Her Majesty’s passing had been a terrible time for him. He had admired her and liked her so much, but if there had been one positive it was that the two newest corgis to survive her had gone to live with Sarah Ferguson and no longer signed their names on his precious forty acres of greensward. Camilla’s Jack Russells were much better — because they at least pooped in the flowerbeds — which weren’t his problem.
Arthur smiled at the memory of an encounter with an American at a Garden Party, some years ago — later, he discovered he was the US Ambassador to the UK — who had approached him while he was tending to a damaged area of grass well away from the proceedings and asked him, ‘Hey, tell me, how do you get a lawn so amazing, so perfect as this?’
Something about the man’s demeanour had really irritated Arthur — he couldn’t say what exactly, but the man had really rubbed him up the wrong way. He’d replied in his native rural Hampshire burr: ‘Oh that’s easy, sir. What yer needs to do is aerate the soil, plant yer grass seeds, making sure the birds don’t eat ’em all. Then you wait for the grass to take root and grow. Once that’s happened, all you need to do is cut it, weed it, water it and roll it — for about one hundred and fifty years.’
He still chuckled to himself sometimes, if he was having a bad day, at the Ambassador’s expression.
But he wasn’t chuckling today. The assassination attempt on Her Majesty last Monday had left him and all the Palace staff in a state of shock. But if there was one thing he had learned in all these years it was that no matter what, the show must go on. Tomorrow there was a state visit scheduled for the ruler of the United Arab Emirates. The Master of the Royal Household had already briefed him — albeit unnecessarily — that the lawns needed to look immaculate. Even more immaculate than ever, eh, Arthur?
When he’d informed Sir Tommy that they would indeed look even more immaculate than ever, he’d been rewarded with a, Good chap — super!
Which meant having finished mowing them he had to go over them again with the grass collector — which he was now doing — not such an easy task with sodden cuttings. And looking over his shoulder, he could see the grass bags were almost full. Mowing the lawns in November, incredible. Who’d have ever thought he’d be doing that? Whether it was global warming or something else altogether, Mother Nature was out of kilter, all right.
He steered the mower over towards the West Wing of the Palace, towards the skip behind the large, dark green cylinder, which was ten foot tall and the same wide, and connected to the Palace wall by a series of pipes, like a mutant insect feeding off it. The anaerobic digester — the initiative of The King that helped run the Palace hot water and central heating.
Before emptying the grass bags into the skip, he needed to use the pitchfork in the skip to load some of the current contents into the digester, through a hatch in the side, to top it up. He opened the hatch, dug the pitchfork into the mulch, then as he tipped it in, he froze.
Oh no. Oh shit. No. No!
Was he hallucinating?
Within the bubbling mass there appeared to be a human body, on its back.
60
Monday 27 November 2023
The large sign in big blue letters on a white background greeted visitors as if they were arriving for a jolly at a holiday camp.
The sign was planted on a narrow verge of lawn, partially covered with brown leaves, in front of a tall, handsome oak tree. Behind it rose a fortress-like steel wall, with wire mesh making it even taller, and topped with razor wire. It wasn’t there to keep people out.
As Glenn Branson pulled the car into a bay, Roy Grace checked his watch. It was 9 a.m. They’d arrived early for their 10 a.m. appointment because, Grace knew, it was always a faff getting into a prison. And anyway, they were both cops, and cops always arrived early — something Grace’s dad had taught him. It showed respect, Jack Grace had said. If you arrived late, your message, loud and clear was, My time is more important than yours.
No police officer ever felt comfortable entering a prison. You were always acutely aware that if for any reason you were unfortunate enough to be there when things kicked off, and it turned into a full-scale riot, the inmates would like nothing better than to give any coppers on the premises a good kicking. But at least, Grace consoled himself, this was a female prison — and most riots occurred in male prisons.
He signed in at the reception desk, sliding his warrant card under the Perspex shield, and clipped the pass he received in turn to his jacket. Then, hesitantly, after switching his phone off he placed it in the locker he’d been allocated and turned the key. Immediately, he felt very vulnerable. And he could see from Glenn’s expression that he did too. It felt like being separated from their umbilical cords. Whatever authority they had in the outside world, they had now surrendered to the prison’s governor.
Five minutes later they were led by a short but reassuringly confident female officer, with keys jangling from her belt, through a maze of double doors, unlocking one, entering, locking it behind them, then unlocking the one in front, until finally they were shown into a bare-walled interview room, with twin chairs — screwed to the floor — either side of a steel table, also fixed to the floor.
‘Think I’d prefer a room at a Premier Inn,’ Branson quipped. ‘Or maybe a Travelodge.’
Grace was about to reply when a rotund male officer led in a woman they both instantly recognized, a waif-like figure in a red velour jumpsuit and trainers. Her fair hair was cropped short, unevenly, as if she had done it herself. They’d arrested her a year ago, when she was twenty-four, and they’d last seen her about three months ago when they’d given evidence at her trial — and when Grace had addressed the judge in Chambers with an impassioned plea for a lenient sentence due to her cooperation with the police.
But her demeanour right now was anything but grateful. Anything but pleased to see them. Anything but wanting to be here, in this horrible room, with them.
Since they had last seen her, she had lost some weight and her skin was pale. Her elfin looks reminded him of a young Mia Farrow, Branson thought.
‘I’ll be just outside, gentlemen,’ the officer said in a tone that implied he’d be straight in to their rescue if this fragile, vulnerable creature suddenly became an existential threat to them.
As the door closed, Shannon Kendall stood glaring at the two detectives. At Roy Grace in particular. ‘Thanks,’ she said in her bald, classless accent. ‘Thanks a billion, Detective Superintendent Grace. Thanks a billion for nothing.’
‘Whoa!’ he said. He indicated for her to sit.
‘You lied to me, didn’t you?’ She narrowed her eyes in fury.
‘I never lied to you, Shannon. You agreed to give evidence against Rufus Rorke on my assurance that I would do all I could to get you the minimum sentence possible,’ he replied calmly. ‘I told you very clearly that I had no powers as a police officer to grant you immunity from prosecution — and that was how it works in this country. What I did tell you was that I would do all I could — within the law — to tell the judge how much you had helped our enquiry. I spoke to the judge privately in her Chambers. Do you understand?’
‘No,’ she said, defiantly, still on her feet.
‘Then let me explain. You were charged with serious offences to which you could have been sentenced to a long term in prison. What were you actually sentenced to?’