by SJ Bennett
‘Tell me, what do you think of the idea of these people killing someone purely to send a message?’
‘What kind of message?’
‘Just to say they can. Someone low-level. The wrong person in the wrong place, so to speak.’
Henry Evans considered the question. He stared out at the gunmetal-grey clouds, whose outline mirrored the billowing yew beneath. He was considering over two decades of research into suspicious deaths behind the old Iron Curtain and, later, here at home, since he had first become interested as an A-level student at school in Manchester.
‘It’s not Putin’s style,’ he said eventually. ‘I can’t think of another example. Do you have someone in mind?’
The Queen ignored his question. ‘Imagine they’ve changed tack. That it’s not about who, it’s about where.’
Evans’s brow furrowed. ‘I don’t understand.’
The Queen tried to channel Gavin Humphreys as objectively as she could. ‘They’ve used poison in the past, have they not? Sometimes rare, radioactive poison, as if to make it clear that they are the perpetrators, even if they can’t be brought to justice.’
‘Yes, but that’s for revenge. Revenge on individuals for specific acts, and to send a message to other individuals not to do the same. I can’t see how that works if it’s just the location that matters.’ He still looked perplexed by the Queen’s line of reasoning.
‘What if the location were very . . . specific? Designed to show how brazen they can be when they want to?’
‘It just . . . I . . .’ Evans trailed off. He was frustrated. He genuinely wanted to support his sovereign, to follow her argument and agree with it if he possibly could. He’d never known her to spout what, in other company, would be robustly referred to as ‘bollocks’, so he was very surprised by what she was suggesting. Whoever heard of an assassination based on location? What was she on about?
‘And you said the Litvinenko murder was sloppy,’ the Queen added. ‘Agents don’t always behave as professionally as they should. Do they sometimes panic? Have you come across this?’
Again he stared at her and tried not to seem rude. ‘Panic, ma’am?’
‘Yes. The Berezovsky case, too. You said there were problems with the ligature.’
‘Well, apparently it was the wrong shape: circular, not V-shaped, as one would expect from a hanging. But whoever did it, if they did it, managed to leave the bathroom door locked from inside, which doesn’t smack of panic, exactly . . .’
‘And Litvinenko?’
‘They didn’t panic there either, I wouldn’t say, ma’am. They poisoned the man in a hotel tea room, in cold blood, and walked away.’ He shrugged. ‘The sloppiness came earlier, leaving radioactive traces in various places they visited beforehand. They probably weren’t familiar with how trackable those things are. Polonium isn’t exactly typical on the weapons training syllabus . . .’ He realised that he was piling up counter-evidence to her argument again, and this was hardly polite. He slowed to another halt, still perplexed.
‘Thank you,’ she said. Which confused him even more.
‘I’m sorry, ma’am. I don’t think I’ve—’
‘You’ve been more than helpful, Mr Evans.’
‘I really don’t think—’
‘More than you know. Might I just ask . . .?’
‘Of course.’
‘Well, it’s been very nice to see you again. But this is a very sensitive issue and I’d be extremely grateful if, when you’re asked about today . . .’
She paused to choose her words carefully and before she could find the right ones, he butted in. ‘Nothing happened, ma’am.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I wasn’t here.’
‘You’re very kind.’ She nodded and smiled gratefully. From her nearby seat, Rozie noticed an unspoken agreement pass between them. From her own experience, she could translate it now: Henry Evans would say nothing, regardless of who asked him, even the commandant at Sandhurst and his contacts in MI5 and MI6. This conversation was absolutely private.
Rozie wondered for a moment why it had been so easy for Mr Evans to make this silent pact, when for her it had seemed more complicated. But she reflected that for her it was more complicated. Evans simply owed his ultimate loyalty to the Queen and that was that. The man Rozie had to hide this conversation from – lie to, if necessary – was the Queen’s own right-hand man, and that made her secrecy so strange and uncomfortable. It wasn’t that the Queen didn’t trust Sir Simon, Rozie felt sure of that. She had seen the warm, long-standing relationship between them at first hand. It was something else . . . What? She didn’t know.
