The Hawk Is Dead

62

Monday 27 November 2023

Ask any young, fresh-out-of-probation police officer what the big bangs of the job were, Grace thought, and they were likely to tell you it was driving on blue lights and getting into a bundle — a roll-up — a good old full-on brawl. Totally legally. He knew, he’d loved all that stuff when he’d first joined.

After officers matured a bit — at least most of them — they would realize that the real bang of their chosen career was making a difference to people’s lives, in a way that few other jobs could. That was true for Roy Grace, but being something of a petrol head, the thrill of driving on blue lights had remained. And although his focus at this moment was fully on the case, and he was nervous about what The King might confront him with, cutting through the London traffic with the blue lights on and the siren wailing was quite the thrill.

During the journey he’d been thinking back to what Jack Alexander had raised as his concerns about the footman. Over the phone on the way here Jack was unable to add any more to what he had already related. Which was that Bailey’s body language had seemed wrong, and the perceptive DS had felt Bailey was using the opportunity of the interview to air a personal grievance. That grievance was, apparently, that he felt he’d been passed over by Sir Peregrine Greaves when he’d recently awarded coveted Special Service medals to Royal Household staff.

Enough of a motive to murder Sir Peregrine? And so elaborately? Grace didn’t think so. The shooting had been carefully planned and staged. If Geoffrey Bailey had been behind it, he would never have been stupid enough to have kicked off about his grievance to a detective. And, Grace figured, because he had been stupid in doing that, it indicated that no way was he smart enough to have planned the shooting of last Monday.

And yet, all his instincts told him there was a connection. But what? The deciphering of Sir Peregrine’s diary had revealed a confession about the Private Secretary’s inappropriate relationship with an employee.

They arrived at the front gates of Buckingham Palace, which were swarming with press, shortly before midday — five minutes earlier than Grace had predicted to Sir Tommy. Dapper as ever in a suit and tie, black shoes honed to a mirror shine, he was there to guide them into the inner courtyard, and then directed them to a parking spot by the internal entrance to the West Wing.

‘Good show!’ he said as the two detectives climbed out of the car. The smell of hot engine oil and burnt brake pads rose from it. ‘You must have driven like the wind!’

‘I had a good pilot.’ Grace threw a glance at Glenn Branson, who was beaming — despite the very tragic reason they were here. He’d reminded Branson in the car not to say a word to anyone about the diary, not even to the Master.

‘Excellent!’ Sir Tommy said, seeming as enthusiastic as ever. ‘So, Sir Peregrine’s Deputy Private Secretary will look after you, Detective Inspector Branson, while I take you, Detective Superintendent Grace, to see His Majesty. After that, we’ll convene in my office for a debrief. All right with you chaps?’

‘What about Her Majesty?’ Grace asked. ‘How is she?’

‘HMQ is out of town at the moment — quite fortunately for her — on a number of long-standing engagements. Although HMTK’s not happy, he’d rather she be wrapped in cotton wool until this whole situation is sorted.’

Five minutes later, Roy Grace entered King Charles’s magnificent office, accompanied by Sir Tommy. As immaculately dressed as before, but looking drawn and worried, The King rose and greeted Grace, shaking him firmly by the hand.

‘It’s good to see you again, Detective Superintendent, but not under circumstances I would have chosen.’ There was a faintly droll tone to his rich voice, but no hint of humour in his expression.

Grace gave a small head-bow. ‘Your Majesty, I completely understand.’

The King walked over to the bay window, passed a small desk on which lay two red felt-tipped pens and a memo pad, and beckoned Grace to accompany him. Down in the garden below, in front of the two magnificent plane trees, Albert and Victoria, was the sight of a full-on crime scene in action. Two tents, a small grey van and a much larger forensic unit van, and half a dozen people in white oversuits, overshoes, hoods and gloves. Two of them were on their hands and knees conducting a fingertip search, and one was videoing all and everything.

‘I have never, in all my life, had to see this, Detective Superintendent.’ His tone, as he turned towards him, was pained, not accusatory. Grace saw a look of almost despair on his face and suddenly felt deeply sad for the man. And, irrationally, a sense of guilt, as if this was somehow all his fault.

The King turned back and pointed down at the lawn. ‘I mean, we’ve had the occasional incursion into the Palace grounds, but a dead body? A crime scene like something out of — out of one of those crime dramas my wife loves? One of my Household staff murdered here, within the Palace walls — and just a week after poor Peregrine. I feel as if I’m in the middle of a nightmare — my whole world turned upside down. Poor Geoffrey Bailey, he’d served my dear mama so diligently. Please tell me what is going on — and how is my wife being protected, as she insists on being out and about all over the country again?’

Grace glanced at Sir Tommy, who gave him a nod of reassurance, then he addressed The King.

‘Your Majesty, horrific though the two events are, we don’t know at this stage that they are definitely connected.’

The King’s eyes narrowed. ‘Sometimes, Detective Superintendent, the simplest explanation is often the correct one?’

‘Yes, indeed, sir.’

‘So two members of the Royal Household have been murdered, within one week of each other.’ He tilted his head slightly and gave a penetrating stare. ‘Is it not more than probable they may be connected?’

Grace desperately wanted to give The King some reassurance. He did not like, apart from anything else, to see him looking so sad and worried. He thought hard for a moment before replying, trying to be as diplomatic as possible. ‘Sir, one of the things we learn as detectives is to be very careful about making assumptions. We can hypothesize, and yes without doubt there is a credible hypothesis that the two deaths may well be connected. On the surface it looks that way. But we also need to hypothesize that they may not be. The most dangerous thing any police officer leading an enquiry can do is to lead it down a blind alley because they are determined to make their facts fit the hypothesis, rather than the other way around. I need to make that clear, sir.’

The King looked at him respectfully for a moment. ‘I understand. Go on, please.’

‘I’m a Sussex detective and I’m the Senior Investigating Officer on the investigation into the death of Sir Peregrine Greaves. But I have no standing in Metropolitan London, which is a completely different jurisdiction. I understand a Met Police officer, Detective Superintendent Greg Mosse, is the SIO investigating the death of your footman, Geoffrey Bailey. We will of course collaborate and exchange information to see if there is a link between the two — or, equally importantly, if there is not.’

The King nodded. ‘You are a very experienced detective, I understand. What is your gut feeling?’

‘Sir, I don’t yet have enough information on the deceased footman. I’d be lying to you if I said I had a gut feeling at this stage. If you’ll allow me the time to find out more, then I will be very happy to then let you know all my thoughts.’

The King gave him a thin smile of approval, then looked at the Master. ‘Tommy, will you ensure that Detective Superintendent Grace gets all the cooperation he needs from the Met team? Especially from Detective Superintendent Mosse?’

‘Absolutely, Your Majesty.’

Roy Grace gave a thin smile, too. The King was smart and perceptive. He’d clearly already met — and seen through — the condescending Greg Mosse.

In this brief meeting he felt he had created an ally. This was reflected in the smile on Sir Tommy Magellan-Lacey’s face. And the very warm handshake The King gave him as he departed.