‘I’m here!’

  As he ended the call, Grace looked at his watch. It was now almost 1.15 p.m. The drive from here to Terminal 5 would take around forty minutes. Sir Tommy and his wife would have reached it at about midday. Given that airlines, particularly if you had check-in baggage, required you to be there a minimum of two hours ahead, it was likely their flight wouldn’t be until 2 p.m. at the earliest. One of dozens taking off every hour. Which gave the police at the airport a possible window of only forty-five minutes to find the couple.

  He turned to Branson. ‘Where the hell have they gone?’

  ‘What was it Rose Cadoret said? You’re the detective, you figure it out.’

  Grace studied Branson’s face for a moment, as if the answer was written on it. ‘I’m the detective, figure it out,’ he murmured. ‘So let’s imagine he has so much luggage because it’s full of loot – stolen items. And he knows the police are after him. Where’s he going to go?’ He looked quizzically at his colleague.

  From out in the hallway they heard a sharp, ‘Cuckoo!’

  It startled them both.

  ‘It would drive me nuts to have that going off every fifteen minutes in my house!’ Branson said.

  ‘They have their uses.’ Grace gave a knowing smile, which Branson didn’t pick up on.

  ‘Cuckoo clocks? Yeah, well, each to their own.’

  Grace clapped his hands. ‘OK, let’s focus on where Sir Tommy and Lady Magellan-Lacey might be going.’

  ‘Somewhere that doesn’t have an extradition treaty with the UK?’

  ‘Move to the top of the class.’

  ‘Where do we find out which countries those are?’

  ‘I know them,’ Grace said. ‘There aren’t many. Currently, Russia, China, North Korea, the United Arab Emirates and Saudi Arabia. There may be a few more that I can’t think of.’

  ‘So we’re going to have to find out all the flights leaving this afternoon to all those countries?’

  ‘No, we haven’t time, we’re going to need to eliminate some. North Korea for starters. Tell me, which would be your country of preference, if you were heading off with a big stash?’

  Branson shrugged. ‘The Emirates would be top of my list. Sunshine and bling – what’s not to like?’

  ‘Mine too,’ Grace agreed, glancing at his watch again. ‘But if we are right about Sir Tommy – and I’m increasingly sure we are – I don’t think he’d be dumb enough to travel with his wife under their real names.’

  ‘I agree.’

  The cat prowled into the room and miaowed again.

  ‘Maybe we can narrow it down,’ Grace said.

  ‘How?’

  Grace locked eyes with him. ‘You need a new ID, fake passport, fake everything. You’re going to go for a common surname and not one that sticks out, right?’

  ‘You mean like Smith or Jones or Williams or Brown or—’

  Grace looked pointedly down at the cat.

  Branson’s eyes widened. ‘George? Is that what you’re suggesting?’

  Grace shrugged. ‘Good as any and it’s right under your nose. We have to start somewhere.’ He picked up the phone and called Luke Stanstead. When the researcher answered, Grace gave him his instructions: to extremely urgently get onto the London Heathrow Terminal 5 police, and request the passenger lists for all flights leaving this afternoon for Dubai, and any parts of Russia, China and Saudi Arabia. He was to look in particular for common surnames, and he was to call him back immediately if there was a Mr and Mrs George booked on any flight. Also, just in case the Magellan-Laceys were travelling under their real names, he told Luke to check for those too.

  As he ended the call, the cat miaowed again, very plaintively.

  ‘Let’s find some food for him,’ Grace said. ‘You never know, he might just have earned himself a slap-up dinner.’

  Branson knelt and began opening cupboard doors.

  107

  Thursday 30 November 2023

  Tommy Magellan-Lacey was feeling pretty damned pleased with himself. A couple of glasses of the perfectly acceptable pink champagne British Airways provided in their Gold lounge had added to his well-being. And equally importantly to his wife’s.

  ‘Cheers, my darling! To our rather rosy – or should I say rosé – future.’ He lay back in his comfortable seat and clinked glasses with his wife.

  ‘A rosy future, indeed!’ Fiona replied.

  They were both so pleasantly woozy.

