The Hawk Is Dead

18

Monday 20 November 2023

Five minutes after the police helicopter landed in the playing fields close by, Queen Camilla, along with her Protection Officer, was driven into the safe confines of Police Headquarters, in the middle vehicle of a three-car armed convoy.

The Chief Constable, Lesley Manning, and the Deputy Chief, Gordon Crawford, stood at the entrance to Malling House with a young Inspector to escort Her Majesty to the room that had hastily been prepared for her. It was adjacent to the room to which, on 12 October 1984, Margaret Thatcher had been taken, after the IRA had failed to assassinate her by bombing the Grand Hotel in Brighton, where she had been staying during the Conservative Party Conference.

Two officers from the Armed Response Unit, wielding their semi-automatic rifles, stood a discreet distance away. The Chief Constable, who was forty-nine, her hair clipped into a bun beneath her round hat, stood deathly serious, unsure quite what to expect, her mind considering every option. The Deputy Chief Constable stood beside her. The tall, powerfully built Scot, a no-nonsense down-to-business man, had in the past thirty minutes taken care of all the arrangements under Manning’s direction.

Although deeply upset about the death of the Private Secretary — and that the whole incident had occurred on her watch — Manning was relieved beyond words that The Queen was seemingly unharmed. Two Royal Protection vehicles and four motorcycle police outriders were on their way, and would escort her back to London as soon as she was ready.

The Police HQ was locked down, with no one allowed in without her express consent. Two more officers from the Armed Response Team were on guard at the front entrance barrier. Lesley Manning and her team had put in place everything they could think of to protect The Principal. In the aftermath of the assassination attempt, Sussex Police were taking no chances.

Additionally, a Royal Air Force Chinook helicopter carrying armed officers had arrived over the area of the Downs where the shooter was suspected to have been, and was conducting a low-level sweep.

Moments after the police vehicle pulled up, the front passenger door opened. First out was Jon Gilhall. Then The Queen appeared, taking his guiding arm and looking shocked but composed. She gave the two senior police officers a hesitant smile.

‘Your Majesty,’ Manning said, doing a slightly clumsy version of a curtsy. ‘Your Majesty,’ DCC Crawford echoed, bowing stiffly.

‘Welcome to Sussex — I’m so terribly sorry about the circumstances. Are you all right?’ the Chief Constable asked. ‘Are you hurt?’

The Queen shook her head, ‘No, I’m fine, fortunately, thank you. Although it’s not been the morning I’d had in mind — so far. It’s been pretty dreadful.’

Neither Lesley Manning nor Gordon Crawford knew quite how to take this, both wondering whether it was a stab at humour.

Then The Queen shot an anxious glance at her small, elegant Cartier Tank wristwatch and looked back at them both with an uncertain smile. ‘I need to find somewhere to make some calls — I have to phone The King, he could hardly hear me in the helicopter. Also, my dear secretary, Jayne Bennett. I’ll need her to be involved in everything. I would like her to call Martlets Hospice and explain we are running behind schedule and will be a bit late. She already mentioned to me that Perry’s late father died at Martlets, so it’s even more important that I get there as planned.’

She didn’t notice several raised eyebrows.

‘Understood, Ma’am,’ the Protection Officer said. ‘And I’ve just spoken by phone to your dresser — Brenda — she will be here shortly with a change of clothes. She’s requested somewhere for you to retire, change and make your calls.’

All eyes stared at the dark blotches on her dress.

‘We have a room all prepared for you, Ma’am,’ Lesley Manning responded. ‘Your royal doctor will attend to check you over. And a car is on its way to transport you back to London.’

The Queen gave her a look so disapproving it startled Manning. ‘Back to London?’

‘Yes, Ma’am.’

‘I’m sorry, I’ve come to Sussex to visit terminally ill patients in two hospices — Martlets in Brighton and young children in Chestnut Tree House in Arundel. They’re expecting me and I don’t intend to let them down.’ Her expression softened and she gave Manning a smile.

‘But, Ma’am — your safety is paramount,’ Gordon Crawford interjected.

She shook her head. ‘What is paramount is that I visit those two places — and the ones tomorrow further down the coast where they are all expecting me. Someone may have tried to kill me today, but they didn’t succeed. I’m very deeply sorry that Sir Peregrine has died — but if whoever shot at me and hit him instead thinks I’m going to scurry back up to the safety of London, they can think again. Jayne, my secretary, agrees. I’ve come to Sussex to do a job, and that’s what we are going to do.’

Manning and Crawford shot each other a glance.

The Queen looked at her watch again. ‘I believe I was due at Martlets Hospice about now and Brenda should be here soon. A quick change and we’ll be off. It’ll be twenty minutes by road from here?’

Manning nodded confirmation. The Queen turned to her Protection Officer. ‘Jon, can you check whether Jayne has rung Martlets to let them know we are running late? Please ask her to give them my apologies.’

During the short helicopter ride Gilhall had already tried to persuade his boss to abandon the tour, for her safety. But she’d given him very short shrift and the subject was now closed. He gave a single respectful head-bow. ‘Ma’am.’ Then he stepped away and pulled out his phone.

‘Ma’am,’ Manning said. ‘I remember your visit to St Wilfrid’s Hospice in Eastbourne a few years back, which I oversaw. It’s my responsibility to oversee things again here, but now under these more challenging and sad circumstances. I think that after what’s happened we should let your doctor, who will be here any moment, check you over before you do anything.’

The Queen peered down at the dark blotches on her dress. ‘What will my doctor be looking for — bullet holes?’ she asked wryly. ‘Or will I be getting trauma counselling?’

Again, neither police officer knew whether or not to smile.