Smoke suddenly felt very wary of this woman who, until this moment, he’d considered an ally and his partner in crime. And more.

  To any stranger she appeared an attractive, demure and cultured lady. But he had seen a different side. The one he’d been privy to when they’d served together in Kabul, the brutal monster that resided inside her when she was on patrol. The one that had turned her into a killing machine more savage than even he had been.

  And now she was looking at him in a very strange way.

  Reaching the very edge, but keeping an anchoring arm firmly on the wall, and a wary eye on her, he leaned forward and peered down into the deep, draughty shaft. In the weak light at the very bottom he could see six thin, fierce-looking steel spikes rising vertically several feet. Retreating back to safety by stepping away from the opening, he turned to her. ‘How the hell is this open like this? Health and Safety would go nuts if they saw it.’

  ‘I opened it,’ she said with a smile that creeped him out. ‘And they won’t go nuts, because they won’t notice it. I’m going to cover it back up with plastic sheeting – which will be fine so long as no one leans against it.’

  He looked at her. ‘And who are you planning to have lean against it?’

  ‘You know exactly who. Two’s company, three’s a crowd, right?’

  ‘Are you saying what I think you are saying? About a warehouse full of a lot of loot?’

  Her eyes were smiling at him. ‘A very great deal of loot.’

  ‘And you think we could eliminate our third party?’

  ‘An unnecessary appendage? And do you think he’d hesitate for one moment about throwing us both under a bus if it came to the crunch? He’s never got his hands dirty, has he? He’s Mr Clever. Eliminate him and all our worries are over.’ She looked deadly serious.

  He smiled. ‘There’s something about you,’ he said. ‘About your mind. How it works.’ He smiled again. ‘It turns me on.’

  She stared back at him. Their eyes locking. Then, seconds later, their lips locked. Their tongues swirling crazily. She pressed the flat of her right hand against his right thigh and moved it up, suggestively, to his groin.

  He slid up her dress, found the top of her underwear with his fingers, slipped two of them inside and down into her short, smooth hair, and down.

  Pulling her mouth away from his for a second, she gasped, ‘God, you drive me crazy!’ Then she kissed him wildly again, this time her hands working his belt buckle, then his trouser zip.

  ‘Not here, we can’t!’ he said, breathless now.

  ‘Oh we can!’ she said. ‘Oh yes we can.’

  Her eyes were glazed with lust – mad lust.

  ‘No!’ he hissed.

  She pulled down his baggy, heavy trousers, then his boxer shorts, and took him in her mouth.

  ‘Shit! Oh God! You are—’

  He was unable to resist now. She pulled down her own knickers and straddled him, on the bare wooden staircase. ‘Oh yes, Jon Smoke. I love it.’ She was gasping. ‘You know what you are? You know? You are the fuck at the end of the universe!’

  ‘You’re not so bad yourself,’ he said.

  ‘Bastard!’ She slapped him hard across the face, then kissed him again, even harder.

  65

  Monday 27 November 2023

  ‘I thought we could talk more privately here – safer,’ Sir Tommy said, dishing up coffees, and keeping his voice low even though they were now in his home in St James’s Palace. ‘Until we get to the bottom of all that’s going on – and who is involved – we need to be very guarded.’

  Grace and Branson, seated opposite him at the kitchen table, both nodded. ‘We do,’ Grace said. He glanced around the spacious room then back at Magellan-Lacey and asked, ‘Out of interest, how long have you been Master of the Royal Household?’

  Sir Tommy looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘Ten years!’ He beamed.

  ‘And you enjoy it?’ Branson chipped in. He sipped his coffee but ignored the plate of chocolate digestive biscuits in front of him, still smarting from Sir Tommy’s remark about his dunking capabilities last time he was here.

  ‘Best job in the world – absolutely. Apart from –’ he shrugged – ‘you know – the terrible events of last Monday and now today. And of course the late Queen’s passing. That was an immensely sad time for me – and everyone.’

  ‘It was,’ Grace said. Through the window he saw two sentries, rifles shouldered, march in step across the courtyard.

  Narrowing his eyes and addressing Grace, Magellan-Lacey asked, ‘When do you think you might have the deciphered pages from Sir Peregrine’s diary?’

