Murder Most Royal

‘Not necessarily, no. Prime ministers with too much time on their hands tend to have bad ideas and discuss them with the wrong people, thus rendering them infinitely worse.’

‘I’d have thought the rest and relaxation would do her good,’ Rozie ventured.

Sir Simon scoffed. ‘If she rested or relaxed, I might agree with you. But they never do. Or at least, not since Macmillan. They call in their special advisers for table suppers and sometimes their supporters for grand dinners, though I’m not sure how much of the latter she does. They game every scenario and overthink everything. If the Boss had her way, she’d take each one out fishing so they could kick back and get a little perspective.’

‘I can’t see Theresa May fishing,’ Rozie said with a grin.

Sir Simon nodded and sighed. ‘That’s the trouble. Neither can I. I sense this pile of papers is going to get higher over the next few weeks. I need to have some clue what I’m talking about.’

‘Do you want me to read them for you? Or some of them at least?’

‘No, I’ll do it. I have a few meetings lined up in town next week. I might as well look as if I know what I’m talking about. You go home.’

He gave her a friendly smile. Rozie smiled back, but she felt excluded. She had enjoyed her brief moment at the top of the Private Office food chain, when she got to read all the international intelligence. Now her job felt more mundane. She couldn’t even entertain herself with Henry, who had rotated duties with another officer for a couple of weeks. She wished Sir Simon goodnight and headed out.

* * *

Rozie’s accommodation was in a Victorian lodge a fifteen-minute walk from the house. It had been used to house kings, queens, dukes and mistresses over the years, and most of them, Rozie thought, must have found its dark walls and heavy furniture as oppressive as she did. However, her room was large, the bed was comfortable, and anything could beat the tiny boxes they had given her in the army.

Currently, the two overflow guests who shared it with her were a classical composer and his opera singer wife. They were down for a few days and spent the evenings playing party games and treating their royal hosts to classical music and old Beatles pop tunes on the piano in the saloon. Which meant that Rozie had the place to herself. She planned to use the large mahogany dining table to spread out her notes on the Queen’s calendar for the next few months, so she could colour-code the events according to how much preparation they needed. What happens in Sandringham stays in Sandringham, but a lot of the time it was just paperwork.

The job took longer than expected. She lost track of time but knew it must be around midnight. The playlist of Fela Kuti and Nina Simone playing quietly on her phone in the background had repeated itself at least a dozen times. The wind was up tonight and something outside was flapping with a dull, irregular rhythm. Distracted, she pictured ropes loosening. It took her back to her army days, when everything had to be battened down tight. Eventually, she couldn’t bear the distraction any longer. She took the heaviest torch she could find in a cupboard in the hall, grabbed her coat, shoved her feet into the first boots that would fit and went out to investigate.

The lodge shared a garden with a little cottage that had once been used by the servants of the royal guests. Rozie knew it had been given to the bean counter while he looked for somewhere more permanent. She had tried twice, now, to talk to him about his story of the scuffle in the car park, but either he wasn’t at home or he was avoiding her. Rozie remembered the way he had stared at her at the shoot. She hadn’t been worried at the time; now things were more complicated.

The noise seemed to be coming from an open lean-to with a cast-iron roof attached to the cottage. Shining her torch inside, Rozie saw that it housed some rusting garden equipment, a small boat under canvas and a vehicle under a plastic tarpaulin. The problem was obvious: the tarpaulin had come loose on one side. Rozie wondered why the frantic flapping sound didn’t drive Cassidy as mad as it was driving her. The sweep of her torchlight revealed a bungee cord lying on the ground that must have been used to hold the cover down, stretched under the car from one side to the other. Without it, the loose plastic revealed a modern Land Rover Freelander four-wheel drive.

Rozie was surprised by this. Plenty of her army friends had kept vehicles at home this way – but usually because the car was sporty and delicate, or because it was old and liable to rust. This one was neither. She was surprised that Julian wasn’t driving it. It would make much more sense on these roads than the little Nissan she’d seen parked at the front, which had the look of a hire car. Why keep a decent vehicle under canvas if you . . .?