‘It’s Detective Superintendent actually,’ he said somewhat smugly, with a big grin on his face.

  His demeanour immediately put Grace’s back up. All the same, he held out a hand. ‘Detective Superintendent Roy Grace. I am the SIO for this investigation.’

  ‘Really? OK.’ Mosse’s handshake felt as insincere as his reply. ‘So, I’d like a rundown of everything you have – if you could kindly brief my team.’ He indicated the group behind him.

  ‘Excuse me?’ Grace said.

  Mosse looked at him, perplexed. He even slowed his words down as if to underline this. ‘We will need to be fully briefed,’ Mosse said. ‘And we need to see the body.’ He pointed through the inner cordon. ‘That OK?’

  Grace smiled. ‘Well, I appreciate your interest, but this is a Sussex Police Crime Scene. I’ll be able to show you photographs and videos of the body later. British Transport Police are dealing with the derailment in the tunnel, where they have primacy. I’m sure they’ll be happy to talk to you.’ He pointed an arm along the track in the cutting below. ‘You can use that access point.’

  ‘Sorry, Roy,’ Mosse said. ‘This is our crime scene now.’

  Grace indicated Downing. ‘This is my boss, Assistant Chief Constable Downing. I think you’d better speak to him.’

  To Grace’s pleasant surprise, Downing rose to the occasion. ‘Detective Superintendent Mosse, Detective Superintendent Grace is Head of Major Crime for Surrey and Sussex and both the Chief Constable and I have complete faith in his ability to investigate any crime he is challenged with.’

  Mosse gave Roy Grace a strained look then turned his focus on Downing. ‘With respect, Assistant Chief Constable Downing, this is no ordinary tinpot murder enquiry. Are you and your colleagues – and your Chief Officers – not aware that someone has just tried to kill Her Majesty The Queen?’

  Grace butted in, addressing Mosse. ‘We don’t know this yet.’

  Mosse looked at him in astonishment. ‘I’m sorry?’

  Grace responded calmly. ‘A senior member of Her Majesty’s entourage has been shot dead. You are jumping to conclusions, and immediately making dangerous assumptions.’

  Mosse glared at him in undisguised fury. ‘You’re telling me not to make assumptions? Someone’s just tried to assassinate The Queen, what part of that don’t you understand?’ He shook his head and turned to Downing, as if for reassurance. ‘Is this officer of yours for real? He sounds barking mad!’

  Downing contemplated this for a moment. Then, in a reply that endeared him to Grace for ever, said, frowning, ‘Barking mad? Do you know the origin of this expression?’

  ‘What does that have to do with anything?’

  Downing pursed his lips. ‘Well, quite a lot actually. The term derives from Victorian days and is used to describe irrational – or mad – behaviour akin to the seemingly senseless barking of a dog. I find that a pretty insulting term to use on this well-respected detective, actually.’

  Before Mosse could respond, Grace addressed him. ‘You’re saying The Queen was obviously the target, and if you hear me out, I’ll explain why I think that may be wrong. Firstly, if we hypothesize the derailment and the shooting are connected, which they may well be, then we are looking at an organized, professional hit. I understand at the time the bullet struck Sir Peregrine, he and Her Majesty were just feet apart. I think you’d agree there is negligible wind today that could affect the flight of a bullet, right?’

  Mosse stared at him in angry silence. Grace was aware of the Met officer’s team behind him also listening.

  ‘According to our ballistics expert, who is currently on site, to be sure of an accurate head shot, the shooter must be within three hundred yards of the target. We are fairly confident we have already established where the shooter was located – within this range. If he aimed at the target’s head and was a lousy shooter, he might be a few inches out – right or left, up or down. But four feet off his target? There is no way a professional shooter could be that wide of their mark.’ He shrugged. ‘But, OK, let’s say this person was the worst shot in the world, that he couldn’t hit the proverbial barn door at six feet. He aims at The Queen and misses her but hits her Private Secretary, standing close by. He fires a second shot, which misses The Queen. Why doesn’t he take more shots? Would you like to tell me your hypothesis? Because I think you are looking in the wrong box.’

