A Three Dog Problem
- Автор: Беннет Си Джей
- Серия: Her Majesty the Queen Investigates #2
- Год: 2021
- Язык: английский
- Год: Zaffre - Bonnier Publishing Fiction
- ISBN: 978-1-83877-485-1
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «A Three Dog Problem». Краткое содержание книги:
When a body is found in the Palace swimming pool, she finds herself once again in the middle of an investigation which has more twists and turns than she could ever have suspected. With her trusted secretary Rozie by her side, the Queen is determined to solve the case. But will she be able to do it before the murderer strikes again?
With his father, he somehow knew to say nothing about what was happening. On manly fishing trips and long walks in the countryside during exeat weekends, he spent their precious time together listening, allowing this man he had thought of as a mini god to share his insecurities and his misery, always in the third person, always as if they belonged to someone else. He stayed quiet but hopeful, and if at night he resorted to desperate prayers to God to save his family, by day he was a skinny little rock of encouragement.
He didn’t bring his parents back together – luck, finances, and the fact that they were fundamentally suited to each other did that over time. The storm clouds passed. For his tenth birthday, they gave him a golden retriever puppy that he named Nigel. It was the best present in the world, because everyone knew his father was the fan of golden retrievers, but his mother was the one who would end up looking after Nigel when Simon was at school, so it was a compromise between them: a loving pact, by people who had worked out how to fit back together.
After that, Simon’s memories of home consisted mostly of sunshine, hearty meals and soft, warm animal fur. For many years he had thought of the dark days of early prep school as his childhood hell, but now, in his fifties, he realised they had given him strengths that had informed his progress for the rest of his life. He knew nothing lasted forever unless you worked at it, by God; that love is all that really matters; that you cannot flourish if you don’t listen, adapt, learn, hope.
He was listening now – to various concerns the Cabinet Office had about trying to persuade the British public to accept a third-of-a-billion-pound refurbishment bill for a building most of them would never get to see. Quietly, with funny and tragic anecdotes, he reminded his friend across St James’s Park at Number 10 of the real danger that the Palace was in, from floods, fires and rot. He asked, in all humility, for suggested alternative venues for state banquets and investitures, garden parties to reward citizens for their civic contributions, displays of the Royal Collection treasures, balcony appearances when the country needed to come together, the Changing of the Guard . . . What would those alternatives cost? How would they work? The Queen would go wherever she was put, that went without saying. Windsor Castle? Certainly, but what about those balcony appearances? Wouldn’t she become rather invisible? Yes, they would love to cut a hundred million out of the programme. No doubt his colleague was much cleverer than he, and could work out where.
Slowly, slowly, he heard the doubts recede and the arguments for countering them were played back to him from Downing Street. Call over, he poured himself a lukewarm coffee from a stainless steel thermos on the desk, checked his watch, saw that it was nearly ten and prepared to pick up the phone again.
Before he did so, he quickly checked the pundits reporting on the US election. Like most other senior courtiers and government officials, he was gripped by a morbid fascination with what was happening in Washington and around the fifty states. Polls showed Clinton ahead, but for two weeks she had been under investigation, yet again, by the FBI. She’d only had twenty-four hours in the clear. Was it enough to reassure her base? And what about the postal vote? Her opponent was still busy campaigning to the ‘deplorables’ she had inadvertently formed into a Trumpian tribe. Had he been on her speech-writing team, Simon would have counselled against using such a term. Not if you would prefer such people to vote for you instead.
He had loved politics since the age of eleven, when a master at prep school had brought the Magna Carta to life, explaining the delicate thread of democracy that wound its way through English history. Simon could have had a quiet life as an academic historian if he’d wanted. Instead, he’d chosen to be a part of it. Here he was, advising a constitutional monarch. If, right now, he’d rather be glued to his TV screen, analysing the polls and making predictions, well . . . it was his own fault that he was too busy trying to ensure this monarch had a working roof over her head at the time of the next election, and the one after that.
‘Hello, Sarah. I’m sorry to call so late, but I wanted to check if everything’s on track for next Wednesday. Do you have what you need? Of course. Let me take you through it . . .’
By now Rozie was filthy, cold and wet. The ground underneath her boots was half an inch deep in water. Her head ached from the knock, her back was killing her and she frequently bumped her upper spine against bricks held together with rough mortar that scratched at her jacket and caught in her hair. The object she had bent down to see turned out to be a Twix wrapper. Hardly worth it.
The roof became lower still and Rozie decided she had seen enough. She shouldn’t have come this far. Turning round, she made her way back towards Buckingham Palace. The question was, what would she find when she got there? Only now did she truly accept the implication of the thud that had so surprised her. There should be light at the end of the tunnel soon – but there was none.
No fresh breeze down here to cause the door she had left ajar to shut of its own accord. No phone signal. No way to call for help. Nobody waiting for her upstairs.
Rozie’s brain swiftly ran through problems and solutions. Whatever happened, she wouldn’t panic. The Queen knew roughly where she was. If there was an issue, eventually she’d be found.
As she feared, the heavy wooden door was now shut. Rozie was ready to put her shoulder to it and give it everything she had. But in fact it gave way quite easily with a gentle push. She began to walk down the brick-lined passage to the vaulted storeroom. The adrenaline rush made her question her original decision to investigate the tunnels, but given what she’d found . . .
‘One step closer and I’ll kill you.’
A man was silhouetted in the doorway between the cellar rooms. His voice was low and menacing. He was guarding the only way out.
Rozie walked purposefully towards him, stooping slightly under the passage’s rough brick ceiling. The adrenaline still pumped in her veins. The tomb-like darkness had held its terrors, but she fancied her chances against this short, squat opponent, if that’s what it took. She shifted her grip on the torch, so she could use it as a weapon. It was over a foot long and heavy, and she had asked for one like this deliberately, just in case.
‘Drop it,’ the man said.
Rozie did not. She could see now that he was armed too, with something long and sharp, holding it up like a baseball bat. It was a crowbar. She pictured how he would come towards her, how best to use the torch to defend herself, how much damage she could allow herself to do.
‘I said, drop it, asshole.’
Out of the tunnel proper, Rozie drew herself up to her full height. ‘Er, no. And if you attack the Queen’s APS here in the Palace, I wish you luck explaining why.’ Her voice was as calm and steady as she could make it.
‘Shit!’ He lowered the bar so that its tip rested on the floor. ‘I thought you were some kind of thief.’
‘As you can see, I’m not. And watch your bloody language.’
The man in the doorway wore a managerial suit under an open warehouse coat. She could just about make out the hint of curl in his hair and the hint of disdain in his flat, south London voice. She recognised him from the summer – and from the accounts department. This was Mick Clements, the head of Operations. She recognised the woody scent, too: it must be aftershave or deodorant. He had definitely spent time in the makeshift office recently, before her.