‘See what I mean?’ Dyson asked.
Grace turned and looked at him, nodding.
‘Are you interested in history at all, sir?’
‘History?’ Grace frowned.
‘I like famous last words. One of my favourites is Major General Sedgwick, the highest-ranking Union officer killed during the American Civil War. Seconds before he was shot, one of his officers warned he was too close to the front line. He responded, “Nonsense, they couldn’t hit an elephant at this dist—”’
Grace grinned, then gave him a questioning look. ‘Your point being?’
‘The head you can see through the scope. Whether it’s your male or your female officer. It’s pretty big, right?’
‘It is,’ Grace agreed. ‘Both.’
‘So, imagine you are the shooter. You are highly forensically aware and you’ve taken the greatest care to ensure that you leave no trace, other than the flattened grass. You’ve come with a weapon that will deliver a catastrophic wound wherever your bullet strikes. If you want to be one hundred per cent sure of killing your target, then a bullet with a ballistic tip, straight through the forehead, is going to do the business, every time. Take another look through the scope and tell me how easy you think it would be to miss?’
Grace looked through the scope again. Then turned back to Dyson. And shook his head. ‘You couldn’t, could you?’
‘My mother couldn’t have missed from here,’ he replied. ‘And she has advanced macular degeneration.’
26
Wednesday 22 November 2023
‘Best behaviour, eh?’ Glenn Branson said. ‘Like, proper best behaviour?’
Roy Grace, in the back of the taxi with his colleague, nodded solemnly, as they glided away from London’s Victoria Station. Normally they would have driven, but time was too tight this morning.
The very pungent smell of new-car polish of the interior was adding to the faintly queasy feeling in his stomach. And he felt butterflies, which wasn’t like him. But then this case wasn’t like anything he’d ever previously experienced. He smiled at the DI, relieved to see that, for once, he was dressed discreetly in plain charcoal, rather than in one of his trademark loud suits. ‘Proper best behaviour,’ he echoed, his voice tight with anxiety, and glanced at his watch: 9.05.
He had no idea how the morning ahead was going to unfold. But then again there wasn’t any precedent for a detective interviewing The Queen of England as a witness to a murder. At least he’d gone home last night and slept in his bed, rather than in his office, but he’d been too wired to get any decent quality of sleep, waking constantly and jotting down additional notes of questions to ask today, worried he might forget them otherwise. He read through them on his phone now.
‘It’s times like this that make me wish more than anything that my mum was alive,’ Branson said.
‘Yes?’ Grace remembered that Glenn had hardly known his father: he’d once told him he’d left home months before he’d been born.
‘If she could have lived to see this, she’d have been so proud,’ he said with a wistful smile. ‘Little me, going off to interview The Queen!’
Grace smiled, glad for his friend’s happiness. ‘So don’t screw it up!’
Branson feigned an aloof look, and tapped his own chest. ‘I’m now a certified Tier 5 interviewer. That’s a higher qualification than you.’ He narrowed his eyes, but was unable to mask his grin. ‘Just remember that — boss.’
‘Don’t worry, I spent some time with Alec Butler, who is also a Tier 5, to plan today’s interview,’ Grace retorted.
Branson gave him a big smile.
They were passing Buckingham Palace to their left. The taxi rounded the Victoria Monument, then headed along The Mall, passing the handsome white stucco facade of Clarence House, before halting at lights. They turned left, along the east side of St James’s Palace, with its Tudor red-brick facade, then after a few moments, left again into Pall Mall.
‘You seem in high spirits,’ Grace said.
Branson shrugged. ‘Things are good at the moment — you know — with me and Siobhan. We think she might be...’ He tapped his tummy.
Grace’s face lit up. ‘Seriously?’
‘Uh-huh!’
At that moment the taxi halted at a barrier. Beyond it, to the left, was a further part of St James’s Palace, with a black Range Rover parked outside. Two heavily armed police officers stepped out of a hut beside the barrier and the cabbie lowered his window. He repeated part of the instructions Roy Grace had given him. ‘Dropping off Detective Superintendent Grace and DI Branson.’
‘To see Sir Tommy Magellan-Lacey,’ Grace added, lowering his window and holding out his warrant card.
It did not immediately impress either of the two Royal Protection guards. But moments later a door to their left opened, and out stepped an exuberant-looking man — in his early sixties, Grace guessed. He was smartly suited, with elegant wavy hair and wearing a black tie, making Roy Grace very glad he’d had the presence of mind to wear one himself, as had Branson.
The guards acknowledged the new arrival with a friendly greeting, and moments later, tension over, Grace paid the driver and they climbed out of the cab.
‘Detective Superintendent Grace? I’m Tommy!’ The Master of the Royal Household held out his hand, with a warm smile.
‘Very good to meet you, Sir Tommy. This is my colleague, Detective Inspector Glenn Branson.’
Magellan-Lacey pumped Branson’s hand, still smiling warmly, and with a very posh voice said, ‘You’ve both come up from Brighton?’
‘We have, Sir Tommy,’ Grace said.
‘It’s a wonderful city! Fiona and I went to a wedding there a few years ago, loved it. We had fish and chips on the pier. Best fish and chips ever! Come in — coffee? Tea? Probably not appropriate to suggest something stronger?’
‘Probably not!’ Grace agreed, pleasantly surprised at how down-to-earth this eminent man was. ‘A coffee would be very welcome.’
Branson nodded. ‘Same for me.’
The two detectives walked through the narrow front door into an instantly warm and friendly-feeling environment. The hallway walls were hung with photographs, paintings and cartoons, and there was a large cuckoo clock that chimed on the half-hour as they walked past. It felt more like being in a farmhouse than a palace, Grace thought, narrowly avoiding tripping over a dark brown cat.
They were ushered into a kitchen-dining room with cream walls and black marble worktops that felt even more cosy farmhouse than formal grand. There was a cream Aga oven, a dining table with a green and white polka-dot cover and wooden chairs. All around were framed family photographs, with a strong emphasis on the armed forces. There was a much younger, beaming Tommy in uniform, a round cutting board engraved with ‘Tommy & Fiona’, photographic collages of young people wearing army berets and, pinned to a door, a printed wall-hanging of a helicopter. And there were books everywhere. The whole effect was warm, disarming, homely.
‘I can’t believe we are in the middle of London!’ Glenn Branson said.
‘Is this your house, sir, or what they call grace-and-favour accommodation?’ Roy Grace asked.
The Master of the Royal Household smiled a tad wistfully at them, busily filling a kettle. ‘I’m afraid these days it is more grace than favour, we have to pay rent.’
Grace clocked the faint shadow of a frown as he said this.
‘But, hey, we get to live in the centre of London with free parking, and those chaps outside are a damned sight better than any burglar alarm!’
‘Or guard dog,’ Grace said.
‘Indeed.’ The Master looked up with a warm smile and began spooning coffee into a cafetière.