For a moment, he did not believe his ears. ‘Derailed? What information do you have?’
‘Just that, sir.’
‘When you say derailed what exactly do you mean?’
‘That’s all the information I have, sir.’
‘Any report of casualties?’
‘No, sir, at least not so far. Oscar One is trying to get more details.’
He thought hard for a moment. Derailed inside a tunnel. Was this the work of terrorists or protestors? But that didn’t matter for now. All that mattered was ensuring The Queen was safe. ‘Who’ve you alerted so far?’ he asked.
‘Fire and Rescue, the Ambulance Service, all Armed Response units and of course British Transport Police. Oscar One has requested NPAS-15 to attend in case it is needed — and the Royalty and Specialist Protection team. The Duty Inspector at Haywards Heath is sending all resources they have to both ends of the tunnel. I thought that, as Silver Investigations, you needed be informed, sir.’
NPAS-15 was the National Police Air Service helicopter for their area.
‘Thank you,’ Grace said, barely able to believe what he was hearing. ‘The Royal Train — you are absolutely sure?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And The Queen is definitely on board?’
‘From what I understand, sir.’
‘Please update me with any news.’
‘Yes I will, sir, either myself or Oscar One.’
Ending the call, Grace, thinking shit, speed-dialled his immediate boss, Nigel Downing. ‘Sir,’ he said, as soon as the Assistant Chief Constable, a calm and pragmatic man, answered. ‘In case you haven’t already heard, we have a Major Incident.’
‘I’ve not heard anything, Roy. What’s up?’
Grace related what he had just been told. Downing was silent for a moment, then asked, ‘Is there any terrorist implication here?’
‘I don’t know yet, sir.’
‘Do you think those anti-monarchists might be behind it?’
‘It would be an unconscionable change in tactics for the major groups, sir, but an unknown splinter group could be a possibility.’
‘Shit,’ Downing said. ‘Not great for Sussex, is it?’
Grace raised an eyebrow, a little surprised Downing was more concerned for the PR image of Sussex than Queen Camilla’s welfare.
‘BTP will have primacy on this, for now, I suppose,’ Downing continued.
British Transport Police was a separate national police force, with the same powers as the regular force, but funded independently by the railways. They always had initial command of any incident occurring on railway property.
‘I imagine the Scotland Yard Counter Terrorism team will be all over it within the hour,’ Grace said.
After a few moments, Downing said, ‘I’ll inform the Chief — update me as soon as you hear anything more.’
Grace assured him he would, then immediately called Glenn Branson.
‘Dull day at the office?’ the Detective Inspector answered. ‘Need someone to chat to, to relieve the mahogany, as my old teacher would say?’
‘We have a major crisis on our hands, mate.’
‘I have one, too,’ Branson retorted. ‘But you go first.’
‘How about Queen Camilla’s train derailed inside Clayton Tunnel? Would that be more of a crisis?’
There was a brief silence. ‘No way?’
‘Seriously.’
‘Holy crap.’
‘That’s one way of putting it.’
‘Is she hurt?’
‘I’m waiting on news. Who do we have available to respond if we need?’
‘Norman and Polly are in. I’ve got a car signed out, we can be on the road in less than five.’
‘I’ll get back to you,’ Grace said.
‘You know something, boss — beats me why she’d want to travel on an ancient piece of rolling stock, when she’s got a pukka helicopter at her disposal.’
‘Apparently Her Majesty believes the train is safer.’
‘Does she still think that?’
11
Monday 20 November 2023
Queen Camilla, wishing that she had worn comfortably flat shoes today, shone the torch she’d been given at the lumps of gravel in front of her. Then she led the Private Secretary, with her shocked entourage stumbling raggedly behind. Brenda Warner, her dresser, was lugging two bags of The Queen’s clothes as if she was welded to them. Others were guided by their phone torches, as she followed the driver, who was some yards ahead and striding quickly, if a little unsteadily, on the uneven surface, through the cold, musty air. Every few moments, the driver raised his phone high, as if checking for a signal, then would turn and wave the royal party on, anxiously.
Urgently.
‘Please hurry, Your Majesty,’ he implored.
The Queen stumbled on as fast as she could, feeling it was a bit like walking on a pebble beach. There was an eerie silence, the only soundtrack being the echoes of mass footsteps, the crunch of the stones and the occasional murmured curse, as someone in the single-file line behind her stumbled. The curved walls and roof were a relentless grey, and Queen Camilla saw occasional tiny red dots — the eyes of rodents — ahead. She turned to check on Peregrine Greaves. He gave a bleak nod of reassurance and called out, more in hope than certainty, ‘Not far to go, Your Majesty.’
Then he tripped and fell flat on his face.
The Queen turned and, assisted by Jon Gilhall, got the Private Secretary back onto his feet.
‘Perry, are you all right?’ she asked. ‘If you’d prefer we can leave you here with someone, and send for a stretcher.’
‘I’m fine, thank you, Ma’am,’ he said, a tad huffily, as if he really, seriously, did not need to be asked that question, and briefly examined his hand, which was bleeding.
The Queen shone her torch past Greaves, checking on all the rest of her entourage. As soon as she was satisfied everyone was all right, she soldiered on. As she did so, the words Peregrine had said earlier about the terrible disaster in this railway tunnel came back to her. That the screams of the victims could still be heard on stormy nights.
She’d always had an open mind on the supernatural. Were the ghosts of these poor people still trapped inside? Were they around her and everyone in here now? She shuddered. God, they’d been walking for a good few minutes now, and that distant light only seemed a little closer than it had been when they’d started. She saw the bobbing torchlight of the driver, some way ahead. Watched him check his phone yet again and shake his head. As she walked, shadows jumped out of the dimly lit gloom. But were they shadows, or the spirits of the scalded-to-death victims?
She shuddered again and walked on. Strode on. She was determined to motivate all those of her entourage behind her. Why the train had been derailed — what had caused it — was a question for later. For now her one duty was to lead the royal party out of this godforsaken tunnel to daylight. To safety.
Her Equerry and Jon Gilhall were now striding alongside her. ‘Are you all right, Ma’am? Do you need to stop for a moment?’ Gilhall asked.
‘I’m fine, Jon, how is everyone else?’
‘I understand a couple of people are hobbling a bit with minor leg injuries from the accident, but everyone knows we need to get out of here. I’ve still got no phone signal.’
‘Incredible,’ she said. ‘With all the technology we have today and they can’t organize for people to get a bloody mobile phone signal in a railway tunnel? I need to call The King and let him know what is happening before he hears it from someone else. I must call him.’