‘It’s disgraceful,’ Rose said. ‘Perhaps we should try to have a meeting with Sir Tommy tomorrow and tell him the issues his builders are causing. They probably have no idea of the value of some of the items they’re moving around.’
Lorraine McKnight nodded thoughtfully, then jabbed a finger at the screen. ‘Look, this has been driving me insane. There are twelve jade statuettes unaccounted for. Twelve! Well over one million pounds in value lying around somewhere — and no one can tell me where!’
I could, Rose thought. I could tell you exactly. Two are in a Russian Oligarch’s mansion in Surrey. One is in a fierce Royalist’s collection in Minnesota. Four are in our warehouse in Hounslow. And five are in my rucksack.
‘If the Keeper of the Privy Purse suddenly decided to do one of his spot checks, we’d be in the soup — well, I would.’
‘Does Sir Jason do that — spot checks?’ Rose asked, trying to mask the concern in her voice.
‘He’s a very sharp man and he’s always had a particular interest in the Royal Collection. It’s an important part of the nation’s wealth — valued at over £10 billion back in 2010, held in trust by the Sovereign — now King Charles. Finch sprang an inventory check on us for the entire Collection not long after he’d been appointed to the post. As you can imagine it was a pretty massive task, tying us all up for weeks. Happily, nothing was missing.’
‘Everything accounted for?’
‘Every single item.’ She shook her head. ‘But at this moment there are paintings, miniatures, jewellery, statuettes — pretty much across the entire Royal Collection spectrum — that I can’t account for. I honestly think it would scare me if I attempted to put a value on them.’
Rose said nothing.
Lorraine McKnight yawned. ‘OK, let’s pack it in for today.’ She looked at Rose, who saw the worried flutter in her eyes. ‘I’m seriously beginning to wonder if we should bring the police in.’
‘Police?’ Rose echoed.
‘We’re making the assumption that all these items have been temporarily misplaced. But what if that’s not the case? What if some or all have been stolen and we’re blind to the fact?’
Rose hesitated before replying, thinking hard. ‘Well, it’s a possibility, Lorraine — but I think pretty unlikely.’
‘I’d like to think so.’
‘All the workers have been vetted carefully,’ she added.
Lorraine McKnight suddenly tapped her keyboard, clicking out of the inventory. Then she clapped her hands together. ‘OK, tomorrow we are going to get everyone on the Trust here in the Palace to drop everything, and hunt for the missing items. Prepare to stay late again tomorrow, to work through the night if necessary. We’re going to find every damned one of these items. If we don’t, I’m going to contact the police. Does that sound a plan?’
‘It sounds a plan,’ Rose replied.
But not one you’re going to be alive to execute, she thought.
The Director stood up and walked across to the row of hooks on the wall by the door, and unhooked her bicycle helmet from one. Then she wrinkled her nose, looking at the window and the rain that was pelting against it. ‘It’s a pretty shitty night — are you cycling home or taking a taxi — or an Uber or something, Rose?’
‘You’re cycling?’
‘Always.’
Rose smiled. ‘I’m cycling, too.’
73
Monday 27 November 2023
She held back for a moment, to let Lorraine McKnight get well ahead of her. Then she watched her cycle in the driving rain towards the entrance barrier to St James’s Palace. A huddled figure in a flapping high-vis cape, and lit up from behind like a Christmas tree, Rose thought, complete with a flashing beacon on top of her helmet — instead of a fairy. Perfect. She was going to be able to spot her easily.
Rose never bothered too much with safety stuff. Sure, she wore a helmet and she had a red flashing light on the back of her heavy-duty e-bike, but she hadn’t switched that on tonight — she wanted to remain as inconspicuous as possible. The reflector on the rear mudguard would at least enable any vehicle behind to see her. The bike’s black colour was also perfect camouflage for her mission.
She knew the exact route Lorraine would take. They regularly cycled the first half mile or so together before she herself turned left, skirting the outside edge of Hyde Park Corner, before heading off through Belgravia, while Lorraine turned right, straight into the maelstrom of the full traffic nightmare of Hyde Park Corner, before escaping into the sanctuary of Hyde Park itself and crossing it diagonally, towards Paddington and Notting Hill.
Rose, who came a different way in the mornings, asked her once why she didn’t dismount and go for the safety of the underpass. Lorraine had replied it was too much hassle and that Hyde Park Corner was much easier to navigate on a bike than people realized — you just had to be aggressive. And, she had revealed, someone had tried to assault her late one night in that underpass. She felt a lot safer out on the road. And besides, the road didn’t stink of piss.
One of the Royal Protection Officers stepped out of his booth, dutifully braving the rain to check, cursorily, that it was Lorraine, before raising the barrier. Thanking him, and waving him a cheery goodnight, she pedalled out.
Rose, her rucksack weighing heavily on her back, its contents safely bubble-wrapped, rode fast up to the barrier, where she was briefly checked by the same guard, who joked with her that she’d be better off in a kayak tonight. Then she joined the roar and the glaring headlights and tail-lights of the traffic, which was still heavy but now at this hour was moving well.
Lorraine’s bike was a heavy old steed, and with the electric motor doing most of the work, Rose quickly caught up with her along Cleveland Row, before she turned right into St James’s Street and down to the lights at The Mall. But she stayed a few yards behind and didn’t announce herself. Carrying on in the darkness a short distance on, up Constitution Hill, she maintained a steady gap just behind her boss’s rear wheel.
Just one sharp tap was all it would take.
And if it went wrong and miraculously Lorraine survived, she had the apology all prepared. I’m so sorry, Lorraine, that idiot taxi caught my arm and shot me forward into you.
Lorraine would ask her, later probably — again, only if she had miraculously survived — why she had followed her around Hyde Park Corner instead of turning off at the top of the hill and heading towards Putney. And again she had the answer ready. I thought by following you, I could learn to cycle around there safely, too.
She braked as Lorraine slowed, approaching Hyde Park Corner. One of the most hectic junctions in London, basically a huge oblong roundabout fed by six roads. Rose often wondered if perhaps it was the busiest — not that it mattered. Buses, lorries, taxis, cars, vans, motorbikes, and the occasional idiot on an e-scooter weaving in and out. And tonight, in the darkness and the rain, which was now coming down even more heavily, it was as busy and angry as ever.
But at least the traffic was flowing at a steady pace. Good. She did not want it jammed, did not want the traffic crawling at a snail’s pace. Plan A would not work if that was the case.