  The Met officer stared back at him, momentarily stumped.

  Grace went on. ‘I’ll tell you my hypothesis. It’s a very simple one. The Queen wasn’t the target, because Peregrine Greaves was.’

  22

  Tuesday 21 November 2023

  Had John Sheffield, born into nobility, perhaps been a better and more famous poet, his writing might have been his legacy. Instead it was the townhouse he built in 1703, as somewhat more than a mere London pied-à-terre, that was to immortalize his name.

  In that same year, Sheffield, a social climber of such scale he was more of a social mountaineer, a favourite of Queen Anne, part-time poet and full-time soldier was appointed to the Privy Council, from where he went on to become Lord Chamberlain and eventually Lord Privy Seal. The Queen bestowed on him the joint titles of Duke of Buckingham and Normanby.

  On his death the titles passed to his son, upon whose subsequent death, at the early age of nineteen, the titles became extinct. But Sheffield’s name lived on into both the history books and the twenty-first century, thanks to his London pad being bought by George III in 1761. George IV started the significant expansion of the Palace between 1820 and 1830 after it became the official royal residence. Queen Victoria and Prince Albert finished the development in 1837, with another expansion: the front East Wing. They financed the project by selling Brighton’s Royal Pavilion to the local council.

  Positioned east–west, Buckingham Palace has 775 rooms. The east facade with its sternly imposing grey Portland stone, gilded railings, statuesque guards, vast forecourt and solitary flagpole has been, for close to two centuries, the dominant and majestic global icon of Royalty.

  The back of the West Wing, out of sight to all but a privileged selection of the public invited to royal garden parties and those visiting on summer-opening tours, is equally imposing but warmer and more welcoming. Constructed from honey-coloured Bath stone, and designed in a neoclassical style with Corinthian columns and pediments and perfectly proportioned windows and doors, it overlooks, at forty acres, the largest private garden in London.

  The centrepiece of the west facade, and protruding handsomely from it, is a bow-fronted section. Copper-domed, columned and exquisitely ballustraded, it houses The King’s sitting room and private office on the first floor, with a fine view of two trees, and across the gardens to the lake. Directly below is the formal Garden Entrance, with a glass awning covering the four steps up to the doorway, beyond which there is both a staircase and a lift.

  In a break with royal tradition, Charles and Camilla currently resided at Clarence House, just a few minutes away. It had been King Charles’s London residence since 2003. Before then it was the home of the late Queen Mother. Because of ongoing renovations at Buckingham Palace for the past seven years – which were due to continue for at least another three – they were remaining at Clarence House for the time being.

  At 11 a.m. most weekday mornings since acceding to the throne, The King travelled in the State Bentley, driven by the Head Chauffeur, a former Royal Protection Officer, the Royal Standard fluttering from the roof. It was a short journey from Clarence House to Buckingham Palace, where the car pulled up outside the Garden Entrance in the West Wing, at the rear of the Palace.

  Normally, the Private Secretary, Sir Peregrine Greaves, would have travelled this short distance in the car with him, and another Royal Protection Officer, using the five-minute journey to discuss the key business of the day. And normally, The King would emerge from the rear left door to be greeted by the charming and ever-ebullient Master of the Royal Household, Major General Sir Thomas Magellan-Lacey, while the Private Secretary would leave by the right-hand door and head into the building.

  But today, in the emergency rescheduling that was to affect everything in the coming days, The King arrived at 9 a.m.

  Behind Sir Tommy, as normal, stood three liveried footmen, each holding a locked, ancient and very battered leather-bound box. These rectangular boxes were four inches deep, and the dimensions of a small briefcase. Only two people in the world had a key to the Master’s boxes – The King and the Master of the Royal Household, and their exchange was a daily routine. Each head of department had a personal box for their correspondence with His Majesty The King. They contained memos and actions required by King Charles, the urgent ones always handwritten in red ink, which Tommy affectionately called his Red Bombers, and the responses and follow-ups from the respective head of department.

