‘Batco?’ Grace queried.

  Westinghouse spelled it out. ‘B-A-T-C-O. It stands for Battle Code. That was what we used for encrypting any military messages on the Clansman net – the radio comms system up to the early 2000s before Bowman took over. What time period did Sir Peregrine serve in the Forces?’

  ‘He was there in the early 2000s.’

  ‘That fits. BATCO – if that’s what you have – is cumbersome and time consuming. If you can ping a page of it over, I’ll be able to tell you.’

  Grace sent it while they were still talking. Moments later, Westinghouse said, ‘Got it! Give me a moment.’

  Less than a minute later, Westinghouse said, ‘Yes, it is BATCO but a variation – and it’ll be a bugger to decipher.’

  ‘Could you do that for us?’ Grace asked.

  ‘How many pages of it do you have?’

  ‘Eight.’

  ‘I’m pretty confident I could crack it – I’m one of those sad people who’s a hobbyist cryptographer – but it would take me a good couple of days, if not longer.’

  ‘That’s quicker than any of our other options. I could live with that, Andy.’

  ‘The problem is, sir, I wouldn’t be able to start until at least Sunday – I’m Silver on Op Archer. We’re about to raid and probably seize a container ship in Newhaven Harbour with fifteen million pounds’ worth of cocaine on board – in two hours’ time.’

  ‘I’m sorry, yes, I’d forgotten, Andy. I’ve been somewhat absorbed in Op Asset. Can you think of someone who could start right away – tonight? A cryptologist? Anyone from your Army days, someone retired perhaps who’d be up for a challenge – and protecting the Royal Family?’

  ‘That would take time too, sir. I could put you in touch with the Army Intel Corps – they have people who could have a good run out at the code – but . . .’ He fell momentarily silent.

  ‘But?’ Grace prompted.

  ‘There would be issues. The Army will want to know the reasons you want the code deciphered – and then they might want to cover up or minimize a former member of the Armed Forces’ behaviour. There’s a bit of a fraternal loyalty in the Forces that’s similar to the posh British school system. You know what they say about public schools?’

  ‘No, tell me?’

  ‘They might throw you out, but they’ll never let you down. The Armed Forces are a bit like that too. If there’s an issue with a former officer, their regiment will be the first to close ranks. If there’s a whiff of the notion of corruption, the Army, Navy and Air Force will want to cover up, or at the least minimize their former member’s behaviour.’

  ‘I don’t think there’s any suggestion of Sir Peregrine being corrupt,’ Grace replied. ‘We think he may have stumbled across something – the thing that led to him being murdered.’

  ‘I completely understand, sir. But just knowing how the Army works – I’m worried that going down their Intel Corps route won’t give you the speed you need. But I have just had a thought. Remember DC Scroope?’

  ‘Denton Scroope?’

  ‘That’s him – a Surrey detective from Godalming, near Guildford, but I think he moved to Ringmer a couple of years ago when he retired. He was on the Major Crime Team before being transferred to Professional Standards.’

  ‘I remember him,’ Grace said. And he did remember the man, very clearly.

  Denton Scroope, a pedantic DC, who had been born – as Norman Potting had described it – with a brain the size of Google, and an equally massive sense-of-humour bypass. He would finish the Telegraph crossword in under ten minutes, daily without fail, during whatever tea or lunch break he had. Grace knew also that Scroope had at one time during his police career been seconded to GCHQ. In a rare unguarded moment, Scroope had let it slip that he had been on a team that intercepted and decoded terrorist communications.

  Scroope had been fond of telling everyone that it was one of his ancestors who had signed Charles I’s death warrant. Although he was always quick to say he was a very distant and remote relative – and in a rare display of something approaching humour would add that he was on more of a twig than a branch of that particular family tree.

  ‘I’m still in touch with him,’ Westinghouse said. ‘We exchange the occasional puzzle – I’ll give you his home and mobile numbers.’