Meanwhile, by some telepathic trick, Lady Hepburn returned right on cue with a fresh-brewed teapot and a coffee and walnut cake that she had made herself that morning. The conversation turned to the cricket, in which England were doing well in the World Cup. The Queen, who had seemed perfectly herself before, looked to her friend now as if a giant unsuspected weight had lifted off her shoulders. She positively sparkled.
‘Would you like to see the pots?’ Fiona suggested. ‘I’ve got some rather lovely narcissi from Sarah Raven that are doing awfully well.’
They were joined by her golden retrievers, Purdey and Patsy, who flowed down the terrace steps to the parterre beyond. Henry, whose wife and mother were gardeners, took a surprising interest in the niceties of ‘lasagne’ planting. Rozie, whose mother could kill a balcony tomato plant at ten paces, did not. But she perked up when Lady Hepburn turned to the Queen with a sudden smile and changed the subject.
‘I heard you had a lovely time on Monday evening.’
‘Oh?’ The Queen looked surprised.
‘Caroline told me. We were on the phone about Ben’s memorial service. Oh goodness, which reminds me – of course there was that young man. I heard something . . . a heart attack, was it? The next day? Nothing to do with the dine and sleep, I hope? I assume it wasn’t a guest? No one you knew?’
‘No, no,’ the Queen said carefully. Her friend was not fishing, merely trying to avoid putting her foot in it without meaning to – as she unfortunately had. However, it was strictly true to confirm that young Brodsky wasn’t a guest. And one couldn’t claim to have known the man. Not exactly.
‘Oh, thank goodness for that. It’s awful how these fit young people seem to die these days for no reason at all. Or at least, unsuspected cardiac trouble or whatever it was. Perhaps they always did, and one didn’t hear about it so much. Anyway, on a happier note, Caroline said the evening was a smashing success. Lots of super dancing after supper. I do so enjoy a good dance, don’t you? I can’t remember the last time I properly did it. And apparently there was this dishy young Russian who danced with all the ladies.’
‘Yes, there was.’
‘Did he dance with you?’
‘He did, actually.’
‘Oh, how wonderful! Was he as good as Caroline said?’
‘Well . . .’ The Queen wondered how effusive her lady-in-waiting’s description had been.
‘Ha! I can see from your face he was. And then he absolutely swept that other woman off her feet.’
‘Which woman?’ the Queen asked. ‘He danced with a ballerina, I remember.’
‘Caroline said he danced with two of them. To perfection – just like something off Strictly. But then he got together with another lady, a guest, and they simply went mad. It might have been after you went up. She said it wasn’t the dancing, exactly. They did the tango, but it was something between them. Electric.’ Lady Hepburn twirled her wrists and spread her fingers. ‘Almost too personal to watch. Like Fonteyn and Nureyev.’
‘Oh, I doubt that!’ the Queen scoffed.
‘Well, almost. Caroline might not have mentioned Nureyev, come to think of it, but that’s what I like to imagine.’
‘Your imagination always amazes me, Fiona. Look, the tips of poor Mr Evans’s ears are burning.’
Flustered, Henry
tried vainly to deny it.
‘It’s the only thing that keeps me going, these days,’ Fiona opined. ‘That and the garden. And visits from delightful academics. Do say you’ll come again, Henry. You’re always welcome.’
‘Thank you, Lady Hepburn.’
‘We must go.’
The Queen had spoken these words to Rozie, who glanced at her watch and saw that exactly sixty minutes had passed since their arrival. She hadn’t seen the Boss consult a timepiece once, but her punctuality was legendary.
‘I’ll get the car, ma’am,’ she said, and soon they were on their way home again, the Queen sitting upright in the back of the Bentley, hands neatly resting in her lap, eyes fluttering closed in the very definition of a power nap.
Chapter 8
I
n the morning, Sir Simon was in a cheerful mood when he arrived with the battered red boxes that contained the government paperwork for the Queen to review that day.
‘You’ll be pleased to hear they’ll be finishing the interviews with staff today or tomorrow, Your Majesty,’ he said, placing the boxes on her desk.
‘That’s excellent news. Are they changing the line of inquiry?’
