The back end of last week had been glorious, enabling him to get out on the ancient Atco gang mower – which, through loving care, he’d kept in service for over a quarter of a century – and create those perfect stripes that he knew The King liked so much. Almost as much as he loved the acers, which were in abundance along the borders of the huge area of lawn. Then fierce rain had come in late on Saturday. And the even more torrential downpour that accompanied the thunderstorm came next, followed by yet another glorious day yesterday. All of which meant the grass had grown to the point where it needed cutting again today.

  The one positive about the rain was that it had cleared away all the droppings from the pesky – albeit beautiful – Canada geese that descended annually on the Palace lake, terrorizing the ducks, moorhens, coots and swans, and crapping all over the lawns like they were a public toilet for wildlife.

  If he’d had his way, he’d have sorted them out with a twelve-bore. But, and he could understand the reasons, the sound of gunshots ringing out within the Palace grounds was probably not a great idea.

  Mind you, some of the late Queen Elizabeth’s corgis were a problem too. Not the female ones – although they also did their business on the grass – but Vulcan, the little bugger, had had particularly acid wee. His urine was like a vial of sulphuric acid being poured onto his precious lawn. Small, horrible and ugly brown patches all over the place.

  Her Majesty’s passing had been a terrible time for him. He had admired her and liked her so much, but if there had been one positive it was that the two newest corgis to survive her had gone to live with Sarah Ferguson and no longer signed their names on his precious forty acres of greensward. Camilla’s Jack Russells were much better – because they at least pooped in the flowerbeds – which weren’t his problem.

  Arthur smiled at the memory of an encounter with an American at a Garden Party, some years ago – later, he discovered he was the US Ambassador to the UK – who had approached him while he was tending to a damaged area of grass well away from the proceedings and asked him, ‘Hey, tell me, how do you get a lawn so amazing, so perfect as this?’

  Something about the man’s demeanour had really irritated Arthur – he couldn’t say what exactly, but the man had really rubbed him up the wrong way. He’d replied in his native rural Hampshire burr: ‘Oh that’s easy, sir. What yer needs to do is aerate the soil, plant yer grass seeds, making sure the birds don’t eat ’em all. Then you wait for the grass to take root and grow. Once that’s happened, all you need to do is cut it, weed it, water it and roll it – for about one hundred and fifty years.’

  He still chuckled to himself sometimes, if he was having a bad day, at the Ambassador’s expression.

  But he wasn’t chuckling today. The assassination attempt on Her Majesty last Monday had left him and all the Palace staff in a state of shock. But if there was one thing he had learned in all these years it was that no matter what, the show must go on. Tomorrow there was a state visit scheduled for the ruler of the United Arab Emirates. The Master of the Royal Household had already briefed him – albeit unnecessarily – that the lawns needed to look immaculate. Even more immaculate than ever, eh, Arthur?

  When he’d informed Sir Tommy that they would indeed look even more immaculate than ever, he’d been rewarded with a, Good chap – super!

  Which meant having finished mowing them he had to go over them again with the grass collector – which he was now doing – not such an easy task with sodden cuttings. And looking over his shoulder, he could see the grass bags were almost full. Mowing the lawns in November, incredible. Who’d have ever thought he’d be doing that? Whether it was global warming or something else altogether, Mother Nature was out of kilter, all right.

  He steered the mower over towards the West Wing of the Palace, towards the skip behind the large, dark green cylinder, which was ten foot tall and the same wide, and connected to the Palace wall by a series of pipes, like a mutant insect feeding off it. The anaerobic digester – the initiative of The King that helped run the Palace hot water and central heating.

  Before emptying the grass bags into the skip, he needed to use the pitchfork in the skip to load some of the current contents into the digester, through a hatch in the side, to top it up. He opened the hatch, dug the pitchfork into the mulch, then as he tipped it in, he froze.

  Oh no. Oh shit. No. No!

