The Hawk Is Dead

99

Thursday 30 November 2023

There was a long silence. Grace, increasingly wary, watched Rose Cadoret’s eyes moving from him to Branson and back to him.

‘Actually,’ she said, ‘no, I don’t want to tell you where the money came from.’

‘In which case, Rosemary Catherine Cadoret, I’m arresting you on suspicion of theft and on suspicion of conspiracy to murder.’ As he spoke, he dug his hand into his right pocket to pull out his handcuffs. ‘You do not have to say—’

She was faster than he imagined she could possibly be, especially with the pain she seemed to be suffering, and caught him totally by surprise. Within what felt like a nanosecond she was on her feet, holding in her right hand the unsheathed and clacking Ibrahim dagger, and in her left the long, curved sword. And lunging at Grace.

He stepped back.

‘Stay away from me!’ she shrieked. She lunged again and he stepped back again. Then out of the corner of his eye he saw Branson moving towards her. But as he did so, she suddenly spun on her own axis, launching a spinning back kick to the DI’s stomach, sending him tumbling backwards with a grunt of pain as the wind was taken out of him.

Then she was gone through the door.

100

Thursday 30 November 2023

Grace glanced at Branson, who was trying to get to his feet, all the while struggling to get his wind back. ‘You OK?’

‘Get her!’ Branson gasped, hauling himself up. ‘I’m right behind you.’

Grace sprinted to the door, looked left then right and saw her, some distance away, sprinting along an eau-de-nil-coloured corridor lined with marble busts and huge vases, the walls hung with paintings.

As he raced after her, a footman emerged from a door at the far end of the corridor and she ran in through it. Grace followed her in half a minute later. And found himself in a large and very grand, formal drawing room. There was a Persian carpet covering most of the floor, a wide oil painting of the Colosseum, flanked on each side by portraits of two rather self-important-looking men in frock coats and grey wigs. Elegant chairs and sofas were arranged around a fine white marble fireplace. One entire wall was floor-to-ceiling bookcases lined with red and green leather volumes.

No Rose Cadoret.

She had vanished into thin air.

The tall windows with swagged curtains were all shut. Where the hell was she?

Branson came limping into the room and looked briefly around, frowning.

‘She came in here, I saw her,’ Grace said.

‘Didn’t Sir Tommy say something about a room — was it the White Drawing Room? A sitting room where there was a secret corridor that let the monarch move from the state apartments to the more public reception rooms without being seen?’

Grace nodded. It was ringing a bell. He looked at the floor-to-ceiling library shelves at one end of the room. One did not look properly aligned. He hurried across, grabbed it and, wary she might be standing behind it, pulled it open and stood well back. He considered raising the alarm, but was worried about who could be trusted. The secret door revealed a dark space beyond. He switched on his phone’s torch. A long dark corridor swallowed most of the dim light. He sprinted down it. At the far end, he came out through an open door into a small, elegant sitting room. Another open door on the far side led him into a musty-smelling bedroom, with a two-poster bed that was sealed in polythene, as were all the rest of the soft furnishings. It felt like a mausoleum. A door was ajar on the far side.

Rushing through it, still holding his phone, he caught sight of Rose almost at the end of another corridor. He ran flat out after her, wishing he was wearing a stab vest. Light from a chandelier glinted off the blades of her knives as she disappeared around a corner, past a photocopier and a long-case clock. As he rounded, he almost barrelled straight into two very smartly dressed women who emerged from a side door.

Blurting an apology he ran on, into a magnificent gallery, the walls lined with white pilasters. On either side of the red carpet were huge marble statues on columns and plinths, interspersed with equally enormous, finely decorated vases and urns. At the far end was a sofa beneath a tapestry that almost filled the wall. Rose dashed to the left and went out of sight. He heard a door bang shut. And as he rounded the same corner, and saw her ahead, he heard footsteps behind him. He turned and saw it was Branson, limping. ‘Careful,’ Grace cautioned.

‘We’re going to get her, boss,’ he gasped.

‘Stay behind me,’ Grace said firmly as he ran on, as fast as he could, as she threw a backwards glance then disappeared around another corner.

