As he enjoyed cooking, and all the more so cooking healthily with as little fat as possible, he avidly read the food sections of newspapers, curious about any new recipes. He’d recently started using avocado oil to cook with instead of olive oil, after reading that, at frying temperatures, olive oil became unhealthy. But he was struggling to get his head around the concept of air fryers.

  They definitely seemed to be energy-efficient, a big tick. But he was still not sure, despite Glenn Branson telling him that he and Siobhan wondered what they’d done before having one.

  Just as he clicked on Amazon, to look at what they had to offer, his phone rang.

  ‘Roy Grace,’ he answered, and immediately heard the voice of a Control Room operator he recognized, Carol Walker. The Comms operators were normally calm but Carol sounded way more anxious than the norm.

  ‘Sir,’ she said. ‘We’ve just been alerted to an incident involving the Royal Train bringing The Queen to Brighton. It’s a sketchy report but we understand the train has been derailed inside Clayton Tunnel.’

  For a moment, he did not believe his ears. ‘Derailed? What information do you have?’

  ‘Just that, sir.’

  ‘When you say derailed what exactly do you mean?’

  ‘That’s all the information I have, sir.’

  ‘Any report of casualties?’

  ‘No, sir, at least not so far. Oscar One is trying to get more details.’

  He thought hard for a moment. Derailed inside a tunnel. Was this the work of terrorists or protestors? But that didn’t matter for now. All that mattered was ensuring The Queen was safe. ‘Who’ve you alerted so far?’ he asked.

  ‘Fire and Rescue, the Ambulance Service, all Armed Response units and of course British Transport Police. Oscar One has requested NPAS-15 to attend in case it is needed – and the Royalty and Specialist Protection team. The Duty Inspector at Haywards Heath is sending all resources they have to both ends of the tunnel. I thought that, as Silver Investigations, you needed be informed, sir.’

  NPAS-15 was the National Police Air Service helicopter for their area.

  ‘Thank you,’ Grace said, barely able to believe what he was hearing. ‘The Royal Train – you are absolutely sure?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And The Queen is definitely on board?’

  ‘From what I understand, sir.’

  ‘Please update me with any news.’

  ‘Yes I will, sir, either myself or Oscar One.’

  Ending the call, Grace, thinking shit, speed-dialled his immediate boss, Nigel Downing. ‘Sir,’ he said, as soon as the Assistant Chief Constable, a calm and pragmatic man, answered. ‘In case you haven’t already heard, we have a Major Incident.’

  ‘I’ve not heard anything, Roy. What’s up?’

  Grace related what he had just been told. Downing was silent for a moment, then asked, ‘Is there any terrorist implication here?’

  ‘I don’t know yet, sir.’

  ‘Do you think those anti-monarchists might be behind it?’

  ‘It would be an unconscionable change in tactics for the major groups, sir, but an unknown splinter group could be a possibility.’

  ‘Shit,’ Downing said. ‘Not great for Sussex, is it?’

  Grace raised an eyebrow, a little surprised Downing was more concerned for the PR image of Sussex than Queen Camilla’s welfare.

  ‘BTP will have primacy on this, for now, I suppose,’ Downing continued.

  British Transport Police was a separate national police force, with the same powers as the regular force, but funded independently by the railways. They always had initial command of any incident occurring on railway property.

  ‘I imagine the Scotland Yard Counter Terrorism team will be all over it within the hour,’ Grace said.

  After a few moments, Downing said, ‘I’ll inform the Chief – update me as soon as you hear anything more.’

  Grace assured him he would, then immediately called Glenn Branson.

  ‘Dull day at the office?’ the Detective Inspector answered. ‘Need someone to chat to, to relieve the mahogany, as my old teacher would say?’

  ‘We have a major crisis on our hands, mate.’

  ‘I have one, too,’ Branson retorted. ‘But you go first.’

  ‘How about Queen Camilla’s train derailed inside Clayton Tunnel? Would that be more of a crisis?’

  There was a brief silence. ‘No way?’

