‘Yes!’ Scroope said, suddenly becoming very animated. ‘She saw it on the Testudines chat group on WhatsApp, and felt she had to go for them immediately – so she literally jumped in a taxi to Lewes Station to catch a train to Newcastle.’

  Looking again at the sinister glare from the bust, Grace responded distractedly, ‘I’m sorry – Testudines?’

  ‘Ah yes, Roy. Astrochelys – they’re a critically endangered genus of the tortoise family Testudinidae. Kelly was so very excited to discover that a pair in England had successfully mated and produced offspring.’

  ‘Your wife has gone to Newcastle to buy tortoises?’

  Scroope nodded animatedly.

  And now Grace understood the smell. And to his chagrin understood it even more when Scroope ushered him into the stiflingly warm sitting room, one wall of which was entirely taken up with tiers of glass-fronted cages, each containing tortoises of varying sizes and patterned shells. There was a three-piece suite filling most of the room, a large television and a glass-topped coffee table, with a number of – he hoped just stuffed – tortoises displayed beneath.

  The smell was even more unbearable.

  ‘In the absence of Her Ladyship it falls to me to offer my former boss light refreshments. Tea or coffee?’

  Grace cringed inwardly at this crass remark. He could have murdered a coffee but he didn’t want to do anything that would prolong his stay in this stinking steam-bath of a room one second longer than necessary. ‘I’m fine, Denton, but thank you for offering.’ He smiled. ‘Tortoises?’

  ‘Kelly breeds them.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘We actually met on a Testudinophiles dating website.’

  In response to his frown, Scroope said, ‘Tortoise lovers.’

  And suddenly Grace realized what it was about Scroope’s face. It actually wasn’t so much an aardvark he reminded him of, it was a tortoise. The long nose, sagacious eyes, slow and measured movements.

  Grace momentarily lost focus on the reason he was here, as he tried to conjure up the image of a woman who might search out a life partner on a tortoise lovers’ website. Then he saw the answer on a shelf above the fake coal fireplace on the wall opposite him.

  It was a framed wedding photograph of Scroope and a woman who was far more attractive than he had imagined, striking eyes and long fair hair. The photo reminded him of something Cleo was fond of saying, when she’d returned home after a particularly mismatched couple had come for the viewing of a deceased loved one at the mortuary. There’s someone out there for everyone.

  But how in God’s name, Grace wondered, had this guy Scroope netted such a nice-looking wife? And, equally mystifying at this moment, why tortoises?

  He asked the question. And Scroope raised a finger in the air, looking very animated, as if someone had just plugged him in and switched him on. ‘Well, I can tell you that, Roy. Most people go for dogs – or cats. But dogs have a lifespan of what – nine years for a Great Dane, twelve for a mid-size dog like a Labrador and fifteen, seventeen at the outside, for most smaller dogs – with the vet bills to accompany that great age. What this means is the heartbreak you are going to experience. Tortoises, by contrast, live to between one hundred and one hundred and fifty years.’

  Grace nodded, unsure whether he was starting to get acclimatized to the smell or was about to throw up. ‘And do tortoises give you the same kind of unconditional love that dogs do? Or the affection of cats?’

  ‘Well, sir, that would depend on which side of the despatch box you rest your feet. Tortoises are engaging creatures – if you allow yourself to become immersed in their world. And of course they don’t moult and give you hay fever.’ He raised a finger in the air, with a look of triumph.

  Grace nodded.

  Scroope continued, almost evangelically. ‘Tortoises won’t of course give you the affection that dogs will. But they are low-maintenance – they don’t need walking, they won’t break your heart by dying after too short a life. Their long lifespan gives you both a sense of continuity and a connection to the past. And they have a wonderfully calming demeanour. Personally, I like to think that long after I’m gone, these creatures will still be here.’ He shrugged. ‘But you haven’t come here to talk about tortoises, Roy. You want to know what I’ve managed to decipher so far.’

  Grace nodded again. ‘Yes. Maybe we can talk more about tortoises some other time.’

