And yet, all his instincts told him there was a connection. But what? The deciphering of Sir Peregrine’s diary had revealed a confession about the Private Secretary’s inappropriate relationship with an employee.

  They arrived at the front gates of Buckingham Palace, which were swarming with press, shortly before midday – five minutes earlier than Grace had predicted to Sir Tommy. Dapper as ever in a suit and tie, black shoes honed to a mirror shine, he was there to guide them into the inner courtyard, and then directed them to a parking spot by the internal entrance to the West Wing.

  ‘Good show!’ he said as the two detectives climbed out of the car. The smell of hot engine oil and burnt brake pads rose from it. ‘You must have driven like the wind!’

  ‘I had a good pilot.’ Grace threw a glance at Glenn Branson, who was beaming – despite the very tragic reason they were here. He’d reminded Branson in the car not to say a word to anyone about the diary, not even to the Master.

  ‘Excellent!’ Sir Tommy said, seeming as enthusiastic as ever. ‘So, Sir Peregrine’s Deputy Private Secretary will look after you, Detective Inspector Branson, while I take you, Detective Superintendent Grace, to see His Majesty. After that, we’ll convene in my office for a debrief. All right with you chaps?’

  ‘What about Her Majesty?’ Grace asked. ‘How is she?’

  ‘HMQ is out of town at the moment – quite fortunately for her – on a number of long-standing engagements. Although HMTK’s not happy, he’d rather she be wrapped in cotton wool until this whole situation is sorted.’

  Five minutes later, Roy Grace entered King Charles’s magnificent office, accompanied by Sir Tommy. As immaculately dressed as before, but looking drawn and worried, The King rose and greeted Grace, shaking him firmly by the hand.

  ‘It’s good to see you again, Detective Superintendent, but not under circumstances I would have chosen.’ There was a faintly droll tone to his rich voice, but no hint of humour in his expression.

  Grace gave a small head-bow. ‘Your Majesty, I completely understand.’

  The King walked over to the bay window, passed a small desk on which lay two red felt-tipped pens and a memo pad, and beckoned Grace to accompany him. Down in the garden below, in front of the two magnificent plane trees, Albert and Victoria, was the sight of a full-on crime scene in action. Two tents, a small grey van and a much larger forensic unit van, and half a dozen people in white oversuits, overshoes, hoods and gloves. Two of them were on their hands and knees conducting a fingertip search, and one was videoing all and everything.

  ‘I have never, in all my life, had to see this, Detective Superintendent.’ His tone, as he turned towards him, was pained, not accusatory. Grace saw a look of almost despair on his face and suddenly felt deeply sad for the man. And, irrationally, a sense of guilt, as if this was somehow all his fault.

  The King turned back and pointed down at the lawn. ‘I mean, we’ve had the occasional incursion into the Palace grounds, but a dead body? A crime scene like something out of – out of one of those crime dramas my wife loves? One of my Household staff murdered here, within the Palace walls – and just a week after poor Peregrine. I feel as if I’m in the middle of a nightmare – my whole world turned upside down. Poor Geoffrey Bailey, he’d served my dear mama so diligently. Please tell me what is going on – and how is my wife being protected, as she insists on being out and about all over the country again?’

  Grace glanced at Sir Tommy, who gave him a nod of reassurance, then he addressed The King.

  ‘Your Majesty, horrific though the two events are, we don’t know at this stage that they are definitely connected.’

  The King’s eyes narrowed. ‘Sometimes, Detective Superintendent, the simplest explanation is often the correct one?’

  ‘Yes, indeed, sir.’

  ‘So two members of the Royal Household have been murdered, within one week of each other.’ He tilted his head slightly and gave a penetrating stare. ‘Is it not more than probable they may be connected?’

  Grace desperately wanted to give The King some reassurance. He did not like, apart from anything else, to see him looking so sad and worried. He thought hard for a moment before replying, trying to be as diplomatic as possible. ‘Sir, one of the things we learn as detectives is to be very careful about making assumptions. We can hypothesize, and yes without doubt there is a credible hypothesis that the two deaths may well be connected. On the surface it looks that way. But we also need to hypothesize that they may not be. The most dangerous thing any police officer leading an enquiry can do is to lead it down a blind alley because they are determined to make their facts fit the hypothesis, rather than the other way around. I need to make that clear, sir.’

