James Craig - Buckingham Palace Blues

‘Hello?’

‘Carole? It’s John Carlyle.’

‘John,’ she said warmly. ‘How are you?’

‘Fine,’ Carlyle replied. ‘And you?’

‘I’m good,’ Simpson said evenly.

A seagull started yapping overhead. ‘Are you at the seaside?’ Carlyle asked.

‘Yes, I’ve just come out from visiting. .’ She stopped short. Their relationship had warmed considerably since Carlyle had been one of the few, one of the very few people on the Force to offer her any sympathy and support after Joshua was nicked, but the relationship was still a formal one. Professional. There was a better understanding between the two of them, but they still weren’t close.

‘How is Joshua?’ Carlyle asked, not picking up on her sense of discomfort as it came down the line.

‘He’s fine.’ Simpson sighed. ‘Sometimes I think he quite likes it in there, with all his books and his small group of students to teach, and no distractions from the outside world.’

When you put it like that, Carlyle thought, it sounds quite good. Like a little holiday. ‘He’ll be out in no time.’

Yes, he will, Simpson thought, not altogether happily. ‘What can I do for you, John?’

‘Well. .’ Carlyle quickly outlined what was contained in his report.

Jamming the phone between her shoulder and her ear, Simpson rummaged in her bag until she found her BlackBerry Curve 8900. Scrolling down through her emails, she opened the latest one from Carlyle. ‘I’ve got it here. Let me read it tonight and we can discuss it tomorrow.’

‘All right,’ said Carlyle, trying to ignore the stab of impatience that he felt.

‘But,’ Simpson continued, tossing the machine onto the passenger seat, ‘it sounds from what you’ve said as if we should hand this one over.’

No bloody way, Carlyle thought. Not a fucking chance. ‘Maybe,’ he said.

‘The girl is now in care,’ Simpson said. ‘You don’t think it’s a domestic, so you should speak to Vice.’

‘Joe is doing that right now,’ Carlyle said, wondering now if that was such a good idea.

‘Good.’ Simpson eased herself into her seat. ‘Let me know how that goes. It’s best that the right people handle it.’

Meaning: it sounds nasty, it looks like a dead end, the kid’ll probably get sent back home, so let’s make sure we can pass the buck .

‘Sure,’ he said, as casually as he could manage. ‘In the meantime, I thought that I would check in with some of my old friends in SO14.’

There was a pause on the line. He heard some muffled noises in the background as she closed the car door, smiling as he imagined his boss banging her head on the steering wheel. ‘John,’ she said finally, ‘you don’t have any friends in SO14 — old or otherwise.’

‘Yes, but-’

‘Anyway, why would you want to talk to the Royal Protection Unit about this?’

‘Because that’s where I found the girl.’

‘You found the girl in Green Park,’ Simpson corrected him. ‘Thousands of people use Green Park every day. The Queen, as far as I know, is not one of them.’

‘The girl said she lived there,’ he persisted. ‘At Buckingham Palace.’

‘That’s what you think she said,’ Simpson snapped, tired of holding this conversation on what had been a stressful day to start with. ‘Even if that’s what she did say, so what? She’s a little girl. All little girls want to be a princess and live in a castle.’

‘I know-’

‘Look, John,’ she sighed. ‘I-’

‘I know,’ he repeated hastily. ‘I know.’

Simpson looked out at the grey horizon. ‘You say that you do, but then you act like you don’t.’ She felt herself slipping into schoolteacher mode, but kept going anyway. ‘It’s like my dad used to say: you should ignore everything that a boy says , and pay very close attention to everything that a boy does . Best advice I ever had. And it applies just as well to my professional life as it ever did to dating boyfriends. I remind myself of it every day.’

I must remember to tell Alice that one, Carlyle thought.

‘Leaving aside the fact that, based on what you’ve told me, you have absolutely no grounds for snooping around Buckingham Palace,’ Simpson continued, on a roll now, ‘your history with SO14 is such that I can’t honestly believe that there is anyone there who would even give you the time of day.’

‘Are you telling me to abandon this child?’ Carlyle asked.

‘No one is abandoning anything,’ Simpson said, aggrieved. ‘From what you have told me, she is not your responsibility any longer.’

‘I found her.’

‘John. .’

He kept pushing. ‘Nine years old.’

‘Don’t come all Mother bloody Teresa with me, Inspector Carlyle.’ Despite herself, Simpson laughed audibly, allowing them both to step back from the row that was brewing.

Interesting, Carlyle thought. Having a husband in prison has helped her develop something approaching a sense of humour. ‘Look, all I’m saying is-’

‘Don’t push me, John. Let me read the report tonight, and we’ll discuss it tomorrow.’

‘Okay.’ He knew that was as much as he could hope to get right now. ‘Have a safe journey back to London.’

‘Thank you.’

Ending the call, he dropped the phone back in his pocket. ‘Score draw, mate,’ he said to himself. Maybe he had expected too much from the ‘new’, humbled Commander Simpson. At least, however, he could say that he had kept her in the loop. He could argue his case again tomorrow. And, in the meantime, he could continue with his enquiries.

He picked up a message from Green confirming that the girl had been taken to a small ‘interim holding facility’ i.e. hostel on Bolsover Street, just south of Regents Park. Carver House was a four-storey Georgian building containing six bedrooms and thirteen beds. It was used as emergency accommodation for children between eight and twelve while Social Services sorted something more permanent for them, whether a foster home, a ‘special school’ or maybe deportation.

Before heading up there, Carlyle made another trip home — Helen and Alice were still out — and ‘borrowed’ some colouring pens and a small cuddly rabbit that he was fairly sure his daughter hadn’t looked at for at least five years.

The walk up to Bolsover Street took him about twenty minutes, ideas bouncing around his head in a random, desperate fashion. He might not be able to solve this case but he was clear that he still had to help the girl. If he couldn’t do that, he was lost. He was a copper with the full weight of one of the world’s biggest and well-resourced police forces behind him. If, despite all that, he still couldn’t protect a little girl, what was the fucking point?

Standing on the doorstep of Carver House, he felt tired and anxious. He rang the buzzer and waited. No one came. He rang it a second time, and then a third. In the end, he just kept his thumb pressed down and let it ring incessantly.

‘Okay! Okay!’ Finally the door clicked open. A gaunt, middle-aged woman wearing a dark pink tracksuit and green trainers peered out at him. ‘Yes?’

Carlyle retreated down a step, flashing her his badge. ‘I’m Inspector Carlyle of the Metropolitan Police. I’m here to see Hilary Green from Social Services.’

‘It’s like Piccadilly Circus here today,’ the woman grumbled.

‘Hilary Green,’ repeated Carlyle impatiently.

‘She’s not here,’ the woman replied. ‘Her shift finished hours ago.’ She tut-tutted. ‘Poor woman, do you know how much overtime she has to do each and every week?’

Biting his tongue, Carlyle made a face that might have been a grimace, might have been a scowl. ‘Is the girl here?’