Peter James
The Hawk Is Dead
THIS NOVEL IS DEDICATED TO HER MAJESTY THE QUEEN’S READING ROOM BOOK CLUB AND LITERARY CHARITY, FOR ALL THE HARD WORK THEY DO IN CHAMPIONING LITERATURE.
Author’s Note
While Their Majesties feature in this novel as themselves, all the words they speak are entirely my own.
The roles of the Royal Household staff are real, but the characters themselves are totally fictitious and my creation.
1
Monday 20 November 2023
It was both the southern entrance to the railway tunnel and the southern exit, depending, like so much in life, on your perspective. At this moment, through the crosshairs of the scope of his rifle, it was very definitely the exit. In just under three hours and seven minutes’ time, the Royal Train was scheduled to emerge from it, travelling at a steady 70mph, en route south from London to the city of Brighton and Hove.
He smiled. It was the smile of a man who knows something no one else does. Well, just two other people, actually.
The train would be carrying Her Majesty Queen Camilla, and her entourage, on the first leg of a two-day official hospice tour along the south coast of England.
The weather gods had smiled on him. They’d delivered a dense early morning mist, enabling him to arrive unseen beneath its shroud and conceal his motorbike in undergrowth, then be in position by sunrise at 07.25. On his previous early morning recces here, he’d seen no one. No dog walkers or ramblers. This grassy hillock, a bundu of weeds and brambles, was well clear of any of the South Downs footpaths and, lying flat on his stomach on the mat he had brought with him, he was confident he was concealed from view.
As a man whose job involved constant risk assessment, he had calculated that the biggest risk facing him over the coming hours would be a pesky, inquisitive dog. But he had a pocketful of treats, just in case. Preparation was everything, always. As Abraham Lincoln said: Give me six hours to chop down a tree, and I will spend the first four sharpening my axe.
The Sako TRG 42 rifle was steady on its bipod stand, the stock cradled into his shoulder. The magazine contained five .338 hollow-point — dum-dum — bullets, which would have a devastating effect on their target by expanding on impact. He would only need one round but he would fire two shots just to misdirect them. And the knowledge he had three spare had a calming effect; to be accurate over this distance of more than 300 metres he needed to be very calm. Very steady.
He peered through the scope again. The grimy red-brick surround to the void of the railway tunnel was cut into the side of the hill, like a scowl. There were steps up to a primitive platform service lift, which could carry maintenance workers up and down from a grassy knoll above, a short distance from the winding driveway to a farm.
He could see all of it through his scope. It was so powerful he could have read the time on anyone’s wristwatch.
The mist had risen completely now. He would love to stand and stretch his legs but that would be foolish, camouflage fatigues only concealed you so long as you didn’t move, and so much planning had gone into this it was a risk he could not take. He also needed a pee, and had to go through the awkward contortion of removing the empty two-litre bottle of Diet Coke from his rucksack, and directing his urine into it. When he had finished, he screwed the top back on and put it to one side. He would stow it in his rucksack later, along with the weapon that he would break down after he’d used it.
He unscrewed his thermos flask and took another swig of his carefully rationed coffee, as he watched a northbound express, the early train from Brighton carrying commuters to London Victoria, enter the tunnel. In a few minutes the stopping train from London Bridge, heading south towards Brighton, would emerge. He got comfortable and practised his aim with the rifle. He had a perfect view into the windows on the left side of each carriage. At the speed these trains were travelling, an accurate shot would be impossible.
But the Royal Train, due at 10.32, wasn’t going to be travelling at any speed at all.
The irony hadn’t escaped him that he was employed to protect The Queen. That was his day job.
But today was his day off.
2
Monday 20 November 2023
Camilla, casually dressed in a jumper over a blouse and jeans, sat a companionable distance from her smartly suited husband, at the long mahogany table in the breakfast room of Clarence House. Her two Jack Russells, waiting patiently at her feet, were looking at her expectantly while she finished her porridge.
The King, seemingly deep in concentration, had been mouthing words silently to himself throughout breakfast. Between intermittent mouthfuls of muesli, dried fruit and honey he kept jotting down notes, in what looked to her like Arabic, on a pad beside him.
She smiled down at the dogs and whispered, ‘Think I’ve forgotten you?’
Beth and Bluebell’s ears twitched. They looked at her even more expectantly.
She adored these two gorgeous creatures, both rescues from Battersea Dogs Home, and the adoration was entirely mutual, though The Queen well knew that was just so long as she remembered to give them their daily treats. She broke off two small pieces from a slice of toast and slipped them under the table. With two quick crunches they were devoured.
‘I saw that!’ The King chided, raising a faintly disapproving eyebrow, accompanied by a smile that was anything but disapproving.
‘It’s just a little bit!’ She grinned back. ‘What are you working on?’
‘I’m addressing a climate change conference at Lancaster House at lunch today. It’s a speech on biodiversity to a gathering of world and business leaders. I intend to speak in several languages and I want to do as much of it as possible without referring to my notes.’
She smiled. ‘That’s brave.’
He glanced up at the wall and seemed momentarily distracted by something. Then he turned back to his wife. ‘What’s your day looking like?’
‘I’m starting my south coast hospice tour. Off to Brighton on the train — visiting Martlets in the morning. Then in the afternoon a children’s hospice and in the evening I’m going to see Hugh Bonneville in a play at Chichester Theatre. I’ll be overnighting on the train, then on to more hospices tomorrow morning. Then I’m going by helicopter to Bristol to give a talk at a big event SafeLives are hosting.’
‘The domestic abuse charity?’
‘Yes. Their work is quite remarkable.’
He glanced up at the wall again, frowned and called out loudly, ‘Gordon!’
The butler, immaculately dressed as always in his blazer, strode in from the pantry. ‘Yes, Sir, Ma’am?’ he said.
The King pointed up at a blank space. ‘What’s happened to that Landseer? I love that picture — why isn’t it there any more?’
‘I think the Royal Collection may have taken it away for cleaning, but I’ll find out, Sir.’
‘I almost fell over someone from the Royal Collection as I came down to breakfast,’ The Queen said. ‘He was lying on the floor at the base of the stairs doing something to the bottom of a picture frame.’
‘I’m very sorry, Ma’am, I’ll have a word with him.’