  The King looked at him respectfully for a moment. ‘I understand. Go on, please.’

  ‘I’m a Sussex detective and I’m the Senior Investigating Officer on the investigation into the death of Sir Peregrine Greaves. But I have no standing in Metropolitan London, which is a completely different jurisdiction. I understand a Met Police officer, Detective Superintendent Greg Mosse, is the SIO investigating the death of your footman, Geoffrey Bailey. We will of course collaborate and exchange information to see if there is a link between the two – or, equally importantly, if there is not.’

  The King nodded. ‘You are a very experienced detective, I understand. What is your gut feeling?’

  ‘Sir, I don’t yet have enough information on the deceased footman. I’d be lying to you if I said I had a gut feeling at this stage. If you’ll allow me the time to find out more, then I will be very happy to then let you know all my thoughts.’

  The King gave him a thin smile of approval, then looked at the Master. ‘Tommy, will you ensure that Detective Superintendent Grace gets all the cooperation he needs from the Met team? Especially from Detective Superintendent Mosse?’

  ‘Absolutely, Your Majesty.’

  Roy Grace gave a thin smile, too. The King was smart and perceptive. He’d clearly already met – and seen through – the condescending Greg Mosse.

  In this brief meeting he felt he had created an ally. This was reflected in the smile on Sir Tommy Magellan-Lacey’s face. And the very warm handshake The King gave him as he departed.

  63

  Monday 27 November 2023

  ‘Excellent,’ Sir Tommy said as they walked along the corridor away from The King’s office. ‘I’m impressed, Roy, you handled that extremely well. I think HMTK likes you!’

  ‘I’m glad to hear that,’ Grace replied. ‘Understandably he’s deeply concerned about The Queen. But I’m more and more certain she wasn’t the intended target – and that it was Sir Peregrine.’

  ‘Because of that gap between them when the shooter fired?’

  ‘I’ve talked again at length with the ballistics expert, and also a member of our Sussex Police Armed Response Team. Four feet,’ Grace said. ‘Four feet and just two shots. If Her Majesty had been the target he would’ve fired again – and maybe multiple times, until he hit her. Although her Protection Officers shielded her, I still don’t think she was the target. I think the shooter was trying to give the impression she was the target to misdirect the investigation.’

  They were joined by Glenn Branson.

  Grace continued. ‘I’d like to have a chat with Detective Superintendent Mosse and then the three of us here can convene for a debrief on everything we have so far.’

  ‘Yes, that’s a good plan.’ Tommy hesitated. ‘Have you managed to make any progress on deciphering Sir Peregrine’s diary? I’d be surprised if that doesn’t reveal something of significance.’

  ‘It’s with someone who is working on it as a matter of extreme urgency,’ Grace replied, evasively. He was feeling very relieved how his short meeting with The King had gone. Now, crucially, should he need it, he had an ally to get Mosse to cooperate with him.

  ‘Excellent. Super.’

  They went downstairs to the Garden Door Entrance, and Sir Tommy ushered them both outside. They descended the steps beneath the large glass canopy directly below The King’s office, and stopped as they reached the blue and white outer cordon crime scene tape stretched across the gravel a couple of yards in front of them. Grace took in the activity of the crime scene for a moment, while he heard the Master, on his phone, giving a request for Detective Superintendent Mosse to come and meet them.

  The anaerobic digester, over to their left, was partially masked by tenting. A length of hose lay near it. ‘When was the body removed and identified?’ he asked as soon as Sir Tommy was off the phone.

  ‘About two hours ago, Roy. I saw it – him – myself – pretty horrible, but no question it’s Geoffrey Bailey.’

  ‘And where is the body now?’

  ‘It’s been taken to the Westminster Mortuary.’

  For someone who had just witnessed a partially digested corpse – and of someone he knew – the Master seemed, on the surface, to be coping well. But then again, Grace knew something of his background in fighting in Afghanistan. Maybe, he wondered, if you were strong enough to come back from that without suffering PTSD, you could cope with anything?

