Buckingham Palace Blues

‘Yes,’ Ihor nodded.

Olga made a show of thinking about things for a second. ‘But what about the girl that died?’

‘These things happen,’ Ihor said stonily, his gaze now firmly fixed on the table.

‘Yes,’ said Olga brightly, ‘I guess they do.’ She emptied her glass in two gulps and stood up. ‘Ihor, I will see you later.’ Hands on hips, she fixed her eyes on Elstree-Ullick, her smile beginning to erode at the edges. ‘Business must be extremely good if you can bring a child over from the Ukraine and just let her walk out in front of a car,’ she said, not waiting for a response before sauntering to the door.

Gordon Elstree-Ullick watched her go, the grin still fixed on his face and the erection still in his trousers. Inhaling her lingering scent, he tried to make sense of what he had just heard.

On the second floor of the Westminster Public Mortuary in Horseferry Road, the stern gaze of Barbara Enereich looked down upon the Forensic Suite that bore her name. Next to the portrait of the former President of the British Association in Forensic Medicine was a small plaque. The legend on it read: Hic locus est ubi mors gaudet succurrere vitae. Below, in a smaller script, for those like Carlyle whose Latin wasn’t quite up to it, was the translation: This is the place where death rejoices to help those who live.

Bollocks, he mused, returning his gaze to the bank of four LCD monitors hanging from the ceiling. Three of them were blank; the fourth showed the scene inside Lab Number 2 — twenty yards further down the hallway. Biting his lip, he watched as the three forensic pathologists went calmly about their business, preparing for the autopsy of the young girl lying on the slab in the background.

Sticking his hands into his trouser pockets, Carlyle began pacing from one side of the cramped CCTV viewing room to the other. Autopsy, he remembered from somewhere, meant see for yourself. See for yourself? He would rather not, thank you very much. For Carlyle, this part of an investigation was something to be avoided whenever possible. He had been delighted when Westminster’s new?1 million facility had opened, ending the need for him to be in the same room as the actual corpse. Watching the proceedings on television was far better than being in there along with her, but he still felt queasy. Nausea, mixed with the rage that had been bubbling through his guts in the days since the child had died, was creating a foul brew. Try as he might, he couldn’t bring himself to believe that Alzbetha had now left them all behind while her body was still so shockingly present.

Looking over at Joe Szyszkowski, who was sitting on a plastic chair at the back of the room, eating yet another bacon sandwich, Carlyle felt his stomach do a double somersault. ‘Let’s go.’

Joe quickly finished chewing and gave him a funny look. ‘But we’ve only just got here.’

Carlyle buttoned up his jacket and headed for the door. ‘We know what happened, and we can read the report later. I don’t feel any need to watch.’ Without waiting for a reply, he pulled open the door and fled.

Out on the street, he gazed at the passing traffic and waited for the nausea to subside. His feelings of inadequacy would take a lot longer to pass. He had failed Alzbetha; failed her completely. There was no way around that — and there was nothing he could do to make amends.

Joe appeared a few minutes later and placed a careful hand on his boss’s shoulder. ‘We will circulate a picture,’ he said quietly, ‘and the fingerprints. Try to get an ID.’

Carlyle nodded.

Joe removed his hand and took a step back. ‘We still have no real idea how she ended up on South Audley Street at one-thirty in the morning.’

‘We know exactly how she got there,’ Carlyle hissed.

‘Well,’ Joe said gently, ‘what I mean is, we don’t know where she came from. We have CCTV images showing the girl entering from South Street, but how she got there in the first place we don’t know.’

Carlyle looked at him. ‘There are quite a few blocks of flats around there. .’

‘Yeah. And quite a few hotels. We have a couple of uniforms doing the rounds but they haven’t come up with anything yet.’

‘A couple?’

Joe shrugged. ‘You know how it is. We’ve got two constables for the day. That’s it.’

‘Fuck’s sake.’ Carlyle kicked at a discarded cigarette packet on the pavement and missed. ‘Anything else?’

Joe thought for a minute. ‘We know that she had alcohol in her system, and zaleplon.’

Carlyle gave him a quizzical look.

‘It’s used in sleeping pills. And also she had been-’

Carlyle held up a hand. He didn’t need any more details. ‘You concentrate on trying to find her family. I’ll go and have another word with Shen.’ He watched Joe trudge off down the road, before disappearing into St James’s Park tube station. Pulling his mobile out of his jacket, Carlyle found the number he was looking for and hit the call button.

‘Hello?’

He was taken aback when Simpson answered immediately.

‘Hello?’ she repeated quickly, the irritation obvious in her voice.

‘It’s John Carlyle.’

‘Yes?’ Almost like she’d never spoken to him before.

‘We’ve located the girl.’

‘What girl?’

‘The girl I found in Green Park.’ He was regretting making this call now, just as she was probably regretting taking it. Still, he persevered. ‘The Ukrainian girl who was snatched from Social Services.’

There was a pause while Simpson belatedly got herself on to the right page. ‘Ah, yes. Good. Is she okay?’

‘She’s dead,’ Carlyle replied matter-of-factly. ‘She walked out in front of a car in Mayfair a couple of nights ago.’

‘Oh.’ The pause was longer this time. ‘I’m sorry about that, John,’ she said finally. ‘I know that this was very important to you.’

‘It still is,’ he snapped.

‘Yes, well, quite. Do you have anything to go on?’

‘We are chasing a few things,’ he said vaguely.

‘You are working with Shen?’

‘Yes, me and Shen. . that’s why I was ringing. How well do you know him?’

‘Why do you ask?’

‘I have my doubts.’

‘John,’ she said gently, ‘you always have your doubts.’

‘Maybe,’ Carlyle said grudgingly, ‘but I’ve seen him in action and-’

‘And what?’ she chided. ‘He doesn’t fit the John Carlyle template for the perfect copper?’

Ten yards down the road, a taxi driver almost mowed down a woman pushing a child in a buggy as she stepped on to a zebra crossing. The woman flipped the driver the finger and screamed abuse at the cab as it was driven hurriedly away. Carlyle returned to his conversation. ‘I just want to know more about him.’

‘All I know is that he is considered an up-and-comer in Vice,’ Simpson said. ‘But I will make some discreet enquiries.’

‘Thank you.’

‘In the meantime, remember what I told you.’

What was that exactly? Carlyle wondered ‘Of course.’

‘Keep going with it. But when you get to the end of the road, it’s time to stop. I can’t let you chase this forever.’

‘I understand.’

‘Good. Thank you for keeping me informed. Let’s speak later.’

‘Will do.’ Carlyle ended the call and immediately pulled up a number for Warren Shen.

Standing in the doorway of the former SNCF office on Piccadilly, CEOP Detective Simon Merrett watched Warren Shen as he stood on the kerbside ten yards away, obviously checking the number of an incoming call on his