  ‘Seriously.’

  ‘Holy crap.’

  ‘That’s one way of putting it.’

  ‘Is she hurt?’

  ‘I’m waiting on news. Who do we have available to respond if we need?’

  ‘Norman and Polly are in. I’ve got a car signed out, we can be on the road in less than five.’

  ‘I’ll get back to you,’ Grace said.

  ‘You know something, boss – beats me why she’d want to travel on an ancient piece of rolling stock, when she’s got a pukka helicopter at her disposal.’

  ‘Apparently Her Majesty believes the train is safer.’

  ‘Does she still think that?’

  11

  Monday 20 November 2023

  Queen Camilla, wishing that she had worn comfortably flat shoes today, shone the torch she’d been given at the lumps of gravel in front of her. Then she led the Private Secretary, with her shocked entourage stumbling raggedly behind. Brenda Warner, her dresser, was lugging two bags of The Queen’s clothes as if she was welded to them. Others were guided by their phone torches, as she followed the driver, who was some yards ahead and striding quickly, if a little unsteadily, on the uneven surface, through the cold, musty air. Every few moments, the driver raised his phone high, as if checking for a signal, then would turn and wave the royal party on, anxiously.

  Urgently.

  ‘Please hurry, Your Majesty,’ he implored.

  The Queen stumbled on as fast as she could, feeling it was a bit like walking on a pebble beach. There was an eerie silence, the only soundtrack being the echoes of mass footsteps, the crunch of the stones and the occasional murmured curse, as someone in the single-file line behind her stumbled. The curved walls and roof were a relentless grey, and Queen Camilla saw occasional tiny red dots – the eyes of rodents – ahead. She turned to check on Peregrine Greaves. He gave a bleak nod of reassurance and called out, more in hope than certainty, ‘Not far to go, Your Majesty.’

  Then he tripped and fell flat on his face.

  The Queen turned and, assisted by Jon Gilhall, got the Private Secretary back onto his feet.

  ‘Perry, are you all right?’ she asked. ‘If you’d prefer we can leave you here with someone, and send for a stretcher.’

  ‘I’m fine, thank you, Ma’am,’ he said, a tad huffily, as if he really, seriously, did not need to be asked that question, and briefly examined his hand, which was bleeding.

  The Queen shone her torch past Greaves, checking on all the rest of her entourage. As soon as she was satisfied everyone was all right, she soldiered on. As she did so, the words Peregrine had said earlier about the terrible disaster in this railway tunnel came back to her. That the screams of the victims could still be heard on stormy nights.

  She’d always had an open mind on the supernatural. Were the ghosts of these poor people still trapped inside? Were they around her and everyone in here now? She shuddered. God, they’d been walking for a good few minutes now, and that distant light only seemed a little closer than it had been when they’d started. She saw the bobbing torchlight of the driver, some way ahead. Watched him check his phone yet again and shake his head. As she walked, shadows jumped out of the dimly lit gloom. But were they shadows, or the spirits of the scalded-to-death victims?

  She shuddered again and walked on. Strode on. She was determined to motivate all those of her entourage behind her. Why the train had been derailed – what had caused it – was a question for later. For now her one duty was to lead the royal party out of this godforsaken tunnel to daylight. To safety.

  Her Equerry and Jon Gilhall were now striding alongside her. ‘Are you all right, Ma’am? Do you need to stop for a moment?’ Gilhall asked.

  ‘I’m fine, Jon, how is everyone else?’

  ‘I understand a couple of people are hobbling a bit with minor leg injuries from the accident, but everyone knows we need to get out of here. I’ve still got no phone signal.’

  ‘Incredible,’ she said. ‘With all the technology we have today and they can’t organize for people to get a bloody mobile phone signal in a railway tunnel? I need to call The King and let him know what is happening before he hears it from someone else. I must call him.’

  ‘Yes, Ma’am.’

  She glanced over her shoulder. ‘Keep an eye on Sir Peregrine, will you. I’m worried he may have some concussion. Make sure he doesn’t fall over again.’

