by SJ Bennett
He told her where to go. To his astonishment, she was as good as her word. The pain was excruciating as he felt his little finger snap, and the next two were pulled apart so hard he wondered if he’d have the use of his hand again.
He screamed and swore, and as soon as the train doors opened he threw her off with every ounce of strength in his body and hurtled through the waiting crowd on the platform.
She didn’t follow him. The adrenaline rush was already making her dizzy. She was exhausted and, now that it was over, slightly scared. She heard a sound like raindrops and realised that the people in the carriage were applauding.
‘Did he hurt you, love?’ a woman asked, crouching beside her.
‘Shit, the knife! Watch out!’
Someone asked if they should pull the emergency cord, but Rozie said no. The fight had lasted seconds: not long enough for anyone to take a decent video. The last thing she needed was a crowd snapping pictures to paste on Twitter. They held the doors open while she dragged herself off the train, glad to get on with their journeys.
Rozie sat against the platform wall with her head between her knees, catching her breath. Soon London closed around her, and it was almost as if he had never been there at all.
Chapter 28
F
riday involved a trip to Berkhamsted School (not Allingham), in the state limousine. The Queen’s equerry, her lady-in-waiting and Sir Simon were waiting for her beside the car. It should have been Rozie, who had organised the day, but she was indisposed. Which was something that never happened. Rozie was not an ‘indisposed’ sort of person.
‘Oh dear,’ the Queen said. ‘Nothing serious, I hope?’
‘She got attacked on the Tube. Poor bastard who did it obviously didn’t realise he was going for a decorated war veteran. Rozie thinks he was trying to steal her handbag. But he—’ Sir Simon stopped.
‘What, Simon? He what?’
‘He had a knife, ma’am,’ he admitted. And regretted it. The Queen looked really shocked, which was rare.
‘Is she all right?’
‘Absolutely. Just a bit shaken. He isn’t, though. She thinks she broke three of his fingers.’
‘Good girl.’ The Queen had a clear idea about goodies and baddies, and what should happen to each. All her children had had self-defence training and Anne had needed it, when she was nearly kidnapped all those years ago. The papers had gleefully reported her retort, when ordered to get out of the car by a man wielding not one gun but two. ‘Not bloody likely!’
That was her girl. It was a tremendous relief, to know her APS was made of similar stuff.
When Rozie appeared again on Saturday, the Queen was contrite. She didn’t say so, of course, because one didn’t, but she was.
‘How are you, Rozie? Better, I hope?’
‘Completely well, Your Majesty.’
‘I gather there was quite a fracas.’
‘Nothing I couldn’t handle, ma’am.’
The Queen smiled. ‘So I’m told. I’m glad to see this job hasn’t softened you up.’
‘Quite the opposite,’ Rozie grinned. ‘Bring it on. I did warn the man before I took action.’
The Queen nodded. ‘Very considerate. Even so, I think you should be careful about going out for a while.’
‘Don’t worry – I will be.’
‘I mean, very careful. I’d like you to stay on palace grounds, if you can, unless you’re on official business.’
Rozie gave a rueful shrug. ‘That afternoon was my own fault. I went to see Masha Peyrovskaya. I knew her husband was dangerous, but I really had no idea how bad it could get. I don’t think he’d try it twice, though, ma’am. It would be too obvious.’
The Queen sighed. ‘I don’t think this was down to Mr Peyrovski. Why did you go to see Mrs Peyrovskaya, by the way? I don’t remember suggesting it.’
‘You didn’t, ma’am, she did. I wasn’t sure why, but it turned out she wanted marital advice. Things aren’t going well.’
‘You didn’t give any, I hope.’
‘Actually, I didn’t. I have no idea how married people stay together.’
‘Practice. But good. The last thing one needs is to get caught up in another divorce. Stay well away.’
