He wondered what was happening in those carriages behind him. Was The Queen writing a speech? Or relaxing with a cuppa and talking to some of her travelling entourage? Did she look out at the scenery on her train journeys, or just focus on her paperwork, her computer screen, her phone, like most people these days?

  He watched the digital readout as the speed steadily built up. They were approaching the 70mph cruising speed. He adjusted the rate of acceleration: 67mph . . . 68mph . . . 69mph . . . 70mph.

  Unlike airline pilots or car and other road vehicle drivers, there was no cruise control equivalent for train drivers, and that was deliberate, for one very simple reason. If a driver had a medical incident and lost concentration for even the briefest period of time and missed a signal, or worse, became unconscious or, God forbid, died, nobody wanted a train to continue hurtling at high speed, with no means to stop it until it hit something. It was for this reason that both the dead man’s pedal and the klaxon warning system had been devised.

  Stan loved his job on the best of days, and this was truly way beyond the best of days! He was driving the Royal Train, with Queen Camilla on board. This would be something to tell the grandchildren! And to cap it all, the weather was magical.

  As he checked the speedometer, holding steady at exactly 70mph, he was mindful that not everyone in Network Rail was happy about the Royal Train. Because of its relatively slow speed of travel compared to the rest of the passenger rolling stock, many of its journeys were made at night to avoid inconveniencing the general public. But, hey, he thought, ardent Royalist that he was, surely anyone delayed by a few minutes today should be happy to know they were being helpful to The Queen, right?

  They were approaching the first of the three longest tunnels on the line, Merstham. A railway history buff, Stan knew that back in Victorian days the interiors of railway tunnels were painted with whitewash and illuminated by gas lights, to try to make them less scary for passengers. Eight decades of smut from steam locomotives had long coated the whitewash with a deep patina of soot, turning them grey. Electric lighting had gradually replaced gas, but the lighting in most tunnels today was so feeble as to be almost non-existent.

  They burst out of Merstham tunnel into dazzling sunshine. Twenty minutes later, they entered Balcombe tunnel, going beneath the reservoir that all the train drivers joked was the Brighton line car-wash for trains. And, sure enough, water pelted down from the roof and he had to switch the wiper on. The engineers said the tunnel was safe, despite all this leaking water. Yeah, right. One of Stan’s colleagues had joked that the last sound anyone would hear, the day the world ended, would be the voice of an engineer explaining how it could not happen.

  Exiting from the tunnel they crossed his favourite part of this whole journey. The gorgeous Ouse Valley Viaduct, with its spectacular views to both sides of the magnificent Sussex countryside. Now, ahead, there was only one more tunnel of significance, the one-and-a-half-mile-long one at Clayton, and they would then be close to their destination.

  Stan wondered if there was any possibility of meeting Her Majesty. Just for a few seconds. How amazing would that be? Maybe he could jump down from his cab as soon as they were safely halted at Brighton and wait for her to walk past along the platform. He could try bowing and doffing an imaginary hat, perhaps, to get her attention. It might at least make her smile.

  He held that thought as they passed a barren cornfield and he looked at his watch. They were doing fine. They would arrive at Brighton Station well inside those fourteen minutes of leeway. In fact, provided there were no hold-ups, they would be pretty much bang on time. He allowed himself a smile. A rather proud smile. If he gauged it right they might even arrive on the absolute dot!

  They passed through Haywards Heath, the northbound and southbound platforms of this major commuter station near-deserted. As they did so an up-line express flashed by to their right, passing just a couple of feet away.

  In a moment they would round a curve in a deep cutting, and he would see another of his favourite sights, the magnificent north entrance to Clayton Tunnel, with its striking turrets. It had been designed to resemble a Gothic castle. The intention had been to instil a sense of safety and security for rail travellers, to allay their fears on entering this very long, dark tunnel through the South Downs. And it really did look like a miniature castle, complete with its twin crenellated towers either side of a small dwelling on top. It had originally been created as a signalman’s cottage, but for many years it had been a private residence. Occasionally he would see one of the occupants at a window waving, and he would always smile and wave back.

  Then Briggs heard a voice he recognized on his radio, sounding very anxious. A signaller from Three Bridges.