  ‘I would hope within a few days, at most,’ he replied, shooting a wary glance at Branson.

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Excellent. Hopefully that will reveal something significant.’

  ‘You told us before, that you knew Sir Peregrine pretty well? Friends as well as work colleagues? That the four of you – with his wife and yours – would have dinner together quite often.’

  ‘Yes, Roy, we got on pretty well, poor chap.’

  Grace nodded in acknowledgement. ‘Did you notice anything different about him – about his demeanour – in the days – weeks – before his death? Did he seem worried about anything?’

  Magellan-Lacey shook his head. ‘To be honest he was always a bit of a closed book – you know – one of those people who never really lets you get near the real them. But having said that he could be great company – great fun when he did let his hair down. He was a brilliant mimic – he could do a wonderfully irreverent impression of both The King and The Queen – and quite a few other members of the Royal Household.’ He smiled. ‘The King’s actually a damned good mimic himself, when he chooses to be. He could have had a very successful career on the stage, had circumstances been different. But in answer to your question, no, I didn’t see any change in Peregrine – I last saw him on the Friday before he died and he was very much his usual self, but I can ask around and see if others noticed anything.’

  ‘Have you managed to think of any reason someone might have wanted him dead?’ Branson asked.

  The Master took some moments before responding. ‘I can’t.’ Then he shrugged. ‘But who knows? Doing his job is not always easy – the same with mine. People jokingly nickname the Royal Family “The Firm”, but in many ways that’s what it is. One thousand, two hundred and fifty employees just here in the Buckingham Palace, Clarence House, St James’s Palace complex is more than many medium-size firms employ.’ He raised his eyebrows before continuing. ‘There is always going to be the odd disgruntled employee.’

  ‘Angry or bitter enough to kill someone over their grievance?’ Branson pushed.

  The Master hesitated. ‘Well, I think I said to you chaps before, many of our Household staff have military backgrounds – perhaps that makes for more likelihood of outbursts of violence than with people from civilian backgrounds.’ He shrugged. ‘I’m purely speculating.’

  ‘Speculate away!’ Grace encouraged. ‘We need ideas. And actually there is something I wanted to ask you about – your own military service background. You were in Kabul, I believe.’

  ‘I was – not the best place in the world.’

  ‘You were out there at the same time as a current Household staff employee, Rosemary Cadoret – then a corporal, I believe?’

  ‘Yes – well, Rose is technically employed by the Royal Collection Trust – an excellent person, tremendously wide know-ledge of art.’

  ‘There’s also a member of the Royal Protection team – Jon Smoke – who was in Afghanistan, too?’

  ‘Jon Smoke, yes, indeed.’

  ‘From what we have found out about Smoke and Cadoret’s records, they came close to being court-martialled over the shooting of a group of Afghan terrorist prisoners of war? It was only the intervention of Sir Jason Finch that prevented that court-martial from happening – is that correct?’

  Magellan-Lacey looked around furtively, as if to ensure no one was eavesdropping. Again he spoke quietly. ‘To be honest, their commanding officer, a colonel, was a complete buffoon. About on the same level as that detective from the Met, Greg Mosse.’ He grinned like a naughty schoolboy. ‘Of course I shouldn’t really say that!’

  ‘Feel free,’ Grace said, grinning back.

  ‘He put Jon Smoke and another soldier, an excellent fellow called Stuart Macdonald, who was a good friend of both Smoke and Cadoret, into a highly dangerous position behind enemy lines – completely against advice. There was no tactical advantage to be gained from putting them at risk like that. Yes, they did shoot some Taliban insurgents dead, and here on a fine November morning in the middle of London, sixteen years later, it does sound a terrible thing. But being on stage in the theatre of war is a very different place – different world.’ He paused.

  ‘In what sense?’ Branson asked.

  ‘It’s something civilians simply don’t understand. In war, the normal rules of moral conduct become suspended. Dehumanization of the enemy becomes part of the psychology – enemy soldiers become targets rather than human beings. It’s something you have to try to instil in your troops. I’ll tell you an interesting statistic: analysis of battles fought in wars around the world throughout the past century reveals that on average only twenty per cent of soldiers ever fire their weapons. And some of those who do just shoot in the air, over the heads of the enemy.’

