The Hawk Is Dead

30

Wednesday 22 November 2023

Glenn Branson gave Roy Grace a look that said it all.

I can’t believe this!

Grace nodded in acknowledgement. Nor could he. Not really.

Accompanied by the Master of the Royal Household, they had just walked past Clarence House, crossed Green Park and Constitution Hill, with the gleaming gold Victoria Monument to their left, and were now walking through a gawping crowd of several thousand tourists from around the world towards the gates of Buckingham Palace.

Moments later, after cursory inspection of their IDs, they were nodded through by two heavily armed officers who greeted the Master with respectful familiarity, and then they were striding across the hallowed quadrangle.

‘Are we seriously here?’ Branson murmured, rhetorically.

Close up, the facade of Buckingham Palace was even more beautiful and imposing than when he had seen it in the past, driving by or on television, Grace thought. Branson, who was rarely quiet, was rendered mute.

Tommy Magellan-Lacey walked at a brisk pace and both of them had to step on it to keep up with him. They strode past a guard in a bearskin, motionless as a statue, at the entrance to the famous archway through the building into the inner courtyard. The guard only acknowledged the Master’s breezy greeting with a brief friend-or-foe swivel of his eyes.

On the far side of the archway the Master made a right turn and headed for a door. The warm yellow colour of the stone in this vast courtyard was quite different from the coldly imperious white Portland stone exterior of the public-facing front of the Palace. Ahead was the famous covered courtyard where the royal cars — and on state occasions, carriages — pulled up to collect or disgorge royalty and significant dignitaries.

Magellan-Lacey was holding a huge, ancient key that looked like it could unlock a dungeon. He plunged it into the door, opened it and ushered them into a hallway. There was a short flight of stairs with shiny mahogany banister rails, which led them up into a long, red-carpeted corridor with a magnificently arched ceiling.

Grace stared around in awe. Everything was spotless. Polished to a gleam, and the carpet immaculate. It felt a little as if they had boarded a flagship that was awaiting imminent inspection by the Admiral of the Fleet.

The walls were lined with paintings, one, of Westminster Abbey, filled with extraordinarily realistic faces, Grace thought. Another they passed was of a grand outdoors event, with two regal ladies arriving in a horse-drawn carriage, the faces of everyone present painted in such detail, it looked to Grace, as he tried to spot the artist’s name, more like a gilt-framed photograph.

The magnificence of the art sent a thrill through him, further making him feel the weight of responsibility that rested on his shoulders. The stakes were far higher than anything he’d ever encountered in his career.

Was The Queen in very real danger from a terrorist group — homeland or foreign — out there and planning their next move?

He thought back to his battle two days ago, with the smug Met Detective Superintendent Gregory Mosse, over whose crime scene this should be. A battle he had won. But he was now thinking of the words of the late Duke of Wellington after the Battle of Waterloo: The only thing worse than losing a battle is winning one.

Would it have been more sensible — or at least less stressful — to have abdicated responsibility to Mosse? Had he been stupid, greedy — just plain crazy even — to insist on taking the case? Something far too big for him to chew?

And now he was in it up to his neck. Thanks to his hubris?

Last night he’d confessed his fears to Cleo. She’d reminded him that in over ten years in his roles as both a Senior Investigating Officer and more recently also as Head of Major Crime for Surrey and Sussex Police, his clear-up rate for murders on which he had been the SIO was one hundred per cent. Cleo told him to forget that The Queen was involved, and all that went with that, and just think of it as a murder like any other.

That thought sustained him now as they continued along the corridor of the North Wing of one of the most famous buildings in the world. Just another murder.

Yeah, right.

Ahead of him, the Master, who had greeted several people walking along the corridor, including a woman in a smart suit, two workmen and a liveried footman, had stopped. ‘Detective Superintendent Grace and Detective Inspector Branson, this is Matthew Corbin — Deputy Master of the Royal Household.’

A very tall man with rimless glasses, a light beard and a thick head of brown hair stepped out of an open office door to the left. He wore a dark suit and today’s obligatory black tie.

‘Matthew, this is Detective Superintendent Grace and his colleague Detective Inspector Branson. Detective Superintendent Grace is the Senior Investigating Officer on Sir Peregrine’s murder.’

‘Nice to meet you, gentlemen,’ Corbin said. He had a friendly but reserved demeanour, and spoke with an accent that sounded South African, Grace thought, shaking his large, firm hand. ‘Some of your colleagues are already here, Detective Superintendent, and established in the Billiards Room.’

Grace nodded. ‘Yes, I have detectives talking to everyone who worked with Sir Peregrine — to see if we can find any reason someone might have wanted to kill him.’

Corbin looked surprised. ‘Are you saying he was the target and not Her Majesty?’

‘I’m keeping all my options open at the moment,’ Grace replied. ‘Perhaps we could arrange a time later this morning to talk to you?’

‘Of course.’ He hesitated. ‘Yes, I’ll be here at my desk. Any time — except midday for fifteen minutes, when I have a meeting with The King.’

Grace looked past him at the interior of his long, narrow office, which reminded him of his own, except this was a lot less cluttered. There was a small round meeting table, with four chairs, a workstation beyond, and a view across the interior courtyard of the Palace. Then he thanked him and the Master continued leading the way along the corridor.

‘I’m afraid this corridor is a bit like the M25!’ he said, opening an internal door and looking over his shoulder at Grace and Branson. ‘Goes all the way around the Palace — we’re in the North Wing at the moment, this is where the royal apartments are, up on the second floor, and we’re currently heading for The Queen’s Sitting Room. We could just keep turning left at the end of each corridor, into the West Wing, South Wing, East Wing — which is the front of the Palace everyone sees, and then we’d end up back here again.’

‘Sir Tommy, how long did it take you to learn to navigate your way around the Palace?’ Branson asked.

‘Well, I was given a jolly useful tip by one of the royals just after I took up this post — for the late Queen. He said, “Navigate by the paintings, Tommy.” But then they moved the paintings!’ He gave his jovial laugh.

A short distance further on they went down a few steps and the Master stopped outside an ornate door. Just as he was about to open it, Grace noticed an elaborately gilded clock, with a yellow and red tag attached to it marked SALVAGE. ‘Salvage, Sir Tommy?’ he questioned. ‘What is that for?’

‘Ah, right, it’s while we have the builders here doing all the renovations, the Royal Collection team have tagged all the most valuable portable items — in the event of a fire they’re the ones everyone must try to save first.’

Then he opened the door, and in an almost hushed voice he said, ‘This is the Regency Room — which The Queen likes to use for meetings. Come in and make yourselves comfortable and I will go and bring her in. She’ll be accompanied by her own Private Secretary, Jayne Bennett. No objection to that, gentlemen?’ He looked at each of them in turn with a disarming smile that Grace felt could turn, in a flash, to chilling hostility if he received the wrong answer.

The room was cold and smelled of polish. Grace shook his head. ‘Not at all. She is very welcome to have anyone present she would like.’

‘Excellent!’ the Master said, and pointed at an embroidered and tasselled gold-coloured sofa, with two almost matching armchairs facing. ‘The Queen likes to sit on the sofa.’

It was an instruction, not a statement.

Then he was gone, closing the door behind him.