by SJ Bennett
The Queen pressed her ankle more firmly against the warm body of the sleeping dog. ‘How did she die, in the end?’
‘Vodka, ma’am,’ Singh said baldly. ‘Mixed with more Rohypnol. The bottle was still in her apartment. She would have been too out of it to refuse. He also rubbed cocaine into her gums. Enough to give her a heart attack.’
The ormolu clock ticked. The dogs snuffled. The Queen looked bleak.
‘One must . . . I would like to . . .’ She coughed and recovered herself. When she spoke again, she was sitting ramrod straight and the bell-like clarity was back. ‘Dr Stiles was killed in public service. My service, really. I hope that when I contact her family to offer my condolences, I can assure them that we’ve done everything we can to get justice done.’
Humphreys had been quiet for longer than he intended. He decided that now it was time to cheer Her Majesty up.
‘The cocaine was their mistake, ma’am,’ he interjected. ‘A bit like Anita Moodie, they were too theatrical. If they’d just plied Stiles with alcohol and tranquillisers, the death would have gone unremarked. But City workers use cocaine, they thought, so that would look more natural. Instead, it made the news. It meant that Sir Peter Venn heard about it and was thinking about her when he talked to DS Highgate, and . . . well, it brought us to where we are now.’
‘And where is that, exactly?’ the Queen asked.
Humphreys gestured towards his diagram.
‘We mentioned three cases. Anita Moodie, too, is dead, ma’am. She died before she was brought to our attention. Her body was found two days after that of Rachel Stiles. It was supposed to look like suicide, but we happen to know she was in fear of her life.’
‘Oh?’
‘An old friend rang the police to say so. The same man, presumably, who gave us the anonymous tip-off about the spying.’
‘Mmmm.’
‘And Moodie was right. She had messed up. She knew she might be punished, and she was. CCTV footage outside her flat shows a tall, blond male entering her building the day she died, and leaving it thirty minutes later. There was no sign of forced entry into the flat, no useful DNA, no absolute proof that it wasn’t suicide, but we’re certain she was killed. She had caused a lot of trouble for her handlers and in the end they took care of her, ma’am. I think they had an idea of poetic justice. She’d hanged Brodsky incompetently. They hanged her too, but more professionally.’
The Queen’s look suggested she didn’t see this as justice of any sort. ‘How ghastly.’
‘Yes. But there was one critical development. The CCTV proves that it was the same man who was with both women at the time they died.’
‘Ah, I see.’ At last, Her Majesty seemed slightly brighter.
‘And the footage from outside Moodie’s flat is much clearer. He wasn’t wearing his hood up then. We identified him as Jonnie Haugen: a small-time hardman hired by Fazal’s intelligence office to take care of things in London without putting them in the frame. Except, we know they use him, so it does put them in the frame. We’ve got Haugen down at New Scotland Yard, charged with Stiles’s murder. We found his DNA at her flat. He’d tried to clear up, but it’s hard to be somewhere that long and leave no trace, without making it look as if you’ve steam-cleaned the place. I’m not sure we’ll get him for Moodie’s death, but the police are working on it.’
Singh nodded his assent.
‘And the person who came to collect the bag from Stiles’s flat and give it to Moodie is a driver at the embassy,’ Humphreys went on. ‘Because the Prince is much more amateur at this than he thinks he is. The driver’s being deported tomorrow. Having spoken to you, I’ll inform the Prime Minister. The Prince is back at home, and of course we couldn’t touch him anyway, but it’ll be made very clear to the King that his nephew is a dangerous fool who has brought his country into disrepute. If you might reinforce the message, ma’am. He might listen to it, coming from you.’
‘He might. One can try. And what happened to the insider, may I ask? The one in the Foreign Office?’
‘Caught yesterday, trying to get a flight out of Heathrow,’ Humphreys said. ‘By a nice irony, his flight was delayed by several hours because of a storm over southern France. We were already on our way to get him. It saved us a trip and some paperwork.’
‘Good. And now, I rather think I must get on.’
