Buckingham Palace Blues by James Craig

himself was suspended.
    With half a dozen witnesses, and dozens if not hundreds of photographic images to support the snapper’s defence, the Crown Prosecution Service quickly realised that this was one case they did not want to bring to court. Knowing the score, the snapper’s lawyer politely but firmly refused to settle, and waited for the CPS to fold. In the end, it took more than three months for the charges against Hutton to be dropped. Shortly afterwards, Carlyle received a letter from the Police Federation saying that he would be returning to duty the following week. That was the good news. The even better news was that he would be going back to Charing Cross. His unhappy stint at Buckingham Palace was over.
    Unable to believe his luck, Carlyle had to restrain his glee when the union representative gave him a call to tell him that he had been very lucky: he had kept his job and his pension was secure – but he had used up all his last chances , whatever that meant. Being an inspector at Charing Cross would be the end of the line. That’s fine by me, Carlyle thought, just as long as I don’t have to deal with these idiots any more.
    At the top of the stairs, Carlyle turned right and headed for the door furthest along. Taking a deep breath, he knocked.
    ‘Come!’
    He stepped inside and smiled at the chief superintendent sitting primly behind the desk in his small, cluttered office which enjoyed a fine view over the carefully manicured lawns on the west side of the Palace. Normally used for landing the royal helicopter, the lawns also provided the setting for the Queen’s annual garden parties, and were large enough to take 8,000 people at a time for tea and cucumber sandwiches.
    ‘John Carlyle,’ he announced.
    ‘Charlie Adam.’ Standing up, the man leaned over the desk to offer his hand.
    The senior SO14 officer on site, Adam was not much more than five foot six, round and totally bald. The lack of hair made him hard to age, but Carlyle reckoned him to be in his late fifties. ‘Thank you for seeing me.’
    ‘My pleasure.’ Adam smiled. They shook hands. ‘Take a seat,’ he said, sitting down himself. ‘Cup of tea?’
    ‘No, thank you.’
    ‘Are you sure?’ Adam pulled a ‘Coat of Arms’ tea caddy from a drawer and waved it at Carlyle. ‘These are HRH Originals. Top-notch organic stuff.’ Opening the lid, he pulled out a bag and held it in front of his nose. ‘The leaves are rolled on the thighs of West Country virgins, or something.’
    ‘I didn’t know there were any virgins in the West Country,’ Carlyle leered.
    ‘Probably not,’ Adam grinned, ‘not after about the age of ten, anyway. Still, it’s good stuff. A tin like this sells for seven quid in the tourist shop.’
    Carlyle held up a hand. ‘I’m fine.’
    Adam placed the caddy on his desk, adjusted his tie and sat up straight. ‘So, you are the infamous John Carlyle.’
    Carlyle grimaced. ‘Hardly infamous.’
    ‘Don’t be so modest,’ the chief superintendent smiled slyly. ‘They still talk about you round here.’ He mentioned a few names from the past. ‘I’m guessing that you’re not looking at coming back.’
    Carlyle winced. ‘No.’
    ‘Just as well,’ Adam conceded. ‘So, what is it that I can do for you?’
    For what seemed like the hundredth time, Carlyle explained the story of the young foreign girl he had found just beyond the gardens outside.
    Adam listened intently, fingers pressed together as if in prayer. ‘That’s very interesting, Inspector,’ he said, once Carlyle had finished, ‘but what has it got to do with us?’
    Good bloody question, Carlyle thought. ‘There are two things . . .’
    ‘Yes, yes.’ Eyes shining, Adam sat up further in his chair.
    He should get a cushion to sit on, Carlyle thought.
    ‘First, the girl said she lived here.’
    ‘Hah!’
    ‘Yes.’ Carlyle gave a small nod. ‘Then there’s the guy who claimed he was her uncle.’
    Adam smiled benignly. ‘Did you