The Hawk Is Dead

26

Wednesday 22 November 2023

‘Best behaviour, eh?’ Glenn Branson said. ‘Like, proper best behaviour?’

Roy Grace, in the back of the taxi with his colleague, nodded solemnly, as they glided away from London’s Victoria Station. Normally they would have driven, but time was too tight this morning.

The very pungent smell of new-car polish of the interior was adding to the faintly queasy feeling in his stomach. And he felt butterflies, which wasn’t like him. But then this case wasn’t like anything he’d ever previously experienced. He smiled at the DI, relieved to see that, for once, he was dressed discreetly in plain charcoal, rather than in one of his trademark loud suits. ‘Proper best behaviour,’ he echoed, his voice tight with anxiety, and glanced at his watch: 9.05.

He had no idea how the morning ahead was going to unfold. But then again there wasn’t any precedent for a detective interviewing The Queen of England as a witness to a murder. At least he’d gone home last night and slept in his bed, rather than in his office, but he’d been too wired to get any decent quality of sleep, waking constantly and jotting down additional notes of questions to ask today, worried he might forget them otherwise. He read through them on his phone now.

‘It’s times like this that make me wish more than anything that my mum was alive,’ Branson said.

‘Yes?’ Grace remembered that Glenn had hardly known his father: he’d once told him he’d left home months before he’d been born.

‘If she could have lived to see this, she’d have been so proud,’ he said with a wistful smile. ‘Little me, going off to interview The Queen!’

Grace smiled, glad for his friend’s happiness. ‘So don’t screw it up!’

Branson feigned an aloof look, and tapped his own chest. ‘I’m now a certified Tier 5 interviewer. That’s a higher qualification than you.’ He narrowed his eyes, but was unable to mask his grin. ‘Just remember that — boss.’

‘Don’t worry, I spent some time with Alec Butler, who is also a Tier 5, to plan today’s interview,’ Grace retorted.

Branson gave him a big smile.

They were passing Buckingham Palace to their left. The taxi rounded the Victoria Monument, then headed along The Mall, passing the handsome white stucco facade of Clarence House, before halting at lights. They turned left, along the east side of St James’s Palace, with its Tudor red-brick facade, then after a few moments, left again into Pall Mall.

‘You seem in high spirits,’ Grace said.

Branson shrugged. ‘Things are good at the moment — you know — with me and Siobhan. We think she might be...’ He tapped his tummy.

Grace’s face lit up. ‘Seriously?’

‘Uh-huh!’

At that moment the taxi halted at a barrier. Beyond it, to the left, was a further part of St James’s Palace, with a black Range Rover parked outside. Two heavily armed police officers stepped out of a hut beside the barrier and the cabbie lowered his window. He repeated part of the instructions Roy Grace had given him. ‘Dropping off Detective Superintendent Grace and DI Branson.’

‘To see Sir Tommy Magellan-Lacey,’ Grace added, lowering his window and holding out his warrant card.

It did not immediately impress either of the two Royal Protection guards. But moments later a door to their left opened, and out stepped an exuberant-looking man — in his early sixties, Grace guessed. He was smartly suited, with elegant wavy hair and wearing a black tie, making Roy Grace very glad he’d had the presence of mind to wear one himself, as had Branson.

The guards acknowledged the new arrival with a friendly greeting, and moments later, tension over, Grace paid the driver and they climbed out of the cab.

‘Detective Superintendent Grace? I’m Tommy!’ The Master of the Royal Household held out his hand, with a warm smile.

‘Very good to meet you, Sir Tommy. This is my colleague, Detective Inspector Glenn Branson.’

Magellan-Lacey pumped Branson’s hand, still smiling warmly, and with a very posh voice said, ‘You’ve both come up from Brighton?’

‘We have, Sir Tommy,’ Grace said.

‘It’s a wonderful city! Fiona and I went to a wedding there a few years ago, loved it. We had fish and chips on the pier. Best fish and chips ever! Come in — coffee? Tea? Probably not appropriate to suggest something stronger?’

‘Probably not!’ Grace agreed, pleasantly surprised at how down-to-earth this eminent man was. ‘A coffee would be very welcome.’

Branson nodded. ‘Same for me.’

The two detectives walked through the narrow front door into an instantly warm and friendly-feeling environment. The hallway walls were hung with photographs, paintings and cartoons, and there was a large cuckoo clock that chimed on the half-hour as they walked past. It felt more like being in a farmhouse than a palace, Grace thought, narrowly avoiding tripping over a dark brown cat.