‘I planned to, ma’am. But he came after me anyway. Or at least, he sent someone.’ Rozie felt so relieved she hadn’t seriously considered getting Fliss caught up in all of this. While she was perfecting self-defence drills at Sandhurst, Fliss was winning the freshers’ prize for most tequila shots downed while J-Setting like Beyoncé. Fliss would win every time on the dance floor; not so much in a fight with a knife-wielding Russian heavy. But wait – hadn’t the Boss just said Mr Peyrovski might not be behind it? ‘I mean, I assumed it was him. Do you think it wasn’t?’
The Queen gazed steadily from behind her bifocals. ‘This has nothing to do with Mrs Peyrovskaya. Or at least, only very indirectly.’
‘But I thought . . .’
‘You were asking questions about Rachel Stiles. At my request, I know. But please don’t anymore. Not for now.’
Rozie thought back. ‘But I only asked about her contact lenses recently, or lack of.’
‘I know,’ the Queen said, ‘and that’s what worries me.’
*
The London highlight of the following week was supposed to be the garden party at Buckingham Palace on Tuesday, but sadly for everyone, it was a bit of a washout. Even the Queen was noticeably disappointed. She knew how special the day was for everyone who came to see her and she always wanted them to see the garden at its best, and not from under the dripping canvas of a marquee. So often, the first week in May was one of the finest, but this year it was benighted, unpredictable. Charles blamed global warming, of course, and one tended to agree with him.
The thing was, if it was raining hard in Westminster it was almost certainly raining just as hard in Windsor. The horse show was due to start on Wednesday, with a day of dressage and special access for local townspeople, who were so accommodating about all the crowds and queues of horseboxes. It had been arranged a year ago, and hundreds of people had put in so much work. But the director was warning her that the day might have to be cancelled if the ground got too wet.
And then, to cap it all, she thwacked her leg against a footstool while rushing to stop Candy from stealing a plate of biscuits from the tea table, and she had to spend an evening in bed with a cold pack on it, feeling thoroughly miserable.
It was Sir Simon who brought the next piece of news, which cheered her up tremendously and almost, but not quite, made up for the fact that the car parks at Home Park were indeed flooded, and ‘Windsor Wednesday’ was cancelled, for the first time ever, to everyone’s dismay.
Sir Simon, who had shared that news too, was surprised by how much of a smile the other detail brought to Her Majesty’s face that morning. He simply explained that Gavin Humphreys had asked him to inform her that the murder investigation was taking a new and unexpected direction. Sir Simon had thought the update would depress her further, because presumably it meant the whole thing would take even longer. This would give the tabloids ever more opportunity to find out about the purple dressing gown and humiliate them all.
And yet, she smiled and said, ‘Oh, really?’ and looked rather insouciante.
‘I can ask him to give you more details, ma’am, if you’d like them?’
‘No need. As long as he keeps us in the general picture. And tell him to let us know if there’s anything we can do to help.’
‘Yes, ma’am. Of course. Although I’m sure he has it all under control.’
Chapter 29
R
ozie noticed that the Boss was looking more cheerful on Thursday, but that was only to be expected because by then they were all back at Windsor, her leg was well enough to walk on, and before doing the boxes she was ready to head out in the cool but sunny air and see the horses.
The rainstorm had passed. The car parks had recovered enough to recei
ve the queue of visitors. The forecast was fair. And best of all, Barbers Shop was fully recovered and raring to go in the Ridden Show Horse Championship and the birthday pageant.
It was a grinning Queen who drove one of the Range Rovers down to Home Park, where the crowds had already gathered to watch the show. The championship was one of the opening events in the Copper Horse Arena. Dressed in a cardigan, padded jacket, boots and a scarf, she mingled with riders, trainers and other horse fans, making jokes about the weather and miming her horror at the biblical flood.
Rozie had come down as well, accompanying Sir Simon. She was still advised against trips beyond the castle confines, but here she was as safe as she would ever be. They watched the competitors from a position opposite the VIP stand, enjoying a rare moment of relaxation together.
Rozie soaked up the feeble but persistent rays of sun, the reassuring gravelly tones of the announcer on the PA system and the smell of horseflesh, wet sand and fly spray. It took her back to her teenage days, on borrowed rides, nervous about the biggest jumps and keen to get out there.
