The Hawk Is Dead

71

Monday 27 November 2023

‘Roy, it’s Greg Mosse — I hope I’m not disturbing you from anything important?’

‘I’m actually in the middle of eating.’

‘Oh, I’m so sorry — I can call back — when would be convenient?’ His attempt at trying to sound apologetic reminded Grace of an expression he’d once heard. If you can fake sincerity, the rest is easy.

‘It’s OK, if this is quick. My wife’s just had to go up and deal with one of our kids.’

‘Look, two things. First is, I think you and I got off to a bad start and I just want to hold out an olive branch and say I’m sorry that happened — we need to work together — and it is indeed possible that our two investigations are linked. There’s too much at stake for us not to cooperate.’

‘I’d agree with that,’ Grace replied.

‘Good. Excellent. We need to share information — on what you have to date on the shooting of Sir Peregrine, and what I have to date on the death of Geoffrey Bailey. I do of course get daily updates from my Met officer on your team, but I think it would be far better if we could bury the hatchet and work together.’

Warily, Grace said, ‘I would be very happy to do that.’

‘That’s great. Great. The second thing is there’s something very strange that’s been discovered during the postmortem on Geoffrey Bailey.’

‘Which is?’

‘I don’t want to keep you from your dinner but I’ve been allocated a room to use for interviews at Buckingham Palace. Would you be free to meet me there some time tomorrow — the sooner the better?’

‘I’ve got a briefing meeting at 8 a.m. I could be there by 11 a.m.’

‘Excellent. I’ll inform the guards at the front entrance. We’ll have a good talk and make a plan of action. We all need to sharpen our pencils, right?’

‘My team use ball-point pens,’ Grace replied. ‘They don’t need sharpening.’

72

Monday 27 November 2023

Her boss had been in a strange mood all day. Normally, the Director of the Royal Collection would leave the office in St James’s Palace sharply at 5 p.m. every day, in order to get home in time to bathe her young children, put them to bed and read them a story.

Which was Rose Cadoret’s idea of hell. Dogs, yes, cats, yes, children, no thanks. She was with Woody Allen, who called having children, Aimless reproduction.

But the reason they were both still at work at 8 p.m. on this wet Monday night, was because Lorraine McKnight was suddenly, today, on a mission to get to grips with the Royal Collection inventory. She’d had a flea in her ear from Tommy, she told Rose. The King’s favourite painting in the Breakfast Room at Clarence House had gone missing, and now no one knew where the hell The Queen’s beloved Vermeer had been moved to from the Picture Gallery.

Well, no one except herself, Rose thought, who was feeling increasingly pissed off with her boss. And very concerned. She was tired, hungry and facing the prospect of a thirty-minute bike ride through the darkness and rain to her flat in Putney.

She could take the bus tonight, except she couldn’t. Nor a taxi. She had a full rucksack, and none of the Palace guards had ever raised an eyebrow as she gaily pedalled past them, every evening, smuggling out art treasures. But that wasn’t the main reason that she had to cycle tonight.

Lorraine pointed at the computer screen. At the rows of columns of RCINs — Royal Collection Inventory Numbers — by which every item of the one million and fifty-seven thousand items in the Royal Collection was identified. ‘I don’t know what’s going on, Rose,’ she said, sounding exasperated. ‘There are around two hundred items I can’t account for at the moment. Tommy might blame me for that damned Vermeer going missing, but all of this is his fault. Those bloody builders all over the place have no respect for art of any kind. Instead of informing me of every object they have to move, so we can agree a temporary new location and log it there, I think the lazy buggers just shove stuff anywhere they think is out of harm’s way.’

‘It’s disgraceful,’ Rose said. ‘Perhaps we should try to have a meeting with Sir Tommy tomorrow and tell him the issues his builders are causing. They probably have no idea of the value of some of the items they’re moving around.’

Lorraine McKnight nodded thoughtfully, then jabbed a finger at the screen. ‘Look, this has been driving me insane. There are twelve jade statuettes unaccounted for. Twelve! Well over one million pounds in value lying around somewhere — and no one can tell me where!’

I could, Rose thought. I could tell you exactly. Two are in a Russian Oligarch’s mansion in Surrey. One is in a fierce Royalist’s collection in Minnesota. Four are in our warehouse in Hounslow. And five are in my rucksack.

‘If the Keeper of the Privy Purse suddenly decided to do one of his spot checks, we’d be in the soup — well, I would.’

‘Does Sir Jason do that — spot checks?’ Rose asked, trying to mask the concern in her voice.

‘He’s a very sharp man and he’s always had a particular interest in the Royal Collection. It’s an important part of the nation’s wealth — valued at over £10 billion back in 2010, held in trust by the Sovereign — now King Charles. Finch sprang an inventory check on us for the entire Collection not long after he’d been appointed to the post. As you can imagine it was a pretty massive task, tying us all up for weeks. Happily, nothing was missing.’

‘Everything accounted for?’

‘Every single item.’ She shook her head. ‘But at this moment there are paintings, miniatures, jewellery, statuettes — pretty much across the entire Royal Collection spectrum — that I can’t account for. I honestly think it would scare me if I attempted to put a value on them.’

Rose said nothing.

Lorraine McKnight yawned. ‘OK, let’s pack it in for today.’ She looked at Rose, who saw the worried flutter in her eyes. ‘I’m seriously beginning to wonder if we should bring the police in.’

‘Police?’ Rose echoed.

‘We’re making the assumption that all these items have been temporarily misplaced. But what if that’s not the case? What if some or all have been stolen and we’re blind to the fact?’

Rose hesitated before replying, thinking hard. ‘Well, it’s a possibility, Lorraine — but I think pretty unlikely.’

‘I’d like to think so.’

‘All the workers have been vetted carefully,’ she added.

Lorraine McKnight suddenly tapped her keyboard, clicking out of the inventory. Then she clapped her hands together. ‘OK, tomorrow we are going to get everyone on the Trust here in the Palace to drop everything, and hunt for the missing items. Prepare to stay late again tomorrow, to work through the night if necessary. We’re going to find every damned one of these items. If we don’t, I’m going to contact the police. Does that sound a plan?’

‘It sounds a plan,’ Rose replied.

But not one you’re going to be alive to execute, she thought.

The Director stood up and walked across to the row of hooks on the wall by the door, and unhooked her bicycle helmet from one. Then she wrinkled her nose, looking at the window and the rain that was pelting against it. ‘It’s a pretty shitty night — are you cycling home or taking a taxi — or an Uber or something, Rose?’

‘You’re cycling?’

‘Always.’

Rose smiled. ‘I’m cycling, too.’