Buckingham Palace Blues (Inspector Carlyle Novel) Read online

  ‘Interesting.’

  ‘These little ones are already sold.’ Allcock perched herself on the edge of the table. ‘They are going to a collector in Bristol.’

  Despite himself, Carlyle was curious. ‘And how much will they cost?’

  ‘The final display will cost £8,500, plus vat.’

  Eight grand? ‘Interesting,’ he repeated politely.

  She gave him a suspicious look and slipped back into salesperson mode. ‘Of course, what you’ve got to remember is that you are looking at weeks and weeks of work. It’s a highly skilled professional job.’

  ‘And you have many takers?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she beamed. ‘Taxidermy is really fashionable at the moment. We’re rushed off our feet.’

  ‘I won’t keep you long, then,’ Carlyle said briskly. ‘I wondered if I could have a quick word with you about Joe Dalton.’

  ‘Ah yes, Joe.’ She folded her arms and stared into the middle distance.

  ‘I know that you already spoke to the officers who investigated his death,’ he said gently, ‘and I really don’t want to go over old ground, but I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions.’ He had read her statement in the original report; it had been perfunctory in the extreme.

  ‘Of course,’ she nodded. ‘Are you reopening the investigation?’

  ‘No, but there may be a connection with something else that I am looking into.’

  ‘Oh?’ She studied him carefully. ‘How so?’

  Carlyle smiled. ‘That’s what I’m trying to work out. Do you happen to know why Joe decided to kill himself?’

  ‘No, not really.’ She sighed, staring at the floor. ‘Joe could always be a bit up and down. I saw him about a week before he died; I remember that he was rather gloomy but nothing off the scale.’ She shrugged. ‘I could put up with it, in small doses.’

  ‘He was your boyfriend?’

  She grinned. ‘He was a boyfriend, Inspector. I liked Joe a lot, but he wasn’t the love of my life or anything like that.’

  Carlyle felt himself redden slightly, but kept going. ‘Did he see your relationship differently? Is that what pushed him over the edge?’

  She glanced at the dead birds, as if for inspiration. ‘I don’t think so. It was more than just a casual thing, but neither of us was prevented from seeing other people.’

  ‘How did you meet?’

  ‘At some party a few years ago. I remember he was quite a novelty. You don’t meet many policemen in my social circle.’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘No offence.’

  ‘Of course not,’ he smiled. ‘I know exactly what you mean. I don’t meet many taxidermists in my social circle. So . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘What was the connection? What was a copper like Joe Dalton doing hanging out with the beautiful people of the arts set?’

  Allcock didn’t rise to the bait. ‘It’s not so surprising really. We work—’ she corrected herself, ‘he worked for similar people.’

  ‘What kind of people?’

  ‘Some of my clients are royalty.’

  Carlyle raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Well, minor royalty.’ She looked at him with an amused smile. ‘Don’t you read the papers?’

  ‘Sometimes,’ he grinned. ‘But usually only the football pages.’

  ‘Let me show you.’ Allcock marched over to a pile of magazines in the corner, rising about four feet from the floor. Rooting through the stack, she found what she was looking for, five or six down from the top. Holding up an old copy of ES Magazine, she fetched it over. ‘Here.’ She opened the magazine at page 7 and handed it to Carlyle. Under the headline Bright Nights, Big City were a dozen or so photos of rich, successful, smug-looking people drinking champagne at an after-party celebrating the opening of an exhibition. Top right was a photo of Allcock herself, hair up, looking very glamorous in a black Chanel dress. She pointed to a hand that was just visible in the edge of the shot. ‘Joe was standing next to me when this picture was taken, but he got cropped out.’ Her index finger moved to the picture below. ‘And that’s the Earl of Falkirk.’

  ‘The Earl of Falkirk.’ Carlyle immediately recognised the arrogant-looking man wearing a dinner jacket, black tie undone.

  ‘One of my clients. He’s taken an ocellated turkey and a Japanese raccoon dog from me so far this year.’

  ‘Did he know Joe Dalton?’

  ‘Of course. Falkirk’s twentieth to the throne or something. It was Joe who introduced us a couple of years ago. He worked as one of the guy’s bodyguards.’

  ‘He was a CPO?’

  She looked at him blankly.

  ‘A Close Protection Officer, CPO.’