The Queen smoothed her skirt and stood up. Humphreys and Singh leaped to their feet. She adjusted her handbag strap over one arm and smiled at them both. ‘Well done. Three murders . . . how very clever of you to solve them. Please thank your teams, too, for all their hard work. We’ve all been rather unsettled by this. It’s nice to think one can sleep easily again.’
‘It was an honour, ma’am,’ Singh said, with a little bow.
‘An honour,’ Humphreys agreed.
Talking of honours . . . Sir Gavin Humphreys . . . The words repeated freely in his head as he bent down and picked up his little diagram. He’d thought the honour would come, but not for another five years or so. Sir Gavin Humphreys. His wife would be thrilled to the core. He had found a spy and single-handedly solved three murders in the process. What else, quite honestly, could Her Majesty do?
She walked out, with her equerry behind her and the dogs at her heels.
Chapter 31
T
he Queen was in the chapel, sitting quietly, when she heard a noise at the door and Philip came in, pausing just inside.
‘Mind if I join you?’
‘Please do.’
He walked slowly towards her and sat down in his favourite chair nearby.
‘Tom told me you had your meeting with the idiot from Box.’ He paused and she said nothing, so he went on, ‘He said they sorted everything out. Found out who did it, and so on. Not a sleeper.’
‘Not a sleeper, no. There was a mole.’
‘It’s like living in a Le Carré. That or a stuffed-up lawn.’
He grinned at his little joke, but she didn’t. He didn’t take it personally, though. He knew this would be a hard conversation.
‘He said there were three of ’em, Tom did. All in their twenties. All died rather unpleasantly.’
‘Yes, they did.’
He looked towards the altar, where a Renaissance painting showed the Madonna with her baby. ‘You’d think they’d still have three score years and ten ahead of ’em.’
‘I’m sure they thought that. But . . .’ She trailed off. She didn’t do that in front of most people. She always found her backbone from somewhere and carried on. But she didn’t mind so much when Philip saw her struggling. One wasn’t made of stone; he knew that.
‘Tom said Humphreys solved the whole thing,’ he said. ‘Wouldn’t have thought he had it in him.’
‘Yes, it was rather surprising.’
‘Bloody shocking, I’d say. D’you know, I think he had someone feeding him information.’
‘Do you?’ She frowned at her husband sharply.
‘God, yes,’ he said, with an emphatic nod. ‘Some underling, no doubt. Brainy as hell but quite passed-over. Doing all the work and giving him all the kudos. Don’t you think?’
She relaxed a little. ‘Something like that.’
‘He’ll still get a gong, though, won’t he?’ Philip made a face.
‘I think he must.’
‘It’ll make him even more insufferable, of course.’
She merely smiled at this. It was probably true, but if anyone was trained to suffer the insufferable, she was.
Philip reached across and put a hand over hers. His skin was cool and soft. He squeezed her knuckles, briefly. ‘Well, at least they found the truth. Have they got the men who did it?’
‘Not all were men. But yes.’
‘Glad to hear it.’ He squeezed her hand again.
She didn’t tell him about Prince Fazal. Not yet. She was still too furious to say his name, both at what he’d done, and at the thought of him escaping proper justice – though the humi
liation of having been caught out would cause him significant anguish. At least, she hoped it would.
‘I’m off. Having dinner in town tonight. Few things to do before I go,’ Philip said, rising.
‘Wait. I’ll come with you.’
He offered her his arm and they walked down the aisle together, towards the window. His window. It showed timelessness, and recovery and hope. It didn’t stop her feeling terribly for the young man in the attic room, and the innocent girl in her flat, and even the other one, who suffered such terrors before she died, but it gave her the strength to walk calmly and capably back into the busy castle, where she was the centre of its turning world.
In two days she and half the Household would head back to London to prepare for the State Opening of Parliament. Life very much went on. One did what one could. Right now, it was absolutely time for a little gin.
*
‘Did you find out if the hardman was the same one who tried to kill you?’
Aileen Jaggard was visiting the castle at Rozie’s invitation. They stood at the top of the Round Tower, away from prying eyes.
Rozie’s mouth twisted into a smile. ‘Billy MacLachlan found out for me. The guy in the cells had a broken nose and a damaged hand. Three broken fingers. Giving him a lot of pain.’
