James Craig - Buckingham Palace Blues

‘I didn’t know there were any virgins in the West Country,’ Carlyle leered.

‘Probably not,’ Adam grinned, ‘not after about the age of ten, anyway. Still, it’s good stuff. A tin like this sells for seven quid in the tourist shop.’

Carlyle held up a hand. ‘I’m fine.’

Adam placed the caddy on his desk, adjusted his tie and sat up straight. ‘So, you are the infamous John Carlyle.’

Carlyle grimaced. ‘Hardly infamous.’

‘Don’t be so modest,’ the chief superintendent smiled slyly. ‘They still talk about you round here.’ He mentioned a few names from the past. ‘I’m guessing that you’re not looking at coming back.’

Carlyle winced. ‘No.’

‘Just as well,’ Adam conceded. ‘So, what is it that I can do for you?’

For what seemed like the hundredth time, Carlyle explained the story of the young foreign girl he had found just beyond the gardens outside.

Adam listened intently, fingers pressed together as if in prayer. ‘That’s very interesting, Inspector,’ he said, once Carlyle had finished, ‘but what has it got to do with us?’

Good bloody question, Carlyle thought. ‘There are two things. .’

‘Yes, yes.’ Eyes shining, Adam sat up further in his chair.

He should get a cushion to sit on, Carlyle thought.

‘First, the girl said she lived here.’

‘Hah!’

‘Yes.’ Carlyle gave a small nod. ‘Then there’s the guy who claimed he was her uncle.’

Adam smiled benignly. ‘Did you actually see him exit or enter the Palace?’

‘No.’

‘There are more than five hundred people working in here at any given time. .’

‘I know that.’

‘At the weekend, there was a State Banquet for the Sultan of Brunei, so you can double that figure — even triple it.’ Adam laid his palms on the table. ‘Then there are the tourists. . and that’s just inside.’ He let out a long breath. ‘Outside, goodness knows how many people are milling about at any given time. You, my friend, really are looking for the needle in the haystack.’

‘Fore!’

The sound of breaking glass was followed by the angry whinny of a horse.

Carlyle rose halfway out of his chair and peered through the window. In front of the shrubbery, three men stood holding plastic buckets in which they were collecting the golf balls being pinged across the lawn by a gent in a tweed cap, standing two hundred or so yards away. ‘I see the Duke still likes to practise his game in the back garden.’ He smirked.

Adam groaned. ‘His youngest son has just taken up the game, too. If anything, he’s even worse than his father.’

‘Are those your guys on ball collection duty?’ Carlyle asked, sitting back down.

Adam coloured slightly, but did not respond.

‘A great use of public money, I reckon.’

‘Ours not to reason why, Inspector,’ Adam bridled. ‘Is there anything else I can help you with?’

‘I was wondering,’ Carlyle said, ‘if I could have a list of all staff currently working at the Palace — including the SO14 roster, of course.’

‘Why?’

‘I would like to speak to everyone who was on duty on Saturday night.’

Adam frowned. ‘Is that really necessary?’

Carlyle shrugged. ‘I have to start somewhere.’

‘Inspector,’ Adam let out an exasperated snort, ‘I have just explained how many people we have here, as if you didn’t already know that. It would take forever to interview them all. And because of what? A hunch?’

Carlyle said nothing.

Adam raised an eyebrow. ‘How much manpower would such an investigation require? How much time?’

Carlyle smiled weakly but said nothing. After almost thirty years in the Metropolitan Police, he knew that efficiency and value for money were alien concepts to the Force. The only time anyone ever raised cost as an issue was when they wanted an excuse to stop you from doing something.

‘I have to say,’ Adam continued, ‘that it sounds like a complete waste of time to me. And there was me thinking that you seemed so keen on seeing the efficient use of public funds.’

‘It’s my investigation,’ Carlyle replied evenly. ‘I would also like to see the CCTV images taken from the Constitution Hill side of the property around the time I found the girl on Saturday night.’

Adam eyed him carefully. ‘Does Carole Simpson know about this?’

‘Yes.’ Carlyle nodded. It was, he decided, kind of true.

Adam sat back in his chair and stared at his precious tea caddy. ‘Well,’ he said mechanically, ‘if the commander sends me a formal request, in line with the established and agreed protocols, I will see what I can do.’

Carlyle realised that this was the best he was going to get. ‘That is very kind.’ He smiled as he stood up. ‘Thank you very much for your help, sir.’

‘My pleasure,’ Adam said, reaching across the table and offering him another limp handshake. ‘It’s good to meet you at last. I must say, I’m glad you weren’t here on my watch. We run a tight ship here now.’

‘I’m sure you do,’ Carlyle said politely. ‘I’m sure you do.’

He got back to the office to find a stack of documents sitting on his desk. On top of it was a large yellow Post-it note. Carlyle read the scribble — Don’t ask where these came from and burn after reading, Joe — and laughed. Sitting back in his chair, he put his feet up on the desk and flipped through the papers. They contained summary details of everyone currently working in Royal Protection. It wasn’t as much information as Charlie Adam could have provided, but it was a start.

In all, SO14 had more than 400 officers, including 256 on active duty: of these, 152 currently worked primarily in London, 60 worked at Buckingham Palace itself and 14 had been on shift the previous Saturday evening. For each officer, he now had a name, rank, summary career details and a passport-style photo. He looked through the 14, then the 60, then the 152, but none of them was the posh man from the park. Relief mixed with frustration; the idea of a police colleague being involved in something like this would have been simply too dispiriting — even for a hardened cynic like Carlyle.

After a couple of hours of careful sifting, he was left with three sorted piles. By his left hand was one for the 126 officers he didn’t know, plus another for the 25 he did. The former had no obvious reason to help him with his enquiries; the latter, he was fairly sure, wouldn’t even piss on him if he was on fire. The third selection to his right was very much smaller. It consisted of just one person; the only person he knew who might, perhaps, be willing to give him some help.

The number rang for what seemed like an eternity before the voicemail kicked in: This is Alexa Matthews. Leave a message and I might get back to you in due course .

Friendly as ever, he thought. ‘Alexa, this is John Carlyle. Long time no speak. Give me a call — I’m still at Charing Cross. I wondered if I could ask you about something. Thanks.’

Two minutes later, his phone rang.

‘Hello?’

‘John,’ Carole Simpson said shrilly, ‘what the hell are you doing?’

‘Er. .’ Carlyle shifted uneasily in his seat. ‘What do you mean?’

‘You know exactly what I bloody mean,’ she snapped. ‘I’ve just got off the phone to Charlie Adam.’

‘Did he try and sell you some organic tea?’

‘What?’

‘Nothing.’

‘I’ll tell you what he did do,’ Simpson said crossly. ‘He told me, very politely but very firmly, to keep you under control.’

‘I’m always under control,’ Carlyle joked.

‘John, please, try and listen for once. Adam asked me why you thought you could just bowl up to SO14 and basically look to put the whole bloody lot of them under investigation when you’ve got absolutely no reason to do so. When it’s not even your case.’