  With all the money they had, as well as the treasures in their luggage, for which he already had buyers lined up, he was never going to have to work a day in his life, ever again. Nor Fiona.

  He kept a watchful eye on the flight departure board. Theirs was still showing on time. The sooner they were away the better. He wouldn’t fully relax until they were in the air. But he was chilled enough now. That rather beady detective, Roy Grace, would be focusing his attentions on Rose Cadoret – and Tommy had enough on her to ensure her ongoing silence. And thanks to the crazy bitch’s actions, he was guaranteed Smoke’s silence. That thought made him smile.

  Happy days!

  And if the balloon did go up – well, hey – by then he and Fiona would have long left Dubai and be safely ensconced in beautiful Georgia where he had a couple of very interested buyers for some of the merchandise they had stored in their warehouse. It was another country that had no extradition treaty with the UK. But also a very nice place to live. Until they decided where, in the world that was now their oyster, to buy their forever home.

  He stood up, a little unsteadily, clutching his and Fiona’s glasses, and topped them up again. As he did so he felt a sudden burst of exuberance like nothing he’d ever experienced before.

  I’m a millionaire! He felt like shouting it out across the packed lounge. I’m a millionaire! No, correction! I’m a MULTI-MILLIONAIRE!

  It was all in his phone. In Bitcoins.

  Oh my God!

  He handed Fiona her glass. Then clinked his against hers. ‘To the future, my darling!’

  ‘To our future!’ she said.

  ‘Indeed!’

  Champagne spilled over the rim of his glass as he sat – almost falling – back down, the seat lower than he had remembered. Instantly he felt a damp sensation on his lap and he peered down, seeing a dark patch. It looked like he had peed himself.

  ‘Bugger,’ he said.

  Then he saw the change on the Departures screen to Boarding. Gate B14.

  Clutching his very precious briefcase, he said, ‘We should go, darling.’

  ‘Let’s finish our champagne,’ she said. ‘They’re not going to take off without us, not with all the luggage we have on board!’

  He grinned. ‘Good point.’

  Five minutes later they rode the escalator down. He was now a totally different persona to the old Sir Tommy Magellan-Lacey, Master of the Royal Household, who was always attired in a Huntsman suit, Hilditch and Key shirt and conservative old Marlburian or Athenaeum Club tie. Now he wore a Panama hat at a jaunty angle, Ray-Ban sunglasses, a white Paul Smith jacket over a pink linen shirt, his damp-lapped chinos and, sockless, Todd loafers.

  Fiona too looked pretty different to her past twinset and pearls persona. Her brown hair bunched up inside a blonde wig, to match her new passport, she wore an emerald Versace trouser suit and Prada sandals.

  The pair strode, a little light-headedly and somewhat unsteadily, against what seemed an endless tide of travellers flowing towards them. They negotiated, in their boozed-up carefree haze of happiness, the oncoming barrage of wheely bags, wheelchairs, mobile phoners, loose children and dodderers, passing some of the fancy shops – nothing in the windows out of their price range now – and then another escalator down to the shuttle platform.

  A few minutes later they emerged from the train and took the two long escalators up. Tommy held his beloved wife’s hand as they walked on, at the top, towards Gate B14, their flight to Dubai, towards freedom and the start of their new life.

  He felt so incredibly excited. It had worked! They’d done it, got away with it! They were rich beyond their wildest dreams!

  And beyond the reach of the British law!

  Gate B14 was ahead. The electronic sign said, BA 2971 Dubai.

  Just a few more minutes!

  They joined the Priority Boarding queue.

  An announcement was made. Boarding had started for all passengers with a 0 or a 1 on their boarding cards. They had a 1 on theirs, of course!

  A few people in wheelchairs were pushed through. Then a bunch of parents with annoyingly shouty sprogs. Then he and Fiona held their printed cards as they approached the automatic gate. A man in front was struggling with his boarding card on his phone, which the machine didn’t seem to want to accept. He was about to turn away when it finally went green and the gates opened. The light went red, then green again and Fiona went through. And a few moments later he was through too.

  Then two police officers, in full airport protection kit and holding sub-machine guns, stepped into their path. They were apologetic and very polite.

