James Craig: Buckingham Palace Blues

Carlyle explained the situation.

‘Christ!’ Armstrong exclaimed. ‘No one told me. Mind you, I was a bit late in getting in tonight.’

Maybe you should read the duty log then, Carlyle thought. But he let it slide. It was too late and he was too tired to allow himself to get annoyed again. ‘That’s okay. But I need you to get one of the PCSOs — a woman — to sit with the kid for an hour or so. She’s asleep now, but just in case she wakes up. I’m going home to get a bite to eat and pick up some stuff. Then I’ll be right back.’

Police Community Support Officers, known as ‘plastic policemen’, were staff hired to help with the grunt work. Regular officers, like Carlyle, generally had a very low opinion of the plastics. Bored, with no power to arrest suspected criminals, they were responsible for most cases of gross misconduct among Metropolitan Police staff. Carlyle avoided them wherever possible. For now, however, they would have to do. Surely even a PCSO was capable of looking after a sleeping kid for an hour.

‘No problem,’ Armstrong said. ‘They’re all in the smoking room, watching videos, anyway.’

Safer than having them on the streets, Carlyle thought. ‘Thanks. And could you call Thomas Weber for me? See if he’s made any progress with Social Services.’

‘Will do.’ But Armstrong had already returned his attention to his newspaper — a story about some bisexual, drug-dealing minor member of the royal family — and Carlyle realised that he had been gently dismissed. Zipping up his jacket, he headed off into the night.

The girl finally awoke just after seven in the morning. If not exactly happy to see Carlyle, she didn’t immediately try to make a dash for the door. Taking the clothes he had brought for her — some of Alice’s cast-offs that Helen hadn’t found a home for — she dressed quickly. When she was finished, he looked her up and down, feeling a small stab of satisfaction at a job well done. Even in the middle of the night, he had managed to come up with a reasonable ensemble — jeans, sweatshirt, trainers — without waking up either wife or daughter, which was a major result.

He opened his mouth and pointed a finger at his tongue. ‘Food?’

The girl nodded.

‘Good.’ Carlyle smiled, happy to be making at least a little progress. He held out a hand, but the girl refused to take it. Ignoring the snub, he stepped over to the door. ‘Come on, let’s go and get some breakfast.’

Official police protocol or not, they had to eat. Carlyle knew that the only place open at this time of a Sunday morning would be the Box cafe on Henrietta Street, a minute from the station, just down from the piazza. As they arrived, the owner was just opening up. He nodded his welcome as they slipped inside and took a table by the window. The girl immediately grabbed the outsized laminated menu and scrutinised the pictures, before pointing to the Full English Breakfast. ‘Two English, please,’ Carlyle called over to the owner. ‘I’ll have a coffee and she’ll have orange juice.’

While they waited for their food to arrive, Carlyle showed the girl the books that he had bought for her the night before. Looking through the colouring books, the girl muttered unhappily under her breath and Carlyle realised that he hadn’t brought along any pens.

‘Sorry,’ he shrugged.

Seeming to ignore him, the girl carefully put the books to one side.

‘Here.’ Carlyle picked up the atlas and offered it to her. When she didn’t take it, he opened it, found the pages covering Eastern Europe and laid it down in front of her. ‘Is this where you are from?’

The girl scanned the countries without showing any sign of recognition. Carlyle tapped Russia on the page and pointed at the girl. ‘Russia,’ he said clearly. ‘Are you from there?’

She shook her head and turned to the next page. They were interrupted just then by the arrival of two large plates of food and both spent the next five minutes eating in hungry silence. Carlyle ate quickly and methodically, swallowing his last piece of toast and washing it down with coffee while the girl was still munching on her second sausage.

In the end, she was not able to eat all of her breakfast. Never one to let food go to waste, Carlyle quickly swapped plates. Eyes down, he began gobbling up the girl’s leftovers. As he finished off the last mouthful of beans, he looked up. The girl gave him a dirty look.

‘Sorry,’ Carlyle grinned, ‘but I was still hungry.’ To his left, he noticed that the owner was placing a tray of Danish pastries on the counter. They looked good. Carlyle gestured at the tray. ‘I’ll have one of those and another coffee. Thanks.’ He turned back to the girl. ‘Would you like anything else?’

She showed him another picture on the menu. ‘Ice cream.’

What an interesting English vocabulary you have, Carlyle thought. He turned to the owner: ‘Ice cream for breakfast it is.’

The owner nodded. ‘We have vanilla, strawberry, pistachio, chocolate. .’

"Шоколад?"

"Chocolate?’ The man smiled. ‘Okay. . chocolate.’

The girl slid out of her chair and the pair of them disappeared behind the counter. Carlyle heard boxes being shifted around and some giggling, before the girl returned triumphantly with three massive scoops of chocolate ice cream.

He watched her demolish the first scoop before standing up and stepping over to the counter, where the owner was lifting his pastry from the tray.

‘What language was that you were speaking?’ Carlyle asked quietly.

The man looked at him in surprise.

Carlyle pulled his ID from his pocket but didn’t open it. ‘You know that I am police?’

The man placed Carlyle’s Danish on the counter. ‘Yes.’

‘So where are you from?’

The man turned to the Gaggia coffee-machine. ‘I am from the Ukraine. More than twenty years now. And so is the girl.’ He gave the policeman a stern look. ‘You should know that.’

I do now, Carlyle thought. Thank you.

By the time Carlyle returned to the table, the girl had finished her ice cream. He handed her a napkin and gestured for her to wipe her mouth. As she did so, his phone started vibrating. There was no number ID, but he picked it up anyway. ‘Hello?’

‘Inspector Carlyle?’

‘Yes.’

‘This is Hilary Green of Westminster Social Services. What are you doing?’ The woman sounded as annoyed as he himself felt.

Waiting for you, love, Carlyle thought, as I have been for the last twelve bloody hours.

‘Where are you?’

He bit his lip and took a deep breath simultaneously. Then he told Ms Green that they would be back at the station in two minutes.

While he paid the bill, the girl re-opened the atlas and started flicking through the pages. She stopped at a map of the United Kingdom, surrounded by little drawings of famous landmarks. Holding up the book, she pointed to Buckingham Palace: ‘

"Мий будинок."

‘What?’ Carlyle looked at the cafe-owner for help.

"Ось где я живу!" the girl yelled.

‘She’s a little princess,’ the cafe-owner laughed. ‘She says that she lives in Buckingham Palace!’

Standing on the steps of Charing Cross police station, Hilary Green’s eyes narrowed as she watched them come round the corner of Agar Street. The social worker tossed her cigarette on to the pavement and stubbed it out with the toe of her shoe before kicking it into the gutter. Glancing at her watch, she cursed the pair of them for destroying her Sunday.

Carlyle watched her exhale the smoke she had been holding in her lungs and start coughing. Hilary Green looked to be in her mid-thirties, a fake blonde wearing too much make-up, with a face that would curdle milk. She was wrapped in an oversized winter coat and shivered noticeably as they came closer, even though it was barely autumn proper and the weather was still mild.