  Thanking Westinghouse and ending the call, Grace immediately dialled Scroope’s mobile. As he did so, he had a mental image of an imperious aardvark with spectacles. Scroope’s pompous, precise voice as he answered matched the image perfectly.

  After Grace explained what he needed, Scroope responded, deadly serious and with no hint of irony. He spoke slowly, as he always had, in a dry, pedantic manner, leaving a gap between words that was a fraction longer than necessary, as if addressing a simpleton. ‘I think I could be your man for this. I think you’ve come to the right person, Roy. Very fortuitously, for you, less so for me, due to the vagaries of the mind of She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed, my weekend plans have been rescheduled, so I will be able to get straight on to it.’

  Grace put the phone down, silently detesting the demeaning way Scroope talked about his wife, something he still heard way too often these days. He emailed the diary pages to him straight away, asking him to call as soon as he’d had a look. Less than five minutes later, Scroope called him back.

  ‘Interesting, Roy. Challenging. This is definitely a bastardization of BATCO. I will do what I can. But I need you to know I will only be able to proceed at the speed of a tortoise.’

  ‘I’d prefer a cheetah or a gazelle, Denton.’

  ‘I don’t do either of those animals. Just tortoises,’ he retorted, somewhat cryptically.

  ‘The tortoise and the hare,’ Grace said. ‘Got it!’

  ‘No, Roy,’ Scroope’s humourless voice responded, the pedantic dial turned up to maximum. ‘Only tortoises.’

  51

  Saturday 25 November 2023

  A few years ago, after being shot by a criminal he was chasing through a network of underground tunnels, Roy Grace had been to see a psychotherapist. It was at Cleo’s insistence because she feared, after he had woken night after night from terrible nightmares, that he might be suffering post-traumatic stress. It was the second time in his career he had been shot. The first, in his very early days, chasing a bank robber. Fortunately, both times he had only received a leg wound but therapy had helped him on each occasion.

  The one thing he had taken away from the more recent course of sessions he had attended was something the therapist had said: Almost everything will work again if you unplug it – including you.

  Downtime. Everyone needed it. But in those first few crucial weeks of a murder enquiry, that was never an option – at least not for him as the Senior Investigating Officer, although he always tried to ensure that members of his team got enough rest and crucial days off.

  Glenn Branson had told him, after the briefing last night, that he looked shattered and he should try to get a good night’s sleep. Have a lie-in, he’d urged, and spend some time with his family in the morning – even if just a few hours – and he would cover for him. Grace had agreed, reluctantly, and on the condition that he reciprocated on Sunday, and Glenn took some time out to spend with his wife, Siobhan.

  But, attractive as the notion of a good night’s sleep had been to the exhausted Detective Superintendent, reality had other ideas. He’d fallen asleep within minutes of climbing into bed, before the opening credits of a new television series Cleo had heard was brilliant had finished rolling. But a few hours later, at 1.30 a.m., he was wide awake, his brain churning. So he reached for his phone to check his email, in case there was anything back from Denton Scroope. There wasn’t.

  The enormity of the responsibility on his shoulders was affecting him in a way that no previous case had. He’d always prided himself on being non-judgemental. Every victim he encountered had once been someone’s child, and perhaps someone’s lover. He treated every case equally.

  Or had done until now.

  It was impossible to pretend to himself this was just another job, that it was a case like any other. Quite apart from the media frenzy that was showing no signs of abating, with shouty headlines around the globe still proclaiming the assassination attempt on The Queen, he had twice-daily phone calls with Magellan-Lacey, enabling the Master to update both The King and The Queen, as well as a daily call with the Chief Constable to update her. The daily press briefings were held with the largest turnouts he had ever experienced. In addition he felt the hot breath of Nigel Downing on his neck, the ACC hovering like the proverbial cat on a hot tin roof, desperate for any development, any scrap of news, any bone he could throw to the Chief Constable.