  Allcock frowned. ‘Like I said, he was a bodyguard. It seemed like a cool gig. Joe liked the travel and the overtime. He said that some of the other bodyguards could be right sods, though.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Just, you know, annoying. He never really specified anything in particular.’

  ‘Did he ever mention a guy called Dolan?’

  Allcock thought about it for a moment.

  ‘Tommy Dolan,’ Carlyle repeated.

  She shook her head. ‘No. I don’t think so.’

  Carlyle closed the magazine and rolled it up. ‘Can I keep this?’

  She shrugged. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Thank you for your time.’

  ‘No problem.’ Allcock edged him towards the door. ‘Can I interest you in an animal?’

  Never in a million years, Carlyle thought. ‘Out of my league, I’m afraid,’ he mumbled, keen to leave the little dead birds behind and get out on to the street.

  Gordon Elstree-Ullick lay on the bed in one of the guest rooms in Buckingham Palace, talking quietly into his mobile phone. After a while, he looked up and gestured towards his Protection Officer. ‘Tommy, stick this on the corporate card, will you?’

  Tommy Dolan looked at the outstretched mobile in Elstree-Ullick’s hand and sighed. ‘What is it this time?’

  ‘Just a couple of plane tickets,’ Elstree-Ullick told him. ‘Let me know when the bill comes in.’

  Dolan accepted the phone with as much enthusiasm as he would a steaming dog turd. Jamming it between his ear and his shoulder, he fished his Met-issue American Express corporate card out of his wallet. ‘Hello?’ he said grumpily.

  Five minutes and fifteen grand later, he had paid for two first-class British Airways tickets from Heathrow to Jomo Kenyatta International airport in Nairobi. Gritting his teeth, Dolan told himself that this was just a cost of doing business. All the same, it took his current Amex bill to well over £20,000. That would mean more scrutiny from the SO14 Accounts Department. And that was the kind of attention that Dolan didn’t like.

  Sticking his card back in his pocket, he gave Elstree-Ullick a sharp look. The Earl of Falkirk, twenty-second in line to the British throne, just grinned in a way that let him know he had Dolan over a barrel. Everyone knew that royals borrowing funds from bodyguards was commonplace. According to the Unit Guidelines:

  It is often inappropriate for the Royal Family to execute financial transactions due to ‘confidentiality and security reasons’. Therefore, if the need arises, Protection Officers will incur expenditure on behalf of principals, which is then repaid.

  Of course, when that cash would actually get repaid was never specified.

  Dolan tossed the phone back to Elstree-Ullick, who caught it clumsily. ‘Off on a trip?’

  ‘No, the tickets are for a couple of chums.’

  ‘Nice,’ Dolan remarked sarkily.

  ‘Don’t worry, Tommy,’ Elstree-Ullick snapped back, ‘it’s not your money. Anyway, they might be of help with our operation.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes, indeed.’ Elstree-Ullick slipped the phone into an inside pocket of his jacket. ‘We need to move on to pastures new. I’m thinking about Africa.’

  ‘Is that such a great idea?’ Dolan sniped. ‘Doesn’t everyone th
ere have AIDS?’

  ‘Don’t be so prejudiced, man,’ Elstree-Ullick drawled. Getting off the bed, he headed for the door. ‘Anyway, I’ve got stuff to do now. We can discuss it at the party later.’

  FIFTEEN

  Alzbetha was woken by an almighty fart from the fat man in the bed beside her. Shivering, she realised that he had taken almost all of the duvet from her and she was left uncovered. Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, she sat up, listening to his calm, regular snoring. Her body ached all over, her head felt fuzzy and there was a strange foul taste in her mouth that she didn’t recognise.

  As the clock on the table flipped from 1:11 to 1:12, she stood up and tiptoed over to the small pile of clothes lying on the floor. Slowly, noiselessly, she pulled on her jeans and her pullover. Where were her trainers? She looked under the bed, but couldn’t see much in the dark. The man coughed and pulled the duvet over his shoulders. Was he about to wake up? She decided that she could do without the shoes.

  Padding out of the bedroom, she walked down the hallway to the front door of the flat. Holding her breath as it clicked open, she listened for any further signs of movement from the bedroom. Hearing nothing, she stepped out on to the landing. Leaving the door open, she ran down the stairs.

