No question, if you had to go to jail, Switzerland was a good place to do so. The Service de Police holding cell on Rue du Lac 118 was cool, quiet and spotlessly clean. Sitting on a tiled bench, his back resting against the wall, Carlyle rather liked it. His wounds were far less serious than Carlyle had originally feared and a generous supply of painkillers left him feeling quite mellow as he dined on takeaway pizza. The coffee left a little to be desired but, happy to be alive, he didn’t feel the need to be too picky.
After a couple of hours, he was brought to an interview room and ushered inside. Cleaner and airier than the interview rooms at Charing Cross, it still retained the air of disappointment and despair that infused police stations the world over.
‘Any chance of another cup of coffee?’ Carlyle asked, as he sat down at the empty desk.
‘Someone will be here to interview you soon, Mr Carlyle,’ said the young officer who had delivered him here, his English angular and precise.
‘It’s Inspector Carlyle,’ Carlyle mumbled. He forced a smile on to his weary face. ‘Look, son,’ he said, trying to keep the exasperation from his voice, ‘I’m a police officer, too.’
The policeman looked at him blankly. ‘You are here,’ he said stiffly, ‘under suspicion of committing a crime.’
‘I know, but-’
‘In Switzerland, no one is above the law, Mr Carlyle,’ he said earnestly, ‘not even police officers.’ Turning, he left the room without another word.
‘Inspector Carlyle?’
He must have dozed off. Slowly coming to, he focused on the small paper cup that had been placed on the table in front of him. Grabbing it, he downed the espresso in two gulps and sat back, waiting for the caffeine to do its job. ‘Thank you.’
The man in front of him nodded. Not in uniform, Carlyle guessed he must be in his late thirties. He had short, salt-andpepper hair and a day’s stubble, which suggested to Carlyle that this little incident had interrupted the man’s day off. That would help explain his pissed-off expression.
Dropping a thin folder on the desk, the new arrival sat down on the opposite side of the table. ‘I am Jonas Chauzy,’ he said quietly, in accentless English, ‘First Deputy Chief at Fedpol.’
Carlyle looked at him blankly.
‘Office federal de la police,’ Chauzy explained. ‘We are part of the Federal Department of Justice and Police. I deal with socio-political issues such as the co-existence of Swiss and foreign nationals and the fight against crime.’ He gave Carlyle a hard look. ‘Normally it is a fairly straightforward job, but today. .’
Carlyle shrugged. ‘Sorry about any inconvenience.’
‘Inconvenience?’ Leaning back in his chair, the look on Chauzy’s face was part-smile, part-grimace. ‘Inspector, I have one man dead and two more in hospital.’
‘The dead man was nothing to do with me,’ Carlyle said evenly.
Chauzy opened the file to look at his notes. ‘Just before he died, you were pursuing him. .’
Carlyle had already given an initial statement and he knew his lines well. The key to getting out of here quickly was to keep it simple and not worry about any repetition. ‘Someone hit me from behind. When I woke up again, Falkirk was lying dead on the ground and your guys were just arriving.’
Chauzy studied him doubtfully.
‘The forensics will back that up,’ Carlyle continued evenly.
Chauzy glanced at his folder, but still said nothing.
After a few moments, Carlyle decided to cut to the chase. ‘Am I going to be charged with anything?’
Chauzy closed the folder and rubbed his temples. ‘There is also the question of the assault on Frank Furrer and Marcus Voney at the Kippe Clinic.’
‘That was a simple matter of self-defence,’ Carlyle said quickly. ‘They were threatening to shoot me.’
The First Deputy Chief stood up and leaned across the table, his jaw clenched. A black look passed across his face and, for a moment, Carlyle wondered if he was about to become a victim of police brutality. However, whatever violence may have been in his heart, Chauzy quickly thought better of it. Taking a step backwards, he stuck the file back under his arm and placed a hand against the door. ‘You are free to go, Inspector. Your colleague is waiting for you at the airport.’ He looked at his watch. ‘There is still a flight that you can catch this evening.’
Carlyle bowed his head slightly. ‘Thank you.’
‘Do not thank me,’ Chauzy said sharply. ‘If it was my decision, you would not be walking away from these criminal acts so easily. But unfortunately, it is out of my hands. It would seem that your powerful friends in London have pulled some strings.’
Powerful friends? Carlyle wondered. What powerful friends?
‘This has become a political issue,’ Chauzy sighed. ‘The Metropolitan Police made representations to the Department of Justice, and the British Consulate in Geneva also intervened.’
‘You have to remember that I came here with a legitimate warrant,’ Carlyle interjected.
Somehow, Chauzy managed to look even more unimpressed. ‘That is a matter for some debate. However, we are prepared to accept that you personally did not shoot the Earl of Falkirk, and as you clearly know nothing about the person or persons who did. .’
Sarcasm in Switzerland — who would have thought it?
‘. . we will not detain you any longer. There is a driver waiting for you outside. Just, please, do not return here. You will not be welcome in Switzerland again.’ Pushing open the door, Chauzy stepped out into the corridor and was gone.
That sounds like a fair deal to me, thought Carlyle, as he savoured his rediscovered freedom. Very fair indeed.