  55

  Saturday 25 November 2023

  Geoffrey Bailey, small, reedy, immaculately dressed, stood in freezing cold wind, in the darkness outside the Garden Entrance to the West Wing of Buckingham Palace. There was just the faintest glow of light from a handful of windows – The King’s energy-saving policies were being scrupulously implemented.

  As forecast, the sunny weather had ended abruptly this afternoon. The temperature had plunged further, and the rain was chucking it down as if it had been saving up to do this for days. It felt and sounded like the blasts of shotgun pellets on his umbrella, which he was struggling with in the fierce, gusting wind – and the rain also came sideways at him beneath it, drenching his trousers.

  He looked at his watch, the very showy Bulgari that one of his lovers had bought him recently, and cursed, because fancy though it was, he couldn’t see the dial to tell the time in the dark. Instead, he checked his phone. Ten minutes late. His Gucci loafers were sodden.

  Was this going to be a no-show?

  A sudden gust, stronger than all the others, turned his umbrella inside out.

  ‘Shit!’ he yelled, as the rain pelted his head and he struggled to get the damned thing working again.

  ‘Y’all right?’ A Geordie voice spoke out of the darkness.

  ‘Where have you been? You said 7 p.m. sharp.’ Bailey’s voice was petulant, but he knew he held all four aces in his hand. ‘I’m bloody freezing.’

  ‘Yeah, well at least you got a brolly. I’m on lates tonight – I’ve got to patrol the grounds without one and I’ll be freezing and sodden all evening. I’ll get you out of the cold in a few minutes. So just keep your hair on, sweet cheeks, don’t want your wig flying off in this hooley, do we?’

  ‘I do NOT wear a wig.’

  ‘Oh right, it just looks like one, does it?’

  Ignoring the comment, too cold and wet to banter, Geoffrey Bailey said, ‘You’ve got my medal?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Smoke said. ‘I’ve got your medal. Sir Tommy felt bad you’d been overlooked and got it sanctioned. Because he respects you, like all the Royal Household does.’

  ‘I’ve done over fifteen years of loyal and faithful service. It’s no more than I deserve,’ Geoffrey Bailey opined.

  ‘Oh no, you deserve much more. So much more! Everyone knows that.’

  ‘Really?’ He preened at the unexpected compliment.

  ‘Oh yes,’ Jon Smoke replied. The rain was drenching him, plastering his close-cropped hair to his head. But his police uniform with its heavy attachments of torch, taser, baton and phone, in addition to the weight of his stab vest, kept some of it at bay. However, the rain wasn’t his problem. This little shit of a footman, Geoffrey Bailey, was.

  He wouldn’t be for much longer.

  ‘Let’s see it then!’

  Smoke pulled it out of one of the pouches in his uniform, and held the round silver medal up in the darkness, dangling it from the ribbon.

  Geoffrey Bailey hit the torch button on his phone and stepped forward. Attached to the blue and red striped ribbon was a round silver medal bearing the legend EIIR and the late Queen Elizabeth’s face.

  Disappointed, Bailey said, ‘But this is an old one. The King has a new one out, I’ve seen it.’

  ‘They’re using up the old ones on useless twats like you,’ Smoke said.

  Then, before Bailey could respond, Smoke shot a karate ridge hand strike into Bailey’s throat with such force it shattered his larynx. The footman reeled, dropping his phone and letting go of his umbrella as he fell backwards. Smoke was kneeling over him an instant later, and still dangling the medal.

  Bailey tried to speak, but all that came out was a gasping crackle and a few partially formed words that sounded like an alien language.

  ‘It may be old but it’s still a nice medal, you should learn to be grateful. You should be choked to receive it, and you will be,’ Smoke said, briefly illuminating it with the beam of Bailey’s phone torch. Then with his gloved right hand, he shoved his fingers into Bailey’s mouth and prised it open, at the same time, with his left hand, ramming the medal and ribbon as far down the footman’s gullet as he could. And then held it there.

  And continued holding it as Bailey struggled for breath. Fighting desperately, flailing his arms at him. Growing weaker by the second.

  And weaker.

  ‘I’m sorry you don’t like your medal, Geoffrey,’ Smoke said. ‘It’s a nice one. A lot of people would give their life for a medal like that.’

