James Craig: Buckingham Palace Blues

‘Two minutes,’ Patrick replied.

‘Who is it?’

‘Weber.’

Carlyle knew Thomas Weber. He was a very nice guy. German. Very thorough. Very professional. Not the man for this job, though. ‘Get me a woman,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘Trust me,’ Carlyle hissed, fighting to keep his tone even. ‘It should be a woman.’

‘But Weber is on call. .’

‘I don’t care if the King of fucking Siam is on call,’ he ranted. ‘Get — me — a — woman doctor. Please .’

‘Inspector. .’

Calm down, Carlyle told himself. Just calm down. Shouting won’t get you what you want. He took a deep breath. ‘Look, George, I’m sorry but this could be nasty. Really nasty. Not the usual day-to-day bullshit that we have to put up with. It’s important and it’s urgent. I’ll stay with the kid till we get it sorted. See what you can do.’

‘Okay.’ Patrick slammed the phone down in a fuck you too kind of a way.

Carlyle stood in the corridor, feeling dizzy. For want of anything better to do, he went back into the interview room. The girl had abandoned her colouring book and was now crayoning on the table. This time, she didn’t even acknowledge his presence. Leaning against the wall, he watched her destroy one crayon after another until there was nothing left but a pile of stubs. When there were none left, she sat back in her chair, folded her arms and admired her handiwork. It looked pretty good to Carlyle. Maybe they should take the table over Waterloo Bridge to Tate Modern.

‘Elizabeth,’ he said, more to himself than to the girl, ‘where the hell are you from?’

She rolled one half of the broken red crayon across the table, muttering something under her breath that he didn’t catch. She sounded Eastern European. Russian maybe? Polish? He didn’t know. The kid looked European, but she wasn’t speaking French, Italian, German or Spanish. Presumably she wasn’t from Scandinavia. He had never heard of children — or anyone else for that matter — being trafficked from there.

He was still mulling it over a few minutes later, when Thomas Weber arrived. The doctor was accompanied by a small, mousy-looking WPC Carlyle didn’t recognise. She smiled wanly but said nothing. Seeing the annoyance on the inspector’s face, Weber held up a hand before Carlyle could say anything. ‘I know what you asked for,’ he said firmly, ‘but I’m all you’ve got.’

Carlyle studied the tired-looking man in front of him and nodded sheepishly. Now was not the time for any more shouting.

‘Okay.’ Weber looked at the little girl and smiled. ‘Let’s go downstairs.’

The WPC took the girl by the hand and led her out of the room. Carlyle let Weber go next and brought up the rear.

On the first floor was the station’s ‘medical suite’: a couple of rooms that had been kitted out in a fair imitation of a GP’s surgery. Once they got there, Weber turned to Carlyle. ‘It’s probably better if you let us handle this from here. Why don’t you go and get a cup of coffee and come back in half an hour?’

‘Will do,’ Carlyle agreed, secretly quite relieved.

While the child was being examined, he nipped out of the station and headed for a nearby bookstore on New Row that he knew would still be open. The children’s department was in the basement. With help from a friendly assistant, he found a copy of My First Atlas and a couple more colouring books — one with pictures of ballerinas, the other of princesses. The books made him smile; they were the kind of thing he would have bought for Alice only a couple of years ago. Then he remembered the girl back in the station, and the smile died on his face.

‘Is there anything wrong?’ The assistant seemed genuinely concerned by the thunderous look on Carlyle’s face.

‘No, no,’ replied Carlyle almost absentmindedly. ‘Thanks for your help. That’s just what I was looking for.’

Back at the station, the doctor was already waiting for him outside the medical suite. As he approached along the corridor, Carlyle could see from the look on Weber’s face that things were at least as bad as he had feared. Squeamish at the best of times, the last thing Carlyle wanted was a discussion of the ugly details.

‘One for Social Services?’ he asked quickly, before Weber could say a word.

Weber nodded solemnly. ‘I’ll give them a call straight away.’

‘Good luck with that,’ Carlyle growled. ‘What am I supposed to do in the meantime?’ It was a stupid question, the result of tiredness and frustration.

‘I’ll be as quick as I can,’ Weber said evenly, picking up the briefcase at his feet and heading for the stairs.

Gritting his teeth, Carlyle watched him go. Not for the first time, he cursed himself for getting into this type of situation. His stomach rumbled and he realised that he was starving. The station canteen would be shut by now and he would need to go out again if he wanted to get something to eat. He thought it through. If he took the girl with him, it would be a breach of protocol. On the other hand, maybe it would help her open up a bit. Carlyle doubted, however, that her English extended much beyond the terrifying handful of words she had already come out with. But maybe, just maybe, he could start to build up some trust with her over a burger and some chips.

Bracing himself, he stepped into the medical suite. The WPC jumped up from her seat, nodded in his general direction and quickly left the room. In the corner, he could see the girl asleep on the examination table. She lay with her back to him and was wearing a paper gown. In the silence of the room, he could hear her snoring quietly. Carefully placing the books on an empty desk on the other side of the room, he found a blanket in a cupboard and gently placed it over her. For a while he stood there, watching the slight rise and fall of her chest. A pretty girl, though. Almost all kids are pretty at that age, he mused. Eyes closed, and without the frown, she looked at peace for the first time since he’d met her.

Switching the light off, he sat down on the chair vacated by the WPC. His stomach rumbled again. He told it to shut up. It didn’t matter how hungry he was; all that he could do now was wait.

Waking with a start, Carlyle slowly came to terms with the darkness. After a while he could vaguely make out the time, by the clock on the wall. He groaned when he saw that it was 2.15 a.m. Rubbing the back of his neck, he got reluctantly to his feet and ran through a mental checklist of all the places where his body ached. It was a long one. The girl was still fast asleep, curled up in the foetal position, her breathing steady.

Stepping quietly out of the room, Carlyle checked his phone. To his dismay, he had four missed calls and a text message from his wife — Where are you? — timed at just after 11 p.m. Carlyle yawned. How had he slept through all that? Par for the course. He had a very mixed record with mobile phones. Sometimes he could go for days without managing to pick up any of his calls. It drove him — and everyone else — mad.

Now was not the time to call Helen back. He felt an ache in his bladder and realised he needed to piss. After a trip to the gents, he headed downstairs to the front desk. By now, George Patrick had gone off shift. He had been replaced by Gerry Armstrong, an Irishman Carlyle knew reasonably well. Beyond the security doors, the reception area was relatively empty for Saturday night-Sunday morning. There were a couple of drunks and one guy with blood oozing from a cut above his eyebrow, but it seemed that tonight the loser count was relatively low.

‘Gerry,’ he nodded in greeting. ‘Quiet tonight.’

The desk sergeant looked up from an early edition of the Sunday Mirror . ‘John,’ he replied, sounding far too cheery for this time of night. ‘What are you doing here?’