Aileen met her eye. ‘Poor thing.’
‘What I don’t get,’ Rozie said, changing the subject, ‘was why Gavin Humphreys? Of all the people. I thought the Boss hated him.’
‘She doesn’t hate anyone. She might have been a bit infuriated.’
‘But when you think of the misery he caused,’ Rozie persisted. ‘Everyone could feel it. She knew he was wrong about the Putin thing, right from the start.’
‘She must have decided he was the right man for the job. She wouldn’t let personal feelings come into it.’
‘How could she not?’
‘Practice. Loads and loads of it. She’s a brilliant politician – how d’you think she’s coped all these years? She thinks long-term. Was Humphreys the best man for the job?’
Rozie looked out at the horizon. In the far distance you could see all the way east to the Shard. Without meaning to, it marked twenty miles from here to the Tower of London, from fortress to fortress, as William the Conqueror had planned it, with London in between. She considered the question. ‘Perhaps,’ she conceded. ‘I mean, the Boss worked out who did the killings, but I don’t think she could ever prove who was behind it. Once she’d worked out that it was a question of spying after all, MI5 were the best people to deal with it, I suppose.’
‘There you are.’
‘But why not tell him how far she’d got? I saw her in practice. She just kind of . . . seeded these little ideas. He didn’t even know she was doing it. She told him about Allingham. She got MacLachlan to the anonymous tip-off about Anita Moodie. She let Humphreys take all the credit, even to himself.’
Aileen grinned. She pulled a wisp of hair out of her eyes. ‘Yup, that sounds like her. Gave me a bit of a shock the first time, but the more I saw her do it, the more it made sense. She doesn’t want to be seen as interfering.’
‘But it’s her own castle!’
‘She’s not head of the investigation, though. Imagine if she’d said what she’d found, and you’d found. It would prove she was basically second-guessing him all along, which of course she was. That would hardly puff up his self-esteem.’
‘So it’s all about his ego?’
‘Think about it, if she’d proved him wrong and made him feel small, what would happen the next time there was a problem? He’d constantly be worrying she’d do it again. He’d stop trusting her. Trust is everything to Her Majesty. Much more than petty point-scoring. He’d stop telling her things. What good would that do?’
‘So he gets a knighthood, and he goes on thinking she’s a dim old lady who lives in a nice castle?’
‘A dim old lady he works his guts out for, right or wrong.’
Rozie shook her head. ‘I still can’t get my head around it. I mean, who has that much . . .’
‘Self-discipline?’
‘Yeah.’
‘One person in the world, I’d say. Enjoy it while you can.’
They took a last look at the panoramic view, from the Long Walk to the south-east, to the town to the west and the river behind it, slow and stately, heading from Oxfordshire to the sea. Above them, the sky was sapphire, flecked with cirrus. It was nearly June and soon the castle would be gearing up for Ascot.
‘I assume she thanked you, by the way,’ Aileen added on the stairs on the way back down. ‘Did you get the box?’
Rozie grinned. ‘Yep. I did.’
A week ago, the Queen had asked her to come and see her in the Oak Room. This was more formal than their usual private meetings. When she got there, the Boss was freshly coiffured, in her favourite skirt and cardigan, and beaming with that delighted smile that went straight to Rozie’s heart.
‘I owe you money,’ she’d said.
It was true, but Rozie was still shocked to hear her say it. ‘Oh, Your Majesty, don’t—’
‘You thought I’d forgotten, but here it is. Lady Caroline told me how much.’
This must be repayment for the Fortnum’s hampers. They had cost a fortune back in April, and Rozie had paid out of her own pocket because she didn’t know what else to do. She hadn’t been going to say anything.
And yet the Queen wasn’t proffering an envelope. Instead, she handed Rozie a slim, blue cardboard box from the table in front of her. It was surprisingly heavy.
‘Open it.’