  Was he hallucinating?

  Within the bubbling mass there appeared to be a human body, on its back.

  60

  Monday 27 November 2023

  The large sign in big blue letters on a white background greeted visitors as if they were arriving for a jolly at a holiday camp.

  WELCOME TO HMP DOWNVIEW

  The sign was planted on a narrow verge of lawn, partially covered with brown leaves, in front of a tall, handsome oak tree. Behind it rose a fortress-like steel wall, with wire mesh making it even taller, and topped with razor wire. It wasn’t there to keep people out.

  As Glenn Branson pulled the car into a bay, Roy Grace checked his watch. It was 9 a.m. They’d arrived early for their 10 a.m. appointment because, Grace knew, it was always a faff getting into a prison. And anyway, they were both cops, and cops always arrived early – something Grace’s dad had taught him. It showed respect, Jack Grace had said. If you arrived late, your message, loud and clear was, My time is more important than yours.

  No police officer ever felt comfortable entering a prison. You were always acutely aware that if for any reason you were unfortunate enough to be there when things kicked off, and it turned into a full-scale riot, the inmates would like nothing better than to give any coppers on the premises a good kicking. But at least, Grace consoled himself, this was a female prison – and most riots occurred in male prisons.

  He signed in at the reception desk, sliding his warrant card under the Perspex shield, and clipped the pass he received in turn to his jacket. Then, hesitantly, after switching his phone off he placed it in the locker he’d been allocated and turned the key. Immediately, he felt very vulnerable. And he could see from Glenn’s expression that he did too. It felt like being separated from their umbilical cords. Whatever authority they had in the outside world, they had now surrendered to the prison’s governor.

  Five minutes later they were led by a short but reassuringly confident female officer, with keys jangling from her belt, through a maze of double doors, unlocking one, entering, locking it behind them, then unlocking the one in front, until finally they were shown into a bare-walled interview room, with twin chairs – screwed to the floor – either side of a steel table, also fixed to the floor.

  ‘Think I’d prefer a room at a Premier Inn,’ Branson quipped. ‘Or maybe a Travelodge.’

  Grace was about to reply when a rotund male officer led in a woman they both instantly recognized, a waif-like figure in a red velour jumpsuit and trainers. Her fair hair was cropped short, unevenly, as if she had done it herself. They’d arrested her a year ago, when she was twenty-four, and they’d last seen her about three months ago when they’d given evidence at her trial – and when Grace had addressed the judge in Chambers with an impassioned plea for a lenient sentence due to her cooperation with the police.

  But her demeanour right now was anything but grateful. Anything but pleased to see them. Anything but wanting to be here, in this horrible room, with them.

  Since they had last seen her, she had lost some weight and her skin was pale. Her elfin looks reminded him of a young Mia Farrow, Branson thought.

  ‘I’ll be just outside, gentlemen,’ the officer said in a tone that implied he’d be straight in to their rescue if this fragile, vulnerable creature suddenly became an existential threat to them.

  As the door closed, Shannon Kendall stood glaring at the two detectives. At Roy Grace in particular. ‘Thanks,’ she said in her bald, classless accent. ‘Thanks a billion, Detective Superintendent Grace. Thanks a billion for nothing.’

  ‘Whoa!’ he said. He indicated for her to sit.

  ‘You lied to me, didn’t you?’ She narrowed her eyes in fury.

  ‘I never lied to you, Shannon. You agreed to give evidence against Rufus Rorke on my assurance that I would do all I could to get you the minimum sentence possible,’ he replied calmly. ‘I told you very clearly that I had no powers as a police officer to grant you immunity from prosecution – and that was how it works in this country. What I did tell you was that I would do all I could – within the law – to tell the judge how much you had helped our enquiry. I spoke to the judge privately in her Chambers. Do you understand?’

  ‘No,’ she said, defiantly, still on her feet.

