The Hawk Is Dead

25

Tuesday 21 November 2023

In contrast to yesterday’s glorious sunshine, overnight the weather had turned back to late autumnal, with an overcast sky and a chill wind. Roy Grace and the ballistics scientist, Baz Dyson, followed by Nick Nicholl and EJ Boutwood, approached the inner cordon. All were in forensic oversuits, and today Grace was grateful for the meagre warmth it was giving him.

And he was grateful to be out in fresh air. Grateful that he’d not had to spend too much time in the mortuary — he’d delegated most of that treat to Glenn Branson. And while the Home Office pathologist, Nadiuska de Sancha, was no doubt feeling the pressure, conducting the most high-profile postmortem of her career, much of it was overkill — on someone who had very definitely been overkilled.

Cause of death wasn’t exactly hard to establish. Digging out microscopic fragment after microscopic fragment of the exploded bullet that had caused the catastrophic damage to the victim’s head was the laborious task, in the hope that, between the fragments of the two bullets found by the pathologist and the CSIs from their ongoing fingertip search around the crime scene, there would be enough to construct at least part of one whole bullet. Or at least enough to help identify the make and bore of rifle it was fired from, and to start narrowing down the very wide field.

But the postmortem wasn’t just about finding microfragments of a bullet. The general health of a murder victim was also a potential factor in any ensuing trial. Grace had once seen a slam-dunk of a murder charge downgraded to manslaughter purely because the victim’s health was so poor, it was argued by a QC at the time that it could not be proven it was actually the stab wound that had killed her; it could have been her already badly diseased heart failing from shock.

Although in this case, he thought grimly, as and when this shooter was brought to trial, it would take a somewhat smarter than average brief to convince a jury that cause of death might be down to something other than the victim being short of most of the essential components of his head.

A chill suddenly gusted through him. It wasn’t the wind, it was a chill of fear. It blew through his soul every time he let the thought in. What if the sniper was still out there, planning their next attempt on The Queen’s life?

He’d been informed that she’d arrived safely at the first of the two hospices she was visiting in Hampshire today. The Royal Protection team had greatly increased both the number of their officers guarding her and the thoroughness of their search of the hospices and all surrounding areas. Grace had been told The King had personally intervened and he fully understood.

Regardless of whether he was right or wrong about the intended target, it made no difference to the intensity of the hunt for the identity of the killer. But where it could make a crucial difference was where he put the focus of the investigation. Were they looking for a lone wolf terrorist or someone who was part of a terrorist conspiracy? Someone with a grudge against the Monarchy or The Queen in particular? Or with an axe to grind with the Private Secretary? As with almost all murder enquiries, the answer lay in the motive.

He glanced at his watch: 11.45 a.m. They had an hour and a half before he needed to get back to HQ and spruce up for the 2 p.m. press conference, which he was leading accompanied by the Chief Constable, an ACC from British Transport Police, the Commander of the Royal Protection team and the Director of Royal Communications from Buckingham Palace — as well as a member of the Media and Communications department. A press conference at which whatever he said would likely become headlines around the world. He needed a clear head and at least this walk up the hill was helping — probably more than the copious amount of caffeine he’d been downing all morning.

All four of them reached the inner cordon scene guard, where they were met by the Crime Scene Manager, Chris Gee. Nick Nicholl and EJ Boutwood signed the log, then ducked under the tape. Grace produced a sketch created by The Queen’s Protection Officer, Jon Gilhall, the only witness to the shooting, marking the approximate positions of The Queen and the Private Secretary when the shots were fired. Grace directed the two officers, here to role-play, to remain in these positions.

Then Grace, Gee and Dyson walked up to the second inner-cordon area, the suspected location where the killer had waited and fired from. Two protectively suited and masked CSIs were on their knees, some distance from the yellow-pegged, flattened area where the shooter had most likely lain.

Gee pointed at it. ‘They’ve cleared that now, sir, you are free to walk or lie on it.’

‘And so far you’ve found nothing at all here?’

Gee shook his head. ‘As you know, no cigarette butts — that’s a downside of far fewer people smoking these days,’ he said almost ruefully. ‘So far, no forensic or firearms evidence. There’s no trace of anything discarded either and no footprints as yet, but we are still searching.’

‘And you are pretty sure this is where he shot from?’

Gee pointed down at the flattened area. ‘Someone lay there, for some considerable while, on a mat of some kind.’

‘A mat that doesn’t shed any fibres?’

Gee, who, Grace always thought, looked impossibly young and fresh-faced to be doing such a grim job, nodded. ‘I would say we’re dealing with a pro, sir. Someone probably with military training. If we can trust the two witnesses about the timing of the motorbike, the gunman was here for several hours. Only a real pro could be here for that length of time and leave no trace.’