Moments later he found himself in a long, narrow corridor with double doors at the far end. Rose Cadoret hurtled through them but as Grace reached them, several seconds later, they opened towards him and he barged headlong into a liveried footman, sending him flying into a wall and his loaded tray of coffee, cups, milk and biscuits crashing to the floor. And Grace very nearly with them.

Gasping an apology he ran on, gulping down air, wondering who he could call for backup, and suddenly realized he no longer had his phone in his hand. Must have dropped it just now, he realized, but there was no way he was going to stop the chase to go back for it.

He caught another glimpse of her, then another, as he ran, increasingly breathless, along corridor after corridor, lined with paintings, fine furniture, display cases filled with jewellery, ornaments, chinaware. Then he passed an ancient-looking brass and steel lift cage, with rickety wooden doors, the whole thing looking like it belonged in a hotel from another era.

She turned into a corridor with bare walls and large rectangular shadows on them where paintings had been hung. It was lined with statues and chairs all trussed-up with white dust sheets. They looked eerie, like ghosts, he thought as he sprinted past them. Ahead, she darted through a door with a warning sign, and he followed her, onto bare floorboards, with internal scaffolding above him. There was a strong chemical stench and a loud mechanical whine. He fleetingly glanced up and saw two masked men in hard hats with spray paint guns.

For a moment he thought he was gaining on the woman. Then she ducked through a side door and when he reached it and went through he found himself on a spiral staircase, with temporary wiring in bright red insulating tape snaking up it. There was a deafeningly loud sound of drilling. For an instant he wasn’t sure whether she’d gone up or down. A small framed sign in blue on the wall read, SILVER PANTRY — BASEMENT — BLUE ROUTE.

He looked behind him, hoping to see Glenn so they could cover both directions, but there was no sign of him. The drilling suddenly stopped and he heard what sounded like a door slam below him, and decided to chance it. He ran down, pushed through the door at the bottom and found himself in a vast basement. The bare floor was outlined with red and white hazard markings around the edges, temporary-looking plywood partitions, more overhead scaffolding and warning notices everywhere. It felt more like he was in the bowels of a hospital than a palace.

There was no sign of her. He looked frantically around, breathing heavily, his chest aching. There was a door marked SWIMMING POOL. He tried the handle but it was locked. Where? Where the hell was she?

There was a grinding din from a drilling machine — a worker in a hard hat and ear defenders was cutting into an exposed wall. He saw a large yellow sharps bin, a moveable red barrier with a sign, STAIRWELL CLOSED. Then what looked like the boardedup entrance to a lift shaft with the sign in large red and white letters: WARNING — DEEP EXCAVATION BEHIND DOOR. STRICTLY NO ADMITTANCE.

There were huge wooden boxes and plastic containers everywhere. The faint smell of hot electrics and freshly sawn wood. He saw a trip hazard notice. Then a map, highlighted with an arrow. BASEMENT FLOOR — RED ROUTE. You are here.

Then, at the far end, a good hundred yards or so away, he spotted her. She ran out from behind a partition, blades glinting, and then shot off to the right. As he reached the far end he saw her, at the end of a wide corridor, where four workmen in hard hats were preoccupied trying to lift a huge insulation panel into place with the aid of a mechanical hoist. She was pulling the handle of a tall, very old-looking door. Pulling desperately. Still with both weapons in her hands.

A sign above the door read, TUNNEL ENTRANCE. HARD HATS MUST BE WORN.

He raced towards her, his hopes up. If he could get to her before she heard him—

She spun, brandishing the sword and the dagger, with a clack-clacking sound from the dagger. That feral look he’d seen on her face in the Indian Room had returned, with real ferocity. ‘Get back,’ she yelled. ‘Fucking get back!’ She lunged at him and he stepped back, smartly. She lunged again, then again. Clack-clack... clack-clack... clack-clack... She looked crazy enough to kill him. Then she seemed to leap up in the air, throwing out a foot, and an instant later it felt like he had been hit in the stomach by a sledgehammer as he was propelled, winded, onto his back.