James Craig: Buckingham Palace Blues

Just after the turn of the millennium, Carlyle had been assigned to Royal Protection Duties. What was supposed to be a three-year posting ended after less than two. It had been, by some considerable margin, the worst time of his professional life.

SO14 was arguably the most boring posting in the Met. The job consisted solely of babysitting some of the most over-privileged, least self-aware people you could imagine, from a threat that largely consisted of over-zealous grannies and the odd harmless nutter. No one had been interested in blowing up royalty since he was a boy; and now even the most senior royals were just an extension of the ubiquitous celebrity culture that seemed to hold the whole country in its thrall. There were so many of them, too: not just the Queen and her immediate family, but dozens of hangers-on, known as ‘collaterals’, who the average man and woman in the street had never heard of. Together, they helped drive the annual cost of SO14 up to an estimated?50 million; estimated because the actual number remained a State secret that even the Freedom of Information Act could not access.

Carlyle had never given any of this a moment’s thought before he joined SO14. After almost twenty years on the Force, he had become used to being shunted around from place to place. Once he arrived among the horse shit and the tourists, however, it was a different story. Working in SO14 was not policework as Carlyle understood it. Basically he was there to be used as a gofer, a servant and a general dogsbody. The amount of actual policework involved was approximately nil. What there was, however, was the opportunity to make a bit of cash on the side. Sidelines included flogging the odd royal trinket on the internet and hosting informal tours of the Palace when the owners were away. During Carlyle’s time there, one PC had even charged a mate?200 so he could shag a girl on the back lawn. Urban legend had it that one of the Queen’s corgis had almost choked on the discarded condom.

From the off, Carlyle had been bored silly. So he made a concerted effort to get transferred out of the unit as quickly as possible. However, his lack of connections and good will meant that the harder he tried to get out, the more he was reminded that he would have to complete his full term. Carlyle being Carlyle, however, he would not take ‘no’ for an answer. In the end, he managed to secure an early release. But only by nearly ending his career in the Police Force full-stop.

Having to chaperone the younger royals when they went out on the lash was the worst part of the job. Watching them drop the equivalent of more than a month’s salary in some Chelsea nightclub, and then stagger out much the worse for wear, to provide fodder for the paparazzi, was simply soul-destroying. One night, Carlyle’s charge, a wretched collateral who was something like twelfth or thirteenth in line to the throne, stumbled blind drunk out of Pomegranate, a fashionable watering-hole — like a school disco but with silly prices — and started rowing violently with his girlfriend. The woman herself, a nice but dim deb from the Home Counties, burst into tears and fled into the night. While Carlyle’s partner chased after her, Carlyle stayed with the boy. Five or six snappers immediately surrounded the young man, like hyenas round a wounded zebra, flash guns illuminating the darkened street. Before he could intervene, Carlyle watched with a mixture of horror and amusement as the young royal stepped forward and took a swing at one of the photographers. Unfortunately for him, the photographer in question was Alex Hutton, a South African soldier who had spent a couple of years in the French Foreign Legion before accepting the much tougher assignment of working for a British tabloid. Just for a moment, Hutton completely forgot where he was. As his training kicked in, he stepped outside the intended punch and downed his assailant with a swift right to the stomach, following by a crunching left to the nose.

‘Ouch!’ Carlyle grinned. He was enjoying himself for the first time that day. ‘That has got to be a major breach of royal etiquette.’

The young royal collapsed on the tarmac in a bloody heap and began vomiting. While Hutton and the other photographers moved in for their close-ups, Carlyle slowly counted to thirty, before stepping in among them and leading the groaning youth to a nearby car.

On the drive back to the Palace, Carlyle’s passenger slowly recovered his breath in the back seat. ‘Where the hell were you?’ the boy hissed, still holding his nose. ‘I’ve lost a fucking tooth. . and I think that bastard has broken my nose!’

Carlyle glanced in the rear-view mirror at the puffy-faced hooligan, and smiled to himself.

‘Fucking useless plod! You people are all the same. . I’ll have your bloody goolies for this!’

Carlyle said nothing.

Once he got back to the Palace, he handed the boy over to the servants and headed to the SO14 office to write his report. This would be all over the papers in a couple of hours and Carlyle knew that he had to get his explanation in first. In considerable detail, he described how the snapper had acted solely in self-defence, and stressed that the young royal had been ‘instantly’ rescued from the consequences of his folly.

The next day, Hutton was arrested, charged with grievous bodily harm and threatened with deportation.

Two days later, Carlyle himself was suspended.

With half a dozen witnesses, and dozens if not hundreds of photographic images to support the snapper’s defence, the Crown Prosecution Service quickly realised that this was one case they did not want to bring to court. Knowing the score, the snapper’s lawyer politely but firmly refused to settle, and waited for the CPS to fold. In the end, it took more than three months for the charges against Hutton to be dropped. Shortly afterwards, Carlyle received a letter from the Police Federation saying that he would be returning to duty the following week. That was the good news. The even better news was that he would be going back to Charing Cross. His unhappy stint at Buckingham Palace was over.

Unable to believe his luck, Carlyle had to restrain his glee when the union representative gave him a call to tell him that he had been very lucky: he had kept his job and his pension was secure — but he had used up all his last chances , whatever that meant. Being an inspector at Charing Cross would be the end of the line. That’s fine by me, Carlyle thought, just as long as I don’t have to deal with these idiots any more.

At the top of the stairs, Carlyle turned right and headed for the door furthest along. Taking a deep breath, he knocked.

‘Come!’

He stepped inside and smiled at the chief superintendent sitting primly behind the desk in his small, cluttered office which enjoyed a fine view over the carefully manicured lawns on the west side of the Palace. Normally used for landing the royal helicopter, the lawns also provided the setting for the Queen’s annual garden parties, and were large enough to take 8,000 people at a time for tea and cucumber sandwiches.

‘John Carlyle,’ he announced.

‘Charlie Adam.’ Standing up, the man leaned over the desk to offer his hand.

The senior SO14 officer on site, Adam was not much more than five foot six, round and totally bald. The lack of hair made him hard to age, but Carlyle reckoned him to be in his late fifties. ‘Thank you for seeing me.’

‘My pleasure.’ Adam smiled. They shook hands. ‘Take a seat,’ he said, sitting down himself. ‘Cup of tea?’

‘No, thank you.’

‘Are you sure?’ Adam pulled a ‘Coat of Arms’ tea caddy from a drawer and waved it at Carlyle. ‘These are HRH Originals. Top-notch organic stuff.’ Opening the lid, he pulled out a bag and held it in front of his nose. ‘The leaves are rolled on the thighs of West Country virgins, or something.’