The Hawk Is Dead

17

Monday 20 November 2023

As Branson drove, heading north out of Brighton on the A23 on blue lights, Roy Grace in the passenger seat was wrapped in his thoughts, going through the checklist of everything he needed to put in place. And all the time he was trying to work out what exactly they were dealing with.

As ever his starting point was three questions:

Why him?

Why here?

Why now?

Had Sir Peregrine Greaves actually been the target? To go to all the lengths of derailing the Royal Train in order to shoot one of The Queen’s entourage, however senior Greaves had been, made no sense at all. Unless he was overlooking something. But if so, what?

Equally, how realistic was it that The Queen had been the intended target and the shooter had simply missed? Why only two shots?

A third hypothesis was a couple of loose shots from a hunter somewhere out in the fields — aimed at a rabbit? So unlikely as to be barely worth considering. The only hunter with a telescopic sight who was likely to be out there would be someone rough shooting — going for rabbits or birds — with a small-bore rifle. From the brief description he’d had of Sir Peregrine’s injury, it had been inflicted by a much more substantial weapon.

The facts he had to work with at this moment were: firstly, there was known hostile activity anticipated for the royal visit from protestors; secondly, the Royal Train was derailed — accident or deliberate sabotage? Then, twenty or so minutes later, two shots were fired, one of them hitting Greaves.

In Grace’s opinion, given these facts, the chances that the derailment and the shooting of the Private Secretary were isolated incidents were very low. So low as to be virtually dismissible. In a nutshell, the simplest explanation was usually the likeliest one. In this case the theory that the derailment of the train and the shooting were linked fitted that exactly.

So, he hypothesized, had one of the protestors derailed the train in the hope of creating a disaster that killed perhaps The Queen and many of her entourage? And as backup they had a sniper waiting, having calculated the party would exit from the south entrance of the tunnel?

That did not sit well with him. The intel on the protestors was that they were harmless, not fanatics prepared — and organized — to kill. His colleagues had got to know some of them in the past few years around the country, and that just did not seem like their work. Added to that, the shooter had only fired two shots. If the intended target had been The Queen, why not fire more?

As Branson continued up the A23, Grace, despite being distracted by his speculations, was fully occupied on his phone, and feeling a deep sense of dread. What should have been a wonderful and proud day for the county of Sussex had turned to tragedy.

Thank God, he thought, The Queen was OK.

For now. The area had been deemed safe by the Strategic Firearms Commander.

The helicopter had passed overhead a few minutes ago. In Grace’s comms with the Royal Protection Officer, Jon Gilhall had informed him The Queen was very shaken but unharmed. NPAS-15 was heading towards the Sussex Police HQ at Lewes, where the secure room Grace had arranged for her was being prepared. She would land in three minutes’ time on the adjoining school playing fields, and be greeted by the Chief Constable, Lesley Manning, and a contingent of armed response officers.

Glenn Branson, following the satnav signal, braked and turned off the main road, made a series of manoeuvres, then turned onto a rough, narrow lane that was little more than a rutted, potholed farm track. After several minutes they approached a long, chaotic line of police cars and vans, two fire engines and two ambulances, and beyond them the blue and white police tape of an outer cordon, manned by a young uniformed police constable scene guard who, with his near photographic memory for faces Grace recognized. ‘PC Andrew Strong?’ he quizzed.

The PC looked proud as punch. ‘You remember me, sir?’

‘Weren’t you the scene guard at that Brighton hotel fire about six months back?’

‘I was, sir. Just to let you know a Coroner’s Officer will be here soon.’

Grace was pleased to see how quickly the crime scene had been protected and the scene guard put in place. A few minutes later, in their onesie oversuits and signed in on the log, as more and more emergency service vehicles and minibuses were arriving at the RV point, he and Branson walked the quarter of a mile across fields to the inner cordon, signed the second scene guard’s log and ducked under the tape.

They strode on up the steep slope of a grassy hillock, where they were greeted at the top by a BTP Inspector, a wiry man in his late forties, also in a protective onesie, looking pale and nervous.