  ‘Twenty per cent?’ Grace said, astonished. ‘You’re saying that eighty per cent of soldiers in battles never fire their guns at all – or don’t shoot to kill?’

  ‘It’s a fact,’ Magellan-Lacey said calmly. ‘Most people don’t want to kill anyone – and when the chips are down they can’t – even when their own life might depend on it. So part of the job of a commanding officer was to make damned sure as many of your troops use their guns as possible. Dehumanizing and ramping up hatred of the enemy is one of the ways. But that’s not a tap you can just turn on and off at will, if you understand what I’m saying?’

  They nodded, they understood. Grace studied the man’s face closely. He was shocked by what the Master had just said, but he admired his humanity. ‘Sir Tommy, are you aware of any particular issue between Sir Peregrine and Geoffrey Bailey?’

  He frowned. ‘Issue? What do you mean, exactly?’

  ‘Was there any animosity?’ Grace responded. ‘Under questioning on Wednesday, Geoffrey Bailey gave one of my detectives, DS Alexander, the opinion that he had a grievance over not being granted a medal. DS Alexander was due to interview Bailey for a second time, this afternoon.’

  ‘I know, I arranged a room for them.’ He grimaced. ‘I’m afraid Geoffrey Bailey was one of those employees – you get them in every organization – who constantly finds grievances in everything he has to do.’

  Grace smiled thinly. ‘Tell me about it.’

  Magellan-Lacey looked at his watch. ‘I’m going to have to shoot to a meeting in a minute, I’ve got an appointment with HMTK, he wants an update on everything. There is just one other thing I’ve thought of – it may be nothing.’ He turned and pointed out of the rear window. ‘See that room, that’s Sir Peregrine’s office.’

  ‘The one he didn’t want to leave?’ Branson said.

  ‘Exactly. My wife noticed something strange a while ago, a good year or so back and it happened more than once, always late at night – around 11 p.m. or so. She’d see what appeared to be a torch flashing in the window.’

  ‘Like a signal?’ Grace said.

  ‘Exactly. Like a signal. Just a few seconds then gone. The first time she said nothing as she thought she’d imagined it – that maybe it was a reflection of a vehicle’s headlights or something, or one of the RaSPs checking around with a flashlight. But when it happened again she told me.’

  ‘Was it some kind of code?’ Branson suggested.

  ‘Three long flashes each time. Could be the O in SOS – but she only saw it a couple more times. Once we both sat in darkness around that hour and waited, but nothing happened.’

  Grace was silent for a moment, thinking. Remembering the deciphered lines from the diary.

  I hope my dear wife Margot could be shielded from this particular detail, as she has no idea of my proclivities.

  Proclivities.

  Was Sir Peregrine signalling to someone? A late-night assignation?

  Geoffrey Bailey?

  ‘Before we wrap up for today,’ the Master said, ‘I just want to give you a quick update on a couple of bits of detective work your team has charged me with. The first was a list of all Royal Protection Officers who are in possession of a motorbike licence – as well as those who actually own a motorbike. My deputy, Matthew Corbin, has completed that task and handed over the list to your chap in Sussex, Luke Stanstead.’

  ‘Excellent,’ Grace said.

  ‘And secondly, Matthew has also sent Stanstead a list of all Household staff and RaSPs who had a day off last Monday. He will set up interviews with any of the names on either list for your team.’

  ‘That’s very helpful.’

  ‘Good. Right, anything else?’

  ‘Two things, quickly, Sir Tommy,’ Grace said. ‘The first is the press – as soon as they get hold of this second murder, whether connected or not, the world’s media is going to go crazy.’

  The Master put his right hand to his mouth and momentarily, with a thoughtful expression, tore at his thumbnail. ‘Yes – Buckingham Palace Comms have already had their first calls. Until we have drafted a statement, in conjunction with the police, they are fending them off.’

  ‘What are you intending the statement to say?’ Grace said.

  ‘It will be along the lines that the Palace believes at this stage there is no apparent link between the shooting of Sir Peregrine and the death of this footman.’

  ‘And you think the world press will accept that?’ Branson asked.

