Buckingham Palace Blues

preferable, however, to leave it there and be able to call on Miles’s services now and again.

‘But-’

Carlyle gave him a sharp look. ‘Do we need to examine the ledger?’

Miles looked at his shoes. ‘No.’

‘Good.’

‘Okay.’ Miles sighed, before heading off across the lobby. ‘Let’s see what we’ve got.’

Following at a discreet distance, Carlyle watched Alex Miles step behind the reception desk. After a brief conversation with the extremely pretty black girl on duty, he pulled a key card out of a drawer and activated it.

While Miles tapped away at a computer, the girl gave Carlyle a suspicious look. Pretending not to notice, he waited for Miles to beckon him over.

Miles nodded at the card. ‘There you go. That’ll get you into the penthouse suite. Top floor.’ He cleared his throat. ‘For people with money, it normally costs two grand a night.’

Fuck me, Carlyle thought. Two grand for a night in a hotel? ‘I won’t be there for a whole night,’ he said, somewhat wistfully.

‘Don’t make a mess on the sheets,’ was Miles’s only response.

Carlyle popped the card into the breast-pocket of his jacket. ‘I’ll meet her in the lobby. When the lady comes in, give her a discreet once-over. We’ll have a little chat when I’m done upstairs. I’d be interested to learn if you already know her. If not, maybe you can find out something about her.’

‘Don’t want much, do you? What’s her name?’

‘Olga.’

‘Yeah, right. What’s her real name?’

‘Dunno,’ said Carlyle, flopping down on a sofa. ‘But I’m sure that I can find out.’

‘The world’s greatest policeman,’ Miles grumbled, slouching off towards his desk.

‘I know,’ Carlyle smiled, closing his eyes and letting his mind wander, listening to the expensive tap-tap-tap of Miles’s leather shoes on the limestone floor as he walked away.

‘Hey! Wake up!’

Carlyle felt a sharp pain in his shin and sat up quickly. He rubbed his eyes and saw Olga standing over him, a cheeky grin on her face.

She looked around, making sure no one was in earshot. ‘You’re supposed to fall asleep after our business, not before.’

‘Did you just kick me?’ After rubbing his leg, Carlyle struggled to his feet, catching a glimpse of Miles sniggering from behind his desk.

‘Come on,’ Olga said, taking him by the arm and marching him to the lifts. ‘I assume you’ve got a room.’

‘Of course.’

‘Perfect.’ She stood on tip toe and kissed him full on the lips, before pressing the call button.

Blushing violently, Carlyle took a step backwards. ‘What did you do that for?’

‘We have to look the part,’ Olga giggled. She arched an eyebrow back in the direction of Alex Miles. ‘Hotel security is checking out more than just my arse.’

‘Mmm. .’

‘Did I tell you that kissing costs extra?’ she said brightly.

‘Extra?’

‘Yes. Another two hundred pounds. And no tongues.’

‘Christ!’ Carlyle wished the lift would hurry the fuck up. Not daring to make eye-contact with the concierge, Carlyle kept his gaze firmly on his companion. She was wearing jeans and black cowboy boots, with a grey silk blouse and a tailored navy jacket. There was an expensive-looking watch on her wrist and a thin gold chain around her neck. Discreetly, he sniffed her perfume. He had no idea what it was, but it was nice and doubtless costly. All in all, she fitted in with her surroundings perfectly.

They rode in silence to the top floor. Exiting the lift, Carlyle stepped across the lush carpet and inserted the key card into the door. To his relief, there was a click and he was able to push it open. Stepping inside the suite, he switched on the lights and glanced around. Decked out in the same minimalist style as the rest of the hotel, the room seemed bigger than his entire flat.

Coming in behind him, Olga let out a small shriek of delight. Dropping her bag on the bed, she trotted off to inspect one of the side rooms.

Perching on the end of the bed, Carlyle waited patiently while she completed her tour.

Five minutes later, she returned carrying a handful of toiletries and a selection of spirits from the mini-bar. Dropping them into her bag, she flopped down beside him.

‘Like it?’ he asked.

‘It’s really cool!’ she laughed, angling a toe of one boot in his general direction.

‘You can have it for the afternoon. They won’t kick us out for a while.’

She propped herself up on one arm. ‘Why? You wanna fuck?’

Again he felt himself blush. ‘No, no. I was just saying.’

‘Whatever.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘We’ve got about forty minutes. If I stay longer, Ihor will wonder what is going on. He will want to see more cash.’ She traced a line on the back of his jacket with her finger. ‘So I can’t stay for longer than the hour — unless you decide to pay me more.’

‘So. . how do you know Ihor?’

She smiled. ‘I met him in church.’

‘Church?’

‘Yes, the Ukrainian Catholic Cathedral in Mayfair. I was at the christening of the daughter of a mutual friend. Ihor was there with his family. He is a big family man. For him, it is everything.’

Carlyle thought about that for a moment. ‘And you joined the family?’ he asked, prepared to go along with this lie.

‘In a manner of speaking,’ she pouted. ‘It’s quite an extended family, but it works well for me.’

‘Fair enough.’ Carlyle shifted uncomfortably on the bed. ‘I’m not making any judgements.’

‘I don’t care one way or the other about what you think. It is my relationship.’

‘A working relationship?’

‘A professional relationship.’

‘And he takes what? Half of your income?’

‘That’s one way of looking at it.’

‘What’s the other?’

‘Haven’t you heard of SuperFreakonomics?’

Carlyle frowned. ‘Super what?’

‘Super-Freak-onomics.’ She bounced on the bed like an excited child being given a chance to show just how clever she was. ‘It’s a book by an American professor. You should read it.’

‘Mm. I’ll add it to the list.’

‘What list?’

‘The list of books I should read.’

‘It’s good. A client gave me a copy.’

A book? What kind of punter gives a working girl a book? And what kind of girl reads it? He felt he was being given some kind of red flag, but wasn’t sure what it signified.

‘One of the chapters is about how prostitutes do better with pimps.’

Just what I need, Carlyle thought, a pseudo-intellectual hooker dosed up on American pop sociology. ‘Uhuh. .’

Olga closed her eyes, as she dug the key points out of her memory. ‘This guy says that a pimp is just like an estate agent.’

On the other hand, maybe the guy did have a point. ‘Now that you mention it,’ Carlyle grinned.

Ignoring him, she ploughed on, ‘Because they both market your product to potential customers.’

‘Why don’t you use the internet like everyone else?’

‘I’m an old-fashioned girl,’ she said primly. ‘I won’t be doing this forever and I don’t want to leave an electronic trail. I work strictly by referral. Strictly cash. When I’m gone, I’m gone. No one will be able to find