The Hawk Is Dead, page 27
‘I think we could be if . . .’ He shook his head. ‘If I hadn’t run into a detective who thinks one day soon he will be my boss.’
‘Oh God, not another Cassian Pewe type?’
‘Not exactly, but he does rather fancy himself and thinks he’s a comedian.’ He shrugged. ‘The one positive is the progress Scroope’s made with the coded entries in the diary. There’s only a few bits of it that are currently baffling him. He thinks they may be names – but they could be items, locations – we really don’t know at this stage. There are five altogether. They’re different to the rest of the code – in that they appear to be cryptic clues.’
She smiled. ‘My grandad on my mum’s side would have had fun with those – he used to give us all cryptic puzzles inside our Christmas crackers every year.’
‘Is that where you got your love of crosswords, Sudoku and puzzles from?’
‘Yes, I’m sure it was him who started me off. Can I have a look at them or are they classified?’
‘I’ll have to get you to sign under the Official Secrets Act if you succeed in deciphering them!’
‘Deal!’
He unlocked his phone, then turned it round to face her.
‘R I S K K?’ Cleo read the letters aloud from the screen.
‘Scroll down,’ he urged.
She ate another mouthful, then read out: ‘E J N W.’
She looked up at him and he just nodded, then she scrolled down again. ‘R S Z K Y Z N K Z K S. These are what the tortoise man can’t decipher?’
‘He’ll get there. He’s working on the key but time is critical.’
She read out the next: ‘N X W K X Z X W K X.’ Then the final one, ‘J F K Y.’
She studied them for a moment, frowning. Then she jumped up and went over to the Welsh dresser, returning with a lined notepad and a pen. She wrote in large letters, R I S K K, then chewed another mouthful of her food, deep in thought.
Grace watched her as she started jotting down numbers, then tapped the pen against her teeth before jotting down some more. An instant later she seemed distracted and was looking past him, over his shoulder. Then he heard Noah’s voice. He turned to see his son, in his Ghostbusters pyjamas, walking barefoot into the room. ‘Mummy, Daddy, I can’t sleep.’
Cleo and Roy both jumped up. As they did so, his job phone rang.
‘Roy Grace,’ he answered.
Cleo signalled that she would take care of Noah.
Grace heard a voice at the other end that he recognized and did not fill him with any kind of joy. At all.
71
Monday 27 November 2023
‘Roy, it’s Greg Mosse – I hope I’m not disturbing you from anything important?’
‘I’m actually in the middle of eating.’
‘Oh, I’m so sorry – I can call back – when would be convenient?’ His attempt at trying to sound apologetic reminded Grace of an expression he’d once heard. If you can fake sincerity, the rest is easy.
‘It’s OK, if this is quick. My wife’s just had to go up and deal with one of our kids.’
‘Look, two things. First is, I think you and I got off to a bad start and I just want to hold out an olive branch and say I’m sorry that happened – we need to work together – and it is indeed possible that our two investigations are linked. There’s too much at stake for us not to cooperate.’
‘I’d agree with that,’ Grace replied.
‘Good. Excellent. We need to share information – on what you have to date on the shooting of Sir Peregrine, and what I have to date on the death of Geoffrey Bailey. I do of course get daily updates from my Met officer on your team, but I think it would be far better if we could bury the hatchet and work together.’
Warily, Grace said, ‘I would be very happy to do that.’
‘That’s great. Great. The second thing is there’s something very strange that’s been discovered during the postmortem on Geoffrey Bailey.’
‘Which is?’
‘I don’t want to keep you from your dinner but I’ve been allocated a room to use for interviews at Buckingham Palace. Would you be free to meet me there some time tomorrow – the sooner the better?’
‘I’ve got a briefing meeting at 8 a.m. I could be there by 11 a.m.’
‘Excellent. I’ll inform the guards at the front entrance. We’ll have a good talk and make a plan of action. We all need to sharpen our pencils, right?’
‘My team use ball-point pens,’ Grace replied. ‘They don’t need sharpening.’
