by SJ Bennett
The car picked up speed as it joined the motorway. She saw the double takes in several cars that passed them: drivers and passengers noticing the car with its matching escort, and squinting to see if they could spot her in the back seat.
It was a miracle that grubby little murder hadn’t made the headlines by now. Only the maximum discretion by all concerned had made that possible. It couldn’t have been easy for Chief Inspector Strong, keeping the investigation under the radar. Imagine if the tabloid papers had got hold of the story of the knickers and the lipstick . . .
And then, suddenly, the piece of the puzzle containing the dressing gown and the cord fell into place. Of course. Chief Inspector Strong had done exactly what he was supposed to do.
In the miles that followed, the other pieces arranged themselves around it until everything about that night was clear, everything made sense.
It was the hair that had caused the biggest problem, but now that she understood the chain of events, the solution to the issue of DNA was obvious. In fact, it should have been the first thing she noticed.
She was clear in her mind now how the murder scene had been set up, and why. The worst of it was, she realised with desperate clarity, that she herself was the cause. The jokes she had made with Philip, those minor frustrations, they were not incidental detail – they were at the very heart of the poor man’s humiliation. One was responsible for the wardrobe, the purple dressing gown, all of it.
Traffic on the motorway made the journey slow. The Queen looked out of the window to see a queue of planes in the distance, lining up in the sky to land. She forced herself to breathe calmly and think.
But then there was the question of what happened next. How could the girl be in two places at once? Or rather, how had two girls been in one place? How had nobody noticed?
It took a while to picture it properly. When she worked out what must have happened, she gasped out loud. Her protection officer turned from his place in the front passenger seat to check she was all right and she nodded to reassure him.
But she wasn’t.
She saw what they must have done, and it was awful. Cold and calculating, and chilling, and such a dreadful waste. And even that had not been enough.
She went back over every detail, checking that it fitted with what MacLachlan had said, what Chief Inspector Strong’s team knew and what she herself and Rozie had discovered. Yes, it all connected. MacLachlan’s latest findings gave her the courage to believe it was true.
It was patchy, but that could be fixed. If people knew what they were looking for, they would find it, and probably much more. She realised that there was one person above all who could start the process. If only she was still at Windsor! Damn and blast it! She would have to find an excuse to talk.
By the time the Range Rover sailed past Harrods in the mid-morning traffic, she had worked out what was needed and how to make it happen. She felt slightly better, but contemplating so much death and treachery had made her weary. She needed very much to see little George and Charlotte, and celebrate the joy of life. Ten days seemed a long time to wait.
*
‘Can you get me the Governor of Windsor Castle on the phone? I need to ask him something.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
The Queen sat at her desk in her private study in Buckingham Palace, the phone nestled among a collection of photographs and flowers. The room’s familiar furnishings and family portraits soothed her, and above all its view of the plane trees planted by Victoria and Albert, whose branches now intertwined. She had taken the dogs for a long walk in the garden on arrival, which wasn’t in the schedule, but her staff had responded with admirable calm. She felt better now. She could get on.
The switchboard had Sir Peter on the line within a couple of minutes.
‘Ah, Governor, I meant to ask before I left, have they sorted out where they’re going to park their monstrous television trucks? Because I simply will not have them tearing up the lawn.’
For a few minutes she and Sir Peter discussed the niceties of the final horse show arrangements. They were a little less urgent, in his view, than Her Majesty made them seem, but far be it from him to criticise what mattered to her in her own home.
‘Oh, and I was just thinking,’ she said in passing, ‘about the awful business with the girl who died in London. Yes, the cocaine girl. I suppose it was coming back to town that reminded me. I suddenly thought . . . You must have been one of the last people to see her. Yes, I know, but I wondered if she was taking drugs at the castle. It’s the last thing we need. Do you know if Chief Inspector Strong’s team next door to you looked into it? I remember meeting her. Quiet girl. Anyway, tell ITV what I said about the TV trucks. That should put the fear of God into them if nothing else will.’
Afterwards, she made a quick call to Billy MacLachlan.
‘I think it’s time for you to do as you suggested. But very gently. Keep an eye on him afterwards. I’d like to think he’ll be safe. And do you think someone should tip off MI5 about the payments? Thank you, Billy.’
Rozie was standing nearby, ready to take notes. The conversations didn’t fully make sense to her. Especially the one wondering whether Rachel Stiles had taken drugs at the castle. When did that become an issue? She was desperate to ask how things were going, but there seemed to be an unspoken agreement between her and the Boss that they never talked outright about what they were up to.
‘Is there anything I can do, ma’am?’ she asked.
‘Could you find out if Rachel Stiles wore contact lenses? And you might have a word with the director general of MI5. Tell him I’d like to see him on Wednesday. I could do with a progress report.’
*
Back at the castle, Sir Peter pocketed his phone thoughtfully. He was fairly certain that the director of the horse show had already addressed the issue of the TV trucks, but he would make doubly sure before reassuring Her Majesty. Meanwhile, there was that little question of the cocaine girl. Rachel something, was it? Stiller? Snipes?
