The Reluctant Royal

by Eleanor Harkstead

  “Tell me what’s happened!” Joe began to focus on his breathing. He was frantic and he needed to be calm. He’d been trained on how to deal with it. Why couldn’t he douse his panic?

  “Sergeant Wenlock, get a hold of yourself!” Patrick commanded sternly. “This is an unsecured line. We’ll speak at the Greenhouse, not before.”

  “Yes, sir.” Joe ended the call and shoved the phone back into his pocket. He stared out at the streets, going past more quickly than London traffic would usually allow.

  Zak was a clever sod. Got rid of Joe with that infantile trick, then went to Alejandro’s house and— But Patrick had been there. What if Joe had stayed? Then maybe he could’ve got rid of Zak again. Patrick wasn’t front line anymore. He stayed behind a desk. He should never have allowed Patrick to stand in for him.

  Especially not after what happened last time. The bomb that had maimed Patrick should’ve blown up in front of Joe.

  But Patrick was alive. And Alejandro was fine. Whatever that meant. Was he in hospital, was that what he meant? Or was Patrick fibbing because he couldn’t say—

  Calm down, Sergeant Wenlock.

  He’d find out soon enough. It wouldn’t be long until they got to the Greenhouse.

  Alejandro’s fine. He’s fine. Don’t think of him with a tube down his throat and bandages on his arms, don’t think of him in a hospital gown, breathing through a machine. He’s fine. He’s fine.

  But his mind swam with images of hospital rooms, of nurses coming in and out of focus, of his own injuries, of glassy eyes behind a windscreen as he sprawled up onto a cold bonnet. Joe blinked but instead he saw only Patrick in his own hospital bed years earlier, his body held in a fearsome metal cage that was knitting together his snapped spine. He stayed behind a desk because of Joe. And now this, whatever it was.

  Because of Joe.

  He pressed a button and the window whirred down just an inch, the cold wind ruffling Joe’s hair and filling the car with the smell of vehicle fumes. Of London.

  I should never have left Alejandro’s side.

  There was no space outside the Greenhouse for this car. Instead they cruised down into the underground parking bays where a uniformed officer was already waiting beside the lifts. The doors of one were already open, its interior glaring and sterile as any hospital.

  As soon as Joe sprang from the car the officer addressed him, gesturing towards the lift. “This way, sir.”

  Joe hurried after him. His panic had subsided now, turning instead into a dull ache lurking in his stomach. He couldn’t change what had happened. He had to find the strength to accept it.

  Whatever the hell it is.

  There was no serene office scene behind the glass partition of Patrick’s office suite now, but a bustle of energy and urgency, with Joe catching sight of several sombre-faced figures disappearing into the briefing room, some uniformed, some besuited. Even Trudy looked drawn as she tapped at her keyboard, though she managed a grin for Joe and his escort.

  “Thank you, constable.” She dismissed the escorting officer with a polite nod and rose to her feet and gestured to the seats that were arranged around a coffee table on the far side of the room. “Sergeant Wenlock, would you take a seat? Commander Holloway will be with you very soon.”

  “Thanks, Trudy.” Joe glanced at her over his shoulder. “Is Peanut—?” Okay?

  “Safe and well,” she said. “And noisy, according to the commander. Can I get you anything, sergeant?”

  “A hot chocolate.” Joe sat down, the weight on his heart now vanished.

  “I think we can manage that,” Trudy said gently. Then she turned away and disappeared through another door, leaving him alone. She was gone for just a minute or so, not long enough to prepare Alejandro’s luxuriant version of the drink, but still she managed to conjure up a mug of something instant. It was drinkable, which was something.

  While he waited, Joe looked through the divisional magazine on the coffee table. Patrick was usually in every issue somewhere, and this one was no different. There he was, photographed with his confident smile, talking about facing challenges. Joe put the magazine down again. It was his fault that Patrick had ended up behind a desk in the first place. The chocolate tasted suddenly bitter, but he held onto it anyway, mindful that Trudy may have pulled a string or two even for this apparent deviation from the norm.

  “Sergeant.” Patrick’s voice woke him from his reverie. “Shall we go in?”

