The Hawk Is Dead

104

Thursday 30 November 2023

Roy Grace turned to the officer who was holding Rose Cadoret’s arm, his stomach and chest hurting from where she had kicked him, although at the moment he barely noticed. ‘I suggest two of you escort her to custody — she’s got quite a line in fancy footwork.’

‘Very funny,’ she said, almost spitting at him.

He turned away, then patted his pockets, checking what was missing. His wallet, handcuffs, house keys had all fallen out. He’d have to worry about retrieving them later. Glenn Branson reached out an arm and handed him his phone. ‘Think you dropped this, boss.’

‘Brilliant! Good work, thanks.’ He ushered Branson away. As he did so, one of the officers called out, alarmed.

‘Sir! You’ve blood on your face — your chin.’

Grace stroked it with his hand. It was sticky. He looked at the palm and saw streaks of blood. But right at this moment he didn’t care, adrenaline was coursing through him.

Branson took a good look. ‘You might need stitches, boss.’

‘We need to find Sir Tommy and see if Rose is bullshitting, or right.’

‘And your feeling is?’

‘That she’s right.’ He turned to the third police officer, a man-mountain with a thick beard. ‘Can you take us to Sir Tommy Magellan-Lacey’s office right away.’

Last night Grace had obtained a search warrant for Tommy’s office and home. It was in his pocket if he needed it.

‘Yes, sir. You sure you’re all right and don’t need to see the doctor?’

‘What’s your name?’ Grace asked him.

‘PC Beckett, sir.’

‘OK, thanks, PC Beckett. I don’t need a doctor, I need to see Sir Tommy very, very urgently.’

The two detectives followed Beckett, racing down the stairs all the way to the first floor, then along a maze of corridors, some of which now looked familiar to Grace, until they were back in one that was very definitely familiar, at the top of the short staircase. PC Beckett stopped outside a door and knocked. He knocked again. There was no response. He turned to Grace. ‘Doesn’t seem like he’s in, sir.’

Grace opened the door and peered into a spacious, very traditionally furnished office with fine paintings on the wall and a window overlooking the gardens. There was nothing on the mahogany desk at all, other than a leather blotter, an antique silver calendar, a computer terminal and keyboard. It looked more like a desk in a vacant hotel suite than a working office. Like it had been cleaned out of everything.

He turned back to the officer, Rose Cadoret’s words ringing in his ears.

He may already have gone.

‘You know where Sir Tommy Magellan-Lacey lives, in St James’s Palace?’ he asked Beckett.

‘Yes, I do, sir, I’ve been on guard there many times.’

‘Can you take me the fastest route there. We need to run.’

They ran. Along the corridor, down the stairs and into the courtyard, through the archway and across the parade ground. Another Protection Officer opened the gates for them, barking at the crowd to clear a pathway.

They sprinted across Constitution Hill and Green Park, and on, past the elegant white facade of Clarence House, the RaSP nodding at two of his colleagues at the entrance, around the side and up to the front door of Sir Tommy’s residence, directly across from the two RaSPs who were part of the team permanently stationed in the hut by the entrance barrier.

Grace knocked on the door, hard, and rang the doorbell.

Then heard a voice behind him.

One of the Royal Protection Officers, with a jovial, quite bucolic face, was walking towards him. ‘Sir, if it’s Sir Tommy you’re after, he and his missus have just gone on holiday.’

‘Holiday?’ Grace demanded. ‘Seriously?’

‘They left in a black cab — what — about an hour and a half ago.’ He turned to his colleague, who had now joined him, for confirmation. ‘We helped them with their bags. They had a lot of luggage. Travelling like Royalty, they were.’

His colleague, much younger, a tall, alert-looking woman, nodded in agreement.

‘A black cab?’ Grace asked. ‘Do you know the company?’

Both officers shook their heads.

‘Did either Sir Tommy or his wife tell you where they were going?’

Again they shook their heads.

‘Do you have CCTV here?’ Branson asked.

‘We do, yes, sir,’ the female RaSP said and the man nodded.

Five minutes later, Grace and Branson, crammed into the small hut with the two officers, watched the CCTV replay. On Grace’s watch, the time was currently 13.10.

The colour footage was scrolling forward from 10.30 a.m. At 11.32 a.m. a black taxi came into view and the red and white barrier was raised. It pulled up outside the Magellan-Laceys’ front door. The number plate was clearly visible.

Grace memorized it and immediately dialled Greg Mosse’s mobile phone.

The Detective Superintendent answered on the second ring. ‘Roy, good to hear from you! How’s it going, any developments?’

‘I’ll give you the full download, but this is really urgent, Greg. A black cab picked up the Magellan-Laceys from their St James’s residence at 11.32 a.m. today. I have the cab’s licence plate. I need you to find out which cab picked them up and where the driver was taking them.’

‘Am I missing something here, Roy?’

‘Possibly, Greg. I’ll update you, but first can you do this, as a matter of the greatest urgency — in our new spirit of cooperation?’

‘Absolutely, Roy. Consider it done! I’m on it, like a car bonnet!’

Promising to call Mosse back to explain, Grace ended the call and turned back to the RaSPs. ‘Do you have a bosher?’

‘You mean a big red key, sir?’

‘Exactly.’

‘What do you need that for, sir?’

‘To get into the Magellan-Laceys’ house.’

‘You don’t need a bosher, sir. They never lock the door. It’s not like they’re going to get burgled, with us standing fifty feet away, twenty-four-seven, is it?’