72
Monday 27 November 2023
Her boss had been in a strange mood all day. Normally, the Director of the Royal Collection would leave the office in St James’s Palace sharply at 5 p.m. every day, in order to get home in time to bathe her young children, put them to bed and read them a story.
Which was Rose Cadoret’s idea of hell. Dogs, yes, cats, yes, children, no thanks. She was with Woody Allen, who called having children, Aimless reproduction.
But the reason they were both still at work at 8 p.m. on this wet Monday night, was because Lorraine McKnight was suddenly, today, on a mission to get to grips with the Royal Collection inventory. She’d had a flea in her ear from Tommy, she told Rose. The King’s favourite painting in the Breakfast Room at Clarence House had gone missing, and now no one knew where the hell The Queen’s beloved Vermeer had been moved to from the Picture Gallery.
Well, no one except herself, Rose thought, who was feeling increasingly pissed off with her boss. And very concerned. She was tired, hungry and facing the prospect of a thirty-minute bike ride through the darkness and rain to her flat in Putney.
She could take the bus tonight, except she couldn’t. Nor a taxi. She had a full rucksack, and none of the Palace guards had ever raised an eyebrow as she gaily pedalled past them, every evening, smuggling out art treasures. But that wasn’t the main reason that she had to cycle tonight.
Lorraine pointed at the computer screen. At the rows of columns of RCINs – Royal Collection Inventory Numbers – by which every item of the one million and fifty-seven thousand items in the Royal Collection was identified. ‘I don’t know what’s going on, Rose,’ she said, sounding exasperated. ‘There are around two hundred items I can’t account for at the moment. Tommy might blame me for that damned Vermeer going missing, but all of this is his fault. Those bloody builders all over the place have no respect for art of any kind. Instead of informing me of every object they have to move, so we can agree a temporary new location and log it there, I think the lazy buggers just shove stuff anywhere they think is out of harm’s way.’
‘It’s disgraceful,’ Rose said. ‘Perhaps we should try to have a meeting with Sir Tommy tomorrow and tell him the issues his builders are causing. They probably have no idea of the value of some of the items they’re moving around.’
Lorraine McKnight nodded thoughtfully, then jabbed a finger at the screen. ‘Look, this has been driving me insane. There are twelve jade statuettes unaccounted for. Twelve! Well over one million pounds in value lying around somewhere – and no one can tell me where!’
I could, Rose thought. I could tell you exactly. Two are in a Russian Oligarch’s mansion in Surrey. One is in a fierce Royalist’s collection in Minnesota. Four are in our warehouse in Hounslow. And five are in my rucksack.
‘If the Keeper of the Privy Purse suddenly decided to do one of his spot checks, we’d be in the soup – well, I would.’
‘Does Sir Jason do that – spot checks?’ Rose asked, trying to mask the concern in her voice.
‘He’s a very sharp man and he’s always had a particular interest in the Royal Collection. It’s an important part of the nation’s wealth – valued at over £10 billion back in 2010, held in trust by the Sovereign – now King Charles. Finch sprang an inventory check on us for the entire Collection not long after he’d been appointed to the post. As you can imagine it was a pretty massive task, tying us all up for weeks. Happily, nothing was missing.’
‘Everything accounted for?’
‘Every single item.’ She shook her head. ‘But at this moment there are paintings, miniatures, jewellery, statuettes – pretty much across the entire Royal Collection spectrum – that I can’t account for. I honestly think it would scare me if I attempted to put a value on them.’
Rose said nothing.
Lorraine McKnight yawned. ‘OK, let’s pack it in for today.’ She looked at Rose, who saw the worried flutter in her eyes. ‘I’m seriously beginning to wonder if we should bring the police in.’
‘Police?’ Rose echoed.
‘We’re making the assumption that all these items have been temporarily misplaced. But what if that’s not the case? What if some or all have been stolen and we’re blind to the fact?’
Rose hesitated before replying, thinking hard. ‘Well, it’s a possibility, Lorraine – but I think pretty unlikely.’
‘I’d like to think so.’
‘All the workers have been vetted carefully,’ she added.
