James Craig: Buckingham Palace Blues

Carlyle bowed his head slightly. ‘Thank you.’

‘Do not thank me,’ Chauzy said sharply. ‘If it was my decision, you would not be walking away from these criminal acts so easily. But unfortunately, it is out of my hands. It would seem that your powerful friends in London have pulled some strings.’

Powerful friends? Carlyle wondered. What powerful friends?

‘This has become a political issue,’ Chauzy sighed. ‘The Metropolitan Police made representations to the Department of Justice, and the British Consulate in Geneva also intervened.’

‘You have to remember that I came here with a legitimate warrant,’ Carlyle interjected.

Somehow, Chauzy managed to look even more unimpressed. ‘That is a matter for some debate. However, we are prepared to accept that you personally did not shoot the Earl of Falkirk, and as you clearly know nothing about the person or persons who did. .’

Sarcasm in Switzerland — who would have thought it?

‘. . we will not detain you any longer. There is a driver waiting for you outside. Just, please, do not return here. You will not be welcome in Switzerland again.’ Pushing open the door, Chauzy stepped out into the corridor and was gone.

That sounds like a fair deal to me, thought Carlyle, as he savoured his rediscovered freedom. Very fair indeed.

Standing at the bar of the Royal China Club, a seafood restaurant on Baker Street, Carlyle scanned the front page of that morning’s Daily Mirror. ROYAL EXECUTION screamed the 72-point headline, above a photograph of Falkirk partying somewhere with a girl on each arm. Inside, the story was spread across pages 4, 5, 6 and 7. Happily, it was all filler, speculation and reaction — with no mention of the inspector himself. Content that there was nothing in the reporting that could add to his problems, he quickly turned to the sports pages.

Having been summoned to the club by Commander Carole Simpson, he was anticipating a major bollocking. After almost half an hour, he had read the Mirror from front to back, and was feeling weak with hunger. Finally, he saw Simpson’s dining companion rise from their table, give the commander a quick peck on the cheek, then take his leave. A few minutes later, the inspector was ushered over to the same table and invited to take the empty seat.

The dining room was full of diners and the noise-level was high. Carlyle sat with his hands on his lap, avoiding eye-contact. Blowing gently on her tea, Simpson adopted an air of serenity.

A drink would be nice, Carlyle thought. He looked around hopefully but the waiters knew better than to offer him anything and steadfastly refused to catch his eye. Deciding that his boss’s inscrutable act had gone on for long enough, he leaned forward and rested his forearms on the table. ‘Thanks for getting me out of jail.’

Simpson replaced her cup carefully on its saucer and signalled for the bill. ‘What exactly happened over there?’

‘Well. .’ Carlyle proceeded to give her the same story he had told to the Swiss police — throwing in a few extra irrelevant details to give some colour and the suggestion of candour.

Simpson listened impassively. When Carlyle had finished his little story, she said nothing for a few moments. He could sense the debate going on inside her about whether to call him on his dishonesty or whether just to let it slide. The bill arrived, and Carlyle eyed her corporate credit card enviously as it was slipped into the machine. After typing in her PIN and taking the receipt, Simpson looked him directly in the eye. ‘It was a bloody nightmare,’ she said, almost keeping a smile from creeping across her lips. ‘In the end, I had to get the ambassador himself involved.’

‘I thought it was the consul,’ Carlyle grinned.

‘You think it’s funny, John,’ she admonished, ‘don’t you?’

‘What?’

‘Going over to Switzerland — how can anyone cause trouble in Switzerland, for God’s sake? It’s the place where you go to die! — and creating just about the biggest international incident since World War Two.’ She ran a hand through her hair. ‘For goodness’ sake, how do you manage it?’

‘I was simply executing a warrant,’ Carlyle said humbly.

Sticking her credit card and the receipt safely in her bag, she leaned over the table and lowered her voice. ‘Just as long as you didn’t execute a member of the ruddy royal family.’

‘No, no.’ Carlyle stiffened. ‘As I said, I had nothing to do with that.’

‘Nothing? Are you sure?’

‘Completely,’ he nodded solemnly. ‘As you know, I was assaulted myself.’

‘Don’t try and play the victim with me, Inspector,’ Simpson said tartly, ‘it simply doesn’t suit you. Those two goons you put in hospital have hired some ambulance-chaser over here in London. This isn’t going to go away quietly — the Met is facing an embarrassing civil suit.’

‘It won’t be the first time,’ Carlyle replied sullenly. He’d had enough of acting the penitent soldier, and wondered if there was going to be a point to this meeting.

‘I have had to tell the authorities, both here and in Berne, that you will be disciplined very harshly.’

Here we go, Carlyle thought. ‘Which means what?’

‘Which means,’ she said slowly, ‘that you had better keep a very, very low profile for a very, very long time.’

Carlyle stared at her.

‘Amazingly,’ said Simpson, ‘despite causing chaos abroad and a tabloid media frenzy here at home, there are still some people who think you have done a good job.’

Carlyle felt his stomach rumble. There were two small chocolates that the waiter had brought with the bill. He grabbed one. ‘Some people as in you?’ he asked, stuffing it in his mouth.

‘No.’ Simpson shook her head. ‘I think that you have been very unprofessional.’ She handed him the final chocolate. ‘Not to mention economical with the truth.’

Caryle bit into the other one. It was easier to lie with something in your mouth. ‘I have told you what I know,’ he said, with a small shrug.

‘Anyway,’ said Simpson, obviously knowing when she was flogging a dead horse, ‘Sir Ewen Mayflower seems to have taken quite a shine to you.’

‘He didn’t mention the vase, then?’

Simpson gave him a funny look. ‘What?’

Carlyle coughed. ‘Nothing.’

‘He says that there are people in Buckingham Palace — ‘‘very high-up people’’, were his precise words — who are very pleased with your efforts.’

‘What?’ Carlyle laughed. ‘You think the Queen herself wanted Falkirk offed?’

‘I don’t know,’ Simpson grinned, getting to her feet, signalling that their little chat was at an end. ‘Maybe the Duke of Edinburgh?’

‘Yeah,’ Carlyle laughed, finally catching the eye of a waiter and gesturing to him for a menu. ‘I could understand that. You wouldn’t want to mess with that old bugger.’

Sitting at his desk in Charing Cross, the inspector aimlessly surfed the internet while studiously avoiding doing any work. If Simpson wanted him to keep a low profile that was fine by him. Picking up his mobile, he rang Helen. It was a while since he had taken his wife to lunch, and he fancied a burrito from the Mexican place near her office. But the call went straight to voicemail, and he hung up without leaving a message. If she didn’t call him back in time, he would grab a sandwich. Yawning, he returned his attention to the story of an Oscar-winning actress whose husband was being ‘linked’ with a tattoo model. ‘Tattoo model,’ Carlyle mused, marvelling at the girl’s picture. ‘Now that’s what I call a proper job.’