He doubted she would have dared take drugs at the castle. Not during a top-secret conference, surely? But it was true that while she had seemed on good form the first day he had met her, she had been less so on the second. He couldn’t see how it would affect the police investigation into Brodsky even if she had been high as a kite, but with ultra-conscientiousness, he felt he should do his bit and check. If they had discovered drug-taking at the castle, and the press ever got hold of it, that was the Daily Mail headline for the next few weeks. He would need to warn the communications team.
Sir Peter had a few people to see in the offices in the Lower Ward, but when his rounds were done and he was heading back to the Norman Tower for lunch with his wife, he popped into the Round Tower next door and trudged up the stairs to the little room on the third floor. DCI Strong was away from his desk, but Andrew Highgate, his sergeant, was there.
Now that he was actually standing in the presence of the police, Sir Peter felt faintly ridiculous about his mission. His conscientiousness began to seem to him more like unnecessary interference. Surely murder was of far greater concern to them than any possible drug-taking? (And given what Sir Peter knew about various visitors over the years, it wouldn’t exactly be the first time.) Nevertheless, DS Highgate, in the presence of a general, a knight of the realm and the – to give him his full official title – Constable and Governor of Windsor Castle, was keen to do a thorough job.
‘No, you did the right thing, sir. Thanks for popping in. Let me just pull up what we have on her . . . Yes, this is Rachel Stiles. Expert on the Chinese economy. Not such a golden future, sadly. Um . . . yes, let me check . . . No, this is definitely the right picture. We got it from her office. The original one we had from her security application was a bit small. I don’t think we could have made a mistake. I can check again if you like. I’ll give you a call in five minutes, unless you’d rather wait while I . . .’
Somewhat alarmed by now, Sir Pe
ter said he would wait.
*
In his garden in Woodbridge some hours later, Guy de Vekey sipped from a glass of chilled Pinot Grigio while newly arrived swifts soared high overhead, a quiver of arrows. He loved this witching hour, as day turned to dusk and the sky shifted from peach to purple while shadows gathered on the lawn. Behind him, Elgar poured, beguiling and scratchy, from thick, black vinyl into the evening air.
He had vowed to keep a secret. Already he had told it once, to that man on Saturday, and now he was being asked to tell it again. His first instinct was to be true to his word. Anita was dead; how could he let her down now? And yet, wasn’t it true that he felt . . . what was the word . . . released . . . by telling it the first time?
He had taught two generations of schoolchildren how to sing. Several had stayed in contact, some had invited him to their weddings or first concerts, but only a few had become real friends. Usually they were the ones with exceptional talent, but actually Anita hadn’t been one of those. She was good, of course, but what really marked her out was how hungry she was: for life, for success, for the best she could possibly get, and how much she was willing to give for it. That was a talent in itself, in the cut-throat classical music industry. Anyway, despite the age gap, she trusted him. She valued his advice. He’d seen her once every couple of years – always bubbly and cheerful, keen to show him photos of her travels and share her news. But the way she had been that last time, three weeks ago, when she came to visit . . . He cringed to think of it even now. It was desperate. She was desperate; a snivelling, snotty wreck.
And then that family friend had come to ask about her. Mr . . . what was it? He couldn’t recall . . . Anyway, for her parents’ sake he’d wanted to understand Anita’s state of mind before she . . . did that to herself. Who could know? Who could possibly know?
At the time Guy had thought it made sense for a young woman to have a bad day and be upset. But when the friend had asked about it, he’d been surprised by how bad it sounded. Somehow, in explaining, Guy had let it all come gushing out. Some secret-keeper, he.
Talking about it on Saturday, the change in Anita seemed odd. Sudden. Unexplained. Guy saw now that it hadn’t been sadness he’d felt coming off her in juddering waves – it had been abject terror. She’d even foretold her death. He’d told her, begged her, not to do anything – but perhaps she hadn’t been talking about a broken heart.
Perhaps the man was right, when he’d called again just now, concerned. Perhaps Guy should say something to the police. They might think he was a fool, but what if he wasn’t?
Looking at it in a new light, had she been trying to tell him something all along? Anita had been secretive and scared, and two days later she was dead. Guy drained his wine glass. He prayed he was wrong.
‘Have you decided?’
His partner came out to join him and put a hand on his shoulder. He reached over and put his arm around her.
‘I’ll call them first thing in the morning.’
Chapter 25
O
n Tuesday morning there was a thanksgiving service in Westminster Abbey for Sir Geoffrey Howe, who had been very entertaining in the days of Margaret Thatcher, and was another child of ’26. The Queen didn’t go, because if she went to one, she would have to go to the lot of them, but she would have liked to have attended this time. He was a kind and decent man, an honourable politician – which God knew, wasn’t always the case – and sound on cricket. Another loss.
At her age, and Philip’s, they were constantly getting news of death. It was almost daily these days, and always grim. In fact, Philip said last winter, ‘If they invite me to one more bloody memorial service I shall boil the lot of them’. But he didn’t mean it. And at least most of their dear friends had lived full lives.
