Buckingham Palace Blues (27 page)

At the same time, however, the Earl realised that things with Tommy Dolan were considerably more complicated than the traditional master–servant relationship. Taking a final couple of puffs, he ground out the remains of his cigarette beneath his Lobb shoes. ‘How’s it going?’

Dolan grunted noncommittally.

Falkirk watched a pretty girl walking down the other side of the road. ‘I hear you’ve lost another colleague.’

‘Messy,’ was Dolan’s only reply.

Falkirk half-turned to re-open the door to the gallery. ‘Tommy,’ he said almost casually, as if it was an afterthought, ‘if you had anything to do with that, anything at all, it will have a . . . significant impact on our working relationship.’ Without waiting for a reply, he stepped back inside. Maybe he should spring for one of the limited-edition prints. It might make a nice Christmas present for the Queen.

‘Plonker!’ Dolan hissed, before retreating to the shadows.

Sitting in his ramshackle office, in front of a poster proclaiming the 1997 NATO-Ukraine Commission, General Dmytro Gazizulin puffed on his Montecristo No 2. Through a cloud of cigar smoke, he gazed across the desk at Ihor, his expression an uncomfortable mix of displeasure and resignation. ‘Alexandra tells me that the situation in London is irredeemable.’

Ihor shrugged. He looked at the bottle of Nemiroff Black Label on the desk. Beside it lay a Makarov PM semi-automatic, with the safety-catch on. Behind that was a framed photo of the general in his younger, Red Army days, his head popping out from the top of a T55 tank. Back then, Gazizulin was heading off to Afghanistan, fighting for the Motherland. Now all he wanted was to suck up to NATO and squeeze out whatever was on offer from the European Union.

The general was the ultimate pragmatist. Ihor liked him like that, since it gave him hope for his own future – over the next few minutes and beyond.

Normally, the vodka would have been flowing by now. Not today, however. That was fair enough. Ihor knew that he was not going to be considered Employee of the Month this time around.

The question was: just exactly how deep in the shit was he?

The fact that he had been brought to the Kirichenko barracks, thirty kilometres outside Kiev, gave Ihor confidence. He had relaxed as soon as Alex’s black BMW X5, with the four of them inside, had turned on to the H-08, heading south towards Cherkasy. Driving down the familiar four-lane highway the general’s daughter had even slipped the latest Sade CD on to the stereo. To Ihor’s mind, it was not as good as the old stuff, but still not bad. Soon Alex was singing along quietly, apparently oblivious to her travelling companions. Leaning back, closing his eyes, Ihor was able to ignore the goons in the back and enjoy the smooth tunes of
Lovers Rock
for the rest of their short journey.

Those same goons were now standing outside the general’s office, awaiting further instructions. If they were going to kill him, they would not kill him here. That at least gave him a chance of escape. And, anyway, maybe things hadn’t come to that, not yet at least. He knew better than to give the impression of being a condemned man. The Ukraine was not like London; people here could smell the fear. And they would act on it in an instant. He flicked a glance at Alex standing to his right, just at the edge of his vision, with a blank expression on her face. She had not said a single word since they had arrived at the Kirichenko.

The comforting sound of boots on the parade ground reminded Ihor that here he was on home territory. He felt a pang of nostalgia for the simplicity of the old days. He remembered hours spent on the square outside; in the snow in only a vest, his skin turning blue; the crunch of gravel underfoot; the cold air in his lungs.

That had been before things had gone out of control: before his discharge, before his move into the private sector, working abroad to avoid jail, and making money. Good money. The money had always been good. Ihor was not greedy; he had made money for the general and had never taken more than his own due. There was surely no reason why it should end now.

Inside the office the general had the heating turned up high, till Ihor felt the sweat beading on his brow. He felt drowsy. Maybe it would be better to be outside. He stifled a yawn. The general pulled a pile of papers out of a drawer and dropped them on his desk. ‘My final report.’

‘What does it say?’ Alex asked.

The general shrugged. ‘What do you expect? It concludes that the rumours about children being sold to Western countries have been grossly exaggerated. However, some people have a case to answer. By the time it goes to Parliament next week, the Director of the Sandokan International Children’s Camp will be in jail.’

‘But,’ Ihor frowned, ‘if he talks . . .’