Grace thanked him and then turned and stared across to the knoll, where Nicholl and Boutwood were standing. Dyson was kneeling in the flattened area, attaching a telescopic sight to a small bipod. He looked up at the Detective Superintendent.

‘I really am increasingly confident this was the shooter’s lair. I went out early this morning and walked in a wide arc, keeping with the approximate range of three hundred yards, and there is nowhere else that gives a line of sight to both the exit to the railway tunnel and the area above it.’

Grace nodded, scanning the surrounding countryside himself. ‘We’re not of course taking into account the possibility that the shooter could have been a complete amateur who had a go from a much further distance — say half a mile — are we, Baz?’

Dyson shook his head. ‘If you like, after this I can take you to a point half a mile away, but you’d see immediately, looking through the scope, that the chances of hitting either of them with a single shot are pretty small — and that is for a professional. At the risk of sounding like a cracked record, I go back to my hypothesis. If we had a complete amateur, lone wolf, at say half a mile, he’d never have fired just a couple of shots if he’d missed his target. He’d have fired a volley.’

‘Unless his gun jammed?’ Grace questioned.

‘Guns don’t jam very often — not the kind that snipers use.’

‘Your view remains that the shooter fired only two shots, because they hit their intended target? But if the shooter had hit the intended target with the first shot, why the second shot?’

Ignoring the question, Dyson said, ‘I’ve made a checklist of relevant factors, starting with a meteorological data search of wind conditions at the time of the shooting. The biggest effect on a bullet is a cross-wind. But at 10 a.m. yesterday there was just a light breeze, making the wind factor negligible. Heat haze can also affect the visibility of the target, but at 10 a.m. yesterday there was none. The sun was behind the shooter — which it would be now if we could see it — so he didn’t have to contend with it in his eyes and worry about silhouetting of the target.’

Grace nodded. ‘Sounds like he chose his day and location well.’

‘Or got lucky.’

‘Or unlucky?’ Grace tested.

The ballistics scientist shook his head. ‘Another factor is whether there could possibly have been any confusion between how Camilla and the victim were dressed? That needs to be ruled out.’ He prostrated himself and made some adjustments to the bipod.

Grace smiled. ‘I don’t think so. Her Majesty was wearing a royal blue dress. The Private Secretary was in a dark suit. The shooter would need to have had seriously impaired vision.’

‘Another factor could be the gun not zeroed properly. But if we are considering a professional, that is highly unlikely.’ He paused for a moment and squinted through the scope, adjusting the focus carefully. ‘Interesting,’ he said. ‘Are you confident that the position your two detectives are standing in is exactly where Camilla and Greaves were standing at the time he was shot?’

‘That’s what Her Majesty’s Protection Officer gave me, and he was very sure,’ Grace said.

Dyson nodded. ‘Because that could make a very significant difference. If The Queen had been standing four feet behind the Private Secretary — by that I mean in line — that would make her a much harder target. But if, as we have here, she is four feet to the side, then it’s very different.’

‘I’m confident we have the right position for the two of them,’ Grace said.

Dyson paused for a moment, thinking. ‘OK, we don’t yet know the calibre of the bullet, but as I’ve said, I have a pretty good idea, and the range we have is no issue — strike one. Wind conditions would need to have been in excess of 20mph to make enough drift for a four-foot error from this distance — which we know they weren’t yesterday. Strike two. Come and have a look through the scope.’

Grace lay down on the grass and pressed his right eye up to the rubber surround of the scope lens. Then he lined the crosshairs up on EJ’s head. It was a big target, filling the scope. He moved it across to Nick’s head until that filled the scope. It was a considerable distance, one that would need a deliberate switch of target, not an accidental flinch or a twitch.

‘See what I mean?’ Dyson asked.

Grace turned and looked at him, nodding.

‘Are you interested in history at all, sir?’

‘History?’ Grace frowned.

‘I like famous last words. One of my favourites is Major General Sedgwick, the highest-ranking Union officer killed during the American Civil War. Seconds before he was shot, one of his officers warned he was too close to the front line. He responded, “Nonsense, they couldn’t hit an elephant at this dist—”’

Grace grinned, then gave him a questioning look. ‘Your point being?’

‘The head you can see through the scope. Whether it’s your male or your female officer. It’s pretty big, right?’

‘It is,’ Grace agreed. ‘Both.’

‘So, imagine you are the shooter. You are highly forensically aware and you’ve taken the greatest care to ensure that you leave no trace, other than the flattened grass. You’ve come with a weapon that will deliver a catastrophic wound wherever your bullet strikes. If you want to be one hundred per cent sure of killing your target, then a bullet with a ballistic tip, straight through the forehead, is going to do the business, every time. Take another look through the scope and tell me how easy you think it would be to miss?’

Grace looked through the scope again. Then turned back to Dyson. And shook his head. ‘You couldn’t, could you?’

‘My mother couldn’t have missed from here,’ he replied. ‘And she has advanced macular degeneration.’