Lorraine McKnight suddenly tapped her keyboard, clicking out of the inventory. Then she clapped her hands together. ‘OK, tomorrow we are going to get everyone on the Trust here in the Palace to drop everything, and hunt for the missing items. Prepare to stay late again tomorrow, to work through the night if necessary. We’re going to find every damned one of these items. If we don’t, I’m going to contact the police. Does that sound a plan?’
‘It sounds a plan,’ Rose replied.
But not one you’re going to be alive to execute, she thought.
The Director stood up and walked across to the row of hooks on the wall by the door, and unhooked her bicycle helmet from one. Then she wrinkled her nose, looking at the window and the rain that was pelting against it. ‘It’s a pretty shitty night – are you cycling home or taking a taxi – or an Uber or something, Rose?’
‘You’re cycling?’
‘Always.’
Rose smiled. ‘I’m cycling, too.’
73
Monday 27 November 2023
She held back for a moment, to let Lorraine McKnight get well ahead of her. Then she watched her cycle in the driving rain towards the entrance barrier to St James’s Palace. A huddled figure in a flapping high-vis cape, and lit up from behind like a Christmas tree, Rose thought, complete with a flashing beacon on top of her helmet – instead of a fairy. Perfect. She was going to be able to spot her easily.
Rose never bothered too much with safety stuff. Sure, she wore a helmet and she had a red flashing light on the back of her heavy-duty e-bike, but she hadn’t switched that on tonight – she wanted to remain as inconspicuous as possible. The reflector on the rear mudguard would at least enable any vehicle behind to see her. The bike’s black colour was also perfect camouflage for her mission.
She knew the exact route Lorraine would take. They regularly cycled the first half mile or so together before she herself turned left, skirting the outside edge of Hyde Park Corner, before heading off through Belgravia, while Lorraine turned right, straight into the maelstrom of the full traffic nightmare of Hyde Park Corner, before escaping into the sanctuary of Hyde Park itself and crossing it diagonally, towards Paddington and Notting Hill.
Rose, who came a different way in the mornings, asked her once why she didn’t dismount and go for the safety of the underpass. Lorraine had replied it was too much hassle and that Hyde Park Corner was much easier to navigate on a bike than people realized – you just had to be aggressive. And, she had revealed, someone had tried to assault her late one night in that underpass. She felt a lot safer out on the road. And besides, the road didn’t stink of piss.
One of the Royal Protection Officers stepped out of his booth, dutifully braving the rain to check, cursorily, that it was Lorraine, before raising the barrier. Thanking him, and waving him a cheery goodnight, she pedalled out.
Rose, her rucksack weighing heavily on her back, its contents safely bubble-wrapped, rode fast up to the barrier, where she was briefly checked by the same guard, who joked with her that she’d be better off in a kayak tonight. Then she joined the roar and the glaring headlights and tail-lights of the traffic, which was still heavy but now at this hour was moving well.
Lorraine’s bike was a heavy old steed, and with the electric motor doing most of the work, Rose quickly caught up with her along Cleveland Row, before she turned right into St James’s Street and down to the lights at The Mall. But she stayed a few yards behind and didn’t announce herself. Carrying on in the darkness a short distance on, up Constitution Hill, she maintained a steady gap just behind her boss’s rear wheel.
Just one sharp tap was all it would take.
And if it went wrong and miraculously Lorraine survived, she had the apology all prepared. I’m so sorry, Lorraine, that idiot taxi caught my arm and shot me forward into you.
Lorraine would ask her, later probably – again, only if she had miraculously survived – why she had followed her around Hyde Park Corner instead of turning off at the top of the hill and heading towards Putney. And again she had the answer ready. I thought by following you, I could learn to cycle around there safely, too.
She braked as Lorraine slowed, approaching Hyde Park Corner. One of the most hectic junctions in London, basically a huge oblong roundabout fed by six roads. Rose often wondered if perhaps it was the busiest – not that it mattered. Buses, lorries, taxis, cars, vans, motorbikes, and the occasional idiot on an e-scooter weaving in and out. And tonight, in the darkness and the rain, which was now coming down even more heavily, it was as busy and angry as ever.
But at least the traffic was flowing at a steady pace. Good. She did not want it jammed, did not want the traffic crawling at a snail’s pace. Plan A would not work if that was the case.