‘He will not talk,’ the general said, with quiet finality. ‘Parliament will accept the report, return to hurling insults at each other, and we will get back to business as usual.’

‘Assuming that we can still operate in London,’ Alex chipped in, giving Ihor a sour glance.

‘Quite.’ The general poked his half-finished cigar towards Ihor. ‘So?’

‘So?’ Ihor repeated vaguely.

‘Is it irretrievable or not?’ the general asked, clearly irritated, before clamping the cigar back between his teeth.

‘I can’t go back,’ Ihor said evenly.

The general picked up the gun. ‘Shooting two policemen,’ he said slowly, ‘that was a fairly stupid thing to do.’

Alex grunted her assent.

‘Only one of them was a policeman,’ Ihor protested, careful to keep a straight face, ‘and he’s not dead.’

The general looked over at his daughter for confirmation.

‘He was discharged from hospital in London yesterday,’ Alex confirmed. ‘He should be able to go back to work.’

‘Not that it makes any difference to our situation,’ the general complained. ‘We have invested a lot of time and effort in England.’

‘And made a lot of money,’ Ihor chipped in.

‘Which is just as well for you, or you’d already be pig food.’

Ihor bowed his head in penitent understanding.

‘There is also the question of the girls,’ Alex said quietly.

The general gave her a quizzical look.

‘The children,’ she added.

‘Ach!’ The general waved away the smoke around his head. ‘You are too soft. I have said so many times.’

‘There are some that are just too young to be sent over there,’ Alex persisted.

‘That is not our decision,’ the general snapped. ‘I have already told you – that is a matter for our English friends.’ He looked at Ihor. ‘That is how the free market works, is it not? The buyer is always right!’

‘Always!’ Seizing the chance for some male bonding in the face of the woman’s weakness, Ihor risked a grin. ‘It has always been the Englishman’s decision. He said that the young ones were his USP.’

‘His what?’

‘Unique Selling Point,’ Alex translated, with a sigh. ‘He is a sick bastard, that one. He wanted to fuck me as well.’

‘I would have thought you were too old for him,’ the general sneered, ‘by quite some margin.’ Reaching behind his chair, he opened the bottom drawer of a filing cabinet and pulled out three glasses, before finally uncorking the bottle of vodka.

Ihor laughed, ignoring her dirty look.

‘The man is a degenerate pervert,’ Alex complained.

‘Which is why we are doing business with him.’ The general smiled mirthlessly, pouring half an inch of vodka into each glass.

‘He was planning to go elsewhere already,’ Ihor declared. ‘He was finished with the Ukraine. Said he was worried that things were getting too difficult.’

‘Is that so,’ said the general, handing out the glasses. ‘Maybe if you explained to our royal friend about
my
role in all of this,’ he continued, ‘his concerns would be alleviated.’ He raised his glass. ‘Drink!’ The general downed his vodka in one, and signalled for the others to do the same.

Ihor enjoyed the warm feeling on the back of his throat, then spreading through his body.

Alex emptied her glass and placed it back on the table. Leaning over the desk, she kissed her father on the forehead. ‘Falkirk doesn’t know the truth about me,’ she said, ‘never mind about you. That is as it should be. He is capricious and weak. One day he will give up his associates to the police – for all we know, he may have done so already.’ She nodded at Ihor. ‘They won’t find him. But they
would
find us.’

The general nodded as she stepped away from the table. ‘Ihor?’

‘Yes?’

‘We are in business, are we not?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘Good.’ The general slowly, carefully, refilled the three glasses. ‘In business,’ he said softly, ‘you have to plan for different scenarios.’ He handed over two of the glasses, before sipping with evident pleasure from his own. ‘So, let us assume that we have two basic scenarios here. One – we stay in London. Two – we leave. Alex will go back there to work out which strategy is the most practical.’

‘But . . .’ Ihor glanced at the devilishly handsome woman beside him who said nothing, gave nothing away.

‘Either way,’ the general continued, ‘there will have to be changes. There is more than enough scrutiny of our affairs as it is. We have to make sure that nothing comes back to our door.’

‘How do we do that?’ Ihor nervously chucked the vodka down his throat.

‘We do that,’ the general said gently, ‘by you taking care of the royal pervert.’