  ‘Stan. The up-line driver’s reported what he thinks is an obstruction on the southbound line in Clayton Tunnel. Halt your train! Halt your train immediately!’

  Shit.

  For a split second, Briggs was torn between slamming the brakes full on and hurtling The Queen and all other passengers forward, potentially causing injuries, or slowing more gradually.

  The signaller’s words flashed through his brain. What he thinks is an obstruction.

  Not definitely an obstruction.

  He went for a compromise, braking as hard as he dared as they shot into the entrance, the darkness of the railway tunnel instantly enveloping them, along with the din echoing around them. The speed dropped: 60mph . . . 50mph . . .

  Although just 1.5 miles long, for some reason this feebly lit tunnel always felt longer to Stan. The exit was, at this moment, just the faintest distant pinprick of light. He glanced at the cold grey walls, up at the curved roof, then the faint glint from the rails, seemingly unspooling in front of them.

  40mph.

  Then he saw something.

  Jesus.

  Something on the track.

  It wasn’t possible.

  Oh no, please no.

  He dived for the brake, slamming it full on, but it was already too late. The cab rose up, as if it was on a ramp, then down, but it was no longer on the rails. It was jolting, jarring, jolting, shaking across the sleepers, shaking him out of his seat and throwing him across the cab floor. Sparks were shooting like a lightshow in front of him.

  Oh Christ. Oh please, God, no. Not this train, not this train, oh please no.

  The walls were hurtling past. The cab rocked from side to side and he was fearful it was about to capsize. The train was slithering, snaking, bumping. Slowing. Stan tried to get to his feet but was thrown sideways. Then, just as he tried again, the train abruptly came to a standstill, hurtling him up and forward, cracking his head fiercely at the top of the windscreen. He fell to the floor, dazed, his head in agony.

  All he could hear for a moment was silence. Then a hiss, a crackling sound. The acrid stench of burning electrics.

  8

  Monday 20 November 2023

  Inside the royal sitting-room carriage, which was heeled over at an angle, with the lights flickering, the startled and slightly dazed Queen, flung from her desk, lay on the floor. There were wisps of smoke in the carriage, a loud crackling sound of shorting electrics and someone close by was shouting.

  Shaken but unhurt, Queen Camilla’s endless training in emergency situations kicked in. She looked around, anxious to see if anyone was injured. For an instant, the lights went out, plunging them into darkness. Then they came back on and she could see what appeared to be the contents of a handbag strewn all over the floor along with a broken teacup and a spreading pool of milk. Lady Elena Trevelyan, a statuesque figure normally unruffled by anything, was also on the floor, looking shocked and missing a shoe. Peregrine Greaves, looking dazed but struggling back onto his feet, had an ugly gash down the right side of his forehead. Tiny, in a rear-facing seat, was one of the few in the carriage who appeared OK.

  ‘I think we should get off the train,’ The Queen said, her voice shaky. ‘In case it catches fire. Everyone OK to do that? Anyone need help? Where’s Jayne?’

  ‘I’m here,’ Jayne said firmly from just behind her. ‘Your Majesty, we’re fine, I think we’re all fine!’

  The Queen, helped to her feet by her Protection Officer, Jon Gilhall, who seemed unscathed, stood shakily several seconds before Greaves, no longer gliding now but striding like a clockwork toy, reached her.

  ‘You – Your – Your Majesty,’ he said, looking totally bewildered. ‘I – are you – you?’

  He seemed to forget what he wanted to say.

  ‘Sir,’ Gilhall said, looking around warily, one hand inside his jacket, where he kept his gun, ‘sit down, I’ll get someone to bring the royal doctor.’ His eyes darted to both of The Queen’s Companions. Tiny, on her knees, was helping Lady Trevelyan gather up the contents of her handbag.

  Pulling out his phone and stabbing the keypad, Gilhall hurried to the drawer containing the first aid kit. Then he cursed. ‘No signal.’

  The Queen reached for her handbag, pulled a handkerchief out and dabbed the Private Secretary’s badly cut face. ‘It’s a nasty gash, Perry,’ she said. ‘Are you OK?’

  He gave an uncertain nod. ‘I – I don’t – don’t know – what’s happened?’