  He kept the pressure on, holding that medal deep. And kept holding until the footman was totally limp.

  Then he slipped his arms around his waist and lifted him up. ‘You said you were cold. Let’s get you out of this nasty weather.’

  56

  Sunday 26 November 2023

  To accommodate Roy Grace’s expanded team, the briefings on Operation Asset were now being held in a screened-off section of the canteen at Sussex Police HQ that also doubled as the press conference room.

  Although he had originally wanted Glenn Branson to take at least part of today off, what he had learned from Denton Scroope was of such significance he needed his Deputy SIO to be present to hear it.

  Grace, addressing the fifty-one team members seated on the rows of chairs in front of him, opened the meeting by referring to the chart on one of the screens behind him. ‘OK, there’s an important reason I’m telling you this, so please bear with me and take careful note.’ He paused as everyone looked at him, and some nodded.

  ‘As you’ll see if you take a close look at the chart, the Royal Household comprises five departments. At the top is the Lord Chamberlain, who’s the head of the Royal Household. You could think of the Lord Chamberlain as a part-time non-executive chairman. The five departments comprise the Lord Chamberlain’s Office, which has overall responsibility for the Ceremonial, Military, the Royal Mews, Horses and Royal Carriages, Medical and Ecclesiastical.’ He paused again, as several of the team made notes.

  ‘Next is the Privy Purse and Treasurer’s Office, headed by the Keeper of the Privy Purse, Sir Jason Finch – he is effectively the Chief Financial Officer, responsible for all financial matters relating to The King and Queen and for the entire Royal Household. Then we have the Private Secretary’s Office, which is the conduit between Their Majesties and the outside world. This was the role carried out by the deceased, Sir Peregrine Greaves. He acted as an adviser on constitutional duties, briefing Their Majesties on any issue they needed to be aware of, managing their correspondence, their diaries, media, travel and of course crisis management whenever an issue has arisen. You may have noticed there have been a few in recent times . . .’ He paused for a ripple of laughter that was more enthusiastic than he had anticipated.

  ‘Then we have Master of the Royal Household’s Office, headed by Sir Tommy Magellan-Lacey, who is currently our principal contact within the Royal Household and is assisting us. His department’s role is the management of all staff as well as the many contractors working on the Buckingham Palace renovation.’ He paused to sip some bitter machine coffee from a paper cup.

  ‘And, lastly, the final department is the Royal Collection Trust. This is headed by a lady called Lorraine McKnight. The Trust, which employs seven hundred people, is different to the other Royal divisions in that it is a charity, responsible for looking after the Royal Collection – which I understand from Sir Tommy is one of the most important art collections in the world. It comprises paintings, sculptures, furniture and other decorative items that are housed in the royal residences across the UK.’

  Grace then ran through the list of the current lines of enquiry. First was a report from the Digital Investigations Support Unit. The team of computer, phone and IT experts had carried out an exhaustive search of social media and online search engines, including the dark web, and using AI, to see if any connection could be made between the derailment of the train, the subsequent shooting and the Not-My-King protest movement. But all their findings to date indicated that beyond aggression during some protests the protestors were not fanatics, and so far no group or individual among them had been flagged up. In fact it was almost the reverse, with many social media posts from members of the movement condemning what had happened.

  He had reports back from team members on the number of Royal Protection Officers who had motorbike licences – it was seventy-two and the names and whereabouts of each officer on last Monday was being checked.

  The index of the motorbike, of which Sarah Stratten had remembered the first two digits, had thrown up a number of ANPR hits around the country, but so far none of the motorbikes matched her description of a motocross bike.

  Another line of enquiry, a list of all members of the Royal Household staff who had not been at work last Monday – and their alibis – was still being worked through. Reports from the house-to-house enquiry team on all properties they had visited within a quarter of a mile of the crime scene had so far yielded nothing.

  One development of potential significance was a report from the ballistics scientist that gunshot residue had been identified from scrapings taken from the grasses in front of the suspected shooter’s location. This was now being analysed to see if the type of bullet fired could be identified.