Inside was a smaller box made of silver and blue enamel, about the size of a narrow clutch bag, with the royal cypher engraved below the clasp. Rozie opened it to find a Coutts cheque for the correct amount inside. But it was the box itself that held her attention. Rozie had noticed one just like this on a side table in Aileen’s flat in Kingsclere. Hers now sat on her bedside table, at whichever royal residence she happened to be working. She imagined she was the first person to use such a thing for storing spare shea butter for her skin.
‘She doesn’t give you one for every case, does she?’ she asked.
Aileen laughed. ‘No. But she always thinks of something. Now, didn’t you say you were going to take me for a hack in the park? I brought my riding togs. Let’s go and enjoy this weather.’
Chapter 32
A
year went by. Another Easter Court, another birthday. In the New Year’s honours list, Sir Gavin Humphreys had indeed received the good news he hadn’t dared (but nevertheless did) hope for. So, somewhat to his surprise, did Sir Ravi Singh. DCI Strong was pleased with his OBE. Now the horse show approached again.
Before all the festivities began, the Queen had a couple of visitors she wanted to see in private. First was a young man Rozie had taken a while to track down. She had eventually located him at a hostel in Southend, where he was doing occasional work as a labourer. He had been in and out of rehab, unable to hold down a job. His mother’s death when he was in his teens had hit him hard, Rozie had established. His father had died when he was only seven. His older sister had done what she could to stop him going off the rails too badly, but now she was dead too.
When Rozie told him about the invitation, his first concern was that he had nothing appropriate to wear.
‘Don’t worry about that,’ she’d assured him. ‘She doesn’t mind. Just make sure you borrow a jacket of some kind. It’ll make things easier.’
He was terrified, approaching the castle. Scared of the police in the road outside the gates, scared of the troops he knew were inside. He was used to being scared of authority in all its forms by now, and this was like all of it, concentrated in one spot, in a bloody castle. But when he showed his invitation, he was escorted past the general public in the queue like some sort of VIP. The lady who had written to him (who was hot, and tall, and black, and not what he’d expected at all), came to meet him near the gate and took him a special
way up the hill, avoiding all the public places, until they came to the bit where the Queen actually lived. He could hardly believe it.
The tall lady took him along one side of a massive rectangle of grass in the middle of all these grey stone buildings, into a corner one they called the Brunswick Tower. Then she accompanied him upstairs and he thought he’d be waiting for ages in some kind of holding area – whatever, he didn’t know – but instead, she knocked on a door and someone said, ‘Come in,’ so they did, and inside was . . . the Queen.
The real Queen. Right there. In person. Like, on her own, or nearly, with just, like, some dogs and this guy in gloves standing near a table with drinks on it. And the room was not big, and quite dark, and full of the kind of furniture you would expect the Queen to have – like, old and very, very expensive-looking, like she’d got it all from a museum – and through the window he could see a long row of trees in the distance, and people walking between them, ordinary people, just kind of doing their ordinary thing, not knowing that he, Ben, was standing in a room with Her Actual Majesty.
It was an out-of-body experience. He was really, really glad he’d let the manager of the hostel lend him some leather shoes. Trainers just wouldn’t cut it on this carpet.
‘Good morning, Mr Stiles. Thank you so much for coming. I hope your journey wasn’t too difficult?’
‘No, Your Majesty,’ he said. The tall lady, who was standing there too, had told him to say ‘Your Majesty’ the first time, and ‘ma’am’, to rhyme with ‘ham’, not ‘marm’ to rhyme with ‘farm’, after that, and to bow – which he’d forgotten to do. Bloody hell! So he did it now, too late, but whatever. And Her Majesty smiled. She looked really nice when she smiled. She was tiny, though. She looked bigger on TV. But she kind of glowed. He didn’t know how she did that, but it was awesome.
‘Rozie, could you ask Major Simpson to join us in five minutes?’ she said.
The tall lady disappeared and the Queen sat down and pointed at this other seat, so he did, too, and then the guy in gloves came over and asked him what he’d like to drink. He had this soft, Scottish accent and he looked really kind, and Ben liked him straightaway. He had no idea what to say, though, so he just blurted out, ‘Whatever,’ and the guy came back with a glass of cold, fresh water with a slice of lemon in it, which was OK.