  He’d lain awake during the small hours of every night this week, fretting over what he might be overlooking. And at the same time, feeling torn. Part of him still wondering if he would have been more sensible not to have fought for primacy on this enquiry, and let the Met get on with it. But deep down he knew he wanted the job.

  Passing the buck just wasn’t in his DNA. He was all too well aware that just like there were good and bad lawyers and doctors, there were good and bad detectives. And the Met Detective Superintendent Greg Mosse, who had argued that it was he who should be the SIO, was a classic example of a bad one. An arrogant one, with tunnel vision. And the condescending Met DI he’d had foisted on him, Brent Dean, further convinced him he’d made the right decision.

  But Grace knew he needed to be careful not to fall into that very same trap himself. It was vital to constantly re-examine his own hypothesis and ask himself that question: What if he was wrong, and The Queen really had been the intended target? With the consequence that her would-be assassin was still out there and preparing their next attempt?

  It was normal on all major investigations where a prime suspect was not identified quickly for the SIOs to have another detective review the case at regular intervals. Some SIOs resented the intrusion but Grace welcomed it – and more than ever on this case. He knew he wasn’t infallible and with so much at stake he dreaded the thought that he had missed something.

  The first review of Op Asset had been yesterday, and it had been carried out by Detective Superintendent John Smith. After a day of diligently reading Grace’s Policy Book, checking the lines of enquiry and looking at all the actions, he’d concluded that Grace was covering every possible angle.

  Lying awake now, his brain was churning again through what he and the team knew so far, trying to reassure himself that his assumptions were valid, repeatedly going back over everything he had to date.

  The assurance from the ballistics expert that there was no way the shooter could have missed The Queen – if she had been the target – by such a wide margin was extremely significant.

  The understanding of how the Royal Train came to be derailed – by a deliberate act, involving at least one accomplice, of pushing a length of rail across the tracks. That combined with the shooter bore all the hallmarks of a carefully planned conspiracy.

  The anti-monarchy protestors had been under the Met Police Counter Terrorism team microscope since the shooting, and the Met’s report delivered to him yesterday concluded it was highly unlikely they would have been involved in such a well-planned operation – but it was impossible to rule out that a splinter group or some extremist faction might have been involved.

  Separate intelligence from a specialist Surrey and Sussex Counter Terrorism branch had concluded there was nothing on this particular group of protestors to suggest that there was a faction among them violent enough to commit murder and they had found no connections with any of them who rode motorbikes and had a service background.

  But Grace knew that they weren’t the only people who could be a threat to either of Their Majesties. The footman, Geoffrey Bailey, whom Jack Alexander had raised a flag about, might be one potential lead. Someone with a grievance who felt he’d been passed over for a medal. Undervalued. It seemed unlikely, but he looked forward to hearing the result of Jack’s interview with him on Monday.

  One of his many actions had been to draft in extra resources across the Sussex Force. The Chief Constable of Surrey had done the same. Outside Enquiry Teams were deployed across both counties, interviewing everyone who had posted anything on social media that the Digital Support Unit thought might be of concern.

  Following Sarah Stratten’s sighting of the motocross bike and rider, footage from all speed cameras, ANPR and motorway cameras was being examined for any sightings of a motorcycle containing the two digits of the licence plate she had so far recalled. That information had been given out at the press conference yesterday.

  Grace hoped the woman might remember more, during her further interview, which had been arranged for Monday. He suspected the plates would be false, but if they could identify the make of motorcycle, that would narrow the field significantly. Many Roads Policing officers were petrol-heads, and often keen motorcyclists, and the description Sarah Stratten had given of the type of bike and the colour, black with a splash of red, had already resulted in some informed suggestions of the possible make coming from RPU officers. Yamaha and Honda were top of the list. That was too broad to be of immediate help, but it might be useful information later.

  He derived his strongest comfort from Polly Sweeney’s report from her meeting with Lady Greaves.