‘D’you ride, Simon?’ she asked, realising she’d never really heard him talk about it.
‘No. My mother was allergic to horses. Wouldn’t go anywhere near them. Funny, really, because she was allergic to dogs too, and we had two terriers and a Labrador. And three cats. And a guinea pig.’ He shrugged.
‘Maybe she just didn’t like them,’ Rozie suggested.
‘I did sometimes wonder. We all wanted to ride, but my sisters were besotted. The younger one, particularly – Beaty. She knew everything there was to know, exactly how to groom a horse and braid its tail, what all the different breeds were, how to cure croup. This was just from reading stories about them. I think my mother was terrified Beaty would become irrevocably obsessed if we went anywhere near a real one. And of course we couldn’t afford it. Not with the school fees.’
Rozie nodded. For a moment, she imagined being the sort of girl who grew up having conversations with people about the day-to-day drama of choosing between owning a horse and going to boarding school. There had been a few kids like that at primary school in Notting Hill, but they had always lived in another world – the one of the pastel town houses, so close yet always so firmly out of reach. She laughed, putting an affectionate hand on her boss’s shoulder.
‘Poor you! What a nightmare that must have been.’
‘It was!’ He grinned back at her. ‘My troubled childhood.’
Rozie possibly didn’t know it, but her straightforwardness was what got her hired. All the candidates had been very clever, with stellar records in the Civil Service or the City, but many were brash and arrogant when you peered under the surface. Rozie was never that, and yet she had an inner confidence. You always knew where you were with her, even when she was gently teasing you. She managed to fit in because she didn’t try too hard, and Sir Simon liked that. She also looked fabulous in those ridiculous heels, combined with the heart-warming grin she gave when she got a difficult question right, but he had been far too professional to let any of that influence him in any way. Besides, the final decision had been Her Majesty’s.
Barbers Shop came into the Copper Horse Arena with a spring in his step and the look of a champion. His glossy conker coat had been groomed with mathematical precision that would no doubt have pleased Sir Simon’s little sister. He had endlessly long legs with black socks, powerful shoulders and a head that moved intelligently, pricking his ears at the cheers from an appreciative crowd. Rozie watched the Queen grin with delight as soon as she saw him, and carry on beaming as he powered his way through the dressage and the jumps, combining sheer strength with a theatrical sense of performance. He knew exactly what was demanded of him and showed off outrageously, seeming to suspend himself in mid-air before landing with the precision of an acrobat every time and tossing his head with satisfaction at a job well done.
Rozie loved the horse, but she found it hard to drag her eyes away from his owner.
‘She looks so happy.’
‘Doesn’t she?’
‘But . . . she looks like she’s always been this “up”, and you told me yesterday she was miserable as hell and her leg was killing her.’
‘She has a talent for happiness,’ Sir Simon said. ‘Luckily. She was a happy child, much loved. I think that’s what got her through the next seven decades.’
‘She must have been bloody happy.’
‘I think she was.’
To no one’s surprise, and his owner’s absolute joy, Barbers Shop won the championship and the Queen got a £50 Tesco voucher. She spent a while with the trainer and the horse afterwards, congratulating them both on another great performance and sharing a moment of glee. Then she was off to see the children on their ponies. A whole new generation of young riders was coming through. It was marvellous. How many carrots could you get with £50 at Tesco, she wondered? She would have to find out.
*
Late that evening, after a busy round of receptions and a dinner for forty in the Waterloo Chamber, General Sir Peter Venn called Sir Simon in his apartment and asked if he could come over. His friend readily agreed, so Sir Peter was surprised to find the APS there too, with a tumbler of whisky on the table beside her chair and her feet tucked up comfortably underneath her.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude.’
‘Not at all, Peter. Rozie and I are just catching up on a few things. What can I offer you? Glenmorangie? Famous Grouse? Gordon’s? Port? I’ve got some Taylor’s ’96 that’s rather moreish.’
