Buckingham Palace Blues by James Craig Page B

Protection. It wasn’t as much information as Charlie Adam could have provided, but it was a start.
    In all, SO14 had more than 400 officers, including 256 on active duty: of these, 152 currently worked primarily in London, 60 worked at Buckingham Palace itself and 14 had been on shift the previous Saturday evening. For each officer, he now had a name, rank, summary career details and a passport-style photo. He looked through the 14, then the 60, then the 152, but none of them was the posh man from the park. Relief mixed with frustration; the idea of a police colleague being involved in something like this would have been simply too dispiriting – even for a hardened cynic like Carlyle.
    After a couple of hours of careful sifting, he was left with three sorted piles. By his left hand was one for the 126 officers he didn’t know, plus another for the 25 he did. The former had no obvious reason to help him with his enquiries; the latter, he was fairly sure, wouldn’t even piss on him if he was on fire. The third selection to his right was very much smaller. It consisted of just one person; the only person he knew who might, perhaps, be willing to give him some help.
    The number rang for what seemed like an eternity before the voicemail kicked in: This is Alexa Matthews. Leave a message and I might get back to you in due course .
    Friendly as ever, he thought. ‘Alexa, this is John Carlyle. Long time no speak. Give me a call – I’m still at Charing Cross. I wondered if I could ask you about something. Thanks.’
    Two minutes later, his phone rang.
    ‘Hello?’
    ‘John,’ Carole Simpson said shrilly, ‘what the hell are you doing?’
    ‘Er . . .’ Carlyle shifted uneasily in his seat. ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘You know exactly what I bloody mean,’ she snapped. ‘I’ve just got off the phone to Charlie Adam.’
    ‘Did he try and sell you some organic tea?’
    ‘What?’
    ‘Nothing.’
    ‘I’ll tell you what he did do,’ Simpson said crossly. ‘He told me, very politely but very firmly, to keep you under control.’
    ‘I’m always under control,’ Carlyle joked.
    ‘John, please, try and listen for once. Adam asked me why you thought you could just bowl up to SO14 and basically look to put the whole bloody lot of them under investigation when you’ve got absolutely no reason to do so. When it’s not even your case.’
    ‘What did you say to him?’
    ‘What could I say?’
    There was a pause.
    ‘Have you read my report?’ he asked finally.
    ‘Adam made it very clear that you are not welcome over there. He doesn’t want you wasting any more of his time.’
    ‘Have – you – read – the report?’
    ‘Er . . .’
    At least she can’t bring herself to lie, Carlyle thought, which puts Simpson a cut above a lot of people I know. ‘A child has been physically and sexually assaulted,’ he said grimly. ‘And now she has been kidnapped. This is a very serious investigation. A young child suffering horrible and despicable abuse – and yet no one seems interested. No one seems to give a flying fuck.’
    There was another longer pause while Simpson thought of something to say. Finally she asked: ‘What about Social Services? What about the social worker?’
    ‘She knows nothing,’ Carlyle snorted. ‘She wasn’t there when the kid was snatched. Still, it hasn’t stopped her taking stress-related sick leave. She’ll probably be off for months.’
    ‘Have you heard anything from Vice?’
    ‘Not a dickie-bird.’
    ‘Okay.’ Simpson let out a deep sigh. ‘I’ll read the report right now. Come up to Paddington in an hour.’
    The two men stood in the doorway and looked at the sullen girl sitting on the bed in front of them. A single low-energy bulb hanging from the ceiling above her head bathed the room in a grubby light that hid the dirt and the flaking paint on the walls, but only added to the sense of gloom. Outside, from the suburban North London street, came the constant hum of traffic.