‘Yes, of course.’
‘Good.’ The general slowly, carefully, refilled the three glasses. ‘In business,’ he said softly, ‘you have to plan for different scenarios.’ He handed over two of the glasses, before sipping with evident pleasure from his own. ‘So, let us assume that we have two basic scenarios here. One — we stay in London. Two — we leave. Alex will go back there to work out which strategy is the most practical.’
‘But. .’ Ihor glanced at the devilishly handsome woman beside him who said nothing, gave nothing away.
‘Either way,’ the general continued, ‘there will have to be changes. There is more than enough scrutiny of our affairs as it is. We have to make sure that nothing comes back to our door.’
‘How do we do that?’ Ihor nervously chucked the vodka down his throat.
‘We do that,’ the general said gently, ‘by you taking care of the royal pervert.’
TWENTY-SIX
It was a heartbreakingly beautiful North London day, the sense of wonder and anticipation enhanced by the presence of early death. Carlyle stood under an oak tree in Stoke Newington’s Abney Park Cemetery, drinking a bitter flat white from a paper cup and imagining his own funeral.
When his time came, he wanted to take his leave on a dark, gloomy day, just to help get everyone into the right mood. Blue skies, sunshine and a friendly nip in the air made you celebrate life, rather than embrace death.
Celebrating life: that was probably what the priest was now telling the mourners this was all about. But that was what priests were for, talking crap at every opportunity.
As he watched Simon Merrett’s coffin being lowered into the ground, he thought back on Alzbetha. He still hadn’t worked out what to do with her ashes, which were sitting in the Covent Garden flat, on top of the microwave in the kitchen. Alice thought it was ‘sick’ to hold on to them, but Helen was sanguine. ‘No one’s in any rush,’ she told him, when he had fretted about his daughter’s reaction, ‘certainly not Alzbetha. Anyway, before we do anything, we need to be sure that the girl’s parents are not going to suddenly turn up.’
‘Not much chance of that,’ Carlyle observed.
‘Anyway.’ She kissed him gently on the lips. ‘We’ll think of something.’
Not for the first time he was grateful for his wife’s level-headedness. She knew how much this case had troubled him, and he was deeply grateful for her calm support.
The only funeral that really troubled Carlyle was his own. As a child, he had dreamed of travelling through space in a coffin, on a serene journey that would go on for ever. How he got into space in the first place was never made clear, but the idea appealed. Even now it seemed far preferable to any of the earthbound options. Carlyle felt a fear of being buried; nor did he much fancy being incinerated. Assuming he couldn’t eventually make it into orbit, he had decided that he would prefer being interred in his own crypt — situated somewhere windswept, but with a nice view.
Over the years, he had given this considerable thought. When he tried to discuss it with them, however, Helen and Alice just laughed. He knew that, when the time came, he would be dead and therefore past caring, but still. . The idea that he should get it properly written into a will gnawed away at the back of his mind.
After experiencing two in quick succession, he wondered how many funerals he would attend before his own. Not all of them would be work-related, of course. His grandmother, well into her nineties now and living in a care home in Glasgow, would go in due course. His parents, Helen’s mother, a couple of aunts. . they all added up.
At least Simon Merrett had commanded a decent turnout. Carlyle counted thirty-seven people graveside, excluding the priest, the staff from the funeral parlour, and the two gravediggers sitting in their van a discreet distance down the road. He hoped that this would be some kind of comfort to Merrett’s wife, but suspected it would not.
The inspector glanced at his watch — 11.18 a.m. — and had a sudden hankering for a glass of Jameson. But that was never a good sign at this time of day, and he pushed the thought away. Feeling self-conscious, he did a small jig under the tree, shifting from foot to foot, impatient to be on his way.
Finally, the service was over. Slowly, the group began to disperse, breaking up into twos and threes as they made their way back to the car park. Carlyle watched Rose Scripps briefly hug the wife and step away, dabbing at her eyes. As Rose headed towards him, he took in the bleak expression on her face. In black trousers and a black overcoat, her hair cut shorter than previously and wearing minimal make-up, she looked older than before.
Carlyle smiled weakly, by way of greeting.
Rose nodded.
‘I didn’t know Merrett was a Catholic,’ Carlyle remarked, watching the priest in deep conversation with one of the mourners.
‘Neither did I,’ Rose replied, her voice sounding a little shaky. ‘It’s amazing how little you know about the people you work with.’
Not really, Carlyle thought.
‘I’ve probably spent more time with Simon over the last year than his wife did,’ she continued. ‘In fact, I know I have. But I still know very little about him.’ She let out a brittle laugh. ‘In fact, I didn’t even know which football team he supported.’
‘Oh? Which one was that?’
‘Chelsea. He even had a season ticket there, apparently.’
‘Mm.’ A grossly crass and uncharitable thought popped into Carlyle’s head. He slapped it away. ‘Shall we get going?’
‘Yes.’ Rose fell into step beside him, slipping her arm through his as they headed for the gate. Taken by surprise, Carlyle felt himself go tense. Unsure how to react, he kept walking and said nothing.
Dressed in a pair of jeans, New Balance trainers and a Hannah Montana sweatshirt, Yulia Boyko looked relaxed and happy. Ensconced in one of the meeting rooms at CEOP, she daintily sipped a can of Coke Light while flipping through the pages of a celebrity magazine. Looking up, she saw Rose standing in the corridor outside and smiled.
‘She seems like a sweet kid,’ Rose mused. Gently pulling the door closed, she looked up at the inspector. ‘I think that she understands that she’s had a lucky escape.’
‘
‘I did some research,’ she continued, ignoring his sarcasm. ‘Apparently, there are about 100,000 kids in the Ukraine who are either homeless or have been abandoned by their parents, for one reason or another. Yulia lived with her father, stepmother and three sisters until she was six. When the father did a runner, she was sent to a grandmother, but the old woman died when Yulia was nine. That’s when she ended up in an institution.’
‘Jesus.’ Carlyle hated these kinds of stories. The shit that some people — some
Rose ploughed on, not picking up on his discomfort. ‘Children dumped in orphanages normally grow up lacking the most basic social skills. But this is one smart kid. She hasn’t had much in the way of formal education, but she can still read and write. She says she picked up English from watching TV shows. When the traffickers told her she was going to London, she jumped at the chance.’
‘What’s going to happen to her now?’ Carlyle asked, trying to move the conversation along.
‘She’s going back there in two days.’
‘Very lucky.’
‘At least she’s still alive.’
‘Good point.’
‘I know we’re not doing much to help her,’ Rose shrugged, ‘but there’s no way she’s going to be allowed to stay.’ She looked down at her hands. ‘What I have done though, is to contact the British Embassy in Kiev.’
‘And?’
‘They put me in touch with the British Council. They are sponsoring some educational programmes over