In the far distance behind them were the rolling hills of the South Downs, and the ridge of the Devil’s Dyke shimmering beneath the bright sunlight. Much closer behind them were the legs of a pinstripe-suited figure lying on the ground. Grace couldn’t see the rest of the man, but he could see a lot of blood on the grass all around.

The Inspector’s name was Iain College — Grace and Branson had already been informed by radio. He spoke with a soft Scottish accent.

‘Good morning, gentlemen — sir,’ he said, deferring to Grace. ‘This is one hell of a situation.’

‘You could say that,’ Grace said, drily. He well knew that British Transport Police were no greenhorns when it came to major crime. They regularly dealt with homicides and other serious offences on railway property, as well as terrorist threats and atrocities. ‘What do we have?’ he asked.

‘We have a body, sir, male, confirmed deceased by a paramedic ten minutes ago.’

‘Gunshot wound?’

‘I would say it appears so, sir.’

‘Do you have a confirmed ID on the deceased?’

‘We believe he is the Private Secretary to The King and The Queen.’

Grace shook his head in near disbelief. ‘Sir Peregrine Greaves, that’s what I’ve been told.’

As he and Branson moved to step towards the body, College said, ‘Just to warn you, it’s not pretty.’

‘Yep, well when you’ve been shot dead, no one expects you to look your best,’ Branson retorted. He was feeling the same beat of excitement he always got at the start of a major investigation. And this was truly big, the biggest yet of his and Roy’s career.

Grace stopped in his tracks as he saw the remains of Greaves’ once handsome face.

‘Looks like one of my mum’s summer puddings,’ Branson murmured to him, staring down wide-eyed.

Despite the horror of what he was seeing, Grace found himself suppressing a smile. Good old gallows humour; people sometimes forgot that officers, just like all other human beings, needed their coping mechanisms. Humour had always been his safety net, helping keep him sane in the most horrific of crime scenes. And as those went, this was pretty bad. It looked like the Private Secretary had put on a cheap Halloween mask. Apart from the blood pooled on the ground all around his head.

He turned to the Inspector and asked, ‘Is this British Rail property here?’

College shook his head and looked relieved. ‘No, sir. British Rail property ends the top of the steps up from the tunnel — this is private farmland — belongs to Pangdean Farm — so this is your jurisdiction. We’ll take care of the derailment. But obviously we need to work together, and any help British Transport Police can give you, we will. There’s a sergeant and a PC from Haywards Heath down at the tunnel entrance keeping everyone safely just inside the tunnel until the area is declared safe. And a Crime Scene Manager and team of CSIs are on their way.’

As Grace thanked him, his phone rang. It was Nigel Downing.

‘Are you at the scene, Roy?’ the ACC asked.

‘I am, sir.’

‘I understand the victim who has died is a senior member of the Royal Household? Is this correct?’

‘Unfortunately yes, sir. The Private Secretary. But Her Majesty is safe and should now be at HQ.’

‘She is, her helicopter has just landed. She’s asking about her dresser.’

‘Her dresser?’ Grace queried.

‘She wants her dresser, she needs to change her clothes, they’ve blood and — other matter — on them. Her dresser is apparently being rushed over to HQ now. Is anyone else injured?’

‘No other casualties reported, so far.’

‘No sign of the gunman — shooter?’

‘Not so far, sir. We believe he has fled the area.’

‘I’m heading over — where shall I meet you?’

‘The outer cordon would be best.’

‘I’ll radio you when I’m there.’

Roy Grace wasn’t entirely sure what the direct-entry, fast-track Superintendent, now ACC, with his past experience in Highways Planning, could bring to the investigation, but if it was even just moral support at this stage, that would be fine by him.

There would likely be officers from the Counter Terrorism Command, and even the Protection hierarchy, under which the Royalty and Specialist Protection team operated, all keen to be involved. Not because they could do the job any better than he and his team, but because being part of this high-profile investigation, and helping to bring it to a successful conclusion, could bring career glory and all kinds of promotion prospects. While this was a murder on his territory, and he was the on-call SIO, he had the feeling competition for ownership of this case might turn ugly, and that senior detectives would be fighting like rats in a sack to get involved in this one.

He was right.