James Craig - Buckingham Palace Blues

‘You just get on with it.’ Rose shrugged. ‘Most of the time it’s fine. It’s not like I have to worry about juggling trips abroad too often.’

Carlyle smiled. ‘Me neither.’

‘What about your wife?’

Carlyle tensed. ‘What about her?’

‘Doesn’t she mind you being here?’ Meaning: being here with me ?

Carlyle chose his next words carefully. ‘She understands that sometimes I don’t have control over where my job takes me — although I work very hard at making sure I’m not away from home any more than is absolutely necessary.’ Meaning: subject closed . Bored, he flipped through the glossy brochure for the Kippe Clinic resting on his lap. ‘How much is 30,000 Swiss Francs?’

‘About. .’ Rose Scripps did the calculation in her head, ‘almost twenty thousand pounds — something like that.’

‘Fucking hell!’ Carlyle let out a low whistle. ‘Imagine spending twenty grand on two weeks of revitalisation and regeneration stress reduction therapies.’

‘Is that what Falkirk is doing?’

‘No idea.’ Carlyle flipped the page. ‘Listen to this: We are leading international experts in illnesses common in the global, de-industrialised, post post-modern society in which we live — disorders and illness related to an individual’s capability of coping with factors such as stress, daily frustrations, highly competitive work environments, anxiety and unsorted anger .

‘Stress is for rich people,’ Rose mused. ‘The term itself was only invented in the 1930s.’

‘What is it, anyway?’ Carlyle asked, though not interested in the slightest.

‘Technically it is defined as a non-specific response of the body to a demand for change.’

‘Sounds like crap to me.’

‘What a sensitive soul you are!’ Rose laughed.

‘That’s me.’ Carlyle tossed the brochure into the back and grabbed a pair of binoculars from under his seat, bought specially for their trip at Field amp; Trek on Maiden Lane in Covent Garden. Getting out of the car, he scanned the vista with the practised incompetence of the occasional tourist. The clinic lay off to his left, maybe 300 feet further down the mountain. On one side extended lush green fields, on the other a small forest. A small group of gardeners was tending flower beds at the front of the building, and a couple of cleaning staff stood enjoying a cigarette and a natter by a side door.

Switching his attention to the spa centre on the far side of the clinic, he could make out the half-Olympic-size pool, surrounded by recliners, through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The pool itself was empty but, in the far corner, Carlyle could discern a blonde masseuse vigorously working on a guest on a massage table. Readjusting his towel, the man sat up as she handed him a small bottle of water.

‘At last.’ Plonking the binoculars down on the car roof, Carlyle slipped round the bonnet of the car and headed rapidly across the car park.

‘Where are you going?’ Rose yelled after him, struggling to get out of the vehicle.

‘It’s him. Hurry up!’

‘John. . here!’

He half-turned, just in time to catch the small canister as it flew towards him. He looked at it nestling in his hand: it was about as tall as a Coke can, and half as wide. It could have been a small container of shaving foam, or maybe an asthma inhaler.

‘Pepper spray,’ Rose explained. ‘If he gives you any trouble, aim for the face.’

‘Nice one,’ he grinned, shooting off a little burst downwind. ‘Thanks.’

‘I brought it specially from London.’

‘Excellent!’ Another gold star for Heathrow airport security. ‘Not necessarily legal, but just the job.’ He began moving again.

‘What are you going to do?’ she called.

That, Carlyle thought, is a very stupid question. Lengthening his stride, he hit the grass beyond the tarmac and began running downhill towards the building.

By the time Carlyle reached the clinic, he was out of breath. A kitchen helper was standing by an open door, an unlit cigarette in her mouth. The woman nodded at Carlyle and began fiddling in her pocket for a box of matches. Nodding back, Carlyle slipped past and stepped inside, moving into a long corridor which, he guessed, led towards the back of the building. Ten yards down, on his left, was a set of doors leading to the swimming pool. Pushing them open, he found Falkirk standing in front of him, dressed in jeans, T-shirt and a pair of loafers.

‘Inspector.’ Falkirk frowned. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I’m here for you.’ Stepping closer, Carlyle could see that his quarry’s pupils were hugely dilated, a clear indication of drug use, and he looked unsteady on his feet. There were dark rings round the eyes and his face was puffy. He looked exhausted. All in all, the man was hardly an advert for two weeks’ R amp;R in the Alps.

‘Me?’ Falkirk made a half-hearted attempt at a smile.

Carlyle’s smile was equally false. ‘I have a warrant for your arrest,’ he said stiffly, patting his jacket pocket. After the cold outside, the heat of the spa made him feel suddenly drowsy. He stifled a yawn, the strong smell of chlorine reminding him of the days — more than thirty years before — when his dad had made him train with the Hammersmith Penguin Swimming Club at the Fulham Baths.

‘A warrant? I don’t think so,’ said Falkirk warily, not coming any closer.

Snapping from his reverie, Carlyle pulled the envelope out of his pocket and held it up for the Earl to see. ‘It’s all over, Gordon,’ he said. ‘Now we have to go back to London.’

‘No one calls me that.’ Falkirk took a couple of steps backwards. ‘And no one tells me what to do.’

Carlyle moved towards him. ‘We have to go now. We have a flight to catch.’

Falkirk grinned as he looked past Carlyle. ‘I don’t think so.’

Carlyle half-turned to see two security guards take up position on either side of him. Each man had a 9mm SIG-Sauer P220 semi-automatic pistol holstered at his side, standard Swiss Army issue.

‘Police,’ proclaimed Carlyle, holding up a hand.

‘Do they look like they give a toss?’ Falkirk snorted.

Not in the slightest, Carlyle thought, girding his loins for the trouble ahead.

As the first man reached for his gun, the inspector gave him three seconds of the pepper spray. Just like in the training video, the guy dropped his gun, fell to his knees and began clawing at his face. Carlyle then turned to his colleague, who backed away rapidly, tripping over a handily placed float and stumbling into the swimming pool. Ignoring Falkirk’s hysterical laughter, Carlyle waited for the guy’s head to pop back up to the surface, and gave him a spray too. With the security guards now engaged in synchronised screaming, Carlyle regarded the tube in his hand with barely concealed admiration. This is great stuff, he thought. I must remember to get some of my own once I get home. Stepping back, he gave the kneeling man a satisfying kick in the ribs that sent him tumbling into the water after his colleague. Carlyle booted the SIG-Sauer into the pool for good measure, and looked up.

Falkirk was gone.

It took the inspector a couple of seconds to spot the Earl, who was now sprinting across the lawn outside, heading for the nearest trees, which were maybe 300 metres further up the mountain. Carlyle shook his head. ‘Where the hell are you going?’ he said to himself, wondering if he had the stamina to catch the younger man.

Outside, the air had darkened. Vicious-looking black clouds scudded across the sky and Carlyle could smell rain in the air. A fat droplet of water exploded on the gravel right in front of his feet, with the promise of much more to come. Head down, blood pumping, he took a deep breath and charged ahead — running straight into Rose, who had suddenly appeared in front of the clinic.