  ‘Nope!’ Sir Tommy gave a defiant beam. ‘Not a chance, not for one second.’ He shrugged. ‘When it comes to the British Royal Family, the world media invent their own stories.’

  ‘Indeed. I can’t imagine how frustrating that must be for everyone.’

  He waved a hand, as if swatting away a cluster of flies. ‘They’ve all grown up with it. They’ve mostly developed pretty tough hides.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘And the second thing?’

  ‘Well, it’s not connected with this enquiry at all,’ Grace said. ‘Out of interest I’ve been googling Buckingham Palace and the Royal Household, to learn as much about its history as I can – and I came across something that really intrigued me. “Granny’s Personal Chips”. I’d be fascinated to see them some time – is that a possibility?’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure that could be arranged. I’ll speak to Lorraine McKnight, the Director of the Royal Collection. I’m sure she’ll be very happy to arrange for someone to show you them. But you know, if you are interested in jewellery, I can ask her to find you some things on your next visit that I think are even more beautiful.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he replied. ‘I’d like that. I would also like to interview her at some point this week, as well as Sir Jason Finch.’

  ‘Of course, I can arrange that very easily.’ The Master looked like he was frowning. ‘But actually Jason’s away for some time this week on annual leave – I believe to Amsterdam. I’ll speak to his secretary and get something in the diary for as soon as he’s back.’

  Sir Tommy walked with them back over to Buckingham Palace, to their car. Grace tapped Sussex Police HQ into the satnav, and Glenn drove them out through the gates. He turned left up Constitution Hill, now obeying the speed limit.

  As they approached the queue of traffic going into Hyde Park Corner, Branson turned to Grace. ‘Jewellery? Since when have you been interested in jewellery?’

  66

  Monday 27 November 2023

  I would also like to interview her at some point this week, as well as Sir Jason Finch.

  That fleeting frown across Sir Tommy’s face, when he’d said this, was what had been bugging Roy Grace most of all since they’d left the Palace. It was bugging him even more than Detective Superintendent Mosse’s refusal to engage or cooperate.

  ‘You’re very quiet,’ Glenn Branson said. ‘Are you still alive?’

  They were in south London, crawling in heavy traffic through the urban sprawl of Streatham, but Grace had been so submerged in thought he’d barely noticed where they were. Part of it was unpacking the meeting they’d just had with the Master of the Royal Household. But it wasn’t just that, he had a very bad feeling deep inside him. When he tried to analyse it he realized it wasn’t just because the shooting of Sir Peregrine had happened on his manor, on his watch. Or now the murder of the footman.

  It was because the world had changed in so many ways in these past few years. And not in a way he liked. It kept him awake at night worrying. Worrying about so much. About the future his kids, Noah and Molly, had in front of them. A weird, crazy world, where every day when you opened the newspaper you’d read of more violence, more of man’s inhumanity to man, and of yet another new war in a country you’d never heard of, full of deprived and starving people and atrocities perpetrated on them.

  ‘Tell me something – are you an optimist or a pessimist?’ he asked Branson.

  ‘You know the definition of a pessimist?’ Branson replied after some moments.

  Grace shook his head. ‘Go on?’

  ‘A pessimist is an optimist with experience.’

  Grace, smiling thinly, reflected for a moment. Then he retorted, ‘You could say the same about a defeatist. Is that you?’

  ‘Never!’ Branson replied, halting at traffic lights.

  Grace nodded. ‘That’s what I saw in you when we first met. An optimist. I saw a bit of me in you. That you were someone who not only genuinely cared but had the passion in your heart. The belief that as a copper you could make things better for people. We have right now the highest profile case of our careers so far – maybe the highest we will ever face. And all we have to go on, so far, is a description of a motorbike – which fits thousands of machines – a list of Royal Protection Officers with motorbike licences, a list of Household staff, including RaSPs, who had last Monday off, a rope ladder in a tunnel air vent and forensic analysis of gunpowder residue, which we’re waiting on and might confirm a bullet type – but that probably won’t take us anywhere – plus a part-decoded diary. And you know the biggest irony of all? That our best hope lies with a convicted criminal who you and I put behind bars. Ain’t life grand?’