James Craig - Buckingham Palace Blues

‘That’s very interesting,’ Carlyle replied, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible. ‘But I would have thought you would want to avoid the publicity.’

‘Hardly,’ she snorted. ‘This is by far the worst case of harassment I have ever encountered.’ She looked him up and down. ‘The average policeman makes only nine arrests a year — and that includes drunks, fare dodgers, television licence fee evaders, people like that. Assuming that you are indeed average . . almost a quarter of your arrests for this year as a whole have involved my client.’

‘Your point being?’

‘My point being,’ she extended a carefully manicured index finger to within half an inch of his nose, ‘that you do not arrest people like the man who is sitting — once again — in your police station. No one arrests people like him.’

Carlyle fought to keep his temper in check. ‘No one is above the law.’

The finger veered away from his face and poked him on the shoulder. ‘Grow up, Inspector. Just grow up!’ Turning away, she headed briskly towards the interview room. ‘Of course, once this matter has been sorted out, we will be pushing for your immediate dismissal.’

‘You know that is never going to happen.’ Carlyle skipped after her, hoping that he was right.

Ambrose Watson was flushed bright red, and sweating heavily as if he’d just run a half-marathon. ‘Dolan had a heart attack,’ he said sheepishly, ‘while he was being interviewed.’

‘Fatal?’ Joe asked.

‘Yes,’ Watson admitted reluctantly. ‘The paramedics say he was dead before his head hit the desk.’

‘Shit happens,’ said Carlyle, trying not to look too pleased about it.

‘It’s just a shame he couldn’t have lived another twenty minutes,’ Ambrose lamented. ‘He died before he could sign his confession. It was being typed up when it happened.’

‘That,’ said Joe, ‘is not good.’

‘For fuck’s sake, Ambrose,’ Carlyle complained, ‘couldn’t you have stuck a pen in Dolan’s hand and approximated his scrawl?’

Watson stared at Carlyle in horror. His mouth opened but no words emerged.

‘He’s only joking,’ Joe said limply. He glared at Carlyle and then smiled at Watson. ‘The inspector’s sense of humour can be a bit off at times,’ he added quickly. ‘They’ve sent him to see a police psychologist about it several times. Basically, stress seems to short-circuit some of the synapses in his brain. It’s like he’s got a kind of mild version of Tourette’s Syndrome, or something.’

Fuck off, thought Carlyle.

Watson kept his own counsel.

‘What did Dolan’s statement say?’ Joe asked, trying to move the conversation on.

‘Basically,’ Watson explained, ‘he blamed everything on the Earl of Falkirk. He admitted being party to conversations about Matthews, but denied plotting to kill her. According to Dolan, the incidents involving Merrett and Shen were down to Ihor Chepoyak. Rather convenient, given that the Ukrainian gentleman has gone to ground somewhere, but there you go.’

‘So where does that leave us?’ the inspector asked.

‘Well,’ said Watson, mopping his brow with a ragged paper tissue that he had fished out of his pocket, ‘the statement is obviously no longer usable in court. You’ll have to find other evidence you can use against Mr Elstree-Ullick.’

‘No problem,’ said Carlyle, suddenly energised. Ignoring the funny look that Joe was giving him, he shook Watson by the hand. ‘Thanks for letting us know about Dolan. But don’t bother to tell us about the funeral arrangements. We won’t be sending flowers.’

Carlyle and Joe patrolled the lobby of Horseferry Road Magistrates’ Court in Victoria, situated close to New Scotland Yard. For more than two hours, they had been waiting for a judge to make an initial ruling on the charges against the Earl of Falkirk. It was now well past normal business hours for the court. While Joe mumbled into his phone, explaining to his wife why he would be home late, Carlyle paced about nervously.

In the normal way of things, getting a judge to hear anything after four o’clock in the afternoon was well-nigh impossible. The inspector would have happily let Falkirk spend a night in the cells, but the Earl and his lawyer had enough clout to persuade a Crown Court Recorder by the name of Harold Stephenson to hear their request for bail the same evening. Stephenson, known among the tabloid press as the Hanging Judge of Horseferry, because of his no-nonsense approach towards dealing with miscreants, was very much a nine to five or, rather, a ten to four man. Being prepared to turn up outside of normal working hours was not a courtesy that would have been extended to any regular member of the public. And if he would sit late for the Earl, who knew what other favours might be granted? Unbelievably, Falkirk might actually be allowed to walk free while awaiting trial.

It crossed Carlyle’s mind that Stephenson might even be one of Falkirk’s clients. The idea made the acid in the inspector’s stomach bubble, but it was complete speculation and he forced himself to drop such a thought.

As Joe finished his call, the look on his face suggested that his wife, Anita, had shown only a limited understanding of his circumstances. He slumped on a nearby bench and yawned. Carlyle sat down next to him. All they could do now was wait.

Ten minutes later, the click-clack of heels on the stone floor caused both of them to look up. Out of uniform, Commander Carole Simpson looked like she was heading off for a night on the town. As she approached them, however, even the make-up could not hide the ashen look on her face.

The pain in Carlyle’s stomach intensified. ‘What’s going on?’ he asked by way of greeting.

Simpson signalled for Joe to come closer, then looked around to make sure no one was within earshot. ‘The judge has granted bail,’ she said quietly.

‘That’s not possible,’ said the two policemen in angry unison.

‘Keep your voices down!’ she hissed, stepping even closer. ‘You know very well that it is.’

‘We’ve been hanging around here for ages, waiting for the hearing to be called,’ Joe objected.

‘The judge didn’t ask to hear from you. The Crown Prosecution Service vigorously opposed bail, but his lawyer gave the necessary assurances.’

‘Necessary assurances, my arse,’ Carlyle snorted. ‘The bloody CPS have fucked us.’ All of them knew that the track record of the Crown Prosecution Service in London was extremely poor. Mismanagement of cases meant criminals were far more likely to skate before or during a trial than anywhere else in England and Wales. Cases were poorly prepared, and results were generally so bad that defendants had more chance of having their cases dropped than of being found Not Guilty by a jury.

‘That’s it,’ said Joe, shaking his head. ‘He’ll be off.’

‘He’s going into a clinic,’ Simpson explained. ‘His lawyer claims he has suffered from a mental and physical breakdown as a result of police harassment, and therefore needs to go into rehab.’

‘Rubbish!’ said Joe. ‘What that little arsehole needs is a good thrashing.’

‘It might have helped if you had got a police doctor to see him,’ Simpson rebuked them.

‘There wasn’t time,’ Carlyle said. ‘Did they make him surrender his passport?’

‘No.’

‘For fuck’s sake!’ Carlyle stamped his foot on the floor in frustration. ‘He’ll do a runner.’

‘He left along with his lawyer fifteen minutes ago,’ Simpson said matter-of-factly. ‘For us it’s now over.’

‘Bollocks,’ Carlyle raged.

Again, Simpson ignored his petulance. ‘You’ve done a good job,’ she said, ‘and more than a good job. I’m proud of you both.’