Suddenly, catching Rose off-guard, Lorraine charged into the fray, pedalling through a narrowing gap between the front of a bus and the rear of a removal lorry.
Desperate not to lose her, Rose powered forward as the gap narrowed even further. Shit. She felt the glare of the bus’s headlights, the heat from its radiator – was the stupid bastard driver trying to crush her? Then she was out, swung left into the gap between a taxi and the lorry, and saw Lorraine, a short distance ahead, slalom in front of another bus as she rounded the corner, then headed up towards the Lanesborough Hotel and the left turn into Knightsbridge. She was riding like a lunatic. Good. Rose followed. The traffic was moving faster here, but it took little effort to catch her quarry again.
And she had to make her move fast now. The move she had been planning since Lorraine had mentioned bringing in the police. At the top of the incline, Lorraine would be turning left, heading across six lanes of traffic towards the slip-road entrance into the park, just by Apsley House. This was the most dangerous part of her ride, where traffic entered at speed from the left, from Knightsbridge. Visibility was lousy tonight, which was perfect. Drivers of buses, taxis, everything, had to contend with blurry windscreens, dazzling lights, reflections on the wet tarmac, the approaching traffic from the right and trying to make the smart choice about which of the multiple lanes to be in.
Rose watched her boss hesitate, left arm sticking out, not that anyone was going to see it or take much notice even if they did. There was a bus – followed by another – thundering in from Knightsbridge at quite a speed. Was she going to try to beat it across?
Yes!
Just one tap. That was all she needed. Her heavy e-bike’s sturdy front wheel would send her flying. Right into the path of the bus.
She could see Lorraine was hesitating – and now she was about to make a mad dash for it, right across the front of the first bus. Perfect! Her heart thumping, Rose accelerated, her front wheel now halfway alongside Lorraine McKnight’s rear wheel.
Then, just as she braced, gripping her handlebars tightly, about to turn into that rear wheel, Rose felt a massive thump from behind. An instant later and she was launched helplessly over the handlebars of her e-bike. In the same instant it seemed the shiny black surface of the road was tumbling upwards towards her.
74
Monday 27 November 2023
Rose heard a massive bang. It sounded like a clap of thunder inside her head. Simultaneously she felt an agonizing jolt to her neck and a jarring thump in every bone in her body, like she’d belly-flopped from a great height onto concrete.
Dazed and winded, she lay still, with the smell of wet tarmac in her nostrils. She was dimly aware of vehicles all around, slithering tyres, brakes. An angry horn. Another. Aware she might be run over herself now – but beyond caring.
She heard the sound of a car door opening. Then another. Another.
Footsteps. Running. Splashing through water.
A female voice. Elderly. ‘My dear, my dear, oh God I’m so sorry – I didn’t see you. I just didn’t see you.’
Another voice. Male. ‘She’s moving.’
Another. Female. Younger. ‘I’m a nurse, let me check her. Can someone call for an ambulance?’
Another voice. Male. ‘Yes, I have done it, just this second, an ambulance is coming.’
‘I’m – I’m OK, I think,’ Rose gasped.
‘Don’t move,’ the nurse’s voice said. ‘I saw it, you landed on your head. Your helmet has split open. Let me check you.’
Rose struggled to get up onto her knees, the weight of her backpack making it even harder. ‘I’ve got to – I’ve got—’ she gasped, a sharp pain searing through the left side of her chest. A rib, she knew, bruised or busted – she’d done that before.
‘Please don’t move, wait for the ambulance. The traffic’s stopped, you are safe here.’
Rose heard the faint doppler wail of a siren. Then another from a different direction. Both getting louder.
‘Can you move your toes?’ a voice asked, female, the nurse?
‘I’ve – I’ve got – go to – get—’
Where was Lorraine? Rose knelt, shaking, pressing her right hand against her left rib cage. She was swaying. Giddy. The rucksack was pulling her over. She fought against it. The sirens were getting louder. There were people standing all around her. Concerned, chiaroscuro faces in the torrential rain and the glare of lights and the darkness. All looking down at her. Like she was some fucking Tracey Emin artwork. Or Damien Hirst, perhaps. Roadkill!
