Dambe shook it away, pulling a small one from his inside pocket and switching on its powerful beam. ‘I’m good.’
The two Royal Protection Officers conferred briefly. Then, as Dambe jumped down, the driver said, ‘Be really careful, it’s dark, don’t trip, and just walk on the ballast — don’t walk on any wood, it will be slippery, and don’t walk on anything metal or go to the centre of the track — the electric rails on both sides are live.’
As if to emphasize this, there was a sudden flurry of loud crackles, and more white sparks visible through the carriage window.
As the RaSP officer squeezed past members of the royal entourage who were climbing down from the carriages and ran off into the darkness, the driver turned to The Queen. ‘Your Majesty, you must get away from the train, we need to get everyone away, but you are the priority.’
‘I want to know everyone’s safe first,’ she said. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Stan — Stanley — Briggs, Your Majesty.’
‘All right, Stanley, I understand what you’re saying, but I’m not leaving until I know all of my team are off the train and heading to safety with me. My life isn’t any more important than anyone else’s.’
‘Beg pardon, Ma’am, but you are the priority.’
Jon Gilhall returned with an open first aid box and went up to the Private Secretary. But Greaves, who seemed to be recovering fast, despite the blood running down his face, brushed him away. ‘I’m fine. Go and check on everyone, we’ve got to get everybody out of this damned tunnel. But our priority is The Queen’s safety. Take care of her and I’ll sort everyone else out.’
The train driver climbed back down onto the ground, into the narrow space between the carriage and the tunnel, aiming the torch so that Jon Gilhall could see. The officer jumped down onto the uneven ground, then held up a hand to The Queen, as Stanley Briggs illuminated the two steps with his torch. There was minimal natural light emanating from the tunnel’s southern opening.
Moments later The Queen, surprising Stanley with her agility, was standing beside him on the large chunks of loose gravel between the train and the tunnel wall.
Briggs was blinking hard, a cold shiver worming through him. If this wasn’t the worst nightmare? The Queen of England, with a rip in her dress, her hair dishevelled, standing beside him in a dark, dank tunnel, with electrics fizzing and crackling, a hazardous walk to safety, and an oncoming express train.
‘Follow me, Your Majesty, please,’ he said. Then he looked at his watch. The express was now due in eleven minutes. If that officer didn’t make it in time, if no one was able to stop that express from the Three Bridges signal box, the consequences were unthinkable.
The Protection Officer, with the aid of his torch and a colleague, helped the two Queen’s Companions and her Private Secretary, Jayne, down. Then Queen Camilla asked, ‘Jon, can you check everyone is safely off the train or if anyone is badly injured?’ She could see a growing number of figures standing by the train a little further along.
‘Your Majesty,’ the driver implored, ‘please follow me.’
‘We should go, Ma’am,’ Peregrine Greaves said, ‘you’re in danger being here.’
‘As I have said, I’m not leaving until I know everyone is safe.’ She made her point emphatically. ‘I want a head count.’
She could hear voices along the tunnel, as more people clambered down from the train.
‘Understood, Your Majesty,’ Briggs said. ‘But — we are in real danger — I cannot emphasize that enough. Not just from other trains, but also from fire and explosion.’
‘Fine, you go,’ she said. ‘Go!’
He stared at her for a moment as if not understanding. ‘I’m not going without you, Ma’am.’
Briggs looked at his watch again. Ten minutes.
Moments later, a bright beam of light fleetingly blinded them, and a distraught Royal Train Manager appeared, holding two torches. ‘Your Majesty, oh my God, thank God, you are safe. Are you hurt, Ma’am?’ Quentin Haig asked.
‘I’m fine, Quentin, everyone in my carriage is fine. Is anyone badly injured?’
He shook his head. ‘No, everyone is OK and off the train. We’ve got to get away from here — there’s a northbound express due.’
‘We know,’ Greaves said tersely.
Haig handed The Queen a torch. ‘We’re going to have to walk, I’m afraid, Ma’am.’
‘Really, Quentin? You mean they can’t fly the helicopter in here to get us?’
‘No, Ma’am,’ he said, totally missing her humour. ‘It’s too low.’
9
Monday 20 November 2023
Sir Jason Finch was a well-liked member of the Royal Household. In his role as Keeper of the Privy Purse — essentially Comptroller of The King’s finances — he had one of the finest offices in Buckingham Palace, a corner ground floor on the east wing, with glorious views of the parade ground from both windows. He loved the views and he loved his work.
His increasingly portly figure attested to his years, post-military, of what he called proper lunching and dining. Today he was looking forward to a regular lunch meeting at Wiltons, his favourite fish restaurant, with an art dealer and old school friend, James Mayor. Mayor always knew exactly what was going on in the art world, and he liked to pick his expert’s brains.
In particular, today, he was interested in asking Mayor about the recent explosion in value of the paintings of a number of historic artists currently in fashion. In an article in the Financial Times he had in front of him, he saw that Gustav Klimt’s Dame mit Fächer had recently sold for a world record £85.3 million. And that Claude Monet’s Le bassin aux nymphéas had made nearly £60 million. They had no Klimt works in the Royal Collection, but they did have several Monets. They also had some Fragonards — and one had been sold a few years ago for another world record — £17 million.
He had recently — and discreetly — taken some photographs on his phone of high-value paintings in the Royal Collection, to show the art dealer at lunchtime, over a bottle of Mayor’s favourite tipple, Corton Charlemagne.
Using scissors, he carefully cut out the newspaper article, folded it and placed it in a file, which he slipped into one of the drawers of his desk.
10
Monday 20 November 2023
Roy Grace had taken a few minutes out of work, needing a break from the double murder case he was working on. He made a fresh cup of coffee and sat back down, googling ‘air fryers’. It seemed that everyone he and Cleo knew had recently bought one of these kitchen appliances and swore by them as both an efficient cooking tool and good for the environment, too.
As he enjoyed cooking, and all the more so cooking healthily with as little fat as possible, he avidly read the food sections of newspapers, curious about any new recipes. He’d recently started using avocado oil to cook with instead of olive oil, after reading that, at frying temperatures, olive oil became unhealthy. But he was struggling to get his head around the concept of air fryers.
They definitely seemed to be energy-efficient, a big tick. But he was still not sure, despite Glenn Branson telling him that he and Siobhan wondered what they’d done before having one.
Just as he clicked on Amazon, to look at what they had to offer, his phone rang.
‘Roy Grace,’ he answered, and immediately heard the voice of a Control Room operator he recognized, Carol Walker. The Comms operators were normally calm but Carol sounded way more anxious than the norm.
‘Sir,’ she said. ‘We’ve just been alerted to an incident involving the Royal Train bringing The Queen to Brighton. It’s a sketchy report but we understand the train has been derailed inside Clayton Tunnel.’