  ‘I will, Ma’am.’

  Gilhall dropped back to join the Private Secretary, walking as close to him as he could, ready to catch him if he tripped again. But all the time keeping eyes on the person he was here to protect.

  Something was worrying him deeply and had been ever since the disaster had happened. Trains did not derail themselves. They were derailed by something.

  Someone.

  As he walked, he constantly looked ahead and behind him, his right hand close to the holstered Glock pistol nestling inside his suit jacket. As part of his training to become a RaSP officer, he’d been through countless scenarios in which he’d had to both respond to threats, and later account for his responses. Derailment of the Royal Train in a tunnel had never been a part of that curriculum.

  And it weighed heavily on him that in this ghastly railway tunnel, with no phone signal, and a potential threat out there, somewhere, his boss’s life might depend on him, and on him solely.

  No past responsibility had ever weighed so heavily on him.

  12

  Monday 20 November 2023

  No past responsibility had ever weighed so heavily on Stanley Briggs. And he had never felt so scared in his life. This journey, which should have been the proudest moment of his career, had turned into something way beyond his worst nightmare.

  He raised his phone up and looked at the screen again. Still no signal. He looked over his shoulder and saw The Queen keeping pace a few yards behind him, with the trail of stumbling, shadowy figures behind her.

  The Queen. It was The Queen. He couldn’t quite get his head around it. The Queen stumbling through the tunnel behind him. The Queen, who he should have delivered, proudly, to the platform at Brighton Station on the dot of 10.45.

  Now instead he was hurrying, as fast as he could, trying to lead her to safety, unsure whether the northbound express had been stopped, or would appear and hurtle past them at any moment. Hurtle into the carriages of the Royal Train, some of which now straddled the northbound line.

  Please don’t let that happen.

  At least they were well clear of the Royal Train now. And nearly out of the tunnel.

  Please God.

  As he strode on, his mind was a maelstrom of thoughts, going over and over those moments after he saw the obstacle, whatever it was, across the tracks. Trying to think what he could possibly have done differently.

  Was there anything?

  He raised his phone again. And this time he saw a single bar had appeared. Finally! Thank God, thank God! Still striding fast, he hit the button to call the signaller at Three Bridges.

  Nothing happened.

  Come on, come on, come on!

  Then, suddenly, to his joy – and relief – he heard a voice.

  ‘Three Bridges Signalling Centre.’

  ‘This is an emergency call from the driver of the Royal Train,’ he blurted. ‘Your team rang me earlier. We’ve been derailed inside Clayton Tunnel and the train is straddling the northbound line. You need to stop all trains in both directions and cut off the electric power. Do you read me?’

  ‘Copy, driver. We had already been alerted. Power has been switched off and all train traffic, northbound and southbound, has been halted. Do you have any casualties?’

  ‘No, no, I don’t think so. Some minor injuries, no one seriously hurt.’

  He felt so much relief flooding through him that he barely noticed, two minutes later, stepping out of the tunnel into brilliant sunlight, and the smell of grass and hogweed.

  He closed his eyes and mouthed a silent prayer.

  13

  Monday 20 November 2023

  Jon Gilhall was at The Queen’s side as they emerged from the tunnel into a deep cutting and the very distant cacophony of sirens. The train driver, looking ashen, was waiting for them. ‘Your Majesty, I – I don’t know what – what to say. There was something on the rail—’

  She smiled at him. ‘Thank you for leading us out, Stanley. It’s a big relief to be back in fresh air.’ She turned to check on Sir Peregrine Greaves, and could see the rest of her party straggling some way behind in the tunnel. Then she addressed Gilhall. ‘I feel I’ve walked out of a foul drain. It smells like a stagnant pond – and of soot, but there can’t have been steam trains for decades.’

