The Hawk Is Dead

48

Friday 24 November 2023

Jon Smoke’s mobile rang. The caller’s number was withheld — which indicated it was probably one of his team or a member of the Royal Household. On the rare occasions when either gave out their number, it would be to someone trusted and on a strictly need-to-know basis. For everyone else on the outside, the starting point would be a landline call to the main Buckingham Palace switchboard.

He was seated on a wooden chair in the white wooden kiosk outside the Garden Entrance to the West Wing, where he had gone for his lunch break, and was swigging lukewarm coffee from a flask. It was a place the RaSPs sometimes used for their rest periods instead of their common room in the Royal Mews. Through the window he had a magnificent view over the Palace lawns towards the lake. One of the gardeners was grinding across on a very old-fashioned ride-on gang mower, carving beautiful stripes.

One thing for sure, this palace, with its well-tended grounds, wasn’t exactly a shithole. And he should know, he’d worked in some real shitholes after leaving the Army. After joining the Met Police, he’d ended up on the Armed Response Unit attached to the Violent Crimes Task Force, dealing with knife and gun crime in the worst parts of East Croydon and environs. A few words in the right ears from his old army commanding officer, Jason Finch, had seen him transferred to the Royalty and Specialist Protection team. And with it, the opportunity for a very cushy future had presented itself. But that was how life worked, wasn’t it? One day you got a smack in the mouth. Another day, you got a box of chocolates. Or a beautiful oval diamond on a velvet pad.

It had taken him a long time in therapy, after returning from Afghanistan, to even consider the idea of a relationship. But Chloe, an estate agent, who he’d first met in the local pub, understood and had his back. Maybe she had it too much, he worried. She thought he was a better person than he really was. But, hey. Pick your battles, right?

She knew him just as a copper who protected the royals. She didn’t know that he was part of a very small group of people within the Royal Household who had recently become extremely wealthy. She was aware he intended to move permanently away from England to a life in the sun, and she was happy about that, and about the prospect of a new start in Dubai. She liked the idea of setting up her own estate agency in a country that was always warm — with potentially a large supply of wealthy clients.

But for some months now he had begun to tire of her. Nothing he could put a finger on, just the spark had gone. Time to move on.

Besides, he liked Dubai for an altogether different reason — one he couldn’t tell her about. Dubai was one of the few places in the world that had both sunshine and a pleasant lifestyle, if you have the means — but, even more importantly, a little neglectful in their extradition treaty with the UK.

He took a suck on his tobacco-flavoured vape, inhaled deeply, then blew the smoke out as he answered the phone with a curt, ‘Yes?’

A petulant voice said, ‘I know what you’ve done.’

He recognized the voice immediately. The caller had made no attempt to disguise it. And Jon Smoke was in no hurry to respond. Instead, he took another drag on his vape while contemplating this curve ball that had come at him out of the blue.

Another smack in the face.

Back in Afghanistan, after Scottie’s horrific death, he’d had his own way of dealing with further smacks in the mouth. From then on while on patrol he took no prisoners. There’d been a night when they’d confronted five Taliban fighters. Still crazed with fury over Scottie, he’d made sure none of them had survived. He’d had help from another soldier who also had skin in that game. Her name was Rose Cadoret. She had killed two of them herself.

‘I know what all of you have done and I know who all of you are.’

‘Is that so, Geoffrey?’ Smoke replied.

‘I’m owed a Royal Victorian Medal. I’ve been passed over for it three times now. It was awarded to a woman last week, for God’s sake! She’s done nothing compared to the service to Their Majesties that I’ve given. Claire Tavender. I mean, really?’

‘You feel you’re owed a medal?’

‘I don’t feel I’m owed a medal,’ Geoffrey Bailey said. ‘I am owed a medal. Fifteen years. I’m absolutely fed up seeing just about everyone else in the Royal Household get one award or another, and yet me, I get nothing. I’m due to retire in six months — and I bloody well want a medal. I deserve it, surely? I was Page of the Backstairs to the late Queen for ten years. Now I’m serving Their Majesties in the role of footman, and yet I’m feeling ignored. You have the ability to make it happen, and don’t try to deny it!’

‘Geoffrey, I’m just a humble Royal Protection Officer. I don’t have any sway.’

‘And I’m a banana, Jon Smoke. The choice is yours. Use your influence to get me that medal or I’ll blow your whole nasty scam wide open. I know all about “Granny’s Personal Chips”. Just in case you’re wondering how I know, let me explain. The late Sir Peregrine and I were very good friends — if you understand what I’m saying?’

Smoke did understand. He’d heard from a very good source — too good a source — that Sir Peregrine enjoyed the company of both sexes. But really, with this toxic little man?

And yet, now he was hearing this, he was remembering. Peregrine’s office was directly opposite his St James’s Palace residence. Sir Tommy had informed him some months ago that both he and his wife had noticed the light on in Sir Peregrine’s office at strange, late and irregular hours, and were a little concerned. Sir Peregrine had never been one for working one hour more than was absolutely necessary. One of his team had gone to the office to investigate and had been met by a very flushed and angry Sir Peregrine giving him short shrift and a story about working on an urgent speech for The King.

He thought fast, needing to buy time to think this through further. A big red flag was waving in his face. ‘If I can get you that medal, would you be happy?’

‘Get me that and I would be delirious!’

‘OK,’ Smoke said. ‘I know who to talk to.’

‘Of course you do.’

‘Tomorrow night, meet me by the Garden Entrance at 7 p.m., sharp. I’ll have the medal.’

‘Of course you will!’