‘I can’t really see you doing ballet, Sir,’ Magellan-Lacey said.
‘Nor you, Tommy. Although your job involves you doing an awful lot of tap-dancing. I think you’re very good at that.’ The King gave him a wry smile, then turned towards his desk, a cue that the meeting was over.
‘Sir,’ the Master said, gave another respectful single head-bow and retreated out of the door.
69
Monday 27 November 2023
As soon as they arrived back at the Sussex Police Headquarters, shortly after 4 p.m., Branson dropped Roy Grace off outside the Queen Anne building that had for decades housed the top brass of both Sussex Police and, more recently, the East Sussex Fire and Rescue Service. Then he drove on up the hill, through the campus to the Major Crime parking area.
Nigel Downing occupied the same office, with its huge desk and fine view south across the hills of the South Downs, as his three ACC predecessors, Alison Vosper, Peter Rigg and Cassian Pewe, who had all intimidated Grace in some way. But ever since Downing had become ACC responsible for Major Crime — and therefore his direct boss — the atmosphere in this beautiful office felt different. Downing felt like a colleague who wanted to work with him, rather than a superior looking to catch him out.
Although the solid-framed, crew-cut ACC, in his white short-sleeved shirt with his rank badge of crossed tipstaves on a laurel wreath on his epaulettes, was looking considerably more testy than usual as Grace was ushered into his office by his PA.
As Downing indicated for him to take a chair in front of his desk, his PA asked if he wanted tea or coffee. Grace asked for tea and some water. As she left the room, the ACC shook his head, looking almost bewildered. ‘What is going on, Roy?’
He had prepared detailed notes for Downing on his phone, on the journey down here, but before he could say anything, the ACC pointed at his computer monitor. Grace could only see the back of it. ‘There is only one news item today, Roy — pretty much around the world. The Queen’s would-be assassin strikes again.’
Grace rolled his eyes. ‘I’m afraid that’s only to be expected, sir. On top of that we have an SIO on the case who is certain he’s the bee’s knees — you had the pleasure of meeting him last week at Clayton Tunnel.’
Downing nodded. ‘Yes, Detective Superintendent Greg Mosse.’ He paused. ‘So, two members of the Royal Household murdered within a week of each other. Do you think there’s a connection?’
‘I do, sir, yes. But Mosse is not someone I can work with. I’m going to need you to help go over his head. Perhaps to approach Deputy Assistant Commissioner of the Met Police, Laurence Taylor. I worked with him when he was a Superintendent in Sussex and he’s one of the smartest coppers I’ve ever met — present company excepted, sir!’
‘No need for flattery, Roy. I’ll message him.’ Finally, Downing smiled. ‘So can you give me an update on the murder enquiry that is in your control, Op Asset?’
Grace filled him in on all that the team had come up with to date, plus the release of Shannon Kendall from prison, which was to take place tomorrow, and that she would start working immediately.
Downing nodded. ‘And you remain convinced that the shooting of Sir Peregrine was not an assassination attempt on Queen Camilla that went wrong?’
‘One hundred per cent, sir. I would stake my career on it.’
Downing gave him a strange look. ‘You do know, don’t you, Roy, that there have been several attempts on the lives of British monarchs over the centuries?’
Grace had forgotten that Downing had told him, soon after they had first met, that his passion was for history. He shook his head. ‘I wasn’t aware of that, sir, no — well, I was aware of the Gunpowder Plot assassination attempt on King James I. I didn’t know of any others.’
Downing’s eyes widened. ‘The first was an attempt to kill Henry IV and restore Richard II to the throne. The plot was foiled and the conspirators were executed — hanged, drawn and quartered — not a pleasant death.’
‘I imagine not.’
‘They’d be hanged until they were just semi-conscious, then disembowelled and dragged around the streets behind a horse-drawn carriage, with their innards hanging out and some other delicate bits cut off.’ Downing smiled, as if he was enjoying this description.
‘The history of man’s inhumanity to man doesn’t make pleasant reading, does it?’ Grace said.
‘Nope! Then we had Elizabeth I. There were several assassination attempts against her. The most famous was the Babington Plot in 1586, aiming to replace her with Mary, Queen of Scots. That did not end well for Mary. Then we had George III. Several attempts against him. One was by a fellow called James Hadfield who fired a pistol at The King in the Drury Lane Theatre in 1800. He was acquitted on the grounds of insanity.’
‘I didn’t realize you were quite such a walking encyclopaedia, sir!’
Downing smiled at the compliment. ‘Queen Victoria had multiple attempts on her life. The first was in 1840 by a man called Edward Oxford, who fired several shots at her carriage and fortunately missed. During the Second World War, the IRA devised a plan to assassinate King George VI, but that was foiled. In 1970, a log was placed in front of the royal train in the Blue Mountains. In June 1981, a teenager fired blanks at The Queen at the Trooping of the Colour in London. Another teenager tried again four months later with a rifle in Dunedin, New Zealand, but he missed. And there have been other subsequent threats, thankfully none successful.’ He was silent for a moment then he said, ‘Including now.’
70
Monday 27 November 2023
At a few minutes to 7 p.m., Roy Grace sat at the kitchen table, across from Cleo. They were surrounded by the detritus of Noah and Molly’s playthings that were strewn around the floor, along with several ragged, chewed dog treats and toys, including a hedgehog from which Humphrey had pulled out most of the fluffy innards. Grace didn’t mind, he found the sight comforting, a reassurance of normality in a world that seemed to be losing its grip.
Or was it he who was losing his grip?
The weather certainly had lost its grip, with rain pelting down outside, interspersed with hail.
‘You OK, my love?’ Cleo asked, and dug her fork into her steaming, microwaved Keralan cod curry that came with black rice and broccoli. Neither of them were into convenience food but they’d found an online company that made products that actually seemed healthy, and on evenings when both of them had had busy days, quick meals like this were a good and inexpensive option.
‘Sorry, I’m not being very chatty, am I?’
‘You’ve spoken to the dogs more than me since you got home, but that’s fine. I’m not jealous, I know where I sit in the pecking order!’ She smiled.
Humphrey and Kyla were both slumped in their adjoining baskets. Noah had abandoned what looked like the Lego interpretation of a city that had just suffered an earthquake of some magnitude on the Richter scale. Molly’s upturned red plastic food bowl was lying under her high chair.
‘Love does not consist of gazing at each other, but of looking outward together in the same direction. Do you know who said that?’
‘Someone very wise,’ he replied. ‘It’s true.’
‘Indeed.’
‘Do you think we do it?’ she asked with a teasing look.
‘Stare into each other’s eyes or in the same direction?’
‘I suppose that depends on whether we’re sitting opposite each other eating a meal — or driving somewhere in a car.’