  “Yes, sir.” Joe left his cup on the table and followed. Patrick wasn’t his usual neat self. A strand of hair had dropped forwards onto his forehead, and were there—?

  There were smudges of soot on his clothes and on his face.

  What the hell?

  Every head turned to him as they entered the briefing room, then, seeing he was nobody particularly noteworthy, every head turned away again. He slipped into a seat at the far end of the long table, taking in chiefs of staff, senior police officers, a couple of palace officials and there, playing silently at the top of the room, a TV. On it was an image of Alejandro’s home in Highgate, surrounded by police tape. Vans from the Met blocked the cameras from getting a good look at the scene but text ran along the bottom of the screen and as Joe read it, his throat constricted further.

  Reports of an explosion at the Highgate home of Alejandro Fuente-Sastre, son of the Duchess of Albany, step-grandson of the Queen. Security services confirm no injuries.

  “Right, this is news as news comes in.” Patrick was speaking before he reached the top of the table, leaning on his stick now more than ever. He looked older, drawn, Joe realised. What memories this must have brought back. “I was with Mr Fuente this morning and we received a courier with a package for Sergeant Wenlock, Mr Fuente’s CPO. Security checked it over and all was well. Package received, safely stowed.”

  Patrick paused and took a deep breath, as though gathering himself.

  A package addressed to me. Was that it? But Patrick looked like he had more to tell them.

  He’d never looked so rattled, despite his matter-of-fact reporting of the facts.

  “Fifteen minutes or so later we receive another couriered parcel, this time containing shoes for Mr Fuente.” The mermaids, Joe realised. “Again, all well. At just after eleven hundred hours, a third parcel arrived via a motorcycle courier firm. I was called by the attending officers on duty to report an article of a suspicious nature. We called the team in but unfortunately this is a residential area and evacuation proved problematic. The parcel detonated before evacuation could be completed. Luckily, I was the only one caught in what proved to be a very low-key blast. I seem to be something of a magnet for explosives.”

  Gallows humour. Very British.

  Thank God Alejandro is safe.

  Despite the important people sitting around the table, Joe spoke up. “So Leviticus has gone up a gear from fireworks? Commander, I think Leviticus was behind the break-in at my home, too. Maybe even broke in to get me out of Alejandro’s house so that I wasn’t there when the bomb arrived. And what they did in my house reinforces my suspicion that Leviticus is Zak Smythe-Unwin.”

  “Sergeant, the floor’s yours.” Patrick nodded him on, already pulling out a chair for himself. “Tell us your thoughts.”

  Joe described the break-in and the discovery of the smashed wedding photo. He saw several people around the table wince at that, officers who’d dealt with horrifying attacks who evidently saw the spite in that solitary act of vandalism. Joe told them about Zak’s violence and drug use and heads began to nod around the table.

  “But can I just emphasise that we may yet find out that Leviticus is someone other than Zak, but at the moment, he’s my main suspect,” Joe finished and passed back to Patrick.

  “We’re currently drawing together our intelligence on Mr Smythe-Unwin but I’m sure you can all appreciate, this is a very delicate matter indeed,” Patrick told them. “We need to be sure that these are all the work of Leviticus, not an angry lover usin
g that as cover for his own malice. For now, though, Mr Fuente is in a safe place and decisions are being taken on his security going forward. We’ll meet here again at fifteen hundred hours after I’ve spoken to the Prime Minister. Are there any questions?”

  There were, of course, but Patrick couldn’t answer any of them in anything more than the most generic terms. He couldn’t go into details on the device, the courier, the safe place, anything. It was a fluid situation, he explained smoothly, and it was developing even as they sat here.

  Finally, the attendees filed out and Patrick looked to Joe after the low murmur of conversation. “Sergeant Wenlock, would you wait behind, please?”

  Here it was, then. He’d be reassigned. And without knowing where the heck Alejandro was… Joe swallowed. Was he lost to him?

  Joe steeled himself, hiding all trace of trepidation.

  “Yes, sir. Of course.”