  The fact that the footmen stood as usual, holding the boxes, was the only normal thing about today, Tommy thought.

  The chauffeur opened the rear door and The King, wearing a black tie with his dark grey suit, stepped out. Tommy was grateful to his wife, Fiona, for reminding him to put on a black tie, too. The former general had an unerring eye for detail, which had served him well during his past ten years in this post under the late Queen Elizabeth before the new King. Tired this morning after only a couple of hours’ sleep, and running on adrenaline and coffee, he’d nearly forgotten about the respectful tie because he’d had so much on his mind in the past twenty-four hours, and so many actions to deal with, which had kept him busy well into the small hours. And from the look on The King’s face, he was going to have even more today.

  Greeting his boss with his customary single deferential head-bow, he said, ‘Good morning, Your Majesty.’

  ‘What the hell’s good about it, Tommy?’ The King retorted.

  23

  Tuesday 21 November 2023

  Hollywood’s legendarily grumpy star W. C. Fields famously said, Start every day off with a smile and get it over with. There were occasional days when Tommy Magellan-Lacey felt that his boss, whom he admired and deeply respected, had taken a leaf out of the actor’s book. This was going to be one.

  The King was immensely hard-working but charming, caring and good fun with it. Normally. The flashes of temper that the press loved to pick up on, such as when a pen he was using didn’t work, were in reality few and far between. But when The King did have a mood on him, it always took every ounce of the Master’s tact and diplomacy to contain it. Tommy fully understood how it had been possible, in times long past, for a British monarch in a fit of pique to have a loyal subject’s head lopped off, on a whim. This was a day for walking on eggshells when around The King, he knew. But at least he had prepared as best he could.

  As the chauffeur took the boxes from the footmen and handed them the ones from inside the car, King Charles shook his head at the Master. ‘This is unbelievable, Tommy. I mean, poor Peregrine. Terrible, just terrible.’

  ‘It is, Sir. How is Her Majesty?’

  Indicating the Master to follow him, The King walked briskly up the steps of the Garden Entrance and, ignoring the lift – he never took one unless he absolutely had to, always preferring the exercise of walking – he strode up the staircase and entered the magnificently ornate bow-fronted room. The room, hung with spectacular paintings and a treasure trove of objets d’art, had doubled as his late mother’s sitting room and office and was, as the Master recalled, almost exactly as she had left it. Perhaps in time The King would put his own imprint on it, but it was only a year since Queen Elizabeth had died. Too soon.

  Following him in, Tommy waited for the footmen to put the two boxes on a table and retire, then closed the panelled door behind him. The King crossed to his desk, which was still covered in tiny items of silverware and priceless ornaments, and again shook his head. Then, venting anger, he said, ‘She’s like that bloody James Bond – shaken – very shaken – but not stirred.’ He gave him a strange look, half smiling, half angered.

  ‘She’s a strong woman, Sir,’ the Master replied.

  ‘Too damned strong for her own good. Someone tried to assassinate her, for God’s sake! And she’s just carried on like nothing happened. This is terrible – Peregrine shot dead.’ He shook his head, looking momentarily – and uncharacteristically – bewildered. He sat down at the desk, as if the weight of responsibility was pressing too heavily on his shoulders, then looked up. Softening his tone, he asked, ‘What are we doing to support dear Margot and all the staff, Tommy?’

  ‘I have this in hand, Sir, rest assured. I’ve spoken to the Apothecary, and he’s ready to see anyone who’s feeling in need of emotional support.’

  The Apothecary was the traditional name for the Palace doctor, who held a well-staffed medical centre in the Royal Mews.

  ‘And I’ve had discussions with the Lord Chamberlain, who is addressing all staff in the Ballroom at midday. He will tell them that counselling is available to anyone who feels they need it.’

  ‘Good. But what about Margot?’ Margot was Sir Peregrine Greaves’ widow.

  ‘I went to see her last night, Sir. Predictably, she’s in bits. But she told me all three of her daughters were on their way to Ambassadors’ Court to be with her. Just in terms of admin, other staff members have stepped up to cover the Private Secretary’s role in the interim.’