‘No, ma’am, not at all. Apparently they’ve uncovered two members of staff with surprising links to Russia who were sleeping in the castle that night. It’s lucky, in a way, this happened – I know it’s tragic for poor Brodsky, of course. But who knows what havoc they could have wreaked, in time.’
‘Oh dear. Who are they?’
Sir Simon took a small folder from under his left arm and consulted his notes.
‘Alexander Robertson, your page, and an archivist called Adam Dorsey-Jones. Both based at Buckingham Palace, but Sandy Robertson is here with you for the Easter Court, of course, and Adam Dorsey-Jones was visiting the Round Tower to consult the library. He’s working on the project to digitise the Georgian papers. I believe he joined about five years ago. I can check if you like.’
‘Yes, please.’
‘Ma’am.’ He made a lightning note and continued. ‘They’ve been relieved of their duties and put on extended leave while the police test their alibis and Box do more background checks. There are a few more people they want to question, just to be on the safe side, but Mr Humphreys is pretty sure they have their man.’
‘Not Sandy!’ she exclaimed, exasperated. ‘You know him, Simon. His father was a ghillie at Balmoral. They’ve been with us since Andrew was small.’
‘Yes, ma’am. But that might make him an ideal sort of person to target. Apparently his wife was very ill for a long time. Big medical bills.’
‘What about the National Health Service?’
‘Perhaps she went abroad for it? I don’t know. That’s all there was in the report Humphreys showed me. It’s all rather early days. And Adam Dorsey-Jones’ – he peered at his notes again – ‘studied History and Russian at university and his live-in partner deals in Russian art.’
‘I see.’
‘He asked to come to Windsor at the last minute to look at some letters, and the theory is he might have been instructed to get himself down here when they discovered Brodsky was going to be in the Peyrovski party.’
‘“They” being his Russian handlers?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Did you say Mr Dorsey-Jones joined five years ago?’
‘Indeed.’
‘Five years,’ she mused. ‘Simon, don’t you think it rather odd that a young musician with an unknown website should be the target of such a drawn-out plot?’
Sir Simon gave the comment a good few seconds’ consideration before replying.
‘It’s above my pay grade. Box know what they’re doing. We have the best world experts on Russian statecraft.’
‘Yes, but is Humphreys consulting those experts?’
‘I’m sure he is, ma’am. If we have an insider at work, he’s doing whatever it takes to find them.’
He worked hard to reassure the sovereign, though he sensed her resistance. It was understandable: she was devoted to her staff. It must be a shock to realise treason could exist so close to home – though goodness knows, it often had before. Sir Simon was an avid historian and could name two dozen treacherous English courtiers down the ages at the drop of a hat. The Queen felt safe because she had people like him to serve and protect her. He thought, not for the first time, how delicate she seemed, like fragile porcelain. He would happily lay down his life to save her. Gavin Humphreys would too, he was sure.
Fired up, and rather wishing for the opportunity of a puddle, so he could throw his cloak over it (would a Savile Row jacket do?), he spent another five minutes explaining the emerging plans for more comprehensive background checks on future servants. But he sensed the Queen wasn’t really listening. Far from reassured, she looked brooding.
‘Can you send Rozie in to collect the papers?’ she asked. ‘I won’t be long.’
‘I can always come and—’
‘I’m sure you’re busy, Simon. Rozie will do.’
‘Ma’am.’
Alone at last, the Queen looked out of her sitting room window at a plane on its landing path, against a watery blue sky. She was furious, and frustrated, and a few decades ago she might have railed at her helplessness. But not anymore. One learned one’s lessons. She couldn’t always do the right thing, but at least she could try.
*
Rozie was growing accustomed to the feeling of her heart hammering against her ribcage. It was getting dark. She stared out past the raindrops battering the windscreen of the Mini, looking for a sign that said ‘Kingsclere’ and praying she was not about to make the biggest mistake of her life.
She had told Sir Simon that her mother, back in the family flat in London, had fallen out of bed and broken a hip. With immense grace and kindness, he had told her to dash to the hospital bedside, do whatever was necessary and not think for a moment of rushing back. Which in royal circles meant she had about twenty-four hours.
