Buckingham Palace Blues

‘I’ve read Dolan’s report,’ Adam continued. ‘What do you have to say for yourself?’

Matthews focused her gaze on a spot on the wall a foot above Adam’s head. ‘I was going about my lawful business when I was assaulted, sir,’ she replied in a matter-of-fact manner.

Adam tapped a sheet of paper lying on the desk with his index finger. ‘That’s not what it says here.’

Big fucking surprise, Matthews thought. She hadn’t read Dolan’s work of fiction but she could guess well enough what it said. She took a deep breath. ‘No, sir.’

‘It claims here,’ Adam said, the annoyance in his voice clear, ‘that you got blind drunk and attacked a couple of your colleagues.’

Which would be why I am the one who is black and blue, Matthews thought grimly, and none of them have so much as a scratch. ‘What about the CCTV, sir?’ she asked quietly.

‘What?’ Adam looked bemused by the question.

‘The pub has CCTV that covers the full length of that alley,’ Matthews explained. ‘The footage will confirm my version of events.’

Adam glanced again at the papers on his desk. He ran a finger down the top sheet until he found what he needed. ‘The CCTV camera wasn’t working.’

How convenient.

‘Apparently it’s been defective for months, if not years,’ Adam said coolly. ‘Which you would doubtless know, given that, by all accounts, you go drinking in the Drunken Friar most nights of the week.’

What I know, Matthews thought, is that I’ve been done up good and proper. She tried to calm herself down. You’re almost out of here, she told herself, so don’t make a fuss.

Adam flopped backwards in his chair, sighing loudly. ‘This is simply not good enough. Do you have anything else to say for yourself?’

‘No, sir.’

‘This is a disciplinary offence.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘The investigation process will take time.’

‘Yes?’ Matthews wondered where this was going.

Adam dropped his gaze to the desk. ‘In the meantime, you will be staying in SO14. I have decided to pull your transfer.’

‘But-’ Matthews began to protest.

Adam held up a hand to silence her. ‘Take it up with your union rep if you wish. I am not going to risk letting our dirty laundry be aired outside the unit. This matter will have to get sorted out fully before you leave.’ He looked her in the eye. ‘Indeed, as I am sure you are aware, the investigation into this violent outburst may result in you leaving the Force altogether.’ He folded his arms in the manner of a headmaster dismissing a troublesome pupil.

Fighting back her tears, Alexa Matthews got to her feet and stumbled towards the door.

ELEVEN

In no way did number 75 Thane Villas look like a desirable residence. It stood on a terraced street located between Seven Sisters Road — the rat-run less commonly known as the A503 — and the main railway line into the centre of the city. It was a four-storey bay-fronted terrace house set six feet back from the street behind a small patio area and a massively overgrown hedge. On the pavement, an overflowing rubbish bin stood sentry by the gate, next to an ancient, rusting Vespa scooter with two flat tyres which was propped up against a low wall. The windows of the house were caked with grime, and a pile of discarded junk mail sat outside the front door, which itself was crying out for a new coat of paint.

The whole property clearly needed some serious attention, but it was unlikely ever to get it. Even before the property slump, this part of North London was a long way off becoming gentrified. This was a low-income neighbourhood. Number 75 was the only property in the street that had not been chopped up into tiny flats to accommodate a transient population of students, immigrants, minimum-wage foot soldiers and benefits scroungers.

The neighbourhood also enjoyed one of the highest crime-rates in the city. Yellow police signs asking for witnesses to the latest assault, or worse, were commonplace. One Saturday night, a council survey had recorded an incident of ‘anti-social behaviour’ — anything from pissing in the street to attempted murder — every forty-three seconds. It was the kind of place which, if you could afford to, you quickly moved out of.

Carlyle stood in the gloom of a downstairs bedroom, listening to Warren Shen’s men bounce up the stairs. Doors were banged open and he could hear the sound of their boots thumping across the bare floors of the rooms above. Flexing the toes in his aching right foot, he wondered if he should have been quite so quick to kick the door in. But, after no one answered the bell, what else was he going to do? Fuck off and try again later? Not likely. Not if there was any chance that the missing girl could be here. Rotating his ankle, he felt a sharp stab of pain. But his foot could stand it. He was reasonably sure that nothing was broken.

‘It’s empty,’ a voice shouted from the top of the stairs. ‘There’s no one here. The whole place has been cleaned out, too.’

Shen appeared in the doorway, snapping on a pair of rubber gloves. ‘Looks like we missed the party.’ He looked glumly around the empty room. ‘Or maybe your source sold you a bum steer.’

Carlyle grunted noncommittally. He hadn’t told Shen about his conversation with Olga. That was something he had decided to keep to himself, for the moment at least. He had yet to make his mind up about the guys from Vice. Like a lot of coppers he had come across over the years, they made him feel uncomfortable. Maybe it was just him. Maybe it wasn’t. Carlyle didn’t really care either way. Over the years, he had learned to trust his own judgement. Right now he was wishing he had left them chasing hopeless masturbators round Soho, or whatever else it was that they did on wet Wednesday afternoons. He should have come up here on his own.

‘Who owns this place?’ Shen asked.

‘I haven’t checked that yet,’ Carlyle replied almost absentmindedly. ‘I was told that the girl was,’ he corrected himself, ‘that the girl had been here.’

‘Recently?’

‘Yeah, I think so. At least, since I originally found her. Maybe she was brought here after being snatched from Social Services. I thought it was worth checking out — just in case.’

‘Of course,’ Shen said, sounding unconvinced.

‘She could have been here.’

‘Well,’ Shen sighed, ‘she’s not here now. Whoever was here has gone. And they’ve cleaned up after themselves pretty well, by the looks of things.’ He poked at a loose floorboard with the toe of his boot. ‘Did your source give you anything else?’

‘No.’

‘A wild-goose chase then.’ Shen shot Carlyle a look that finally let his irritation show. ‘Thanks for that.’

‘Sorry.’ Carlyle shrugged. ‘But it was worth a look.’

‘I suppose. These things happen.’ Shen took a deep breath. ‘Okay. Seeing as we’re here, we might as well be thorough. I’ll start at the back.’ He stepped into the hall. ‘This shouldn’t take long.’

‘I wouldn’t have thought so.’ Carlyle gazed vacantly at the ceiling. He was already finished. He had given up on Olga’s tip. Clearly he had been chasing his tail.

‘Which is probably just as well,’ Shen grinned, ‘seeing as you kicked the bloody front door in. We don’t want one of the neighbours calling the police, do we?’

‘Round here? Hardly likely.’ Carlyle listened to Shen disappear into the kitchen and took another look around the dreary room. A torn bedsheet had been jammed into the top of the windowframe, in place of a curtain. A bare lightbulb hung from the ceiling. Tattered wallpaper covered the walls. A wide crack in the far corner suggested that there might be some kind of subsidence problem. Even the air he inhaled here felt dirty and tired.

The only piece of furniture was a small single bed with a metal frame; larger than a camp bed but a bit on the tight side for anyone much bigger than Carlyle. A child’s bed? Maybe. Lying on the frame was a bare, striped