‘Oh God, not another Cassian Pewe type?’
‘Not exactly, but he does rather fancy himself and thinks he’s a comedian.’ He shrugged. ‘The one positive is the progress Scroope’s made with the coded entries in the diary. There’s only a few bits of it that are currently baffling him. He thinks they may be names – but they could be items, locations – we really don’t know at this stage. There are five altogether. They’re different to the rest of the code – in that they appear to be cryptic clues.’
She smiled. ‘My grandad on my mum’s side would have had fun with those – he used to give us all cryptic puzzles inside our Christmas crackers every year.’
‘Is that where you got your love of crosswords, Sudoku and puzzles from?’
‘Yes, I’m sure it was him who started me off. Can I have a look at them or are they classified?’
‘I’ll have to get you to sign under the Official Secrets Act if you succeed in deciphering them!’
‘Deal!’
He unlocked his phone, then turned it round to face her.
‘R I S K K?’ Cleo read the letters aloud from the screen.
‘Scroll down,’ he urged.
She ate another mouthful, then read out: ‘E J N W.’
She looked up at him and he just nodded, then she scrolled down again. ‘R S Z K Y Z N K Z K S. These are what the tortoise man can’t decipher?’
‘He’ll get there. He’s working on the key but time is critical.’
She read out the next: ‘N X W K X Z X W K X.’ Then the final one, ‘J F K Y.’
She studied them for a moment, frowning. Then she jumped up and went over to the Welsh dresser, returning with a lined notepad and a pen. She wrote in large letters, R I S K K, then chewed another mouthful of her food, deep in thought.
Grace watched her as she started jotting down numbers, then tapped the pen against her teeth before jotting down some more. An instant later she seemed distracted and was looking past him, over his shoulder. Then he heard Noah’s voice. He turned to see his son, in his Ghostbusters pyjamas, walking barefoot into the room. ‘Mummy, Daddy, I can’t sleep.’
Cleo and Roy both jumped up. As they did so, his job phone rang.
‘Roy Grace,’ he answered.
Cleo signalled that she would take care of Noah.
Grace heard a voice at the other end that he recognized and did not fill him with any kind of joy. At all.
71
Monday 27 November 2023
‘Roy, it’s Greg Mosse – I hope I’m not disturbing you from anything important?’
‘I’m actually in the middle of eating.’
‘Oh, I’m so sorry – I can call back – when would be convenient?’ His attempt at trying to sound apologetic reminded Grace of an expression he’d once heard. If you can fake sincerity, the rest is easy.
‘It’s OK, if this is quick. My wife’s just had to go up and deal with one of our kids.’
‘Look, two things. First is, I think you and I got off to a bad start and I just want to hold out an olive branch and say I’m sorry that happened – we need to work together – and it is indeed possible that our two investigations are linked. There’s too much at stake for us not to cooperate.’
‘I’d agree with that,’ Grace replied.
‘Good. Excellent. We need to share information – on what you have to date on the shooting of Sir Peregrine, and what I have to date on the death of Geoffrey Bailey. I do of course get daily updates from my Met officer on your team, but I think it would be far better if we could bury the hatchet and work together.’
Warily, Grace said, ‘I would be very happy to do that.’
‘That’s great. Great. The second thing is there’s something very strange that’s been discovered during the postmortem on Geoffrey Bailey.’
‘Which is?’
‘I don’t want to keep you from your dinner but I’ve been allocated a room to use for interviews at Buckingham Palace. Would you be free to meet me there some time tomorrow – the sooner the better?’
‘I’ve got a briefing meeting at 8 a.m. I could be there by 11 a.m.’
‘Excellent. I’ll inform the guards at the front entrance. We’ll have a good talk and make a plan of action. We all need to sharpen our pencils, right?’
‘My team use ball-point pens,’ Grace replied. ‘They don’t need sharpening.’
72
Monday 27 November 2023
Her boss had been in a strange mood all day. Normally, the Director of the Royal Collection would leave the office in St James’s Palace sharply at 5 p.m. every day, in order to get home in time to bathe her young children, put them to bed and read them a story.