  Two floors down, the night porter dozed fitfully at his desk on the ground floor, an almost empty half-bottle of Highland Park blended whisky resting snugly in the pocket of his jacket. A talk radio station burbled quietly in the background. Alzbetha surveyed the scene and walked briskly across the foyer, hitting the big green button that allowed you to exit the building. The glass door was heavy but, grunting with the effort, she managed to open it just enough to squeeze through. On the wet pavement outside, she turned left and started running.

  After several minutes, Alzbetha began to feel safe. She slowed to a walking pace and started looking around. She had no idea where she was, but that was no surprise. Apart from the Palace, nothing in this city had ever looked familiar. The streets were empty of people, but there was still a steady stream of traffic moving past. Standing on the kerbside, she counted one, two, three cars go by. Waiting until a fourth was almost upon her, she walked resolutely out into the middle of the road, her eyes closed against the glare of its headlights.

  Rose Scripps sat on her couch with a large glass of Chardonnay and gazed vacantly at the television. Louise had finally gone to sleep and she now had some time to herself. Taking a sip of her wine, she tried to focus on the programme – yet another BBC costume drama but with extra shagging in an attempt to keep everyone interested. However, after a few minutes of watching women running around in bonnets, she could feel her eyes glazing over. With a sigh, she took the remote control from the arm of the sofa and switched off the television.

  Getting up, she wandered over to the tiny dining-table. There, along with the wine bottle and her mobile, lay a small notebook open at the page where she had copied the name and number scribbled on the back of the London Eye ticket that she had rescued from the bin. The ticket itself had been logged at the station and filed along with her report. As she had promised, the latter contained a suitably sanitised version of the fiasco down by the river.

  Rose wasn’t sure how best they should proceed from here. She had arrived home assuming that it was something to be discussed with Merrett in the morning. Now, however, she didn’t want to wait any longer.

  After another mouthful of wine, she put her glass on the table and picked up the phone. Quickly, before she could change her mind, Rose dialled in the number from the ticket and waited for the ring tone. It seemed to take forever to get a connection. As she looked at the handset, checking that there was a signal, the number eventually started ringing. She could feel her heart beat faster, but still no one answered. After what seemed like an eternity, the voicemail kicked in: This is Warren Shen’s mobile. Please leave a message and a number that I can get back to you on.

  Warren What? Shed? Zen? Shen? What kind of a name was that? Without leaving a message, Rose ended the call and scribbled down the possible variants on this name. Placing the phone back on the table, she finished the last of her wine and refilled the glass. Then she took her laptop from the sideboard and powered it up.

  After firing a few blanks on Google, she typed in Warren Shen. There were 795,000 results. Rose clicked on ‘news’: 12 results. Scanning down, she found Police close Central London lap-dance bar. Clicking on the link, she went to the short story on the Daily Mirror’s website:

  A West End lap-dancing club used as a brothel where rich clients could buy sex and drugs has been shut down by police. Vice Squad detectives arrested seven people accused of helping to run the basement Capricorn Club and seized cocaine and cash. ‘It is hard to believe that in the middle of a busy neighbourhood, these shady dealings were blatantly going on,’ said Detective Inspector Warren Shen of the Metropolitan Police. ‘This type of criminal activity is a nuisance and a blight on the community and we will continue to root it out wherever it occurs.’

  Rose sat staring at the computer screen for a long time. If this was the right Warren Shen – and it was an unusual name, so how many of them could there actually be? – what did that mean for the CEOP investigation? The only conclusion to be reached was that she had no idea. Anyway, there was nothing more for her to do tonight. The wine was now making her feel sleepy. Yawning, she switched off the computer and headed for bed.

  SIXTEEN

  Sitting at a table near the door, Gordon Elstree-Ullick sipped at his Potocki vodka and scanned the interior of Palermo, one of his favourite Mayfair drinking dens. The Gucci furnishings, Swarovski crystals, dark marbles, nutty-brown woods and abstract art above the long marble-topped bar gave Palermo the atmosphere of an American martini lounge in the late 1950s. If the Bond Street shoppers filling out the afternoon crowd didn’t quite fit with that image, at least he could pretend.

  ‘Why do you drink that Polish stuff?’ Ihor Chepoyak finished his glass of Heineken and pointed at Elstree-Ullick’s glass. ‘Ukrainian vodka is much better.’

