mum, Sandra.’
Oh, Christ, thought Carlyle, his heart sinking. ‘Nice to meet you, sir,’ he said, trying not to let his expression collapse into a grimace. Getting quickly to his feet, he shook the man’s hand. Across the road, the wife seemed to remain in some kind of trance, rooted to the spot.
‘Alexa was our only child,’ Kelvin said wistfully, delivering this line like it had been rehearsed many times at home, in front of a mirror.
Resisting the urge to turn and flee, Carlyle tried to think of something to say.
But Kelvin Matthews didn’t seem to be looking for a dialogue. ‘For that to happen to her. . well, it’s knocked the stuffing out of us.’ He looked over his shoulder towards Ronnie Scott’s and added, ‘especially her mother.’
Carlyle placed a gentle hand on the man’s shoulders. ‘Is there anything I can do to help, sir?’ he asked kindly.
‘Alexa told us that you were assisting her with her transfer,’ said Kelvin Matthews, staring at a space somewhere to Carlyle’s left.
‘Her move out of SO14?’
‘Yes,’ Matthews nodded. ‘Her mother and I always thought that working for the royal family must be the best job going.’ He finally managed to make eye-contact. ‘So why would she want to pack it in?’
‘I worked at the Palace myself for a while,’ said Carlyle, relieved at the modesty of the man’s demands, and even more relieved at how easy it was for him to invent a credible response on the spot. ‘It was certainly a very. . interesting place to work. The great thing about the Met though, is the variety of things you can do. In the end, I just wanted to try something different. I suspect that it was the same for Alexa.’
Matthews thought about it for a moment, as if not quite prepared to accept that this was the only answer he was going to get.
Carlyle glanced to check whether Mrs Matthews had moved yet. She hadn’t.
‘I see,’ Matthews said finally. ‘And did that have anything to do with her being burned alive?’
‘Not as far as I am aware, sir,’ the inspector said slowly, carefully making sure that the right words came out in the right order. ‘I am not technically part of the investigation into your daughter’s death, but I am, of course, taking a keen interest in how it is progressing. Can I ask one of the officers in charge to speak to you?’
‘That’s all right,’ said Matthews, ‘we are already in contact with an Inspector Petherick.’
The name didn’t ring any bells. ‘He’s a good man,’ said Carlyle.
‘A woman,’ replied Matthews.
Carlyle felt his buttocks clench in embarrassment. ‘Ah, yes, of course.’ He tapped his head lightly. ‘My mistake.’ How could he retrieve this situation? He glanced again at the woman across the road, who was radiating confusion and despair. ‘Would you like me to talk to your wife, sir?’
‘It’s fine, thank you,’ said Matthews stiffly. ‘We just wanted to ask you the question.’
Carlyle dug a card out of his pocket and handed it to him. ‘If I can be of any further assistance, sir, please let me know.’
Matthews put the card in his coat pocket without looking at it. ‘I will, Inspector, thank you. And thank you for trying to help Alexa.’
Feeling like a total shit, Carlyle forced himself to look Kelvin Matthews directly in the eye. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t do more,’ he said gently. ‘We had known each other for a long time.’
The man merely nodded, and they shook hands for a second time. Then, stepping off the pavement, he waited for a van to pass before crossing the road, back to his wife. Without apparently saying anything, he gave her a tender kiss on the forehead and took her hand, before they began walking slowly away, down the street.
THIRTY-EIGHT
The rain came down like a blessing, little more than a fine mist offering the eternal promise of renewal. Pressing one toe of his Oliver Sweeney shoes into the damp lawn, Carlyle listened to the relentless background hum of traffic on Grosvenor Place, on the other side of the wall. Buttoning up his raincoat to protect his beloved, second-hand Paul Smith suit from the elements, he made sure his tie was properly done up. The inspector was wearing what his father would have called his Sunday best. Suited and booted for the first time in months, he had made an effort, just as Helen had done. They were both showing some respect as they gathered to scatter Alzbetha Tishtenko’s ashes.
Sir Ewen Mayflower appeared at his shoulder. ‘Are we ready?’
Carlyle looked around for Helen. She was standing fifty yards away, examining some plants that he didn’t recognise. In one hand she clutched her bag, in the other the urn itself. There was not another soul around. The three of them had the whole of the Palace garden to themselves. He looked at his watch: Alexandra Gazizulin and the girl’s mother were almost thirty minutes late. That could just be a problem with traffic, but the inspector doubted it. Anyway, he couldn’t keep the Head of the Royal Household waiting any longer.
‘Yes,’ he said, turning back to Mayflower. ‘I think that we should get started.’
‘Good.’
‘Thank you again for making this happen.’
‘Don’t thank me,’ said Mayflower benignly. He gestured back towards the Palace. ‘You should thank the owners.’
Looking up, Carlyle thought he saw a small, grey figure at a ground-floor window, looking out across the lawn at this melancholy scene. He did a double-take and the figure was gone. Maybe he was imagining things. ‘The owners of this place. . do they know about Falkirk?’
Mayflower let out a sly smile. ‘Yes and no.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘I would have thought that was fairly obvious. They know enough to know that they don’t want to know.’
‘Of course,’ Carlyle replied. ‘That’s a key establishment skill — dodging the shit.’
‘An interesting way of putting it, Inspector, but basically correct.’
‘Whatever,’ Carlyle said quietly, ‘we are very grateful. I am sure that you will convey our sincere thanks to the relevant parties.’
‘Of course,’ Mayflower nodded. ‘Of course.’ He hooked his arm under Carlyle’s and started walking them both across the lawn towards Helen. ‘There is also,’ he said, after a few moments, ‘something that you can do for me.’
‘I will certainly try,’ said Carlyle, wondering what favour he could possibly do for this distinguished old gent.
‘I want you to keep an eye on Carole Simpson.’
‘What do you mean?’ Carlyle frowned. ‘She’s my boss.’
‘Yes,’ Mayflower grabbed his arm more tightly, ‘but she respects you and you respect her.’
Well, kind of, Carlyle thought.
‘And now is a time when the poor woman desperately needs the help and support of those close to her.’
And that means me? Carlyle wondered. Poor woman indeed.
Mayflower halted them about ten feet away from Helen. ‘Her husband is still in hospital.’
‘Still?’
‘Yes, they’ve found something nasty. Cancer of the colon, I believe. It looks like Joshua will now be released from prison early on compassionate grounds. The expectation is that he has maybe six months.’
‘Carole Simpson told you all this?’
Mayflower looked at him sadly. ‘Not everyone is as buttoned up as you, Inspector.’
Buttoned up? Carlyle thought. We’ve met, what — three times — and you’re dissecting my character already? However, realising that this was not about him, he quickly pulled himself together. ‘How is she going to look after him?’
‘I think that Joshua may be back home only a few weeks before entering a hospice.’
‘Jesus!’
