As Rose started to fall, Grace lunged at her, somehow just managing to grab her legs below her knees. But his hands got barely any grip on the shiny material of her trousers, and slid down to her ankles. Then her trainers. Which were laced tightly.
She stopped with such a sharp jolt it almost pulled him over the top of the balustrade, and he bashed his chin painfully on the rough surface. In this position she was a dead weight, and he was holding her with all his strength. But she was pulling him over. He stared down in horror at the very long drop to the gravel path, way beneath them.
Suddenly he felt his feet leave the ground.
Oh shit, no.
He was going to fall.
The tails of his suit jacket flapped over his head and he heard the jangle of coins and other items tumbling out.
Is this how it ends? he wondered, bleakly, suddenly. Thoughts were flashing through his mind. Not that long ago I said goodbye to my first-born son for ever, and now this. Never see my family again.
An instant later he felt hands, like iron clamps, gripping each of his legs and the reassuring voice of Glenn Branson. ‘Gotcha!’
Way below he saw three people walking along, all in hard hats, one holding a clipboard. Totally oblivious to him above them.
The woman was kicking out, struggling like a hooked fish, trying to break free of his own grip. And her weight felt like it was pulling his arms out of their sockets.
He shot a glance up, just as the wind blew his jacket tail clear, and saw Glenn Branson peering anxiously down at him, leaning over the balustrade with a burly officer either side of him doing the same.
‘You’re a heavy bastard, aren’t you?’ Branson said.
‘This is probably not a good time for me to argue with you,’ Grace replied, feeling sick with relief as the strain of Rose Cadoret was relieved by the RaSPs.
Branson hauled him up and over the balustrade and back onto the roof. He stood giddily for some moments, swaying as the blood rushed from his head, and his colleague gripped his arm firmly to stop him from falling.
Grace saw the third officer had Rose on the ground, and was cuffing her hands behind her back.
‘You bastards!’ she shouted. ‘You know how much that hurts?’
The officer hauled her to her feet, keeping a tight hold on her, and she stood, arched, glaring at them all.
Grace took some deep breaths then looked directly at her. ‘As I was saying before we got interrupted a little earlier, Rosemary Catherine Cadoret, I’m arresting you on suspicion of theft and on suspicion of conspiracy to murder. I’m now adding to that assaulting two police officers and attempting to murder another police officer. You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned, something you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Your arrest is necessary to prevent injury or harm to a person, prevent your disappearance, and for the prompt and effective investigation of your conduct in this matter.’
‘I want to say something,’ she retorted, sullenly.
‘Go ahead,’ Grace said.
‘It’s not me you want, Detective Superintendent Grace. I’m just a minion. It’s Sir Tommy. He’s the man you want. He’s the mastermind. He just forced us into this, Jon Smoke and me, because he had some evidence from Afghanistan on us.’
‘Yes, I had come to the same conclusion,’ Grace replied.
‘Go talk to him. If you can catch him in time.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘He may already have gone.’
‘Gone where?’
She said nothing.
‘Gone where, Rose?’
She gave him that feral look again. ‘You’re the detective. You figure it out.’
104
Thursday 30 November 2023
Roy Grace turned to the officer who was holding Rose Cadoret’s arm, his stomach and chest hurting from where she had kicked him, although at the moment he barely noticed. ‘I suggest two of you escort her to custody — she’s got quite a line in fancy footwork.’
‘Very funny,’ she said, almost spitting at him.
He turned away, then patted his pockets, checking what was missing. His wallet, handcuffs, house keys had all fallen out. He’d have to worry about retrieving them later. Glenn Branson reached out an arm and handed him his phone. ‘Think you dropped this, boss.’
‘Brilliant! Good work, thanks.’ He ushered Branson away. As he did so, one of the officers called out, alarmed.
‘Sir! You’ve blood on your face — your chin.’
Grace stroked it with his hand. It was sticky. He looked at the palm and saw streaks of blood. But right at this moment he didn’t care, adrenaline was coursing through him.
Branson took a good look. ‘You might need stitches, boss.’
‘We need to find Sir Tommy and see if Rose is bullshitting, or right.’
‘And your feeling is?’
‘That she’s right.’ He turned to the third police officer, a man-mountain with a thick beard. ‘Can you take us to Sir Tommy Magellan-Lacey’s office right away.’
Last night Grace had obtained a search warrant for Tommy’s office and home. It was in his pocket if he needed it.
‘Yes, sir. You sure you’re all right and don’t need to see the doctor?’
‘What’s your name?’ Grace asked him.
‘PC Beckett, sir.’
‘OK, thanks, PC Beckett. I don’t need a doctor, I need to see Sir Tommy very, very urgently.’
The two detectives followed Beckett, racing down the stairs all the way to the first floor, then along a maze of corridors, some of which now looked familiar to Grace, until they were back in one that was very definitely familiar, at the top of the short staircase. PC Beckett stopped outside a door and knocked. He knocked again. There was no response. He turned to Grace. ‘Doesn’t seem like he’s in, sir.’
Grace opened the door and peered into a spacious, very traditionally furnished office with fine paintings on the wall and a window overlooking the gardens. There was nothing on the mahogany desk at all, other than a leather blotter, an antique silver calendar, a computer terminal and keyboard. It looked more like a desk in a vacant hotel suite than a working office. Like it had been cleaned out of everything.
He turned back to the officer, Rose Cadoret’s words ringing in his ears.
He may already have gone.
‘You know where Sir Tommy Magellan-Lacey lives, in St James’s Palace?’ he asked Beckett.
‘Yes, I do, sir, I’ve been on guard there many times.’
‘Can you take me the fastest route there. We need to run.’
They ran. Along the corridor, down the stairs and into the courtyard, through the archway and across the parade ground. Another Protection Officer opened the gates for them, barking at the crowd to clear a pathway.
They sprinted across Constitution Hill and Green Park, and on, past the elegant white facade of Clarence House, the RaSP nodding at two of his colleagues at the entrance, around the side and up to the front door of Sir Tommy’s residence, directly across from the two RaSPs who were part of the team permanently stationed in the hut by the entrance barrier.
Grace knocked on the door, hard, and rang the doorbell.
Then heard a voice behind him.
One of the Royal Protection Officers, with a jovial, quite bucolic face, was walking towards him. ‘Sir, if it’s Sir Tommy you’re after, he and his missus have just gone on holiday.’
‘Holiday?’ Grace demanded. ‘Seriously?’
‘They left in a black cab — what — about an hour and a half ago.’ He turned to his colleague, who had now joined him, for confirmation. ‘We helped them with their bags. They had a lot of luggage. Travelling like Royalty, they were.’