Which was Rose Cadoret’s idea of hell. Dogs, yes, cats, yes, children, no thanks. She was with Woody Allen, who called having children, Aimless reproduction.
But the reason they were both still at work at 8 p.m. on this wet Monday night, was because Lorraine McKnight was suddenly, today, on a mission to get to grips with the Royal Collection inventory. She’d had a flea in her ear from Tommy, she told Rose. The King’s favourite painting in the Breakfast Room at Clarence House had gone missing, and now no one knew where the hell The Queen’s beloved Vermeer had been moved to from the Picture Gallery.
Well, no one except herself, Rose thought, who was feeling increasingly pissed off with her boss. And very concerned. She was tired, hungry and facing the prospect of a thirty-minute bike ride through the darkness and rain to her flat in Putney.
She could take the bus tonight, except she couldn’t. Nor a taxi. She had a full rucksack, and none of the Palace guards had ever raised an eyebrow as she gaily pedalled past them, every evening, smuggling out art treasures. But that wasn’t the main reason that she had to cycle tonight.
Lorraine pointed at the computer screen. At the rows of columns of RCINs – Royal Collection Inventory Numbers – by which every item of the one million and fifty-seven thousand items in the Royal Collection was identified. ‘I don’t know what’s going on, Rose,’ she said, sounding exasperated. ‘There are around two hundred items I can’t account for at the moment. Tommy might blame me for that damned Vermeer going missing, but all of this is his fault. Those bloody builders all over the place have no respect for art of any kind. Instead of informing me of every object they have to move, so we can agree a temporary new location and log it there, I think the lazy buggers just shove stuff anywhere they think is out of harm’s way.’
‘It’s disgraceful,’ Rose said. ‘Perhaps we should try to have a meeting with Sir Tommy tomorrow and tell him the issues his builders are causing. They probably have no idea of the value of some of the items they’re moving around.’
Lorraine McKnight nodded thoughtfully, then jabbed a finger at the screen. ‘Look, this has been driving me insane. There are twelve jade statuettes unaccounted for. Twelve! Well over one million pounds in value lying around somewhere – and no one can tell me where!’
I could, Rose thought. I could tell you exactly. Two are in a Russian Oligarch’s mansion in Surrey. One is in a fierce Royalist’s collection in Minnesota. Four are in our warehouse in Hounslow. And five are in my rucksack.
‘If the Keeper of the Privy Purse suddenly decided to do one of his spot checks, we’d be in the soup – well, I would.’
‘Does Sir Jason do that – spot checks?’ Rose asked, trying to mask the concern in her voice.
‘He’s a very sharp man and he’s always had a particular interest in the Royal Collection. It’s an important part of the nation’s wealth – valued at over £10 billion back in 2010, held in trust by the Sovereign – now King Charles. Finch sprang an inventory check on us for the entire Collection not long after he’d been appointed to the post. As you can imagine it was a pretty massive task, tying us all up for weeks. Happily, nothing was missing.’
‘Everything accounted for?’
‘Every single item.’ She shook her head. ‘But at this moment there are paintings, miniatures, jewellery, statuettes – pretty much across the entire Royal Collection spectrum – that I can’t account for. I honestly think it would scare me if I attempted to put a value on them.’
Rose said nothing.
Lorraine McKnight yawned. ‘OK, let’s pack it in for today.’ She looked at Rose, who saw the worried flutter in her eyes. ‘I’m seriously beginning to wonder if we should bring the police in.’
‘Police?’ Rose echoed.
‘We’re making the assumption that all these items have been temporarily misplaced. But what if that’s not the case? What if some or all have been stolen and we’re blind to the fact?’
Rose hesitated before replying, thinking hard. ‘Well, it’s a possibility, Lorraine – but I think pretty unlikely.’
‘I’d like to think so.’
‘All the workers have been vetted carefully,’ she added.
Lorraine McKnight suddenly tapped her keyboard, clicking out of the inventory. Then she clapped her hands together. ‘OK, tomorrow we are going to get everyone on the Trust here in the Palace to drop everything, and hunt for the missing items. Prepare to stay late again tomorrow, to work through the night if necessary. We’re going to find every damned one of these items. If we don’t, I’m going to contact the police. Does that sound a plan?’