She peered at herself dispassionately in the glass. During the Royal Mail visit someone had reminded her (often, people proudly told one things about oneself that were not entirely news) that hers was the most reproduced image in the history of the world. She had willingly forgotten it the first time: it was information no human being should be forced to bear. One would have thought it would be Diana. A friend in the nineties told her that he had just come back from the higher reaches of Nepal, far from all cars, phones and even radio. There, in the foothills of Annapurna, he had seen a farmer brandishing a medieval-looking scythe for harvesting, and wearing a T-shirt with her late daughter-in-law’s face emblazoned on it. Wherever you went, there she was.
But outdoing all newspapers, magazines and souvenir shops there were banknotes and postage stamps. So simple, when you thought about it. At home and across the Commonwealth, when in doubt they used one’s profile on the currency or the post. Fortunately from when she was rather younger and had not so many chins. And she had lived an awfully long time . . .
Leaning forward, she adjusted her spectacles and inspected the royal nostrils for hairs. Ageing was such an undignified process. She had never thought of herself as a beauty, but looking back from a great distance, she realised now that perhaps she had been. Fortunate, if they would insist on printing one’s face a billion times on everyday objects. Now it was mainly a question of keeping advancing hair follicles at bay.
Billy MacLachlan was lucky to catch her at her dressing table again, at this time in the morning. The conversation was very brief.
‘I spoke to Mr de Vekey, Your Majesty.’
‘Did you manage to persuade him?’
‘I think so.’
‘Excellent. And you made the other call?’
‘Yes. It was an online form, but same effect.’
‘Thank you.’
‘No problem, ma’am. Have a good day.’
*
Later, she was coming to the end of her boxes when there was an almighty commotion in the corridor. Feet stomped, doors were slammed and voices were raised.
Sir Simon had already come in to collect the papers. He remained impassive, but the Queen looked annoyed.
‘See what it is, would you?’
But before he could do anything, the door was flung open and the Duke of Edinburgh strode through it, dark pink in the face and fuming.
‘Did you hear what that bastard Humphreys did yesterday?’
‘Thank you, Simon.’
Sir Simon let himself out without a whisper. She turned to Philip.
‘No.’
‘Interviewed my valet. My bloody valet. For six hours, in the middle of the night. Without asking me, or even telling me, by God. I only found out this morning.’
‘Goodness. Why?’
‘Because they think he’s a bloody Soviet agent. God knows why. The man’s never been further east than Norwich. And you heard about Robertson? Discovered by his own daughter and rushed to A and E. Hounded, is what they’re being. I’ve had enough of Humphreys stomping all over our Household like some tinpot dictator.’
‘I know what you mean.’
‘Do you? He’s been farting about Windsor Castle with impunity for weeks, and now he’s farting about here. You need to put a stop to it before there’s a crisis.’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘Would you like me to sack the head of MI5?’
‘Yes, I bloody well would.’
‘I’m sure that would go down well with the Prime Minister.’
‘Stuff the Prime Minister.’
‘I’m seeing him this evening,’ she said. ‘I’ll tell him you said that.’
‘With bells on. Look, Lilibet, I’m serious.’ He was calming down a bit. Not many people would have noticed from his demeanour, but he was. He came over to her desk and rested his hand on it. ‘Humphreys can’t go on upsetting our people for no good reason. He doesn’t have a shred of evidence for his daft theory.’
‘I know. And I’m seeing him soon, actually.’
‘Are you?’ He stood up straight again. ‘And you’ll call him off?’
‘I’ll do what I can,’ she offered.
Though genuinely furious on behalf of his staff, the Duke knew he was asking unreasonable things from his wife. He was wrong-footed by how placid and accommodating she was being.
‘Really?’
‘Yes, really.’
‘I see. That’s very good news. When?’
‘I’m not sure exactly,’ she said. ‘Sometime tomorrow, I think. If we can fit him in around’ – she adjusted her bifocals and looked down – ‘the Commonwealth Secretary General, the Bishop of Leicester and Michael Gove.’
‘Ha! You’re making that up.’ He was back in good humour now. His outbursts rarely lasted long.
‘No.’
‘The things you do for your country.’
She twinkled at him.
‘And you’ll read Humphreys the riot act when you see him?’ he checked.
Her expression was enigmatic, but she smiled. ‘Something like that.’
Chapter 26
B
y Wednesday, life at Buckingham Palace had slipped into its old routine. It was as if they had hardly been away. Rozie was busy liaising with the Japanese about their Prime Minister’s imminent visit, and the Cabinet Office with arrangements for the Queen’s official birthday in June.
Rozie had been able to report to the Boss that Rachel Stiles, the cocaine girl from Docklands, was long-sighted and had worn glasses sometimes, but not contact lenses as far as she could ascertain. The Queen had accepted the news with little more than a non-committal ‘Mmmm’. Rozie was burning to ask more, but didn’t. She knew the Queen still didn’t believe MI5’s theory about the Russians. From all the work she herself had done, and what she knew about Billy MacLachlan’s activities, it was clear that Brodsky, Rachel Stiles and Anita Moodie were connected somehow. She suspected that Anita had impersonated Rachel, but couldn’t see where the link was. Had Brodsky made it happen in some way? He knew Anita, after all. Was he a spy? Was that what MacLachlan needed to talk to MI5 about?