by Westminster Social Services. Carlyle had tried to speak to Hilary Green, the social worker he blamed for ‘losing’ Alzbetha, but she was still off on sick leave. He had, however, met the funeral director, politely declined a Rowan Garden Ashes Plot (?1,575) and confirmed that he wanted to have custody of Alzbetha’s ashes at the end of the cremation. ‘Not mixed up with anyone else’s,’ he had insisted grumpily, as he stood in the shop watching another customer being loaded into the back of a hearse.
The director smiled wearily. ‘The cremator has to provide a separate tray for each cremation, sir,’ he said, ‘so it’s impossible that the remains of two bodies could be mixed up.’
‘I see.’ Carlyle wasn’t exactly convinced, but he couldn’t really argue the point.
That had been a week ago. Now he sat waiting on the uncomfortable oak pew. A door squeaked behind him and he heard light footsteps cross the stone floor, but he didn’t look round. Why couldn’t they just get on with it? Carlyle looked again at his watch. It was almost 11.15. It should have been finished by now.
There was suddenly a hand on his shoulder. He looked up. ‘What are you doing here?’
Helen bent over and kissed the top of his head. Unbuttoning her overcoat, she sat down beside him. ‘I wanted to come,’ she said quietly, taking his hand. ‘I know this is important to you.’ She nodded at the coffin. ‘Imagine if. .’
He squeezed her hand. ‘Don’t.’ He had already imagined it — a lot — and he didn’t want to give the fear and paranoia about his daughter currently bouncing around his head any credibility by talking about it. ‘What about work?’
She shrugged. ‘I told them that I had a funeral to go to.’
The music stopped, replaced by a sudden mechanical rumbling as the coffin began to move. The curtains closed in front of the coffin and they sat in silence, listening to the box trundling towards the two small doors in the rear wall.
Immediately after the cremation, Helen had to go back to work. Carlyle, unable to summon the energy to do likewise, offered to go and pick Alice up from school.
Standing in the crematorium forecourt, Helen put her arm through his and began marching him steadily towards the main road. ‘You can’t,’ she scolded gently. ‘She’d be mortified. She’s too old for that now.’
Carlyle felt a pang of nostalgia for his daughter’s rapidly disappearing childhood. ‘Yes,’ he said slowly, ‘of course.’ He felt a raindrop on his head and quickened the pace. ‘Speaking of school, any more news on the drugs front?’
‘Nothing, thank God.’ Helen matched his stride. ‘I think the school has managed to sort the problem out.’
‘For now.’
‘Hopefully, for good. At least, as far as Alice and her friends are concerned. They’re all nice, sensible girls.’
‘Yeah,’ Carlyle nodded. But he remained unconvinced.
‘What are you going to do with that?’ she asked, nodding in the direction of the small brushed pewter urn he carried in his free hand.
‘I don’t know.’ He shrugged. ‘We’re still trying to find the parents. If they don’t turn up, I reckon we should scatter them somewhere.’
‘Where?’
‘Somewhere nice, I suppose.’
‘Do you have anywhere particular in mind?’
‘No, I haven’t thought that far ahead.’
‘I’m sure we can think of somewhere.’
He leaned down and kissed her tenderly on the cheek. ‘Thank you for coming.’
She reddened slightly, and he wondered when was the last time he had seen his wife blush. She kissed him back. ‘You did a good thing; making sure that this was done properly.’
Carlyle listened to the background hum of the city traffic getting closer. Arm-in-arm, they walked back towards daily life in comfortable silence.
Sitting in the back booth of Il Buffone, Carlyle finished his omelette and pushed the empty plate away from him, right up to the urn at the far end of the table. Marcello clearly wasn’t happy about having Alzbetha’s ashes in his cafe but, other than crossing himself theatrically and muttering a few things in Italian under his breath, he kept his own counsel.
As Marcello cleared away his plate, Carlyle ordered a double macchiato and an apple Danish for dessert. While he waited, he watched an elderly gentleman on a rickety old bicycle turn into Macklin Street and come to a stop outside the cafe. After locking his bike to a lamp post and removing his crash helmet, he came inside and sat down opposite the inspector.
‘Mr Carlyle?’ he asked, with a mischievous twinkle in his pale blue eyes. He had the cheeky demeanour of an eight-year-old boy in a sixty-five-year-old body.
‘
‘Of course,’ the man beamed. ‘I do apologise, Inspector.’ He held out a hand. ‘Ewen Mayflower.’
Carlyle shook it. ‘Can I help you?’
Mayflower ran a hand through his cropped silver hair. ‘It’s me who can help you, I think.’
Just then, Marcello arrived with Carlyle’s macchiato and pastry. Placing them on the table, he hovered expectantly.
‘Ah, yes,’ said Carlyle’s new dining companion, picking up a menu and peering at it over the top of his glasses. ‘Could I please have a cup of tea and two slices of brown toast, with no butter. Thank you.’
Marcello repeated the order and retreated behind the counter.
Munching on his pastry, Carlyle watched the other man remove his reflective yellow vest, under which he was wearing a brown jacket and a white shirt, topped off with a blue cravat. Mayflower adjusted the handkerchief in his breast pocket. ‘A bit casual in the wardrobe department today. I’ve got the day off, you see.’
Declining to point out that, however casual he felt, Mayflower was still rather overdressed for Il Buffone, Carlyle sat back on his bench. ‘And what is it that you do, Mr Mayflower?’
‘Sir Ewen, please.’
Carlyle’s heart sank. How had this nutter arrived at his door?
Marcello quickly arrived with the tea and toast. Mayflower declined milk. Blowing on his tea, he smiled. ‘Only joking.’
Carlyle frowned.
‘My full title,’ the fellow continued, ‘if you’re the type of person for whom these things matter. .’
I’m not, thought Carlyle sharply. But he let it slide.
‘. . is Sir Ewen Mayflower, GCVO — which stands for Grand Cross of the Royal Victorian Order.’
‘Interesting,’ Carlyle said, already wondering how he was going to make his escape.
‘But you can call me Ewen.’
‘Thank you.’
‘According to my job title, I am the Lord Chamberlain.’
Carlyle looked confused.
‘Head of the Royal Household.’
‘As in the guy in charge of Buckingham Palace?’
‘You could say so, yes.’
‘And what does that involve?’ Carlyle asked, his interest now piqued.
‘Well,’ Mayflower finished munching on a piece of toast, ‘the Royal Household aims to provide exceptional advice and support to the Queen, enabling her to serve the nation and its people.’
Spare me the pitch, Carlyle thought. ‘Which means what?’ he cut in. ‘In layman’s terms?’
‘I was warned that you were. . direct.’ Mayflower smiled politely. ‘In layman’s terms, I am the operational head of the ‘‘below stairs’’ elements of the royal palaces. I am responsible for the domestic staff, from the royal kitchens, the pages and footmen, to the housekeeper and her staff.’
‘How very Victorian.’ Carlyle let his gaze wander. Out in the street, Trevor, a local pre-op transsexual, was