  As the door closed on the last military man at the table, Patrick closed his eyes. He pinched the bridge of his nose and admitted, “One or two memories today, Joe, between you and me. I don’t know what the devil I was thinking, getting that close. I of all people. There was something about it though, something I can’t put my finger on.”

  Joe shook his head. “I shouldn’t have gone home. I should’ve stayed. Once again, there you are, bomb goes off on my watch and I’m not there.”

  “Your house was burgled, Joe, hardly a pleasure trip.” He took a long breath and opened his eyes. “Mr Fuente was uninjured but extremely rattled. And that translates as loud. Since he was due to travel to Windsor this weekend anyway, I think it best if we send him there today with no fanfare. Several of the family are in attendance already, security is watertight.”

  Joe could imagine exactly how Alejandro had been. He’d seen it for himself after the firework had gone off, furious as he held up his broken shoe.

  The shoe which was even now being spirited to the forensics lab.

  “Yeah, you can’t get safer than a castle, after all!” Joe clicked the pen that lay on the table in front of him. Click-click, click-click. And here comes the next piece of bad news. “So I suppose I’m being reassigned?”

  “Good Lord, no. Why on earth— Mr Fuente is a hard chap to bring on side but he clearly trusts you. I want you to go to Windsor this evening and don’t let him out of your sight.” Patrick knitted his fingers on the tabletop. “I have a shopping list of essentials Mr Fuente requires from his home for his charity event. Would you be able to gather them for him, once the house is cleared to enter? It’s enough for a fortnight’s holiday for four.”

  “That’s fine, I can do that. I’d be happy to.” Joe wondered if the fringed turquoise shorts had made it onto the list, and the thought of Patrick’s eyebrows shooting up in surprise at their appearance almost made Joe laugh. But he had something serious to relate. “By the way, I need to tell you about a change in personal circumstances. It’s me and Wendy. Looks like we’re splitting up. Permanently.”

  “Oh, Joe, I’m so sorry to hear that.” Patrick stood, one hand on the tabletop helping him lever himself to his feet. Then he walked the length of the table, the cane tapping with every pained step until he could take the seat nearest to Joe. “This job has its pressures, doesn’t it? I think we’ve all felt its lash in our time.”

  “I’ve spent more time with my principals than with my wife. And when I have been at home, she’s been working late or flying round the world.” Or seeing other men. But Joe wasn’t going to air that particular piece of information in front of his boss. “How can a marriage survive that?”

  “The days of wives keeping the home fires burning are long gone,” the commander said. Joe wondered if there was a Mrs Holloway somewhere, or if there ever had been. Did she keep the home fires burning? He’d never heard mention of her if so, never seen her at the hospital during Patrick’s long recovery. “One admires those who can keep the scales balanced, but—this job can engulf a person. It’s not an easy one to be married to.”

  “I sometimes think I shouldn’t have—” Married Wendy. “Even so, Patrick, is there any chance that Wendy— She’s at home on her own, and she’s worried. It’s not surprising, after someone’s been in your house, and that business with the wedding photo is twisted. Can we send a patrol car past? Put her mind at rest? We might be splitting up, but I don’t want her to be frightened.”

  “I think we can do a little better than a patrol car, don’t you worry about that,” he said. “I was reminded this morning of life without the desk. I envy you, sergeant, being out there keeping our royal houses safe, even when you’re facing personal difficulties. It’s very British, isn’t it?”

  “Possibly not with Mr Fuente, but I like being his CPO. I’m glad you and the duchess wanted me to stay on with him.”

  “I’ll brief you on arrangements for Windsor before I leave for Downing Street.” Patrick slipped his fingers into the pocket of his waistcoat and withdrew a folded piece of paper. “Mr Fuente’s list. He was in rather a panic so this seemed like a project he could focus on. I hope you can decipher his handwriting better than I could!”

  Joe took the list. He’d seen scribbles of Alejandro’s writing on scraps of paper around the house and in his sketchbooks at the studio. But a list, written in a panic, was something else. “I’ll do my best!”