  Then he heard his name being called. Approaching on the other side of the tape was a tall figure in a white forensic onesie, the hood pulled back to reveal wavy fair hair in disarray.

  ‘What are you doing here, Detective Superintendent Grace?’ Greg Mosse asked.

  Grace folded his arms and looked back at him. ‘I thought we should compare notes. I’m also curious,’ he added, ‘about which Savile Row tailor made that onesie you’re wearing. Because, you know, it really doesn’t fit you that well around the shoulders. I could recommend an excellent tailor in Brighton.’ He spoke with the hint of a smile that contained no hint of warmth.

  Placing his hands on his hips, Mosse startled Grace by replying, ‘Thank you, Roy, when I move down to Brighton I’ll take you up on that.’ Grace gave him a strange look. ‘Compare notes?’ Mosse added.

  ‘I just popped along because I figured you might need some help.’

  Mosse looked at the Master for support. ‘I think we are managing very well, thank you, wouldn’t you say, Sir Tommy?’

  ‘I’m afraid I’m not qualified to comment, Detective Superintendent. Handling of crime scenes is way above my pay grade, as the expression goes.’

  ‘I wanted to ask you,’ Grace said, ‘if, in your humble opinion at this stage, you believe there might possibly be a connection between the shooting of Sir Peregrine last Monday and the death of this footman, Geoffrey Bailey? And shouldn’t we compare notes?’

  ‘It’s far too early to tell. Surely you would know that?’ Mosse replied.

  ‘Even as a possible hypothesis?’

  ‘We have our own way of carrying out investigations in the Met. I imagine they are a lot more thorough than how you do things out in the sticks. Besides, we have a Met detective on your team – he is capable of reporting back anything I need to know.’

  ‘But I don’t have anyone on your team to reciprocate the exchange of information.’

  ‘I really don’t consider that necessary.’

  Grace pointed at the hose lying near the tent. ‘Is that what you used to wash the body before removing it from the contraption?’

  ‘Preservation of the crime scene is the first priority,’ Mosse said, a tad too quickly and too sharply. And too defensively.

  ‘The body is only part of the crime scene. You hosed him down, which could have destroyed crucial evidence around it,’ Grace said.

  ‘And what would you have done different?’

  ‘I’d have had officers in protective suits remove the body and lay it on a sheet on the ground and then asked the Home Office pathologist to carry out an inspection in situ.’

  Out of the corner of his eye, Grace saw Sir Tommy stifle a smirk.

  ‘Well, we do things differently here in London,’ Mosse said. But his tone was a tad less confident.

  Knowing he had scored a point, Grace pressed home his advantage. ‘So you authorized the removal of the body from the place where it was found, to the mortuary – with the approval of a Home Office pathologist – or without?’

  ‘Detective Superintendent Grace, I’m far too busy dealing with everything here to start answering your questions. I’m the SIO, this is my crime scene and I make the decisions. Is there anything you need from me, or can I return to the task I’m here to do, which is to run this murder investigation?’ Then in a withering tone he added, ‘I’m sure you have things to do, too.’

  ‘I think, actually, there’s probably more you need from me than I need from you, Greg. But you just carry on, screwing everything up in your own brilliant way.’

  For a moment, Grace actually thought he was going to be punched in the face. Greg Mosse raised his gloved fists in the air. Then he turned and strode away without another word.

  ‘A bit harsh, Roy, don’t you think?’ Sir Tommy said as they climbed back up the stairs, followed by a further four flights of stairs up to the former footmen’s quarters, which, under the Master’s renovation plans, had been converted into open-plan offices for the entire Royal Household staff.

  ‘People like him make me furious,’ Grace replied. ‘You don’t solve crimes by being arrogant, you solve them by cooperating.’

  Tommy opened his arms expansively, gesturing to the huge and airy space they had just entered, in which sat rows of white desks, many of them occupied. Each had an identical neat black mat, black keyboard and black mouse, and low partition walls in a rich, dark green. It had a modern, inviting feel. ‘I think I told you Sir Peregrine fought tooth and nail to avoid being moved from his very large office to here, and the rest of his team, too.’