Her mother was still safely in Lagos visiting the extended network of aunties and uncles, and fit as a flea. A part of Rozie wondered whether Sir Simon would check the flight manifolds for the last few days and find that out. She chided herself not to be so paranoid. Sir Simon was lovely, the ideal boss in many ways. It was not his fault that she was habitually making up stories to get round him. But enough was enough: she needed to know at least why she was doing it.
This morning the Queen had asked her to do some further research into the night of the dine and sleep. She had three interviews lined up in central London for tomorrow. And none of this was to be mentioned to Sir Simon.
Her mind was racing. The Boss was up to something. Surely such tasks should be left to the professionals, not entrusted to an ex-banker with three years in the Royal Horse Artillery to her name? The Queen had the whole of MI5 and the Metropolitan Police to call on. Or the Prime Minister. Or, if she liked to keep it close to home, Sir Simon himself or her equerry.
So why me?
And then she had remembered an offhand comment from her predecessor during the handover a few months ago. Katie Briggs had been the assistant private secretary for five years, before succumbing to mental health issues that were never fully discussed. Rozie admired the fact that Katie’s privacy had been maintained throughout, that Sir Simon and the Queen were never anything but kind when talking about her, and that she had been quietly provided with accommodation on the Sandringham estate so she didn’t have the stress of worrying about somewhere to live while she got better. During the final handover day, when they were briefly alone, Katie had said, ‘One day, she’ll ask you to do something strange. I mean, every day will be strange, but you’ll get used to that. One day it will be super-strange. You’ll know it.’
‘How?’
‘You just will. Trust me. And when you do, go to Aileen Jaggard. She was APS before me. Her details are in the contacts book. She explained it all to me and she will to you, too.’
‘I don’t ge
t it. Can’t you tell me now?’
‘No. I asked the same thing. It has to come from her – from the Boss, I mean. When it does, track down Aileen. See her in person if you can. Just say “It’s happened”, and she’ll know.’
At that moment, Sir Simon had interrupted them to invite them for lunch and Katie had made a point of pretending they had been talking about the calendar-entry system. Whatever it was, Sir Simon wasn’t a part of it.
The rain outside beat harder, bouncing off the bonnet of the car. Ahead Rozie’s headlights briefly caught the sign she was after. The Mini’s satnav swore blind there was no turning here, but a fork in the road proved otherwise. Rozie turned off the main road and followed the narrower, unlit one up a gentle hill until she reached the residential streets of the village of Kingsclere. Aileen’s cottage was halfway down the main street, within sight of a squat stone church tower. Rozie parked the car opposite the church and was surprised to find, walking back, that the address she had been given was that of an art gallery. Peering through nets behind old Georgian windows, she could just about make out modern paintings against crisp white walls. She rang the bell and waited.
‘Ah, you’re here.’
The woman who opened the door to her was tall, very slender, and much younger-looking than the sixty-one it said on her Wikipedia page. Her highlighted hair was swept into a bun held in place with a pair of chopsticks, and she was wearing what looked like cashmere yoga pants and a baggy T-shirt. Her face and feet were bare.
‘I hope I’m not disturbing you,’ Rozie said, aware that she must be.
‘No, it’s good to see you. Come and join me for a glass of wine. You must need it after that drive. So, you’re the new girl. Let me look at you.’
Rozie stood in the narrow hallway while the older woman paused for a moment, smiling quietly to herself, taking in the short, sharp hair, the immaculate eyebrows and contouring game, the athletic body clad in a pencil skirt and figure-hugging jacket, the high-heeled shoes.
‘Things have changed since my day,’ she said, still smiling.
‘For the better?’ Rozie batted back, with more than a hint of challenge in her voice. She’d driven a long way in the rain and the dark and the last thing she needed was a bit of Establishment racism – which, to be fair, she wasn’t used to getting from the Private Office. The tabloids had published a couple of articles about the Queen’s ‘distinctive new assistant’, taking care to point out her ‘exotic looks’. At the royal palaces she was used to the odd startled raised eyebrow and some exaggerated politeness, but no one within the Private Office had commented on her appearance, other than when Sir Simon had pointed out that she might find it difficult to walk at speed in a tight skirt. (She really didn’t.) Aileen was the first person to say something outright.