‘It sounds a plan,’ Rose replied.
But not one you’re going to be alive to execute, she thought.
The Director stood up and walked across to the row of hooks on the wall by the door, and unhooked her bicycle helmet from one. Then she wrinkled her nose, looking at the window and the rain that was pelting against it. ‘It’s a pretty shitty night – are you cycling home or taking a taxi – or an Uber or something, Rose?’
‘You’re cycling?’
‘Always.’
Rose smiled. ‘I’m cycling, too.’
73
Monday 27 November 2023
She held back for a moment, to let Lorraine McKnight get well ahead of her. Then she watched her cycle in the driving rain towards the entrance barrier to St James’s Palace. A huddled figure in a flapping high-vis cape, and lit up from behind like a Christmas tree, Rose thought, complete with a flashing beacon on top of her helmet – instead of a fairy. Perfect. She was going to be able to spot her easily.
Rose never bothered too much with safety stuff. Sure, she wore a helmet and she had a red flashing light on the back of her heavy-duty e-bike, but she hadn’t switched that on tonight – she wanted to remain as inconspicuous as possible. The reflector on the rear mudguard would at least enable any vehicle behind to see her. The bike’s black colour was also perfect camouflage for her mission.
She knew the exact route Lorraine would take. They regularly cycled the first half mile or so together before she herself turned left, skirting the outside edge of Hyde Park Corner, before heading off through Belgravia, while Lorraine turned right, straight into the maelstrom of the full traffic nightmare of Hyde Park Corner, before escaping into the sanctuary of Hyde Park itself and crossing it diagonally, towards Paddington and Notting Hill.
Rose, who came a different way in the mornings, asked her once why she didn’t dismount and go for the safety of the underpass. Lorraine had replied it was too much hassle and that Hyde Park Corner was much easier to navigate on a bike than people realized – you just had to be aggressive. And, she had revealed, someone had tried to assault her late one night in that underpass. She felt a lot safer out on the road. And besides, the road didn’t stink of piss.
One of the Royal Protection Officers stepped out of his booth, dutifully braving the rain to check, cursorily, that it was Lorraine, before raising the barrier. Thanking him, and waving him a cheery goodnight, she pedalled out.
Rose, her rucksack weighing heavily on her back, its contents safely bubble-wrapped, rode fast up to the barrier, where she was briefly checked by the same guard, who joked with her that she’d be better off in a kayak tonight. Then she joined the roar and the glaring headlights and tail-lights of the traffic, which was still heavy but now at this hour was moving well.
Lorraine’s bike was a heavy old steed, and with the electric motor doing most of the work, Rose quickly caught up with her along Cleveland Row, before she turned right into St James’s Street and down to the lights at The Mall. But she stayed a few yards behind and didn’t announce herself. Carrying on in the darkness a short distance on, up Constitution Hill, she maintained a steady gap just behind her boss’s rear wheel.
Just one sharp tap was all it would take.
And if it went wrong and miraculously Lorraine survived, she had the apology all prepared. I’m so sorry, Lorraine, that idiot taxi caught my arm and shot me forward into you.
Lorraine would ask her, later probably – again, only if she had miraculously survived – why she had followed her around Hyde Park Corner instead of turning off at the top of the hill and heading towards Putney. And again she had the answer ready. I thought by following you, I could learn to cycle around there safely, too.
She braked as Lorraine slowed, approaching Hyde Park Corner. One of the most hectic junctions in London, basically a huge oblong roundabout fed by six roads. Rose often wondered if perhaps it was the busiest – not that it mattered. Buses, lorries, taxis, cars, vans, motorbikes, and the occasional idiot on an e-scooter weaving in and out. And tonight, in the darkness and the rain, which was now coming down even more heavily, it was as busy and angry as ever.
But at least the traffic was flowing at a steady pace. Good. She did not want it jammed, did not want the traffic crawling at a snail’s pace. Plan A would not work if that was the case.