  ‘Then let me explain. You were charged with serious offences to which you could have been sentenced to a long term in prison. What were you actually sentenced to?’

  There was a long silence. Then Shannon said, weakly, ‘Three years.’

  ‘Are you aware how lenient a sentence that is?’

  There was another long silence. Finally she sat down. Grace and Branson sat opposite her.

  ‘Why are you here?’ she asked.

  Grace leaned a little towards her. ‘I’ve spoken to the relevant authorities to see if I could get special dispensation to grant you an early release on licence if you agree to cooperate with us.’

  She sat back in her chair, her face tight. ‘Meaning?’

  ‘You have a lot of knowledge about the dark web, Shannon, right?’

  ‘So what if I do?’

  ‘We are currently running an investigation of national importance. We need someone on the team with extensive knowledge of the criminal wheeling and dealing on the dark web.’

  ‘I thought you have your own Digital Forensics people.’

  ‘We do,’ Grace said. ‘But they work with the police, looking in from the outside. We need someone who has been inside the labyrinth as a criminal, who’s prepared to work with us. I thought of you.’

  ‘And what would be in it for me?’

  Grace looked at her levelly. ‘I’ve got agreement that you would be released tomorrow, subject to certain conditions.’

  ‘Which are?’ She looked suspiciously at each detective in turn. Branson attempted and failed a reassuring nod.

  ‘That you work from home for as long as we need you on this investigation – and for which you will be paid the going rate. Do you still own a property?’

  ‘I’ve got a small flat in Hove, in Westbourne Villas.’

  ‘You could stay there?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Any reasonable expenses would be covered, and the only restriction is you would need to be visited by a probation officer monthly.’

  She was silent for a while. She stared at Branson then again at Grace before speaking. ‘How can I trust you? How do I know I won’t get banged up in here again once I’ve served whatever purpose it is?’

  ‘There’ll be a legal document,’ Branson said. ‘Your release terms and your terms of temporary assignment to the Sussex Police. If you agree it’ll be drafted and signed by late afternoon. We’ll arrange someone to collect you from the prison entrance and take you straight to your flat to start work.’

  She touched her mouth with a finger, and scraped between two teeth with the nail, her eyes darting wildly, almost like a hunted creature, Grace thought.

  ‘And what if I say no?’

  Grace shrugged. ‘Why would you?’

  61

  Monday 27 November 2023

  Grace and Branson were led back to the reception area by the same officer. Grace wondered again, as he did each time he visited a prison, how much of a chore the officers found it to be constantly unlocking and locking two sets of doors to move from one area to another. Or did your mind just switch off to it? Or, his mind wandered mischievously for a moment, did prison officers have double doors in their homes that they had to constantly lock and unlock, to keep their hand in?

  They collected their phones from their respective lockers, handed over their passes and locker keys and went back out into the blustery morning.

  ‘Well?’ Branson asked as they walked towards the car.

  ‘She’ll do it. For King and Country. Once she’s considered her options.’

  ‘You smooth-talking salesman,’ he retorted, grinning.

  Grace concentrated on powering his phone up and entering the code, as Branson was doing the same with his. Then he frowned. There were two texts from Magellan-Lacey, one from Jack Alexander, and one from ACC Downing. All of them said pretty much the same thing, that they couldn’t get through to him and please call them back extremely urgently.

  The second text from Sir Tommy read:

  Roy, don’t know if you’ve heard the news about Geoffrey Bailey. Please call me as soon as you can.

  Grace called him back first, and the Master of the Royal Household answered almost immediately, sounding very relieved to hear the detective’s voice. ‘Roy, thank goodness. Have you heard?’ His voice was calm but urgent.

  ‘No, I’m sorry. I’ve been in a meeting – with my phone off.’

  ‘Right, well, we’ve got a bit of a shit show going on here. The footman – Geoffrey Bailey – who a couple of your chaps were coming to interview later today – has been found dead.’

