James Craig - Buckingham Palace Blues

‘I’m here to kill you,’ Ihor said, almost apologetically.

‘Why?’ Falkirk asked, his bottom lip visibly trembling now.

‘Why? Why?’ Ihor made a face. ‘This is not like one of those movies where you have to explain everything just to give the victim time to escape. What does it matter anyway? Your life has less than a minute left to run. Less than ten seconds, in fact.’

‘But-’

‘But nothing.’ Ihor pulled the trigger, and the crack of the 9mm Kurz round sent the birds flying from the surrounding trees. Slowly, Falkirk keeled over into the undergrowth, a surprised look on his face.

Ihor turned to Carlyle. ‘Not at all like the movies, huh?’

‘No.’ Thinking of Shen and Merrett, Carlyle remembered rule number one — always humour the man with the gun. ‘When it comes to the cinema, I’ve always been a fan of more violence and less dialogue myself,’ he said.

‘Me also,’ said Ihor.

Now at last he could hear the fucking sirens. This had been a truly outstanding effort by the Swiss police.

‘Time for me to go,’ Ihor declared. He saw Carlyle eyeing the Fort-12 nervously. ‘Don’t worry,’ he grinned, ‘I’m not going to pop you. Olga gave me strictest instructions that you were not to be hurt.’

Feebly trying to massage away his headache, Carlyle rubbed the back of his neck. Not hurt was stretching it a bit, but at least he was still alive. ‘Olga?’

The sirens grew louder.

‘She likes you,’ Ihor smirked. ‘It is your good fortune that you are already married!’

The sirens suddenly stopped and were soon replaced by shouting and a general commotion somewhere in the middle distance. Presumably the gendarmes would be here within a few minutes.

Ihor helped Carlyle to his feet. ‘You didn’t see me.’

Carlyle looked down at Falkirk sprawled on the ground with a bullet in his brain, and liked what he saw. He shook his head.

Ihor tapped the handle of the pistol. ‘Also, this is the same weapon as the one used in London, so no ballistics comparisons.’

Carlyle thought about Merrett and Shen. What about justice for them? Surely he owed them better than this shabby deal?

Seeing how the inspector’s mind was now working, Ihor gripped the pistol tightly. ‘I gave you Falkirk,’ he said slowly. ‘He was the main man. Either we are even, or there is a problem. .’

Carlyle stared at the gun. Under the circumstances, ‘even’ sounded good. He nodded. ‘Understood.’

‘Good!’ Ihor stuck the pistol in the waistband of his combat trousers and extended a hand.

Carlyle shook it. ‘Thank you.’

‘It’s nothing.’ Ihor shrugged. ‘You were lucky. If you want my advice, maybe being a policeman is not right for you.’ He spat in the direction of Falkirk’s corpse. ‘Not if a guy like that can get the better of you. You should really think about doing something else.’

Carlyle laughed weakly. ‘Maybe you’re right.’

The shouting was louder now. Carlyle reckoned that they must be almost into the forest, perhaps less than a 100 metres away.

‘I’d better get going,’ Ihor said. He turned and began jogging away, heading along the trail. In less than ten seconds, he was out of sight. Wearily taking a seat on a fallen tree, the inspector waited for his rescuers to arrive.

No question, if you had to go to jail, Switzerland was a good place to do so. The Service de Police holding cell on Rue du Lac 118 was cool, quiet and spotlessly clean. Sitting on a tiled bench, his back resting against the wall, Carlyle rather liked it. His wounds were far less serious than Carlyle had originally feared and a generous supply of painkillers left him feeling quite mellow as he dined on takeaway pizza. The coffee left a little to be desired but, happy to be alive, he didn’t feel the need to be too picky.

After a couple of hours, he was brought to an interview room and ushered inside. Cleaner and airier than the interview rooms at Charing Cross, it still retained the air of disappointment and despair that infused police stations the world over.

‘Any chance of another cup of coffee?’ Carlyle asked, as he sat down at the empty desk.

‘Someone will be here to interview you soon, Mr Carlyle,’ said the young officer who had delivered him here, his English angular and precise.

‘It’s Inspector Carlyle,’ Carlyle mumbled. He forced a smile on to his weary face. ‘Look, son,’ he said, trying to keep the exasperation from his voice, ‘I’m a police officer, too.’

The policeman looked at him blankly. ‘You are here,’ he said stiffly, ‘under suspicion of committing a crime.’

‘I know, but-’

‘In Switzerland, no one is above the law, Mr Carlyle,’ he said earnestly, ‘not even police officers.’ Turning, he left the room without another word.

‘Inspector Carlyle?’

He must have dozed off. Slowly coming to, he focused on the small paper cup that had been placed on the table in front of him. Grabbing it, he downed the espresso in two gulps and sat back, waiting for the caffeine to do its job. ‘Thank you.’

The man in front of him nodded. Not in uniform, Carlyle guessed he must be in his late thirties. He had short, salt-andpepper hair and a day’s stubble, which suggested to Carlyle that this little incident had interrupted the man’s day off. That would help explain his pissed-off expression.

Dropping a thin folder on the desk, the new arrival sat down on the opposite side of the table. ‘I am Jonas Chauzy,’ he said quietly, in accentless English, ‘First Deputy Chief at Fedpol.’

Carlyle looked at him blankly.

‘ Office federal de la police ,’ Chauzy explained. ‘We are part of the Federal Department of Justice and Police. I deal with socio-political issues such as the co-existence of Swiss and foreign nationals and the fight against crime.’ He gave Carlyle a hard look. ‘Normally it is a fairly straightforward job, but today. .’

Carlyle shrugged. ‘Sorry about any inconvenience.’

‘Inconvenience?’ Leaning back in his chair, the look on Chauzy’s face was part-smile, part-grimace. ‘Inspector, I have one man dead and two more in hospital.’

‘The dead man was nothing to do with me,’ Carlyle said evenly.

Chauzy opened the file to look at his notes. ‘Just before he died, you were pursuing him. .’

Carlyle had already given an initial statement and he knew his lines well. The key to getting out of here quickly was to keep it simple and not worry about any repetition. ‘Someone hit me from behind. When I woke up again, Falkirk was lying dead on the ground and your guys were just arriving.’

Chauzy studied him doubtfully.

‘The forensics will back that up,’ Carlyle continued evenly.

Chauzy glanced at his folder, but still said nothing.

After a few moments, Carlyle decided to cut to the chase. ‘Am I going to be charged with anything?’

Chauzy closed the folder and rubbed his temples. ‘There is also the question of the assault on Frank Furrer and Marcus Voney at the Kippe Clinic.’

‘That was a simple matter of self-defence,’ Carlyle said quickly. ‘They were threatening to shoot me.’

The First Deputy Chief stood up and leaned across the table, his jaw clenched. A black look passed across his face and, for a moment, Carlyle wondered if he was about to become a victim of police brutality. However, whatever violence may have been in his heart, Chauzy quickly thought better of it. Taking a step backwards, he stuck the file back under his arm and placed a hand against the door. ‘You are free to go, Inspector. Your colleague is waiting for you at the airport.’ He looked at his watch. ‘There is still a flight that you can catch this evening.’