  ‘There’s been an accident, sit down, help will be coming.’

  ‘I’m OK, Your Majesty, Ma’am. I’m fine.’ He sounded anything but.

  She looked at her two Queen’s Companions. ‘I can smell burning. We need to evacuate and check on the other carriages, see if anyone is hurt and get them out. Understand?’

  The Queen’s Companions nodded, Elena shaking badly and looking in shock.

  ‘I’ll call for help.’ The Queen pulled her phone out of her bag with a trembling hand. Then she saw, too, there was no signal.

  ‘Sorry, Ma’am, I can’t get a signal either,’ Gilhall said.

  Suddenly the carriage door opened, and the bespectacled face of a man in his sixties appeared. He had blood running from a cut on the top of his head and one of his glass lenses was cracked. He was holding a small torch in his hand. ‘I’m the train driver, Your Majesty,’ he gasped, ‘we must get out, everyone must get out NOW!’

  An instant later, the tall, wiry frame of another of The Queen’s Protection Officers, PC Dambe, appeared in the carriage, holding a large torch. ‘Your Majesty!’ he said, the relief on his face palpable as he saw she was on her feet. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Thank you, Julian, I’m fine. How is everyone else?’

  ‘I’ll check, Ma’am.’

  ‘Your Majesty,’ the bespectacled man blurted out, louder and even more urgently. ‘I’m the driver. We’ve been derailed by something on the line. Part of this train is now across the northbound line and there’s an express from Brighton due in fifteen minutes. I’ve got no phone or radio signal in here. You’ve got to get away from the train. God knows what will happen if we can’t stop that train.’

  ‘Fifteen minutes?’ Dambe said. ‘Are you sure we have fifteen minutes?’

  ‘Could be less,’ the driver said. ‘Unless the Three Bridges signaller has already stopped it. But I don’t want to take the risk.’

  ‘I’m a runner. Which is the fastest way out of the tunnel?’ Dambe asked.

  Stan jerked a thumb. ‘South, keep going.’

  ‘What do I do to stop that express?’

  ‘Dial the nines and ask for British Transport Police,’ Briggs blurted. ‘You might get a signal as you get near the entrance. They’ve got to speak to the signalling centre at Three Bridges, make sure they know exactly what’s happened.’ He offered the RaSP officer his torch. ‘You’re going to need this.’

  Dambe shook it away, pulling a small one from his inside pocket and switching on its powerful beam. ‘I’m good.’

  The two Royal Protection Officers conferred briefly. Then, as Dambe jumped down, the driver said, ‘Be really careful, it’s dark, don’t trip, and just walk on the ballast – don’t walk on any wood, it will be slippery, and don’t walk on anything metal or go to the centre of the track – the electric rails on both sides are live.’

  As if to emphasize this, there was a sudden flurry of loud crackles, and more white sparks visible through the carriage window.

  As the RaSP officer squeezed past members of the royal entourage who were climbing down from the carriages and ran off into the darkness, the driver turned to The Queen. ‘Your Majesty, you must get away from the train, we need to get everyone away, but you are the priority.’

  ‘I want to know everyone’s safe first,’ she said. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Stan – Stanley – Briggs, Your Majesty.’

  ‘All right, Stanley, I understand what you’re saying, but I’m not leaving until I know all of my team are off the train and heading to safety with me. My life isn’t any more important than anyone else’s.’

  ‘Beg pardon, Ma’am, but you are the priority.’

  Jon Gilhall returned with an open first aid box and went up to the Private Secretary. But Greaves, who seemed to be recovering fast, despite the blood running down his face, brushed him away. ‘I’m fine. Go and check on everyone, we’ve got to get everybody out of this damned tunnel. But our priority is The Queen’s safety. Take care of her and I’ll sort everyone else out.’

  The train driver climbed back down onto the ground, into the narrow space between the carriage and the tunnel, aiming the torch so that Jon Gilhall could see. The officer jumped down onto the uneven ground, then held up a hand to The Queen, as Stanley Briggs illuminated the two steps with his torch. There was minimal natural light emanating from the tunnel’s southern opening.

  Moments later The Queen, surprising Stanley with her agility, was standing beside him on the large chunks of loose gravel between the train and the tunnel wall.