  ‘Mr and Mrs George?’ one of them, a clean-shaven male, in his early thirties, asked.

  Tommy gave them his most charming smile, practised to pitch-perfect on monarchs and their acolytes over the past decade. ‘Yes, can I help you?’

  ‘We’d like you to come with us, please.’

  Tommy and Fiona exchanged a nervous glance. ‘What is this about exactly, officers?’ he asked.

  ‘We’d like you to come with us, sir,’ the officer repeated, a little firmer and a little colder.

  Tommy looked around, suddenly feeling bewildered. All the feel-good from the booze suddenly drained away. ‘I’m terribly sorry,’ he said. ‘My wife and I have a flight to catch.’

  ‘I’m aware of that, sir. But I need you to come with me.’

  Tommy shook his head. ‘No, I’m sorry, we are boarding.’

  ‘Sir,’ the officer said, even more insistently now. ‘If you don’t agree to come with us voluntarily, then we will have no option but to arrest you and your wife, here in front of everyone.’

  The officer’s colleague was a robust-looking woman, with an equally robust expression.

  ‘Nicholas,’ Fiona said. ‘There’s clearly a mix-up of some kind. We should go with them – and we’ll get it sorted out.’

  Tommy jabbed the air with his finger. ‘Officer, you are making a terrible mistake.’

  108

  Thursday 30 November 2023

  ‘And no mistake,’ Grace said with a wide grin as he sat in the passenger seat of the Ford, staring at the photographs of Mr Nicholas and Mrs Virginia George that had been sent through to his phone.

  Glenn Branson was driving on blue lights along the M4 towards Heathrow Airport, following closely behind the escort of two police motorcyclists that Greg Mosse had arranged, to help them cut through the traffic. ‘You are sure, boss?’

  ‘Bet my life on it. It’s him, and I recognize her from the photos in their kitchen.’

  ‘When did you suspect?’

  ‘Only in the past few days, for sure. He’s been very clever at covering his tracks.’

  ‘He’s so charming. So damned charming.’

  ‘Ted Bundy was charming, too. A lot of the women giving evidence against him in court thought he must be an attorney – either for the defence or prosecution. It was his charm that enabled him to get away with it for so long. He was executed in 1989 for the rape and murder of two college students, and the attempted murder of a twelve-year-old girl. He eventually confessed to the FBI officer who arrested him to twenty-nine rapes and killings. But the FBI believe his total tally was around one hundred. Dr Harold Shipman was charming too. He despatched two hundred and fifty patients, who all adored him.’ He continued. ‘A great mentor of mine, way back when I first became a detective, told me that the essence of being a good detective is not so much what you know already, but knowing the questions to ask. Do you know the questions you are going to ask Mr and Mrs George?’

  Branson nodded. ‘I do. The first one is, where the hell do they keep their cat food?’

  109

  Thursday 30 November 2023

  Gregg Mosse was standing outside the front entrance of the Arrivals Hall of Terminal 5, as Glenn Branson pulled the car up.

  As they climbed out, Grace strode up to him, holding out his hand. ‘The great man himself!’

  Missing entirely the subtle innuendo, Mosse almost simpered. ‘Well, thank you, Roy – and nice to see you, Detective Inspector Ronson.’

  ‘It’s Branson.’

  ‘Ah right, yes, like the pickle!’

  ‘Yeah, the T is silent,’ Branson retorted for the second time.

  Mosse briefly frowned, clearly not getting this jibe, either. ‘Ah.’ He turned back to Grace. ‘Well, Roy, I was not going to miss this big moment.’

  Grace thought: Of course not, of course you wouldn’t want to miss the opportunity of claiming the glory of this for yourself.

  Mosse doled out a badge on a lanyard to each of them. ‘I’ve got you both airside passes. I’m afraid we still have to go through damned security.’

  They followed Mosse, and an armed airport police officer they weren’t introduced to, through a lane marked Fast Track, all four of them depositing their phones in a tray, and their jackets, belts and boots in another, and walked in turn through the screener. Dressed again, the four of them walked along a corridor, up two flights of stairs, and then into a small, windowless room.

  Two armed officers stood at the back of the room. Behind the couple who sat in front of them, at a bare metal table.

