Buckingham Palace Blues by James Craig

Dolan was very protective of his mini-empire. He didn’t like anyone who didn’t share his view of SO14 as a nice little earner, wouldn’t put up with anyone who rocked the boat. And he was deeply suspicious of anyone who ever asked for a transfer.
    ‘Where’s your girlfriend?’ Dolan sneered.
    Matthews ignored this, replying instead, ‘What can I do for you, Tommy?’
    Without saying a word, Dolan moved to his right, allowing one of the men behind him to step forward and slam a fist into Matthews’s stomach. Sinking to her knees, gasping for air, she felt the pool of lager rebelling in her stomach. A second later, she was retching violently, sending a stream of vomit bouncing off the sticky tarmac.
    ‘Fuck!’ Dolan laughed, dancing away from the oncoming mess.
    Her attacker then dodged to the side and gave her a firm kick in the ribs.
    Happy to stay in the background, the third man laughed too.
    Leaning as far forward as he dared, Dolan hissed, ‘You always were a skanky bitch, but why did you go and talk to that fucking wanker John Carlyle? That was really stupid.’
    Matthews tasted the puke in her mouth and gagged again. Trying to push herself up, she vomited for a second time. One of her ribs felt like it might be broken. Through the haze of pain she cursed Carlyle. You’ve dropped me in it again, she thought, you stupid, fucking twat. Looking up at Dolan, she groaned, ‘I dunno what you’re talking about.’
    Dolan reached down and grabbed her by the hair. ‘You’re a lying fucking slag.’
    ‘Fuck! Tommy, for fuck’s sake!’
    Dragging her through the mess, he pushed her face down until she was prostrate on the stinking ground. ‘What did you tell him?’
    Feeling the world spinning around her, Matthews tried to close her eyes. If she could ignore her tormentors . . . if she could go to sleep, maybe all this would stop.
    Dolan gave her another hard kick. ‘What did you tell him?’
    ‘Nothing,’ she mumbled. ‘I told him nothing.’
    ‘Do you want us to go round your house and have a word with your missus?’
    ‘Leave Heather out of this . . .’
    A boot glanced off the side of her head and, finally, she felt the world slipping away. As they set about her in earnest, she began dreaming of the stars.

NINE
    Sitting on the kitchen floor, Carlyle dialled the number on Olga’s card and listened to the call girl’s mobile ring for what seemed like an eternity. It was 10 a.m. and he wondered if she might still be in bed. Waiting for the voicemail to kick in, he was surprised when someone finally picked up.
    ‘Da?’
    ‘Olga?’
    ‘Yes, darling,’ her voice purred down the line, ‘this is Olga. What can Olga do for you?’
    Carlyle could hear voices in the background; maybe she could talk freely, maybe she couldn’t. It dawned on him that he couldn’t even be sure that he was talking to the right woman. Still, he ploughed on: ‘You gave me your card the other day . . .’
    ‘I give my card to a lot of people,’ she laughed. ‘You want business?’
    Someone chortled in the background.
    Was this a game? ‘Er . . . yes.’
    ‘Good,’ she said seductively. ‘What would you like?’
    If his wife could hear him now . . . Carlyle felt himself blush ever so slightly. Thank God Helen was at work. ‘Er, what do you suggest?’
    ‘I don’t do anal,’ she said quickly.
    More laughter.
    Carlyle felt himself getting flustered. ‘But I didn’t—’
    ‘And, always, we use a condom.’
    ‘Okay.’
    ‘Don’t worry, darling, I will show you a good time. You must be horny, for wanting it at this time in the morning.’ The laughter grew louder. ‘Where are you?’
    ‘Covent Garden.’
    ‘Which hotel?’
    ‘Er . . .’
    ‘Ah. Good.’
    ‘Huh?’
    ‘I know it well,’ she told him. ‘I meet you in the lobby of the Garden Hotel in forty-five minutes. Is £175 for an hour, plus my taxis, plus my tip.’
    ‘Tip?’ Carlyle asked, belatedly getting into the spirit of the conversation.
    ‘