  ‘It was about two weeks ago, Peregrine came home in a very disturbed frame of mind. He told me that he’d heard something astonishing. Utterly astonishing. So incredible he just did not want to believe it – could not believe it. He said he was going to his study to write it up in his diary. In code, of course. I asked him to tell me what it was, but he said that if it was true, it would be utterly explosive. Then he said he could not believe it was true and he didn’t want to set off any kind of rumour mill.’

  Shortly after 3 a.m., while Cleo slept soundly beside him – something he really envied about her, she truly slept the sleep of the innocent – feeling totally wired, he slipped out of bed, as carefully as he could not to wake her, pulled on his dressing gown, and padded downstairs to the kitchen.

  Neither Humphrey nor Kyla – an adorable golden doodle, their recent acquisition from the Brighton RSPCA – in their respective baskets, batted an eyelid as he switched on the lights, turning the dimmer down as low as possible. He filled the kettle, hit the switch, and perched at the breakfast bar, alongside Molly’s high chair. Then he leaned forward with his head in his hands, toying with the thought that had woken him for the second time tonight.

  The very positive thought.

  The more he went over what Lady Greaves had said, the more certain he was that his hypothesis was correct.

  The Private Secretary, by all accounts, was an honourable man and a loyal servant to both his bosses. If Sir Peregrine had had even the slightest suspicion that there was something as massive as a plot to kill The Queen, surely he could not have contained himself? He would have had to tell people – and his wife, for sure. Grace knew that he would have told Cleo in the same circumstances. With something as big as that knowledge, he would have had to unburden himself – anyone would.

  He was desperate to know what Sir Peregrine had written in his diary, and wondered if he had made the right decision trusting the deciphering to the strange, quirky Scroope. But, he convinced himself, he trusted Andy Westinghouse’s judgement.

  The kettle flicked off. Grace brewed himself a mug of tea, then sat back down, staring for some moments at the blackness of the window in front of him. The blackness of the night beyond. But inside the blackness of his mind, it felt like the clarity of dawn was finally breaking. If Sir Peregrine had known there was going to be an attempt on The Queen’s life on that train journey to Brighton, he would have alerted everyone, immediately, and no way would he have allowed her to make that journey. Surely? None of this would have happened. No way. The whole trip would have been cancelled.

  So it had to be something else. But what?

  Had Sir Peregrine stumbled across something going on within the Palace that had made him a target? Something he was about to expose? Something that required him to be silenced – eliminated?

  Might he have been aware that what he had learned had put his life in grave danger? Was that why he had written it all down in code and not simply told someone about it?

  Or could it be that he had something to hide, himself? Was he compromised in some way? Could someone have been blackmailing him?

  Polly had reported that Lady Greaves said her husband did not seem scared, more outraged and concerned about the political ramifications within the Royal Household – which did not sound like the behaviour of a blackmail victim.

  If Sir Peregrine had discovered something, then whatever that was, the scale of it had to be massive – so big as to warrant his killers going to great lengths to cover up that he was the intended victim? An elaborate plan to derail the Royal Train and make it look like Queen Camilla was the target?

  The notion might seem absurd. And yet it was the only thing that actually made sense to Roy Grace about the events of Monday.

  He carried his mug upstairs to his den, opened his laptop and made a series of notes to enter into his Policy Book when he was back in the office later in the day.

  Elaborate plan to derail the train and shoot Sir Peregrine – suggesting something very big at stake. What? A scandal that could damage the Monarchy? Sexual or something financial? Involving who? Could it be as high as the Lord Chamberlain or the Keeper of the Privy Purse?

  He was so tired, he realized, he was going round in circles. Closing his laptop he walked along the landing and crawled, totally spent, back into bed. And fell asleep instantly again.

  It wasn’t the crowing of their rooster, Billy Big Balls, as Cleo had named the strutting grey and red arrogant little bastard, nor the noise of the dawn chorus outside their window, that woke him just a couple of hours later. It was the buzzing of the thoughts inside his head that sprang him wide awake with the absolute certainty that he was right about Sir Peregrine being the target, and had been from the start.