‘Yes, please, to that last one,’ Sir Peter said gratefully. He made his way over to a spare armchair and sank into it. ‘God, what a day.’
‘I saw you earlier. You looked a bit green about the gills. Are you feeling all right?’
Sir Simon handed a small, cut-crystal port glass to the governor, glowing with the tawny red of the ’96. Sir Peter took a sip, closed his eyes and settled back into his chair.
‘Better now. I had to see HM before dinner. Wasn’t looking forward to it much, actually.’
‘Oh?’ Sir Simon sat back, crossed his legs and looked concerned.
Sir Peter cast a nervous glance at Rozie, then back to his host. ‘Pas devant?’ he muttered quietly.
‘Oh, Rozie knows everything. And if she doesn’t, she ought to. We’re all servants here. And she speaks French.’
Sir Peter flushed briefly, but recovered himself. ‘Fine, then. It turns out that I introduced a complete impostor to the castle during the dine and sleep.’
‘We knew about that.’
‘Well, you didn’t tell me you knew, and I wish you had, because I was having kittens imagining what the Queen would say when she found out. It was bad enough that the girl was in the castle at all, but that she stayed overnight at my personal request to the Master . . .’
‘You weren’t to know she wasn’t kosher, though, were you?’ Sir Simon said gently.
Sir Peter took another sip of port. ‘I don’t see how I could have been. It wasn’t my meeting – I was just hosting it for a friend in the Foreign Office because we have such tight security here – ha! – and it’s so useful for Heathrow. I was happy to do it, but I must say I assumed MI6 and the FCO and the security team here were on top of knowing who was who. It turned out this girl was fairly new to this type of input. She had a PhD in Chinese infrastructure funding, which not many people do, as you can imagine, and she’d given a couple of papers at think tanks in London, but nobody at this meeting had actually seen her in the flesh. They’d emailed quite a bit, but that was all. And she had this thick, distinctive hair. To security, she looked like her passport photograph. It never occurred to anyone to double-check.
‘Anyway, I’d got a bit worried recently that she was a drug-taker. That’s what the news said when she died, wasn’t it? I suddenly thought – what if she’d taken drugs here? Can you imagine if that got out? So I talked to Chief Inspector Strong’s team about it and the moment t
hey showed me a recent picture of the girl who died, I knew it wasn’t the person I’d seen. Obviously I told them straightaway, but I thought the Queen would be incandescent. It had been my idea to postpone the meeting to the following day, you know, to wait for this boy wonder from Djibouti. So my fault the impostor slept in the castle. My fault entirely.’ He sighed and drained his glass.
‘Not at all,’ Sir Simon insisted. He got up, reached for the port decanter and put it by the governor’s elbow. ‘That meeting was extremely useful, I gather. It would have been a washout if Lo hadn’t made it. You did well to persuade them all to stay on.’
‘You’re very kind. And I understand that it was a good meeting. I didn’t sit in on it myself, but it pushed our thinking on the Belt and Road strategy in some new directions. We’d always seen it as ambitious, but essentially benign. And we’d focused on the Belt part – the land routes. What they’re doing in Africa, for example, is on a scale one can hardly imagine. However, Lo had some fascinating insights into the Road part – the sea routes. That’s where the Stiles girl came in. Kelvin Lo is interested in their financing of new ports in developing countries. He’s concerned about the effect it will have on their naval capacity. You don’t think about China being a naval power, do you? But more than that, he’s concerned they’re deliberately driving some of these countries into debt on these port facilities, so they’ll essentially have a string of indentured bases around the Indian Ocean and the Western Pacific.’
‘Rather the way we did in the nineteenth century,’ Sir Simon mused.
‘Yes, well . . . we don’t anymore. We haven’t even got Hong Kong. It means they can put unfortunate pressure on our trade routes. Lots for the FCO to think about. And Kelvin’s information about the extent of infrastructure funding was a bit of a bombshell.’
A thought was occurring to Rozie as he spoke.
‘Was it China, then, that was spying? To find out what we knew about them?’