Suddenly, catching Rose off-guard, Lorraine charged into the fray, pedalling through a narrowing gap between the front of a bus and the rear of a removal lorry.
Desperate not to lose her, Rose powered forward as the gap narrowed even further. Shit. She felt the glare of the bus’s headlights, the heat from its radiator – was the stupid bastard driver trying to crush her? Then she was out, swung left into the gap between a taxi and the lorry, and saw Lorraine, a short distance ahead, slalom in front of another bus as she rounded the corner, then headed up towards the Lanesborough Hotel and the left turn into Knightsbridge. She was riding like a lunatic. Good. Rose followed. The traffic was moving faster here, but it took little effort to catch her quarry again.
And she had to make her move fast now. The move she had been planning since Lorraine had mentioned bringing in the police. At the top of the incline, Lorraine would be turning left, heading across six lanes of traffic towards the slip-road entrance into the park, just by Apsley House. This was the most dangerous part of her ride, where traffic entered at speed from the left, from Knightsbridge. Visibility was lousy tonight, which was perfect. Drivers of buses, taxis, everything, had to contend with blurry windscreens, dazzling lights, reflections on the wet tarmac, the approaching traffic from the right and trying to make the smart choice about which of the multiple lanes to be in.
Rose watched her boss hesitate, left arm sticking out, not that anyone was going to see it or take much notice even if they did. There was a bus – followed by another – thundering in from Knightsbridge at quite a speed. Was she going to try to beat it across?
Yes!
Just one tap. That was all she needed. Her heavy e-bike’s sturdy front wheel would send her flying. Right into the path of the bus.
She could see Lorraine was hesitating – and now she was about to make a mad dash for it, right across the front of the first bus. Perfect! Her heart thumping, Rose accelerated, her front wheel now halfway alongside Lorraine McKnight’s rear wheel.
Then, just as she braced, gripping her handlebars tightly, about to turn into that rear wheel, Rose felt a massive thump from behind. An instant later and she was launched helplessly over the handlebars of her e-bike. In the same instant it seemed the shiny black surface of the road was tumbling upwards towards her.
74
Monday 27 November 2023
Rose heard a massive bang. It sounded like a clap of thunder inside her head. Simultaneously she felt an agonizing jolt to her neck and a jarring thump in every bone in her body, like she’d belly-flopped from a great height onto concrete.
Dazed and winded, she lay still, with the smell of wet tarmac in her nostrils. She was dimly aware of vehicles all around, slithering tyres, brakes. An angry horn. Another. Aware she might be run over herself now – but beyond caring.
She heard the sound of a car door opening. Then another. Another.
Footsteps. Running. Splashing through water.
A female voice. Elderly. ‘My dear, my dear, oh God I’m so sorry – I didn’t see you. I just didn’t see you.’
Another voice. Male. ‘She’s moving.’
Another. Female. Younger. ‘I’m a nurse, let me check her. Can someone call for an ambulance?’
Another voice. Male. ‘Yes, I have done it, just this second, an ambulance is coming.’
‘I’m – I’m OK, I think,’ Rose gasped.
‘Don’t move,’ the nurse’s voice said. ‘I saw it, you landed on your head. Your helmet has split open. Let me check you.’
Rose struggled to get up onto her knees, the weight of her backpack making it even harder. ‘I’ve got to – I’ve got—’ she gasped, a sharp pain searing through the left side of her chest. A rib, she knew, bruised or busted – she’d done that before.
‘Please don’t move, wait for the ambulance. The traffic’s stopped, you are safe here.’
Rose heard the faint doppler wail of a siren. Then another from a different direction. Both getting louder.
‘Can you move your toes?’ a voice asked, female, the nurse?
‘I’ve – I’ve got – go to – get—’
Where was Lorraine? Rose knelt, shaking, pressing her right hand against her left rib cage. She was swaying. Giddy. The rucksack was pulling her over. She fought against it. The sirens were getting louder. There were people standing all around her. Concerned, chiaroscuro faces in the torrential rain and the glare of lights and the darkness. All looking down at her. Like she was some fucking Tracey Emin artwork. Or Damien Hirst, perhaps. Roadkill!
