James Craig - Buckingham Palace Blues

Carlyle felt a frisson of embarrassment slither down his spine. Never good at accepting compliments, particularly in the face of abject failure, he stared at the floor.

‘That’s the truth.’ Simpson smiled weakly. ‘I know you boys don’t do all that touchy-feely stuff, but I am truly proud of the way in which you haven’t let this one go, but pursued it all the way to the end. You did the right thing.’

‘It’s not the end,’ Carlyle protested.

‘It is for us,’ Simpson said firmly. ‘It’s down to the CPS now and you have to leave it to the lawyers. This guy will not get a free ride just because of who he is. This whole thing has gone too far, way too far. No one is forgetting that a policewoman died here. Or that Merrett was tortured to death. Or that Shen was seriously injured.’

‘The fucker has just walked!’ Carlyle looked around helplessly, as if for something to kick.

‘The judge also granted a media-gagging order,’ Simpson stood her ground, giving Carlyle a knowing look, ‘so no running off to your friends at the bloody BBC.’

Trying to look inscrutable, Carlyle said nothing.

‘I will speak to you later in the week,’ Simpson concluded, buttoning up her coat. ‘I am sure you have plenty of other things to be getting on with. There always comes a time when you have to leave a case behind. This is such a time.’

Carlyle kept his eyes to the ground as he listened to her footsteps receding across the stone floor. The only thought filling his head was how he continued to fail that little girl he had found in the park.

Joe gave him a consoling pat on the shoulder. ‘Drink?’

Carlyle pondered the offer for a moment. ‘Won’t Anita be pissed off if you don’t get home?’

‘Fuck it,’ said Joe. ‘Just a quick drink. . or maybe two.’ He grinned. ‘We need it. She’ll understand.’

‘Good woman,’ Carlyle said, trying to smile.

‘Yes,’ said Joe happily. ‘Yes, she is.’

With his finger hovering over the send button, Carlyle scanned his report one last time. In conclusion , it read, it appears that the victim died as a result of asphyxiation while indulging in a sex act on his own. Nice word ‘indulging’, Carlyle thought. The silly little sod had accidentally hanged himself with a pair of women’s knickers. According to the pathologist’s report, he hadn’t even climaxed. He shook his head. ‘What a way to go!’

The fact that the victim had been some mini-television celebrity had got the papers interested, and the story had lasted for a couple of days. If nothing else, it had provided the inspector with an amusing interlude in the slow, boring weeks since Falkirk had escaped his grasp.

As expected, the Earl had disappeared. Having been due in court two days ago, Carlyle was not in the least surprised when the man failed to turn up. His lawyer — the statuesque Ms Stuart — had explained to the judge that her client was being treated for depression ‘at an unknown location’. Happily, the judge was not Harold Stephenson this time round, but a low-key and sensible magistrate called Joe Davies. Having examined the paperwork, Davies issued a warrant for Falkirk’s immediate arrest, with a minimum of fuss.

However, that was a warrant that no one expected would be served any time soon.

As he pushed his latest report into police cyberspace, the inspector’s mobile started vibrating on his desk. He picked it up: no number identified. Did he want to answer it? Probably not. He hit the receive button. ‘John Carlyle. .’

‘John?’

Didn’t I just say that? he thought crossly. ‘Yes.’

‘It’s Rose — Rose Scripps from CEOP.’

‘Of course,’ he said, his mood instantly softening. ‘How are you?’

‘I’ve found Falkirk!’

Carlyle took the phone from his ear and held it in front of his face, looking at it in quiet bemusement.

‘John?’

He returned it to his ear. ‘Yes?’

‘I said, I’ve-’

‘How?’

‘He’s in Paris Match .’

‘What?’

‘Last week’s Paris Match — it’s like a French version of Hello .’

‘Yes, yes.’ He knew what the damn magazine was. Helen would bring home an occasional copy, and Carlyle wasn’t averse to taking a sneaky peek at the photos of the topless actresses.

‘Someone left a copy on the tube, and I picked it up and started leafing though it. There’s a small picture and story on page seven — Royal bad boy drying out at Swiss clinic . . yada, yada. . then a quote from a ‘‘friend’’ saying that he’s trying to turn over a new leaf.’

‘So he’s in Switzerland?’ Carlyle asked, more than interested now.

‘Yes. Or at least he was recently. Some place called the Kippe Clinic.’ She spelt out the name. ‘Does this mean we can get him now?’

‘It means that we can bloody well try!’

‘Okay, Mum, no problem. I’ll definitely be back by then. Of course I understand. Bye.’

Rose Scripps tossed the mobile onto the dashboard of their unmarked Peugeot, the cheapest rental they could find at Geneva Airport. After drumming her fingers on the steering wheel for several moments, she turned to Carlyle and sighed. ‘I’ve got to be back home by tomorrow morning.’

Sitting in the passenger seat, a mute Carlyle stared through the windscreen at the almost empty car park. Less than a quarter of a mile away, the Kippe Clinic glinted in the weak sunshine. Nothing had travelled along the narrow tarmac road leading down to the single-storey glass building for more than an hour.

‘My mother’s off on holiday,’ Rose explained apologetically, ‘so she can’t look after Louise any longer.’

‘Where’s she going?’

‘Devon.’

‘A bit cold there at this time of year?’

‘She has a sister down there, near Totnes. We’ve visited a few times. It’s nice.’

Carlyle grunted. He’d never been to Devon in his life and didn’t feel like he was missing anything.

‘Anyway, I’ll have to pick up my daughter.’

‘Of course.’ Carlyle felt embarrassed by the amateurishness of their set-up: the fight against international crime laid low by a lack of childcare. He was unhappy with Joe for putting him in this position; unhappier with himself for putting him in this position. Joe had half-heartedly volunteered to come along, but he had family problems too. Come to think of it, so did Carlyle. Helen’s patience regarding this case was wearing mighty thin. And when he explained he’d be heading for Switzerland with Rose Scripps in tow, his wife had become decidedly frosty. ‘Do what you have to do,’ had been her final comment.

‘I’m sorry,’ Rose continued, ‘but it has been three days already, and I didn’t know how long you were thinking of waiting here.’

‘No problem,’ he said.

‘Anyway,’ she went on, ‘this is looking like a wild-goose chase.’

‘Yeah,’ he agreed reluctantly.

‘Even if Falkirk turns up,’ Rose persisted, already talking herself on to the flight home, ‘and we get him, he’ll try and stay here in Switzerland.’

‘We have a warrant.’

‘Mm.’ She glanced at the clock on the dashboard. It read 10.53 a.m. ‘The afternoon flight is at five-thirty.’

‘I know,’ Carlyle nodded, admitting defeat. If Rose was heading back home, there was no point in him staying either. Apart from anything else, he needed her to get him around, as he couldn’t drive. ‘We’ll call it a day at two o’clock, get something to eat, and be at the airport by four. Plenty of time.’ Gazing down over the town of Villeneuve, past the Grangette Nature Reserve and across Lake Geneva, he felt a very long way from Charing Cross. ‘It must be tough,’ he said diplomatically, ‘being a single parent.’