Then two police officers, in full airport protection kit and holding sub-machine guns, stepped into their path. They were apologetic and very polite.
‘Mr and Mrs George?’ one of them, a clean-shaven male, in his early thirties, asked.
Tommy gave them his most charming smile, practised to pitch-perfect on monarchs and their acolytes over the past decade. ‘Yes, can I help you?’
‘We’d like you to come with us, please.’
Tommy and Fiona exchanged a nervous glance. ‘What is this about exactly, officers?’ he asked.
‘We’d like you to come with us, sir,’ the officer repeated, a little firmer and a little colder.
Tommy looked around, suddenly feeling bewildered. All the feel-good from the booze suddenly drained away. ‘I’m terribly sorry,’ he said. ‘My wife and I have a flight to catch.’
‘I’m aware of that, sir. But I need you to come with me.’
Tommy shook his head. ‘No, I’m sorry, we are boarding.’
‘Sir,’ the officer said, even more insistently now. ‘If you don’t agree to come with us voluntarily, then we will have no option but to arrest you and your wife, here in front of everyone.’
The officer’s colleague was a robust-looking woman, with an equally robust expression.
‘Nicholas,’ Fiona said. ‘There’s clearly a mix-up of some kind. We should go with them — and we’ll get it sorted out.’
Tommy jabbed the air with his finger. ‘Officer, you are making a terrible mistake.’
108
Thursday 30 November 2023
‘And no mistake,’ Grace said with a wide grin as he sat in the passenger seat of the Ford, staring at the photographs of Mr Nicholas and Mrs Virginia George that had been sent through to his phone.
Glenn Branson was driving on blue lights along the M4 towards Heathrow Airport, following closely behind the escort of two police motorcyclists that Greg Mosse had arranged, to help them cut through the traffic. ‘You are sure, boss?’
‘Bet my life on it. It’s him, and I recognize her from the photos in their kitchen.’
‘When did you suspect?’
‘Only in the past few days, for sure. He’s been very clever at covering his tracks.’
‘He’s so charming. So damned charming.’
‘Ted Bundy was charming, too. A lot of the women giving evidence against him in court thought he must be an attorney — either for the defence or prosecution. It was his charm that enabled him to get away with it for so long. He was executed in 1989 for the rape and murder of two college students, and the attempted murder of a twelve-year-old girl. He eventually confessed to the FBI officer who arrested him to twenty-nine rapes and killings. But the FBI believe his total tally was around one hundred. Dr Harold Shipman was charming too. He despatched two hundred and fifty patients, who all adored him.’ He continued. ‘A great mentor of mine, way back when I first became a detective, told me that the essence of being a good detective is not so much what you know already, but knowing the questions to ask. Do you know the questions you are going to ask Mr and Mrs George?’
Branson nodded. ‘I do. The first one is, where the hell do they keep their cat food?’
109
Thursday 30 November 2023
Gregg Mosse was standing outside the front entrance of the Arrivals Hall of Terminal 5, as Glenn Branson pulled the car up.
As they climbed out, Grace strode up to him, holding out his hand. ‘The great man himself!’
Missing entirely the subtle innuendo, Mosse almost simpered. ‘Well, thank you, Roy — and nice to see you, Detective Inspector Ronson.’
‘It’s Branson.’
‘Ah right, yes, like the pickle!’
‘Yeah, the T is silent,’ Branson retorted for the second time.
Mosse briefly frowned, clearly not getting this jibe, either. ‘Ah.’ He turned back to Grace. ‘Well, Roy, I was not going to miss this big moment.’
Grace thought: Of course not, of course you wouldn’t want to miss the opportunity of claiming the glory of this for yourself.
Mosse doled out a badge on a lanyard to each of them. ‘I’ve got you both airside passes. I’m afraid we still have to go through damned security.’
They followed Mosse, and an armed airport police officer they weren’t introduced to, through a lane marked Fast Track, all four of them depositing their phones in a tray, and their jackets, belts and boots in another, and walked in turn through the screener. Dressed again, the four of them walked along a corridor, up two flights of stairs, and then into a small, windowless room.
Two armed officers stood at the back of the room. Behind the couple who sat in front of them, at a bare metal table.
It was a slight shock for Grace, for a moment, to see the normally very conservatively dressed Sir Tommy looking so louche, in his white jacket, and pink shirt. And wearing an expression that was somewhere between defiant and sheepish.
Fiona looked very different to her photographs in the house. In those, she had brown hair. She was now a glamorous blonde. And with a look on her face that was anything but glamorous at this moment.
Over the years, Roy Grace had learned to read the expressions of arrested suspects. In particular how so many transitioned from one of defiance to one of defeat. He saw the latter in their faces now.
‘Mr and Mrs George!’ Grace said. ‘How very nice to meet you. Mr George, you remind me so much of someone I know.’
‘OK, Roy, well done. I misjudged you,’ the Master said.
Grace stood for a moment, silently, sizing him up and then his wife.
‘Sir Thomas Burnett Julian Magellan-Lacey, I’m arresting you on suspicion of conspiracy to murder and conspiracy to commit theft.’ He read him the rest of his rights, then addressed his wife. ‘Lady Fiona Ariane Susan Magellan-Lacey, I’m arresting you on conspiracy to commit theft. 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.’
She stared back at him coldly and without any hint of emotion.
Then Glenn Branson, unable to restrain himself, spoke up. ‘Sir Tommy, I think maybe you’ll now agree that I’ve made a better job of this investigation than I did of dunking my biscuit?’
110
Friday 15 December 2023
‘Cuckoo clock?’ The Queen said.
‘Cuckoo clock?’ The King repeated, frowning amiably.
Roy Grace sat on a sofa facing them across an elegant coffee table, on which was the delicate china teacup and saucer he had been handed by the butler. Grace had put it down because he was shaking, nervous again in their company and terrified of spilling any on the carpet.
They were in Their Majesties’ private drawing room in Clarence House, which had a comfortable, lived-in feel. Everything felt on a smaller scale than the grand formality of Buckingham Palace. Even the paintings and ornaments seemed smaller, and there were personal touches, Grace noticed, which included framed family photographs dotted around, Christmas cards and invites on the mantelpiece above the welcoming roaring fire, and a water bowl for the dogs on the floor.
The King was dressed the way Grace had always seen him, in a conservative suit and tie, shoes polished to within an inch of some valet’s life. The Queen wore a powder-blue two-piece, buttoned high up. Her two Jack Russells sat nuzzled up to her legs.