Buckingham Palace Blues

do what he was told, for once.’

‘What will happen to him?’

‘That is not something you need to worry about,’ she snapped, the warmth gone as quickly as it had appeared. ‘He compromised our business here, and it will take him a long time to repair his reputation. He will, as the saying goes, be living in the dog’s house for some time.’

Better than being dead, Carlyle thought. ‘So where will you go next?’

‘I don’t know,’ Alex sighed. ‘There are plenty of opportunities. Choosing one is difficult.’

‘I can imagine,’ he said, though not having a clue.

‘One thing I will promise you, however, is that there will be no more trafficking of children. I have put a stop to that. No one under sixteen will be sent away. That is my new rule.’

A misery merchant with a heart of gold! Carlyle didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. ‘Why not make the minimum age eighteen?’ he replied finally.

‘Half of our girls are under eighteen, Inspector,’ she said calmly — like the CEO of a car-maker explaining the sales breakdown of his different models. ‘You have to be realistic. Less than seven per cent of them are under sixteen. We have to be realistic. I had to argue for a long time even to get agreement on that. There are many people who do not have the same concerns about such things.’

This conversation was starting to drive Carlyle insane. ‘Call me tomorrow,’ he said, ending the call before his brain melted.

‘Do you want me to reheat your coffee, or maybe make you a new one?’

In response, Carlyle handed over the untouched latte that had been sitting in front of him for the last twenty minutes. ‘Thanks, Marcello.’ Seated in the back booth of Il Buffone, with the Closed sign on the door, he wished he had the energy to do more than brood over his recent conversation with ‘Olga’.

In many ways, the case had been successfully concluded. And now, as an unexpected bonus, it looked like he would get the chance to arrest Alex Gazizulin on suspicion of being an accessory to murder, attempted murder and child-trafficking. He knew that he should focus on the positives of his investigation, even as he continued to focus on the negatives. As the ancient Gaggia machine wheezed into action, he let out a heavy sigh. As far as he could see, the glass would always be half-empty.

Marcello placed the reheated coffee back on the table just as Joe Szyszkowski pushed his way through the door and slumped into the booth opposite Carlyle.

‘We’re closed,’ said Marcello. ‘Can’t you read the sign on the bloody door?’ But his smile gave him away. ‘What you havin’?’ he asked, as he retreated behind the counter.

Joe held up a hand. ‘I’m good, Marcello, thanks. I just need a word with the inspector.’

Marcello grunted and disappeared into his storeroom at the back.

Carlyle took a sip of his coffee and waited for his sergeant to elucidate.

Out of his pocket, Joe pulled a small box, about half the size of a paperback book and a couple of inches thick. He placed it on the table next to Carlyle’s mug. ‘This arrived for you by courier this afternoon.’

Carlyle could see that the box, wrapped in brown paper, was addressed to him at the station. He looked up at Joe. ‘Has it been X-rayed?’

‘Yeah,’ Joe nodded. ‘The scan was a bit inconclusive, but I read the note and assumed it would be okay.’ He handed over a crumpled envelope that had already been slit open along the top.

Carlyle unfolded a small sheet of paper and scanned the handwritten note:

Inspector Carlyle,

I wanted to thank you for completing the investigation into the background to Joe Dalton’s suicide. From what I gather, my Joe was caught up in some very horrible things, but it is always better to know the truth.

Enclosed is a little memento from my studio, I hope you like it.

Kind regards, Fiona Allcock

Always better to know the truth? I’m not sure about that, Carlyle thought morosely, not much cheered by the fact that the taxidermist had sent him a present. He eyed the box suspiciously. ‘Open it,’ he said to his Joe.

Sensing his boss’s uncertainty, the sergeant sat back in his seat and shook his head. ‘It’s addressed to you.’

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake!’ Carlyle stood up and grabbed a knife from behind the counter. Returning to his seat, he carefully removed the wrapping paper. Inside was something resembling an oversized matchbox. Pushing out the inner tray, he peered inside. Two little black eyes stared back up at him.

‘Fuck!’ With a shudder, he dropped the box back on to the table.

Laughing, Joe yelled out, ‘Marcello, come and see this!’

Wiping his hands on a tea towel, the cafe proprietor moved round the end of the counter to stand by their table. ‘What have you got?’

Carlyle gingerly tilted the box so that he could see inside.

Marcello’s eyes grew wide. ‘Madre di Dio! Get that thing out of here! I can’t have a dead mouse in my cafe!’

‘But, Marcello,’ said Joe, laughing even harder now, ‘it’s not a rodent — it’s a work of art.’

THIRTY-SEVEN

‘Get rid of that bloody thing! I don’t want it in the house!’

‘But it’s a piece of art,’ Carlyle protested feebly. ‘It’s probably worth a few quid.’

‘I don’t care,’ Helen hissed venomously. ‘Get it out of here!’

‘Okay,’ Carlyle shrugged. Closing the box, he dropped the stiffed mouse into the Tesco plastic bag containing the rest of their non-recyclable rubbish. Tying the bag by the handles, he walked out of the kitchen and down the hall. Opening the front door, he placed it carefully beside their welcome mat on the landing. He would take it down to the street on his way to work next morning for the bin men to collect on their 7 a.m. round.

Returning to the kitchen, he boiled the kettle to make a cup of chamomile tea for his wife. In the living room, he found her sitting on the sofa, watching a cooking programme on the television.

‘Sorry about the mouse,’ he said, carefully handing over the steaming mug.

‘Sometimes, John, really!’ Helen said. Blowing on her tea, she took a tiny sip and signalled for him to sit beside her. On the screen, a fat bloke was shovelling forkfuls of food into his mouth while making vaguely orgasmic noises.

‘We have a problem with Alice,’ Helen said, staring at the screen.

‘Great. Where is she, by the way?’

‘She’s having tea at a friend’s house. She should be home by eight.’

‘Okay, so what’s the problem?’

Helen took another sip of her tea. ‘She wants to give up karate.’

Carlyle sighed. This was an ongoing battle that he knew he would lose sooner or later. Getting Alice to go to her weekly karate lesson had become a war of attrition. The Wednesday-night class at Jubilee Hall, on the south side of the Covent Garden Piazza, was made up of a friendly group of kids ranging from six to sixteen. The teacher was an urban saint — not only a former World Champion, but also fantastic with the children. Alice had struggled towards her blue belt, but now was demanding that she be allowed to quit. The more her parents tried to persuade her to stick with it, the more insistent she got.

‘She seems very determined,’ Helen continued. ‘She’s even called a family meeting.’

The inspector made a face. Everyone in the Carlyle household had the right to call a formal ‘family meeting’ in order to try and resolve certain issues. It was part of the domestic democracy to which both he and Helen strongly subscribed. Meetings were invariably called by Alice, however, and they normally only had one or two a year. Sometimes they worked, sometimes they didn’t. The point was that Alice felt she was being taken seriously.

‘I said we’d take her out for her tea next week, to discuss it,’ Helen told him.

‘Sure,’ said Carlyle, wondering if he could afford it.