Buckingham Palace Blues

Busy building a pile of his precious vase fragments on the carpet, Mayflower pretended not to notice. ‘We have plenty more works in storage,’ he explained. ‘There is far too much to put on display.’

‘Why don’t you sell some of it?’ Carlyle asked. ‘It could help pay down the national debt or something?’

‘Oh, no! That would never do.’ Mayflower looked at Carlyle as if he was even more stupid than a policeman should be. ‘The family would never stand for that.’

‘I suppose not.’ Carlyle fell to his knees and handcuffed Falkirk. ‘Hoarding loads of expensive shit in the basement makes so much sense, after all.’

‘I think that maybe it does,’ Mayflower grinned cheekily, ‘if it happens to be your shit, Inspector.’

Carlyle bundled Falkirk into the back of the police BMW already waiting in the quadrangle, taking care to bounce his head firmly off the frame of the door as he did so. Falkirk grunted, but did not complain. The driver gave him a questioning look, but Carlyle just glared back at him and the man said nothing.

Joe Szyszkowski sat impassively in the front passenger seat. Walking round, Carlyle bent down to the window: ‘Get him back to the station and make sure to leave him in a cell for an hour. Then we’ll go and talk to him. He sees nobody. And he’s already had his one phone call.’

Joe gazed through the windscreen at a young woman walking a gaggle of Corgis. ‘Understood.’

‘Good. I want as few people as possible to know that he’s in custody.’

Joe gestured at the bloodied, sullen figure visible in the rear-view mirror. ‘Shall I get him cleaned up?’

‘Leave him.’

‘Are you sure, boss? It could become an issue.’

‘Okay,’ Carlyle sighed, ‘whatever you think. I’ll be back in an hour or so.’

‘See you then.’ Joe buckled up his seat belt and turned to the driver. ‘Let’s go.’

Carlyle stepped back from the car and watched it pull away. He then turned to Mayflower, who had been hovering at a discreet distance. ‘Thank you for your help.’

‘My pleasure, Inspector.’ The Head of the Royal Household held out his hand, and they shook. ‘I just hope this matter can be concluded speedily, and with a measure of discretion.’

‘I think that there is relatively little chance of that,’ Carlyle replied, wiping cold sweat from his brow. ‘However, I assure you that I will make every effort to see that you are not inconvenienced unnecessarily, and that the Royal Household is embarrassed by any forthcoming revelations as little as possible.’

Mayflower’s eyes sparkled. ‘My, what a very diplomatic answer!’

Carlyle shrugged. ‘I promise that I will do my best.’

‘Don’t worry, Inspector. There are always some things that are beyond our power and control. In such circumstances, all one can do is try to do one’s job. The really bad apples have to be dealt with, and if it all gets a bit messy, well. .’ he gestured back inside the Palace, ‘it’s not as if these good people don’t know a thing or two about scandal.’

‘I suppose not,’ Carlyle laughed. ‘And sorry again about the vase.’

‘These things happen.’ Mayflower patted him gently on the arm and began guiding him across the quad. ‘It will take many months and quite a bit of superglue, but that artefact will be back on display by this time next year.’ He gave Carlyle a searching look. ‘Of course, I’ll have to tell the Queen about what happened.’

‘Really?’

‘No,’ Mayflower chuckled, ‘she’ll never notice. Why should she? She owns hundreds of the damn things.’

At the North Centre Gate, they parted company. Mayflower was already on his way back inside when Carlyle had a further thought. ‘Sir Ewen!’

Mayflower stopped and turned. ‘Yes?’

‘One final thing.’ Carlyle jogged over to explain his request.

Mayflower considered it for a second. ‘That is something that I would definitely have to check with Her Majesty.’

‘Is it. . do-able?’ Carlyle asked.

‘I can at least ask,’ Mayflower said thoughtfully. ‘I will ask. I don’t know if such a thing has ever been done before, but under the circumstances, I think it is a very reasonable request. And it is a very good idea on your part. I myself will support it and suggest it is the very least we can do.’

‘It would be a very private thing.’

‘I understand,’ Mayflower nodded. ‘Let me see what I can do. I am sure that we can sort something out.’

On his way back to the station, Carlyle took a detour into St James’s Park, sitting himself on an empty bench. Watching the tourists feeding the ducks, he let his mind wander. The skies were leaden and he shivered in the cold. St James’s was by no means his favourite park, but with the Palace to his left and the London Eye rising over the Downing Street skyline to his right, it was one of the places where he felt most conscious of being in London with a capital ‘L’. He was in the heart of his city, his home — the place where bad things were not supposed to happen; where it was his job to make sure that those responsible were punished.

TWENTY-NINE

Falkirk had found himself a new lawyer. Sasha Stuart, six foot two, all blonde hair and A-line skirt, stood in front of the desk sergeant, hands on hips, looking to rip someone’s head off.

‘My apologies for keeping you waiting, Ms Stuart,’ the inspector said politely, ushering her past the desk and into the station proper.

‘Your apologies are not going to be good enough, Inspector,’ she replied haughtily, ‘especially given your track record when it comes to harassing my client.’

‘I assume that you’ve seen the charges against him,’ Carlyle continued evenly. ‘And don’t forget that we will be throwing in resisting arrest, assaulting a police officer and,’ he failed to avoid a smirk, ‘criminal damage as well. He’s turned into a right little one-man crime wave, your client.’

Stuart sighed. ‘Criminal damage? What criminal damage?’

‘He destroyed a priceless vase,’ Carlyle said through pursed lips, ‘while trying to evade arrest. It belonged to the Queen. I don’t think Gordon will be getting his invitation to Balmoral this Christmas.’

‘As far as I am aware, my client likes to spend the winter months in the Bahamas,’ Stuart said icily.

‘I’m not surprised,’ Carlyle quipped. ‘Does he like to take a few little girls along with him?’

She gave him a flinty stare. ‘Not only will we be taking this matter up at the highest level within the Metropolitan Police Force,’ she said grimly, ‘but we will also be making a complaint to the Independent Police Complaints Commission.’

‘That’s very interesting,’ Carlyle replied, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible. ‘But I would have thought you would want to avoid the publicity.’

‘Hardly,’ she snorted. ‘This is by far the worst case of harassment I have ever encountered.’ She looked him up and down. ‘The average policeman makes only nine arrests a year — and that includes drunks, fare dodgers, television licence fee evaders, people like that. Assuming that you are indeed average. . almost a quarter of your arrests for this year as a whole have involved my client.’

‘Your point being?’

‘My point being,’ she extended a carefully manicured index finger to within half an inch of his nose, ‘that you do not arrest people like the man who is sitting — once again — in your police station. No one arrests people like him.’

Carlyle fought to keep his temper in check. ‘No one is above the law.’

The finger veered away from his face and poked him on the shoulder. ‘Grow up, Inspector. Just grow up!’ Turning away, she headed briskly towards the interview room. ‘Of course, once this matter has been sorted out, we will be pushing for your immediate dismissal.’

‘You know that is never going to happen.’ Carlyle skipped after her, hoping that he was right.

Ambrose Watson was flushed bright red, and sweating heavily as if he’d just run a half-marathon. ‘Dolan had a heart attack,’ he said sheepishly, ‘while he was being interviewed.’