The Hawk Is Dead

21

Monday 20 November 2023

The unanswered question stayed with Roy Grace as he and Dyson waited for the CSIs to attend and start a forensic search of the possible shooter location. And it stayed with him all the way back down to the activity at the crime scene, the Coroner’s Officer having not yet arrived. Suddenly a call came through on his radio. It was a Comms controller.

‘Sir, I have Chief Superintendent Carr.’

Grace thanked her and a moment later heard the voice of the Commander for Brighton and Hove Police, who was today also Silver Commander for Operation Flagship.

‘Roy,’ she said, ‘how is it going?’

‘I’m at the scene of the shooting now, Rachel,’ he said. ‘Pretty grim.’

‘I’ve just had a call from the Chief,’ she continued. ‘The Queen is adamant about continuing with her tour of the hospices, as scheduled for both today and tomorrow. The only difference being she will not attend Chichester Theatre but will return to London overnight. I just wanted to alert you to this.’

‘Thanks, Rachel, for confirming, we thought that would be the case.’

‘Except now we have to try to protect her, knowing there’s a gunman out there somewhere who is maybe intent on killing her.’

Behind the tape he saw a very agitated ACC Downing and he signalled he’d be with him in a moment. ‘Rachel, all we can do is surround her with officers, vehicles in front and behind her car, and a helicopter directly overhead with Armed Response officers on board, plus put a ring of steel around each hospice.’

‘That’s being done, Roy.’

‘OK, keep me posted.’ He thanked her and headed straight to Downing.

‘Roy,’ the ACC said, his normally very confident and assured boss looking uncharacteristically nervous. ‘We have a bit of an issue. Just when you thought today could not get any worse, it does.’

‘Bet you are wishing right now you were back in your old job of Highways Planning. Just having to worry about potholes.’

‘Never! So, this other major problem we now have.’ He gave Grace a bemused grin, his arms gesturing he was out of his depth. ‘It’s the Met.’

Grace wasn’t entirely surprised to hear this. Competition between the Met and regional forces frequently arose on major incidents of national importance. The vast Met Police force had around 35,000 officers, compared to the few thousand of most of the country’s other forces, and they could be very superior, regarding all other English police forces as less able outfits by comparison. He felt a sudden hollow sensation in the pit of his stomach. ‘Tell me, sir?’

The ACC blushed. ‘Well, the thing is, Roy, I’ve just had Sir Mark Peckham, the Commissioner of the Met, on the phone — in person.’

The Commissioner of the Met was, by definition, England’s most senior police officer.

Downing waved a hand uselessly in the air, as if trying, unsuccessfully, to indicate it was of no importance, no importance at all. ‘Sir Mark feels this might be too big for Sussex Police to handle — that the Met Counter Terrorism Command should have primacy on this case.’

Grace stared at him for some moments. ‘That’s typically high-handed of them, sir.’ He realized this was where Downing’s lack of policing experience was an issue. ‘I hope you gave them short shrift.’

Downing grimaced uncertainly, flapping his hand around in the air again. ‘Well, I — tried to be tactful, Roy. I... I told them that this had all happened on our — in our — county — and that I was very satisfied you were the right man to handle this. You are a fully trained, accredited SIO. But I’m afraid a group of them have helicoptered down from London and will be here imminently.’ He gave Grace an imploring look. ‘An attempted assassination of The Queen is a pretty big thing, Roy.’

At that moment, Grace heard the voice of the outer cordon scene guard, PC Andrew Strong. His tone was indignant. ‘Sir, I’ve got a very pushy gentleman, a Superintendent Gregory Mosse from the Met Counter Terrorism Command, demanding to be let through the cordon. Should I allow him through? There are three other men and one woman with him, all from the Met, who are also insisting on coming through. What would you like me to do?’

Tell them to fuck off, was Grace’s immediate reaction. Ownership of this murder enquiry was undoubtedly a prized role. Global headlines would be dominated by this incident for days to come. A successful outcome in this tragic case would greatly enhance the investigating officer’s profile, as well as the prospects of other forms of recognition.

None of that bothered him, he was very happy in his present role with no ambition to be promoted any higher. He wanted this job now because he genuinely believed he was the best person to do it, and he was damned if he would hand it over without a fight. He turned to the ACC. ‘They’re here now, sir.’ Then he told Strong to let them all through, intending to knock this on the head, here and now.

‘I’ll fight your corner for you, Roy,’ Downing said. ‘As best I can.’

‘I appreciate that, sir, I’m sure we can take care of this between us.’

It was only moments later that they saw a group of people striding towards them, smartly dressed. Like a posse. The leader, tall, with wavy fair hair and a wispy goatee, striding several feet ahead of the rest, could have been his old arch-enemy Cassian Pewe’s younger, less well-groomed brother.

Passing PC Andy Crabb and his police dog, Merlin, who were just about to commence a search of the area, Grace walked to the cordon tape, took a deep breath and headed into the big swinging dick contest by greeting the leader in a formal tone and without a hint of warmth. ‘Superintendent Mosse?’

‘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.’