Jack Alexander spoke. ‘Boss, surely a lot of these items in the Royal Collection are extremely well known, how on earth could buyers have been found for them? I mean, it’s just not feasible?’
Grace took great pleasure in replying. ‘I think you’ll find your answer in a moment.’
Alexander looked nonplussed. Grace read on:
‘I told my source that surely the thieves would have problems in disposing of a number of the items because they are so well known. But he informed me that many valuable works have been sold via the so-called “dark web”, making the transactions virtually untraceable, with them mostly going to unscrupulous collectors in Eastern Europe and Asia. Additionally, some pieces are melted down and sold for the value of their precious metals. And stones, such as diamonds, are re-cut to alter their identity completely. Utter sacrilege to our heritage! They must be stopped!’
Grace looked at Jack. ‘Does that answer your question?’
He received a nod.
Norman Potting raised a hand. ‘Chief, do you have any sense of who this person high up in Royal Service might be?’
‘I don’t, Norman, no. Not yet.’
DS Alexander raised a hand again. ‘Boss, the footman I interviewed on Thursday, Geoffrey Bailey, may fit the description of “the source” in the diary, especially if Sir Peregrine wanted to keep their relationship a secret.’
‘He does,’ Grace acknowledged. ‘You and Polly are interviewing him formally — has a time been arranged?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Polly Sweeney interjected. ‘Tomorrow at 3 p.m.’
‘Good.’ Then he addressed the entire team. ‘OK, I appreciate you all being here on a Sunday. I’m sure there’ll be a lot of vicars and priests unhappy not to see some of you in their churches today.’
There was a ripple of laughter.
‘There’s something further that Denton Scroope has found and as yet has not been able to decode. Five groups of letters. He doesn’t know their meaning but he believes they are very significant. They are as follows:
R I S K K
E J N W
R S Z K Y Z N K Z K S
N X W K X Z X W K X
And the final one: J F K Y.’
Grace looked at each of his inner circle. ‘Any clues, anyone?’
‘Above my pay grade, chief,’ Norman Potting grumbled in his rural burr.
‘Well, there’s your homework, everyone!’
He turned to Branson. ‘Glenn, stay on, I need a word.’
58
Sunday 26 November 2023
In his office, minutes after the briefing had ended, Roy Grace sat with his back to the less-than-glorious view of the upper car park.
‘I can’t reiterate enough, keeping confidential what you’ve just heard. We can’t have any of this getting out,’ Roy said.
‘What the fuck, man?’ Branson exploded.
‘Glenn, we’re at work. You call me sir, or boss. Understand?’ Grace chided him, more harshly than he’d intended. Grace’s voice was so uncharacteristically imperious, it startled Branson into compliance.
Branson shook his head.
‘What’s this all about?’
Facing him across the desk, Grace said, ‘You know exactly what this is about.’
Early in their relationship, Grace had concerns about Glenn Branson marrying the senior crime reporter of the local newspaper, the Argus. His concerns were as much for his friend’s future promotion chances within the police as they were about the risk of leaks. Since the couple had started dating, there had been far too many confidential stories appearing in the paper about cases the Major Crime Team had been working on.
‘She knows the importance of this case, Roy — sorry — SIR.’
Grace smiled at Branson’s exaggerated deference. ‘Walls have ears, mate.’
‘Siobhan’s zipped,’ he assured him. ‘Proper zipped.’ He mimed the motion across his lips.
Grace nodded. ‘I just know how it is. Sandy used to get mad at me for not telling her about stuff that was going on — really mad — and she’d try every trick in the book to coerce information out of me. But there’s nothing in the marriage vows — well at least in the Anglican ones — that says you have to share secrets. Worldly goods, maybe. And with Sandy it was just pure curiosity, she wasn’t after information from me to advance her career.’
‘And you’re saying Siobhan is? SIR?’ Branson said, tightly, still clearly mad at him.
‘We both know how much Siobhan’s job means to her. You know damn well in the past she’s inveigled information from you. Right?’ He stared at the DI pointedly.
Branson had the good grace to lower his eyes and nod. He remembered. Two incidents when he and Siobhan had been dating, one of which got him perilously close to being investigated by Professional Standards — and it was only Roy Grace’s intervention that calmed that situation. And then another instance when a key piece of information about a crime scene had appeared in the Argus. Grace had deliberately withheld it from becoming public knowledge, to help them weed out the numerous timewasters who delighted in calling the Incident Room on any major crime investigation with their crackpot theories.
‘Glenn,’ Grace said, softening his tone. ‘I’m not having a go at you and I know you’ve laid the ground rules down with Siobhan — and that she is a person of integrity — but maybe I’m just being paranoid.’ He smiled. ‘OK?’
Branson nodded. ‘OK.’
‘The stakes have rarely been higher. Any newspaper would kill for a scoop on this investigation, and it would blast their circulation into orbit — for a day or two anyway.’ He smiled more widely. ‘Enough said. I’ve something I want to discuss with you privately, away from the team — a thought I want to run by you.’
‘Is it about what I told you about Siobhan wanting to get a pet? You’re going to suggest me and her get a tortoise?’
‘No, you’re both too quick off the mark.’ He winked. ‘And anyhow, with the baby on the way, perhaps that’s enough to be getting on with for now?’
‘Yeah, it sure is,’ he said, smiling.
Grace leaned forward, placing his elbows on his cluttered desk and interlocking his fingers. ‘If what Greaves says in his diary is correct and, acting on it, we go blundering into Buckingham Palace asking questions about missing artwork and other valuables, we are just going to drive these conspirators — thieves — underground—’ Then he stopped abruptly. ‘Shit!’
Branson frowned.
‘I’ve just realized something. Last Wednesday, when The Queen was giving me a tour, en route to The King’s office—’
Branson raised an interrupting hand. ‘Sorry, boss. “When The Queen was giving me a tour, en route to The King’s office...”’ He grinned. ‘I don’t imagine that’s a line many SIOs ever get to say in their careers. And it just rolled off your tongue so naturally.’
Grace returned the grin.
‘Just make sure that goes into your Policy Book — for posterity.’
‘I’ll make sure, Glenn.’ He emphasized this by pointing his index finger upwards. ‘OK, so The Queen wanted to show me one of her favourite and most valuable paintings in the Royal Collection, a Vermeer that was hung on a wall in the Picture Gallery, I think that room was called. But the Vermeer wasn’t there, there was another — apparently much lesser — painting in its place. She seemed surprised — actually more annoyed than surprised — and she then explained that the Royal Collection team were often moving works of art about or taking them to be cleaned. So I didn’t think any more of it — until now.’