They were ushered into a kitchen-dining room with cream walls and black marble worktops that felt even more cosy farmhouse than formal grand. There was a cream Aga oven, a dining table with a green and white polka-dot cover and wooden chairs. All around were framed family photographs, with a strong emphasis on the armed forces. There was a much younger, beaming Tommy in uniform, a round cutting board engraved with ‘Tommy & Fiona’, photographic collages of young people wearing army berets and, pinned to a door, a printed wall-hanging of a helicopter. And there were books everywhere. The whole effect was warm, disarming, homely.

‘I can’t believe we are in the middle of London!’ Glenn Branson said.

‘Is this your house, sir, or what they call grace-and-favour accommodation?’ Roy Grace asked.

The Master of the Royal Household smiled a tad wistfully at them, busily filling a kettle. ‘I’m afraid these days it is more grace than favour, we have to pay rent.’

Grace clocked the faint shadow of a frown as he said this.

‘But, hey, we get to live in the centre of London with free parking, and those chaps outside are a damned sight better than any burglar alarm!’

‘Or guard dog,’ Grace said.

‘Indeed.’ The Master looked up with a warm smile and began spooning coffee into a cafetière.

Glenn Branson peered at a silver-framed wedding photograph on a shelf. It was a dashing young Tommy Magellan-Lacey in his army uniform with a beautiful woman, with flowing brown hair, in a bridal dress, standing outside a church. ‘Lovely photograph,’ he said.

‘Thank you!’

‘Does your wife work in the Royal Household too, Sir Tommy?’

The Master shook his head. ‘No, Fiona works in the art world. She has a job with a private gallery.’ He poured boiling water into the cafetière and indicated for them to sit at the kitchen table. ‘So, gentlemen, what progress in your enquiries?’ He tipped a packet of chocolate digestive biscuits onto a plate and placed it on the table.

Grace gave a courteous smile. ‘I’m afraid we don’t have as much as I would like to report, so far,’ Grace said. ‘I’ll bring you up to speed. But, first, may I ask how Her Majesty is?’

‘She’s deeply saddened by the death of Sir Peregrine, and very shaken, of course, but she is a remarkable lady. She has so many of the qualities of resilience of the late Queen and the same sense of duty. As you know, she insisted on continuing with her tour, much to the consternation of The King, who is understandably extremely worried about her safety. He’s asked to see you while you are here — I hope you can give him some reassurance?’

‘I’ll do my best, sir,’ Grace said.

Tommy Magellan-Lacey looked at his watch. ‘We’ll head over to the Palace in twenty minutes — Her Majesty is expecting you at 10 a.m.’

‘Thank you. The other members of my team should be there now.’

The Master glanced at a printed sheet of paper. ‘Detectives Norman Potting, Velvet Wilde, Jon Exton, Alec Butler and Polly Sweeney from the Major Crime Team?’

‘Yes, sir. Polly Sweeney will be the Family Liaison Officer for Sir Peregrine Greaves’ widow. I’ll accompany her there later this morning. The others will be interviewing all members of the Household staff who had contact with the late Private Secretary.’

‘Good,’ the Master said. ‘Margot Greaves is pretty shaken up, as you might imagine.’

As he and Branson helped the Master of the Royal Household bring mugs and milk over to the table, Grace felt charmed by the man, liking the fact that no doubt he could have had some palace servant make and serve the coffee but chose to do it himself.

When they were seated at the table, Sir Tommy facing them, with just a glass of water in front of him, Grace brought him up to speed with the investigation.

‘So you’re pretty confident you’ve located the shooter’s lair?’ he said.

‘We are,’ Grace replied. ‘Yes. Something I want to ask you is whether Sir Peregrine might have had any enemies?’

The Master gave him a dubious look. ‘You are not thinking he was the target, surely?’ But there was a flicker of something in his expression.

‘It’s my job to keep an open mind.’

‘An open mind?’

‘Was Her Majesty the intended victim? That’s a very important question.’

The Master stared at him with a look of utter disbelief. ‘Of course she was. The entire world knows she was, Detective Superintendent Grace.’

Grace shook his head. ‘They don’t know she was the target. They’ve been told she was. That’s a very big difference. And, of course, that’s the story they want to believe. But they don’t have the information that I do.’

‘Which is?’