James Craig: Buckingham Palace Blues

‘ Tossers! ’ he hissed under his breath, trying to get a bit of adrenaline going as he lengthened his stride. Looking up, he noticed that the Union Jack hanging from the flagpoles along either side of the road were interspersed with another flag that he didn’t recognise, doubtless celebrating an official visit by some foreign head of state. Kicking on, Carlyle upped his pace as he approached the Palace itself. Nearing the junction with Marlborough Road, he checked the traffic-lights. They were on red, so he speeded up, not wanting to stop. But, as he did so, he saw the little green man that told pedestrians they could cross safely, disappear. Bollocks, he thought. But not wishing to lose his rhythm, he kept going.

Stepping off the pavement, his foot had barely touched the tarmac when a police motorcycle roared past, its lights flashing.

‘Shit!’ Carlyle quickly jumped back on to the pavement and started jogging on the spot, as if that had been the plan all along, ignoring the snickering of a couple of teenagers by his side. A few seconds later, there were some gasps from the gaggle of surrounding tourists, and cameras started whirring as a massive black Daimler slid past. All alone on the back seat, a little old lady in a pale yellow coat and matching hat sat staring into space. The limousine hardly slowed as it took a right and shot down The Mall towards the Palace, followed by another couple of police bikes.

Well, well, Carlyle thought, as he jogged across the now empty road. After more than forty years in London, I’ve finally seen the bloody Queen.

Reaching the Victoria Memorial, he veered right. His plan was to complete two circuits of Green Park, and then head for home. It was already approaching 7.30 p.m. and the light was fading. The crowds were thinning and Carlyle could see only one other runner as he headed past Canada Gate and along Constitution Hill. To his right he heard a shout and turned his head to see a group of kids playing touch rugby. Their ball had landed a couple of yards in front of him. Picking it up, he passed it, quarterback-style, to the nearest kid, annoyed that his rhythm had been interrupted but happy for the pause. Taking a sip of water from his bottle, he looked around. Another kid, a girl, was sitting on a stone bench nearby while further on a man was walking his dog. Otherwise the place was fairly empty.

Another day in the city was slowly coming to a close.

His pace having slowed considerably, it was almost twenty-five minutes later when Carlyle passed the same spot for a second time. The man with the dog and the kids playing touch rugby had gone, but the girl was still sitting on the bench, staring into space. He eyed her as he approached — maybe nine or ten, short dark hair, a sleeveless flower-patterned dress and, he now realised, no shoes. She ignored him as he jogged past, the glazed expression on her face a study in inscrutability.

What’s wrong with this picture?

It suddenly struck him that there was no one else within twenty yards of the girl.

No sign of any parents.

No playmates.

No one at all.

He jogged on another ten yards and came to a stop by a tree, letting his pulse subside while he drank the last of his water before tossing the bottle in a convenient bin.

Slowly he jogged back towards the girl, who still appeared lost in thought, and came to a stop a couple of yards in front of the bench.

‘Excuse me?’

The child looked up at him but didn’t say anything.

Carlyle stepped closer. Her eyes were like hard grey pebbles. ‘Excuse me?’ he said again. ‘Are you okay?’

The girl lowered her gaze, but still she said nothing. As she folded her arms, Carlyle could see a series of black and blue marks just above each elbow. Some were faded; others looked fresh. Keeping a respectful distance, he knelt down in front of the child. ‘I am John,’ he said, a mixture of discomfort and anger rising inside him. ‘What is your name?’

The child bit her lip and dropped her chin close to her chest, shaking her head.

‘I am a policeman.’ He was conscious of having no ID on him, but that couldn’t be helped. ‘Are you lost? Do you need any help?’

The girl’s eyes welled up and a single tear ran down her left cheek. Carlyle’s heart sank. He stepped back and looked around. It was getting properly dark now. The cars speeding by had their headlights on and the Palace behind him was bathed in floodlight. Doing a slow pirouette, he scanned though 360 degrees. Still there was no one else in sight who looked like they might belong to this kid. Fuck, he thought, what a pain in the arse. With a heavy sigh, he pulled his mobile from the back pocket of his shorts and called the station.

George Patrick, the fairly new desk sergeant at Charing Cross police station, answered on the first ring. ‘Desk!’

George was probably older than Carlyle, but he was enthusiasm personified compared to his predecessor, Dave Prentice. Earlier in the year, Prentice had finally realised his lifelong ambition by retiring to the eastern suburb of Theydon Bois. Not a minute too soon, thought Carlyle. The inspector had not missed the moaning old sod once since he had left.

‘George,’ he said, ‘it’s John Carlyle. I’m in Green Park, just past the Canada Gates on Constitution Hill. There’s a young child here who appears to be lost.’ He lowered his voice a notch. ‘She looks a bit. . zonked out, so there may be more to it than that. Can you send a car?’

‘Let’s see. .’ There was the rustling of papers in the background. ‘I’m not sure we’ve got anyone spare at the moment, but I’ll find you something.’

‘Thanks. Who’s on duty at the moment?’

More rustling. Then Patrick read out a list of names.

Carlyle thought about it for just a second before making a decision. ‘Send Nicole Sawyer.’ Sawyer was an extremely pleasant, extremely overweight Afro-Caribbean WPC. At twenty-nine, her social skills were far better than Carlyle’s and better than those of just about anyone else he had ever worked with. She might not be able to catch any criminals running down the street, but she certainly had the knack of simply talking them into giving themselves up. If anyone could be considered the acceptable face of the Metropolitan Police Force, it was Nicole. ‘See if you can get her down here as well.’

‘Okay.’

‘Call me on my mobile when they’re on their way. And check if there have been any reports today of a missing girl. She’s aged about eight or nine, I’d reckon. Grey eyes and short dark hair. Wearing a flowery dress.’

‘I’ll check.’

‘Thanks. See you later.’ Carlyle ended the call and dropped the phone back in his pocket. As he did so, he became aware of someone hovering just behind him.

‘Alzbetha!’ cried a very pukka English voice that contained more than a hint of irritation. ‘Come here! What have I told you about talking to strangers?’

Carlyle turned round to face a handsome man in his late twenties or early thirties. He had light, sandy hair receding at the temples, with sharp blue eyes and slim build. Carlyle put him at around five foot ten. His black suit looked expensive — Armani, maybe — as did his azure-blue shirt, which was open at the neck, and his black penny loafers.

‘Who are you?’ the young man asked, not trying to hide his annoyance now.

Carlyle stepped protectively in front of the girl. ‘Who are you ?’

The man looked flummoxed for a second. ‘I am the girl’s. . uncle.’

That’s a lie straight off the bat, thought Carlyle, whose dislike of this posh-sounding gent in front of him was already fully formed. ‘Is that right?’

‘Yes, it is.’ The man nodded theatrically. He held out a hand towards the girl. ‘Come.’