  ‘I agree with you, Ma’am,’ he said, his eyes darting everywhere, along both sides of the cutting and up the grassy bank on either side for any sign of anything untoward, then at the tunnel entrance, the old brick surround and the darkness beyond, from which more and more of the passengers were emerging then stopping and standing, looking grateful to be breathing in fresh air. Some of them clearly shaken, others fine.

  Jon Gilhall radioed his colleagues; PC Julian Dambe immediately updated him. He confirmed all trains had been halted and the power turned off. A police helicopter would be overhead in approximately five minutes. Vehicles to transport the royal party would be on the scene shortly. ‘Can you see a service lift, Jon?’ Dambe asked.

  ‘I’m looking at it.’

  ‘There are two BTP officers with a key to operate it on their way, for anyone who is not able to climb the steps. You can see the steps?’

  He stared at the steep concrete steps. ‘Roger that. I can see the steps, yes, yes.’

  ‘They lead up to a farm track, where the vehicles will be arriving. I’m informed there’s also enough space for a helicopter to land, and a royal helicopter has been scrambled – it will be here in twenty minutes.’

  ‘Copy that,’ Gilhall said.

  Ending the call he turned to The Queen. He was concerned that they were all vulnerable here by the tunnel entrance. Any potential assailant had the height on them. He weighed his options. He could lead his boss back into the relative safety of the tunnel until the whole area was secure, or up the steps. Back into the tunnel was the sensible option. He explained it to her.

  The Queen looked at him for a moment as if he was mad. ‘I’m damned well not going back into that stinking tunnel, Jon. If you’re worried that I can’t climb those steps at my age, then think again!’ She turned to Greaves. ‘Are you up for climbing them, Perry?’

  He nodded resolutely.

  She turned to check again on the rest of her party. They were some distance behind them, slowly but steadily picking their way along the rough walkway.

  ‘You go ahead, Your Majesty, I’ll bring everyone else up,’ Briggs said.

  She signalled to her Protection Officer. ‘Let’s go.’

  Gilhall suppressed a smile. He admired the fact that, despite the ordeal she had been through, her torn dress and dishevelled hair, she still had poise as she made her way, sure-footed up the big, steep steps. He climbed them beside her, scanning everywhere with his eyes, Peregrine Greaves struggling behind them to keep up.

  After several minutes of hard climb, Gilhall and The Queen emerged onto a grassy knoll and into a welcome stiff breeze. He led her away from the steps, looking around warily. Several blocks of concrete were scattered around, as if they were once going to form part of those steps but were then not needed. There was a winding track fifty or so yards away, and an expanse of farmland all around, and in the near distance the gentle wooded and bushy slope of the South Downs.

  It was on the hillside that he focused his attention, feeling a deep sense of unease as he scoured it, and then the full 360 degrees around them, hand inside his jacket, close to his Glock. He was looking for any movement, any glint of reflected light. And hoping to hell that backup would be arriving at any moment. He knew his colleagues wouldn’t be far behind. Then he heard the voice of Sir Peregrine Greaves and turned.

  ‘I’m so bloody unfit!’ the Private Secretary said, gasping from the exertion.

  He looked all-in, Gilhall thought. As if the climb had taken everything out of him.

  Queen Camilla turned to Greaves. ‘Let’s sit down for a minute, Peregrine, and get our breath back.’ She pointed to one of the concrete blocks.

  Just as she did, there was a faint, distant sound, like the crack of a whip, and simultaneously Greaves’ hair appeared to lift up from his head.

  For an instant.

  And for an instant, Gilhall thought that the wind had dislodged Greaves’ wig.

  Then, fractions of a second later, Greaves’ head exploded, spattering blood, bone and brain in all directions.

  14

  Monday 20 November 2023

  Jon Gilhall, momentarily rooted to the spot despite all he had been trained for, tried to process what he was seeing.

  The top half of Sir Peregrine Greaves’ head literally exploded in a pink cloud. The Queen’s clothing was splattered with blood and pale brown particles.

  A shooter.

  Where?

  Then another crack, like a whip. Almost simultaneously splinters of concrete, just inches from The Queen, flew in the air around them.

  Christ.