TWENTY-SIX

It was a heartbreakingly beautiful North London day, the sense of wonder and anticipation enhanced by the presence of early death. Carlyle stood under an oak tree in Stoke Newington’s Abney Park Cemetery, drinking a bitter flat white from a paper cup and imagining his own funeral.

When his time came, he wanted to take his leave on a dark, gloomy day, just to help get everyone into the right mood. Blue skies, sunshine and a friendly nip in the air made you celebrate life, rather than embrace death.

Celebrating life: that was probably what the priest was now telling the mourners this was all about. But that was what priests were for, talking crap at every opportunity.

As he watched Simon Merrett’s coffin being lowered into the ground, he thought back on Alzbetha. He still hadn’t worked out what to do with her ashes, which were sitting in the Covent Garden flat, on top of the microwave in the kitchen. Alice thought it was ‘sick’ to hold on to them, but Helen was sanguine. ‘No one’s in any rush,’ she told him, when he had fretted about his daughter’s reaction, ‘certainly not Alzbetha. Anyway, before we do anything, we need to be sure that the girl’s parents are not going to suddenly turn up.’

‘Not much chance of that,’ Carlyle observed.

‘Anyway.’ She kissed him gently on the lips. ‘We’ll think of something.’

Not for the first time he was grateful for his wife’s level-headedness. She knew how much this case had troubled him, and he was deeply grateful for her calm support.

The only funeral that really troubled Carlyle was his own. As a child, he had dreamed of travelling through space in a coffin, on a serene journey that would go on for ever. How he got into space in the first place was never made clear, but the idea appealed. Even now it seemed far preferable to any of the earthbound options. Carlyle felt a fear of being buried; nor did he much fancy being incinerated. Assuming he couldn’t eventually make it into orbit, he had decided that he would prefer being interred in his own crypt – situated somewhere windswept, but with a nice view.

Over the years, he had given this considerable thought. When he tried to discuss it with them, however, Helen and Alice just laughed. He knew that, when the time came, he would be dead and therefore past caring, but still . . . The idea that he should get it properly written into a will gnawed away at the back of his mind.

After experiencing two in quick succession, he wondered how many funerals he would attend before his own. Not all of them would be work-related, of course. His grandmother, well into her nineties now and living in a care home in Glasgow, would go in due course. His parents, Helen’s mother, a couple of aunts . . . they all added up.

At least Simon Merrett had commanded a decent turnout. Carlyle counted thirty-seven people graveside, excluding the priest, the staff from the funeral parlour, and the two gravediggers sitting in their van a discreet distance down the road. He hoped that this would be some kind of comfort to Merrett’s wife, but suspected it would not.

The inspector glanced at his watch – 11.18 a.m. – and had a sudden hankering for a glass of Jameson. But that was never a good sign at this time of day, and he pushed the thought away. Feeling self-conscious, he did a small jig under the tree, shifting from foot to foot, impatient to be on his way.

Finally, the service was over. Slowly, the group began to disperse, breaking up into twos and threes as they made their way back to the car park. Carlyle watched Rose Scripps briefly hug the wife and step away, dabbing at her eyes. As Rose headed towards him, he took in the bleak expression on her face. In black trousers and a black overcoat, her hair cut shorter than previously and wearing minimal make-up, she looked older than before.

Carlyle smiled weakly, by way of greeting.

Rose nodded.

‘I didn’t know Merrett was a Catholic,’ Carlyle remarked, watching the priest in deep conversation with one of the mourners.

‘Neither did I,’ Rose replied, her voice sounding a little shaky. ‘It’s amazing how little you know about the people you work with.’

Not really, Carlyle thought.

‘I’ve probably spent more time with Simon over the last year than his wife did,’ she continued. ‘In fact, I know I have. But I still know very little about him.’ She let out a brittle laugh. ‘In fact, I didn’t even know which football team he supported.’

‘Oh? Which one was that?’

‘Chelsea. He even had a season ticket there, apparently.’

‘Mm.’ A grossly crass and uncharitable thought popped into Carlyle’s head. He slapped it away. ‘Shall we get going?’

‘Yes.’ Rose fell into step beside him, slipping her arm through his as they headed for the gate. Taken by surprise, Carlyle felt himself go tense. Unsure how to react, he kept walking and said nothing.