasantries, Carlyle got straight to the point. ‘I need to borrow a room for a couple of hours. A nice one.’

Miles raised an eyebrow but didn’t smile. ‘Why?’

‘I’m meeting a prostitute,’ Carlyle said casually.

Miles raised both eyebrows.

Carlyle smiled faintly. ‘It’s a professional meeting.’

‘Of course,’ Miles said smoothly. ‘Can I get you a packet of condoms as well?’

‘That won’t be necessary,’ Carlyle told him. ‘But our meeting needs to look kosher. She’ll be here in ten minutes.’

The concierge stared at him blankly.

‘Consider it a deposit at the favours bank,’ Carlyle murmured. ‘A small deposit that represents a tiny nibble at your massive overdraft there.’ A few years earlier, Carlyle had overlooked an unfortunate indiscretion occurring in one of the rooms upstairs involving the concierge himself, two transvestite hookers and a large quantity of unusually pure cocaine. The evidence was still safely locked away at the station, and could be brought out at any time. It was