  King Charles shook his head and gave the Master a wan smile. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you, Tommy.’

  Magellan-Lacey gave a modest head-bow. ‘Thank you, Sir.’

  ‘And what about the investigation – what do we know so far?’

  ‘I’ve been in regular communication with the Commissioner of the Met, who—’

  ‘Sir Mark Peckham?’ The King interrupted.

  ‘Exactly, Sir. He has everything in hand, and is in turn liaising with the Chief Constable of Sussex – her name is Lesley Manning – and her senior team. I understand that she has put her top Major Crime detective in charge of the investigation – a Detective Superintendent Roy Grace. As you know, Her Majesty is now en route by helicopter to Hampshire to the first of two hospice visits today, and where the police are on the highest alert, with all leave cancelled, and additional protection being provided by the Army and the RAF.’

  The King stared up at him, looking increasingly agitated. ‘My darling wife is being so damned insistent, Tommy! Why can’t she understand there is some maniac out there trying to kill her? It’s all very well you telling me the police have things in hand. But you are not reassuring me!’

  ‘I’m afraid she is determined to finish her visits to the hospices, Sir.’

  The King shook his head again. ‘And who is this Grace character? Some provincial copper – why haven’t we got the top Met people on it?’

  ‘Officers from the Counter Terrorism Command are going to be on his team. But I understand he’s highly experienced, Sir, very well thought of – and the right man for where the incident happened, with a very great deal of local knowledge.’

  The King gave him a strange, withering look. ‘Incident? Are you calling the attempted murder of my wife just an incident?’

  He gave The King a placatory smile. ‘I was using police terminology, Sir.’

  ‘Hmmn. If you say so. I want to see this Grace fellow, can you get him here now?’

  ‘He’s coming up first thing tomorrow, to talk to Her Majesty.’

  ‘Why can’t I see him now?’ he said with a growing frustration.

  ‘I spoke to Her Majesty earlier. She is resolved to honour her commitments to the two hospices in Hampshire and will then return to London this evening. She’s not actually in his county any more – Grace is only responsible for Sussex and Surrey, not Hampshire. I have a call in to the Chief Constable there.’

  The King shook his head in near disbelief. ‘Tommy, I don’t like her out there, swanning around England, with a gunman on the loose. As I told her last night.’

  Major General Sir Tommy Magellan-Lacey said, standing very stiffly, ‘I’ll do my best, Sir. But you know Her Majesty.’ He gave The King another solemn head-bow.

  ‘I do!’ King Charles retorted. ‘Bloody determined.’

  24

  Tuesday 21 November 2023

  It wasn’t just all over the news, it pretty much was the news, both in the UK and around the world, eclipsing all other stories.

  The pressure on Roy Grace as he sat with his assembled team around the oval conference room table in the Major Crime Suite was immense. It was a few minutes past nine. He had not gone home last night, instead grabbing a couple of hours’ kip at around 4 a.m. on the makeshift camp bed he kept in his office cupboard for such purposes, then showering in the gym and changing into the fresh shirt and underwear he also kept in his office.

  The only respite he had was the knowledge that Queen Camilla had returned safely to London last night, and today would be visiting, as scheduled, the two hospices in Hampshire – another county, which was not his responsibility.

  Despite his lack of sleep, he was energized, thanks partly to a painfully icy shower he had deliberately inflicted on himself, partly to the cocktail of adrenaline and espresso surging through his body, and partly to the fury burning inside him. The fury that some bastard had, in the view of the world’s media, attempted to assassinate The Queen.

  He felt fully alert and ready to take on everything the day was going to throw at him. And it was going to throw a lot, including showing his presence at the Private Secretary’s postmortem, and holding a press conference – scheduled for midday. As he sat, he guided on his screen the very long roll of newspaper headlines, scrolling down the flat video monitor behind him.

  TENTATIVE D’ASSASSINAT CONTRE LA REINE D’ANGLETERRE

  MORDANSCHLAG AUF DIE KÖNIGIN VON ENGLAND!