  Briggs was blinking hard, a cold shiver worming through him. If this wasn’t the worst nightmare? The Queen of England, with a rip in her dress, her hair dishevelled, standing beside him in a dark, dank tunnel, with electrics fizzing and crackling, a hazardous walk to safety, and an oncoming express train.

  ‘Follow me, Your Majesty, please,’ he said. Then he looked at his watch. The express was now due in eleven minutes. If that officer didn’t make it in time, if no one was able to stop that express from the Three Bridges signal box, the consequences were unthinkable.

  The Protection Officer, with the aid of his torch and a colleague, helped the two Queen’s Companions and her Private Secretary, Jayne, down. Then Queen Camilla asked, ‘Jon, can you check everyone is safely off the train or if anyone is badly injured?’ She could see a growing number of figures standing by the train a little further along.

  ‘Your Majesty,’ the driver implored, ‘please follow me.’

  ‘We should go, Ma’am,’ Peregrine Greaves said, ‘you’re in danger being here.’

  ‘As I have said, I’m not leaving until I know everyone is safe.’ She made her point emphatically. ‘I want a head count.’

  She could hear voices along the tunnel, as more people clambered down from the train.

  ‘Understood, Your Majesty,’ Briggs said. ‘But – we are in real danger – I cannot emphasize that enough. Not just from other trains, but also from fire and explosion.’

  ‘Fine, you go,’ she said. ‘Go!’

  He stared at her for a moment as if not understanding. ‘I’m not going without you, Ma’am.’

  Briggs looked at his watch again. Ten minutes.

  Moments later, a bright beam of light fleetingly blinded them, and a distraught Royal Train Manager appeared, holding two torches. ‘Your Majesty, oh my God, thank God, you are safe. Are you hurt, Ma’am?’ Quentin Haig asked.

  ‘I’m fine, Quentin, everyone in my carriage is fine. Is anyone badly injured?’

  He shook his head. ‘No, everyone is OK and off the train. We’ve got to get away from here – there’s a northbound express due.’

  ‘We know,’ Greaves said tersely.

  Haig handed The Queen a torch. ‘We’re going to have to walk, I’m afraid, Ma’am.’

  ‘Really, Quentin? You mean they can’t fly the helicopter in here to get us?’

  ‘No, Ma’am,’ he said, totally missing her humour. ‘It’s too low.’

  9

  Monday 20 November 2023

  Sir Jason Finch was a well-liked member of the Royal Household. In his role as Keeper of the Privy Purse – essentially Comptroller of The King’s finances – he had one of the finest offices in Buckingham Palace, a corner ground floor on the east wing, with glorious views of the parade ground from both windows. He loved the views and he loved his work.

  His increasingly portly figure attested to his years, post-military, of what he called proper lunching and dining. Today he was looking forward to a regular lunch meeting at Wiltons, his favourite fish restaurant, with an art dealer and old school friend, James Mayor. Mayor always knew exactly what was going on in the art world, and he liked to pick his expert’s brains.

  In particular, today, he was interested in asking Mayor about the recent explosion in value of the paintings of a number of historic artists currently in fashion. In an article in the Financial Times he had in front of him, he saw that Gustav Klimt’s Dame mit Fächer had recently sold for a world record £85.3 million. And that Claude Monet’s Le bassin aux nymphéas had made nearly £60 million. They had no Klimt works in the Royal Collection, but they did have several Monets. They also had some Fragonards – and one had been sold a few years ago for another world record – £17 million.

  He had recently – and discreetly – taken some photographs on his phone of high-value paintings in the Royal Collection, to show the art dealer at lunchtime, over a bottle of Mayor’s favourite tipple, Corton Charlemagne.

  Using scissors, he carefully cut out the newspaper article, folded it and placed it in a file, which he slipped into one of the drawers of his desk.

  10

  Monday 20 November 2023

  Roy Grace had taken a few minutes out of work, needing a break from the double murder case he was working on. He made a fresh cup of coffee and sat back down, googling ‘air fryers’. It seemed that everyone he and Cleo knew had recently bought one of these kitchen appliances and swore by them as both an efficient cooking tool and good for the environment, too.