  It was a slight shock for Grace, for a moment, to see the normally very conservatively dressed Sir Tommy looking so louche, in his white jacket, and pink shirt. And wearing an expression that was somewhere between defiant and sheepish.

  Fiona looked very different to her photographs in the house. In those, she had brown hair. She was now a glamorous blonde. And with a look on her face that was anything but glamorous at this moment.

  Over the years, Roy Grace had learned to read the expressions of arrested suspects. In particular how so many transitioned from one of defiance to one of defeat. He saw the latter in their faces now.

  ‘Mr and Mrs George!’ Grace said. ‘How very nice to meet you. Mr George, you remind me so much of someone I know.’

  ‘OK, Roy, well done. I misjudged you,’ the Master said.

  Grace stood for a moment, silently, sizing him up and then his wife.

  ‘Sir Thomas Burnett Julian Magellan-Lacey, I’m arresting you on suspicion of conspiracy to murder and conspiracy to commit theft.’ He read him the rest of his rights, then addressed his wife. ‘Lady Fiona Ariane Susan Magellan-Lacey, I’m arresting you on conspiracy to commit theft. You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned, something you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’

  She stared back at him coldly and without any hint of emotion.

  Then Glenn Branson, unable to restrain himself, spoke up. ‘Sir Tommy, I think maybe you’ll now agree that I’ve made a better job of this investigation than I did of dunking my biscuit?’

  110

  Friday 15 December 2023

  ‘Cuckoo clock?’ The Queen said.

  ‘Cuckoo clock?’ The King repeated, frowning amiably.

  Roy Grace sat on a sofa facing them across an elegant coffee table, on which was the delicate china teacup and saucer he had been handed by the butler. Grace had put it down because he was shaking, nervous again in their company and terrified of spilling any on the carpet.

  They were in Their Majesties’ private drawing room in Clarence House, which had a comfortable, lived-in feel. Everything felt on a smaller scale than the grand formality of Buckingham Palace. Even the paintings and ornaments seemed smaller, and there were personal touches, Grace noticed, which included framed family photographs dotted around, Christmas cards and invites on the mantelpiece above the welcoming roaring fire, and a water bowl for the dogs on the floor.

  The King was dressed the way Grace had always seen him, in a conservative suit and tie, shoes polished to within an inch of some valet’s life. The Queen wore a powder-blue two-piece, buttoned high up. Her two Jack Russells sat nuzzled up to her legs.

  Grace had come at their invitation. The now Acting Master, Matthew Corbin, had phoned him to say they wanted to thank him personally.

  ‘I’ll explain, Your Majesties!’ Grace said.

  ‘Please do.’ The King smiled warmly. ‘We are most intrigued!’

  ‘Well, it was three weeks ago, my colleague, Detective Inspector Branson and I had just left Buckingham Palace and were driving back down to Sussex. I called Sir Tommy – it was just coming up to 3 p.m. I told him that from information I had received, the Holbein the Younger miniature of Anne of Cleves might be missing. Sir Tommy expressed great concern and said he would get back to me. While we were speaking I heard a cuckoo clock in the background calling 3 p.m.’

  The Queen raised her eyebrows.

  Grace smiled. ‘Indeed, Ma’am. Sir Tommy then rang me back, just five minutes later, and sounded quite distraught. He told me he had gone straight from his office and down to the vault, where the miniature was being stored during the renovations, and that it wasn’t there.’

  ‘Five minutes?’ The King said, with scepticism in his voice. ‘He rang you back in five minutes?’ His brow furrowed. ‘But that’s impossible. The cuckoo clock sounding 3 p.m. puts him in his home at St James’s Palace. It would take all of five minutes, going at quite a pace, to get from there to the front of Buckingham Palace, let alone down to the vaults. I doubt even Usain Bolt could have done it in that time.’

  Grace smiled again. ‘My point exactly. You should have been a detective, Sir.’

  The King replied with a laugh. ‘No, that would be my darling wife, she’d make a great one, with all the crime novels she reads!’

  The Queen nodded thoughtfully. ‘So, clearly Tommy wasn’t in his office on that first call, he was at home?’