  “Mr Fuente’s phone was on the kitchen table the last time I saw it. Could you add it to the list?” Patrick quirked his eyebrow. “I imagine there might be one or two missed calls on there now this has gone public.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  A plane flew low overhead as Joe was driven out of London towards Windsor. He could’ve gone to Japan with Wendy, but that life was over now. A new life beckoned, but who it would be with, if it would be with anyone, Joe didn’t know.

  The car’s boot and its back seat were filled with suitcases and it probably looked as if Joe were emigrating, but drag, he discovered, took up lots of space. Fortunately, Alejandro had already packed his drag bag. Joe would’ve had no idea where to start with all the padding and whatnot. But he made sure to bring the mermaid shoes, as well as some of his own belongings. And there on the passenger seat, held safe by the seatbelt, was Alejandro’s wighead, the red, white and blue mane spilling onto the leather around it.

  While in Alejandro’s bedroom, Joe had gathered up the blanket that they’d sat under the evening before. A nice, comforting sort of blanket, to take the sting from Alejandro being unable to go home. Underneath the blanket, Joe had found a stuffed toy. He’d assumed it was a bear but when he’d picked it up, he’d realised it was a well-cuddled, long-eyelashed stuffed toy bull. Joe had decided to pack that too, even though it hadn’t been on the list.

  Joe was no stranger to Windsor, and was glad to see the huge stone edifice appear as they drove into the town. But he wondered how Alejandro would feel, being so close to Eton again. Hopefully he’d ignore the urge to escape.

  Alejandro’s phone buzzed in Joe’s pocket almost constantly, messages and phone calls coming in with every moment that passed. He had silenced it after less than five minutes but the notifications continued. Alejandro, it seemed, was a popular man.

  Here at Windsor though there would be no threats, no constant need to watch and listen, to be ready to swing into action. Here he would be able to calm Alejandro, to calm himself, and to have at least a few days to regroup.

  Joe was sent up to Alejandro’s apartment, the luggage following on behind. As he passed through the corridors and along the landings, Joe was relieved to see officers present, both plain-clothes and uniform. Alejandro would be safe here from anyone who wished him harm.

  “Mr Fuente?” he called at the door. From within he could hear Alejandro’s adored Beyoncé singing, probably a little too loud for his own voice to be heard, but other than that there was no reply.

  Joe tried again, knocking against the enormous, highly polished wooden door. “Mr Fuente?”

  Still not getting an answer, Joe
decided to try the door. He turned the huge, polished brass doorknob and managed to open the door.

  “Alejo?” Joe followed the music into the apartment.

  “Whoever you are, go away! I’ve told you, I want Sergeant—” The angry words died on Alejandro’s lips as he appeared in an open doorway on the far side of the room. At the sight of Joe he gave a squeal of delight then flew towards him, enveloping him in a crushing hug.

  Joe held him tight. “Thank God you’re safe. I thought something awful had happened to you!”

  “What happened at your house? How’s your boss?” The questions tumbled out, one on top of the other. “Is everyone safe?”

  “Yes, everyone’s safe. Some idiot broke into the house, and all they did was smash a photo. It’s nothing to worry about.” At least, so Joe would tell Alejandro. For now. “And my boss is busy. A bit rumpled, but he’s busy. You’re okay? You’ll be safe here, you know that.” Joe glanced at the decor, with its gold leaf and elaborate mouldings and carvings, and the room’s bright, lavish upholstery. “It’s very you, at least.”

  “I love these rooms, it’s where one of your kings put his mistresses.” Alejandro looked at Joe, his eyes filling with tears. Then he snuggled against him again. “Somebody tried to bomb me!”

  Joe wove his fingers through Alejandro’s hair and held him, rocking him gently from side to side. “I know, I know. Someone tried to hurt you but they failed, and now you’re here. You’re safe. That’s the important thing. You’re a survivor, Alejo.”

  “I didn’t know if you’d come back,” he admitted, his voice muffled in their embrace. “I thought— Everything seemed to go crazy!”

  Tears rose in Joe’s eyes. “I thought I’d lost you. Then I thought I’d lost you all over again. I thought I’d be reassigned.” Joe pressed his lips to the edge of Alejandro’s cheek. Not particularly platonic, he knew, so after a small kiss, he turned his face away.