  British Transport Police had so far not come up with anything beyond the discovery of the rope ladder down the air vent. Calls were being made to shops and garden centres that supplied this brand in the area, as well as to Amazon, but while a couple of leads had been followed up, there were currently no live ones. And there was no CCTV of anyone entering or leaving Clayton railway tunnel.

  It seemed to Grace, at this moment, that the aggrieved footman, Geoffrey Bailey, was potentially their best lead, as well as working on the entries in the encrypted diary.

  ‘Some of you will remember retired DC Denton Scroope.’

  ‘Mr Pedantic himself,’ Norman Potting said.

  ‘Indeed, but Mr Pedantic has a particular skill – an ability to break codes. He worked until late last night and has made some progress but there is still a way to go on the encrypted pages of Greaves’ diary.’ He held up a sheaf of notes, all clipped together, then looked slowly around the room. Like a fine actor on a stage, he had them all gripped. A sea of attentive faces stared back.

  ‘What I have here,’ he said, ‘is potential dynamite for our investigation. I hope very soon we will have the complete picture of the diary, which I will then share. I don’t need to say this, but this information is politically sensitive. Everything you hear stays in this room and you will be asked to sign non-disclosure orders. Is that clearly understood?’

  He scanned the faces in the room, letting them all know just how serious he was. And saw the acknowledgement on each of them.

  ‘Our next briefing will be here at 8.30 a.m. tomorrow morning. In the meantime, I want all those of you who don’t have specific actions to take a little downtime. Come back tomorrow morning ready to brainstorm ideas. OK?’

  Taking on an even more serious demeanour, he then signalled to Glenn Branson and some of the team that he wanted to see them in his office.

  57

  Sunday 26 November 2023

  Crammed around Grace’s small office table were Glenn Branson, Polly Sweeney, Jack Alexander, Nick Nicholl, Norman Potting and the Intelligence Manager, Reena Chacko.

  ‘From what we’ve just heard in the briefing, this Sir Tommy – he’s quite a busy fellow, boss!’ Nick Nicholl quipped. ‘Does he have to run around the shops, too?’ Mimicking King Charles’s voice he said, ‘Eww, Tommy, one has run out of mustard, be a good chap and nip along to Tesco for a jar of jolly old Colman’s English.’

  There was a roar of laughter and Grace himself smiled, before quickly raising a silencing hand.

  Then Branson cut in. ‘I can tell you one thing about Sir Tommy, he’s not a fan of biscuit dunking.’

  ‘Neither of them allowed by protocol or etiquette perhaps, Glenn?’ Norman Potting queried, supplying his two-penn’orth to the discussion.

  ‘Right,’ Grace said. ‘I was absent yesterday, not having a nice lie-in, as a few of you wags have suggested, but gagging for fresh air in a house full of tortoises.’

  ‘Nick any for speeding, boss?’ Potting asked.

  ‘I sure didn’t nick the man I had gone to see for speeding – he moved even more slowly than the tortoises,’ Grace replied with a brief smile. ‘Right, let’s be serious now and move onto the diary. I’ve called you in here because I know absolutely I can trust you six not to leak anything. I didn’t want to share this with the wider team at this stage – what I say must remain very strictly confidential, any leak could potentially destroy our investigation. You need to hear it because it will impact and influence the enquiries that you are undertaking – but what I’m about to tell you must remain within these four walls. Understood?’

  From their nods and expressions it clearly was.

  ‘OK, I do actually have quite a bit of the diary decoded already, and I’m going to share these decoded words from Sir Peregrine with you now.’

  There was complete silence, other than the beep-beep-beep of a reversing van somewhere close outside, as Grace began to read aloud:

  ‘Information has come to my attention from a trusted source that I cannot reveal, for his own protection – and perhaps for mine, too. His providing this information is not entirely altruistic, he has an axe to grind about his contribution at work being overlooked. He is also something of a loose cannon – I suspect I’m not the only person he has told. I also cannot be sure if he is exaggerating any of what he has said. In my opinion he is not the most reliable of people, but I do believe the essence of what he has told me is correct.