  ‘Which is why you’re drinking Dutch beer, I suppose,’ Elstree-Ullick commented.

  ‘When I drink vodka, I drink Ukrainian vodka!’

  Elstree-Ullick inspected his glass. ‘I like this stuff. Anyway, I don’t think they serve any Ukrainian brands here.’

  ‘They should,’ Ihor grunted.

  Elstree-Ullick took another dainty sip. ‘Maybe you could make them an offer they can’t refuse.’

  Ihor looked confused. ‘What?’

  ‘Never mind.’ Elstree-Ullick placed his glass carefully on the table. ‘Anyway, that’s not what we’re here to talk about.’

  Ihor smiled. ‘No.’

  Elstree-Ullick began: ‘About the girl . . .’

  ‘You are getting careless, my friend.’

  ‘It was hardly my fault.’ Elstree-Ullick looked to Ihor for some words of support or sympathy. When none were forthcoming, he went on: ‘You’ve got to look at it positively. At least it solves that particular problem.’

  ‘Solves it?’ Ihor gave him a hard look. He again lifted his glass to his mouth, forgetting that it was empty. ‘How does it solve it? The police have her back now.’

  ‘Even if she is identified, it remains a dead end,’ he grinned. ‘So to speak.’

  ‘Let’s hope so, for your sake.’

  ‘For all our sakes.’ Elstree-Ullick finished his drink and signalled to the waitress, a horsey-looking girl with an unfortunate smile. ‘Two more, please.’ After the woman had retreated to the bar, he leaned over the table. ‘We’re in this together, remember?’

  Ihor grunted noncommittally. As far as he was concerned, all business partnerships had a finite lifespan, and it looked like this one could soon be coming to an end.

  ‘In the meantime,’ Elstree-Ullick continued, ‘there is a more pressing problem.’

  ‘There is?’ Ihor sat back in his chair and closed his eyes, allowing himself to imagine whipping out his Fort-12
CURZ pistol and putting a 9mm Kurz round between the eyes of the bastard Earl of Falkirk. He smiled to himself. It might very well come to that yet.

  ‘I’ve made my last trip to the Ukraine. It’s too much hassle to go back. And, rather more importantly, we need to find something new to keep the clients interested.’

  Ihor opened his eyes. ‘Like what?’

  ‘I’m looking at some opportunities in East Africa,’ Elstree-Ullick said. ‘Kenya, to be precise.’

  ‘I know nothing about Africa – neither do you.’

  ‘No, but—’

  Ihor yawned. ‘The Ukraine is fine. You should be more worried about developments here in London.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I hear that one of your customers nearly got arrested down by the river. Chased by some cops just as he was getting on to the London Eye.’

  How the hell did you know about that? Elstree-Ullick wondered. ‘No, no,’ he said hastily, ‘the guy just bottled it. There was no problem.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Yes, so – it is very much business as usual.’

  ‘Maybe you should tell your clients to be a bit more low-key for a while,’ Ihor said grumpily.

  The waitress reappeared with their fresh drinks. She smiled widely and Elstree-Ullick wondered if she knew who he was. I’m so out of your league, sweetheart, he thought. He sat back in his chair and watched her buttocks shimmy inside her jeans, as she wandered off. Not a bad arse. Not bad at all. ‘The thing is,’ he drawled, still staring at the woman’s rear end, ‘the clients don’t like being told what to do.’ He eyed Ihor as if he was imparting some great wisdom. ‘They want – they need – to be able to do whatever they want. Some of them are really quite competitive about it. If we cut down on the thrill factor, that’s our USP out of the window.’

  ‘A fuck is a fuck,’ Ihor mumbled, sucking the head off his beer.

  ‘But we are selling so much more than that,’ Elstree-Ullick persisted. ‘Plenty of people can supply a pretty girl. With us it’s the whole experience.’

  Keeping the glass near his lips, Ihor wondered just what the idiot was talking about. If you wanted an experience you went to Disneyland. What was wrong with good old-fashioned fucking behind closed doors? He looked at the boy in front of him, one of the most privileged people on the whole planet, yet a guy who knew nothing about the realities of life for normal people. He was a bloody Earl, for God’s sake – so why was he getting involved in all this shit? And, more to the point, could he be relied on not to fuck things up? ‘Just be careful,’ he said finally.