  Another possible motive for Sir Peregrine’s death? Hardly.

  ‘That won’t be so much of an issue now, sadly, will it?’ Grace reflected.

  ‘No, I guess that issue has been, er . . . blown away, as it were,’ Tommy said, looking a little embarrassed at his inappropriate joke.

  ‘Am I allowed to swear in your presence, Sir Tommy?’ Grace asked, changing the subject and still stewing about Mosse’s attitude.

  ‘Swear away! To your heart’s content. But just not in front of Their Majesties,’ he cautioned.

  Grace nodded. ‘Detective Superintendent Mosse is a classic old-school detective, a bloody dinosaur, who should have been put out to pasture a long time ago, even though he isn’t that old.’

  The Master nodded. ‘I know that, Roy, and The King knows it too. Which is why we’re placing our faith in you. One hundred per cent.’

  64

  Monday 27 November 2023

  ‘I’m not sure about this,’ he said.

  They stood at the top of the narrow, steep staircase, below the top few stairs, which were sealed off by a strip of red and yellow tape and a large sign:

  EXTREME DANGER – KEEP OUT!

  ‘I’m not sure about you,’ Rose Cadoret retorted tartly. She was wearing a dark blue dress a little shorter than dictated by the unspoken rules of standard Palace decorum. She ducked under the tape, and continued to the top, then stopped and stood on bare floorboards, getting her breath back for a moment while Jon Smoke caught up with her. Unlike last Monday, today was not his day off – all leave had been cancelled.

  They stood in front of the jagged, unguarded opening that had been bashed through the wall, the flat, grimy ceiling above them. A cold draught blew on their faces.

  ‘You are a bloody fool,’ she said suddenly, with genuine fury in her voice. ‘You fucked up last Monday, and now you’ve fucked up again.’

  ‘Hey!’ he said. ‘Last Monday I had no choice. That was the closest together that they stood. If I hadn’t taken that shot, the opportunity would have been missed – and all our careful planning down the khazi.’

  ‘They walked out of the tunnel, all the way up those steep steps to the top, and there wasn’t one moment when they were closer together?’

  ‘Firstly you’ve got to understand that from that distance it’s very hard to hit a moving target with precision. I’m a sniper – I know.’

  ‘So why weren’t you closer?’

  ‘I was close enough.’

  ‘Clearly not.’

  ‘We hadn’t accounted for that Royal Protection Officer getting in the way.’

  ‘You’re a bloody RaSP too, for God’s sake. Didn’t you think he would get in the way?’

  ‘I did the best job I could. Greaves was on to us and we needed him dead. I seriously believe I made the right call at the tunnel.’

  ‘Then you went and threatened the witness, the woman walking her dog – why did you do that? No one else saw you, and your number plates were false. Other than that she saw a man on a motorbike, what was she going to be able to tell the police? Nothing. So why did you threaten her – just for sadistic fun?’

  ‘My bike is recognizable, Rose,’ he said, defensively.

  ‘Really? How many thousands of identical ones are there? And what do you think threatening her was going to achieve?’

  ‘We have to cover our backs.’

  ‘And Geoffrey Bailey? We all agreed you were going to put the frighteners on the little twat. We didn’t tell you to toss him in the gobbler and turn the whole Palace into a crime scene.’

  ‘You told me to silence him. He’s not talking much now.’

  ‘No? He’s bloody shouting now, at the top of his voice.’

  ‘Just calm down. Greaves and Bailey were our two immediate threats. Both have been eliminated. We just need to keep our shit together.’

  She looked at him. There was both amusement and anger in her expression. And something else, he could read. Hunger.

  ‘So why’ve you brought me up here, Rose?’

  ‘You need to see this, because I’ve had an idea. This was a light shaft, going back to Georgian times, to allow light down into the lower levels of the Palace. Tommy is now converting it into a lift running from the basement up to the top floor – the former footmen’s floor, that’s now housing the Royal Household admin team. Take a look.’