  Grace stopped in his tracks. He felt a strange sensation, as if something heavy had just sunk all the way through his body. He wasn’t sure if it was his imagination but the sky seemed to have darkened suddenly, too. ‘Dead?’ he echoed, and saw Branson glance quizzically at him. ‘Under what circumstances, exactly? Suspicious?’

  ‘Well, I don’t imagine he climbed into the anaerobic digester by himself,’ Magellan-Lacey responded.

  ‘The anaerobic digester – that you showed us – which converts waste into heat?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Grace hit mute on his phone and turned to Branson. ‘That footman Polly and Jack were going to interview this afternoon has been found dead – sounds like he’s been murdered.’

  Branson frowned. ‘Geoffrey Bailey?’

  Grace nodded, unmuting the phone. ‘What can you tell me about the situation?’

  ‘Well to be frank it’s bloody awful. We’ve got a sealed-off crime scene right outside the Garden Entrance to the West Wing, right below The King and The Queen’s offices, with a whole caravan of Met Police vehicles arriving and parking on the gravel. Bailey was discovered by an elderly gardener, a super chap.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Arthur Lambourne. He’s completely distraught, as are both Their Majesties – The King would like to see you as soon as you can get here.’

  ‘I’m very happy to talk to him, but the Met will have primacy on this – and the investigation will be under one of their SIOs.’

  ‘I know, Roy – the SIO’s already here and throwing his weight around.’

  ‘Don’t tell me his name,’ Grace said. ‘Greg Mosse?’

  ‘How did you guess?’

  Grace decided to save for later the explanation that Greg Mosse was the Met Detective Superintendent who’d tried to take primacy on the shooting of Sir Peregrine Greaves. ‘I can come straight up now. I’m currently in Sutton – I could be with you in an hour or so.’

  ‘I think that would be a very good idea, Roy. I think you’d be a calming influence.’

  Ending the call, Grace turned to Branson. ‘You’re always going on to me about your driving skills. I’m authorizing you to do a blue light run to the Palace. Fill your boots – and try not to kill us both. Just remember how many times you’ve scared the shit out of me.’

  ‘Yeah, and just remember how many times you’ve survived!’

  Grace gave him a sideways look. ‘Who was it who said, “Live every day as if it’s your last, because one day it will be”?’

  ‘I think,’ Branson said with a wicked grin, ‘it was someone who isn’t around any more.’

  62

  Monday 27 November 2023

  Ask any young, fresh-out-of-probation police officer what the big bangs of the job were, Grace thought, and they were likely to tell you it was driving on blue lights and getting into a bundle – a roll-up – a good old full-on brawl. Totally legally. He knew, he’d loved all that stuff when he’d first joined.

  After officers matured a bit – at least most of them – they would realize that the real bang of their chosen career was making a difference to people’s lives, in a way that few other jobs could. That was true for Roy Grace, but being something of a petrol head, the thrill of driving on blue lights had remained. And although his focus at this moment was fully on the case, and he was nervous about what The King might confront him with, cutting through the London traffic with the blue lights on and the siren wailing was quite the thrill.

  During the journey he’d been thinking back to what Jack Alexander had raised as his concerns about the footman. Over the phone on the way here Jack was unable to add any more to what he had already related. Which was that Bailey’s body language had seemed wrong, and the perceptive DS had felt Bailey was using the opportunity of the interview to air a personal grievance. That grievance was, apparently, that he felt he’d been passed over by Sir Peregrine Greaves when he’d recently awarded coveted Special Service medals to Royal Household staff.

  Enough of a motive to murder Sir Peregrine? And so elaborately? Grace didn’t think so. The shooting had been carefully planned and staged. If Geoffrey Bailey had been behind it, he would never have been stupid enough to have kicked off about his grievance to a detective. And, Grace figured, because he had been stupid in doing that, it indicated that no way was he smart enough to have planned the shooting of last Monday.