With his finger hovering over the send button, Carlyle scanned his report one last time. In conclusion, it read, it appears that the victim died as a result of asphyxiation while indulging in a sex act on his own. Nice word ‘indulging’, Carlyle thought. The silly little sod had accidentally hanged himself with a pair of women’s knickers. According to the pathologist’s report, he hadn’t even climaxed. He shook his head. ‘What a way to go!’
The fact that the victim had been some mini-television celebrity had got the papers interested, and the story had lasted for a couple of days. If nothing else, it had provided the inspector with an amusing interlude in the slow, boring weeks since Falkirk had escaped his grasp.
As expected, the Earl had disappeared. Having been due in court two days ago, Carlyle was not in the least surprised when the man failed to turn up. His lawyer — the statuesque Ms Stuart — had explained to the judge that her client was being treated for depression ‘at an unknown location’. Happily, the judge was not Harold Stephenson this time round, but a low-key and sensible magistrate called Joe Davies. Having examined the paperwork, Davies issued a warrant for Falkirk’s immediate arrest, with a minimum of fuss.
However, that was a warrant that no one expected would be served any time soon.
As he pushed his latest report into police cyberspace, the inspector’s mobile started vibrating on his desk. He picked it up: no number identified. Did he want to answer it? Probably not. He hit the receive button. ‘John Carlyle. .’
‘John?’
Didn’t I just say that? he thought crossly. ‘Yes.’
‘It’s Rose — Rose Scripps from CEOP.’
‘Of course,’ he said, his mood instantly softening. ‘How are you?’
‘I’ve found Falkirk!’
Carlyle took the phone from his ear and held it in front of his face, looking at it in quiet bemusement.
‘John?’
He returned it to his ear. ‘Yes?’
‘I said, I’ve-’
‘How?’
‘He’s in Paris Match.’
‘What?’
‘Last week’s Paris Match — it’s like a French version of Hello.’
‘Yes, yes.’ He knew what the damn magazine was. Helen would bring home an occasional copy, and Carlyle wasn’t averse to taking a sneaky peek at the photos of the topless actresses.
‘Someone left a copy on the tube, and I picked it up and started leafing though it. There’s a small picture and story on page seven — Royal bad boy drying out at Swiss clinic. . yada, yada. . then a quote from a ‘‘friend’’ saying that he’s trying to turn over a new leaf.’
‘So he’s in Switzerland?’ Carlyle asked, more than interested now.
‘Yes. Or at least he was recently. Some place called the Kippe Clinic.’ She spelt out the name. ‘Does this mean we can get him now?’
‘It means that we can bloody well try!’