The Windsor Knot
- Автор: Беннет Си Джей
- Серия: Her Majesty the Queen Investigates #1
- Год: 2021
- Язык: английский
- Год: William Morrow
- ISBN: 978-0-06-305002-0
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «The Windsor Knot». Краткое содержание книги:
It is the early spring of 2016 and Queen Elizabeth is at Windsor Castle in advance of her 90th birthday celebrations. But the preparations are interrupted when a guest is found dead in one of the Castle bedrooms. The scene suggests the young Russian pianist strangled himself, but a badly tied knot leads MI5 to suspect foul play was involved. The Queen leaves the investigation to the professionals—until their suspicions point them in the wrong direction.
Unhappy at the mishandling of the case and concerned for her staff’s morale, the monarch decides to discreetly take matters into her own hands. With help from her Assistant Private Secretary, Rozie Oshodi, a British Nigerian and recent officer in the Royal Horse Artillery, the Queen secretly begins making inquiries. As she carries out her royal duties with her usual aplomb, no one in the Royal Household, the government, or the public knows that the resolute Elizabeth will use her keen eye, quick mind, and steady nerve to bring a murderer to justice.
SJ Bennett captures Queen Elizabeth’s voice with skill, nuance, wit, and genuine charm in this imaginative and engaging mystery that portrays Her Majesty as she’s rarely seen: kind yet worldly, decisive, shrewd, and most importantly a great judge of character.
“Bloody mess.” He sighed. “Total nightmare. About fifty suspects and no motive. God, I pity those detectives. You can imagine the headlines when the Mail gets hold of it.”
He had outlined the basics of the case, and Rozie could indeed imagine.
RUSSIAN IN DEATH SEX ROMP AT QUEEN’S PARTY
Or words to that effect. The headline writers would slaver at the chance to create the greatest clickbait of all time.
“Who was he, exactly?” Rozie asked.
Sir Simon ran through his most recent update from the investigating team.
“Maksim Brodsky. Twenty-four years old. Musician, based in London. Not a full-time professional—he was scraping a living playing in bars and hotels, teaching, doing the odd concert gig for friends in the business. It’s not completely obvious how he paid his rent, because he shared a decent flat in Covent Garden. The police are looking into that. She wants to know about his parents.”
“Who does?”
“The Queen. Wake up, Rozie! The Boss does. She wants to send her condolences. We’re waiting for the embassy to give us the details.”
Rozie looked sheepish. “Right.”
“But so far no luck. His father’s dead. He was killed in Moscow in 1996, when Maksim was five.” Rozie’s face flickered with surprise. “You were hardly born then,” Sir Simon murmured. He gave her a lopsided smile.
“I was ten.”
“Lord.” He sighed. “Anyway, back in the nineties, murder on the Moscow streets was a daily occurrence. It was the time of Yeltsin, the Soviet Union had collapsed, capitalism was running amok. It was like Chicago in the twenties—gangs and thugs and corruption. Anyone with any money lived in fear of being bumped off by one side or another. I had friends in the City with family back in Moscow who lived in constant terror.”
“What happened to Brodsky’s dad?”
“Knifed outside his flat. He was a lawyer, working for a venture capital fund at the time. The authorities said it was a street gang that did it, but ten years later, when young Maksim was fifteen, he won a music scholarship to an English boarding school. The rest of the fees were paid by a company based in Bermuda. So was his holiday accommodation, according to what the police have unearthed. He spent Christmases and summers at an upmarket B and B in South Kensington.”
“At fifteen?”
“Apparently so. A couple of Easter holidays were spent with a school friend who had a house in Mustique, but I’m more interested in Bermuda. The current hypothesis is that whoever had Brodsky’s father killed made a mint, had an attack of conscience years later, and tried to save his Russian soul by giving the boy a break in the UK using money that couldn’t be traced. Maybe one of the oligarchs who came over here to avoid getting on the wrong side of Putin.”
“Peyrovski?”
“He made his billions at the turn of the millennium. He wasn’t one of the tough guys in the Yeltsin years.”
Rozie thought of the Queen’s potential question tomorrow morning.
“What about Maksim’s mother?”
Sir Simon gave a snort of a sigh. “The embassy claims they can’t find her. She had mental health issues. Maksim was brought up by a series of relatives and neighbors until he came to England. Last they heard, she was in some sort of hospital in the Moscow suburbs, but she isn’t now.”
“So he was effectively an orphan?”
“Apparently.”
Sir Simon eyed his whiskey tumbler ruminatively, and Rozie thought how much Maksim Brodsky’s early life resembled a classic spy biography. Did real spies actually grow up like that? She decided not to show her ignorance by asking a stupid question.
“Possibly,” Sir Simon said.
“I’m sorry?”
“You’re wondering if he’s FSB. It’s possible. He’s not on our list.”
Rozie simply nodded and tried to keep her expression neutral. But she was new to this job and she was thinking how incredible it was that a year ago she ran a small strategy team at a bank and now here she was, casually discussing whether or not somebody was a Russian spy with someone who knew. Or at least, was supposed to know. The Official Secrets Act was a scary thing, but she had sworn to obey it and now the secrets just seemed to tumble out on a daily basis. She was still getting used to it.
“And what about the other killer? The one last night, I mean.”
Sir Simon took another sip of Glenmorangie. “That’s where the bloody nightmare begins. A team of top detectives; one nude Russian found dead in a castle surrounded by armed guards. After sundown nobody gets in or out without security verification, not even you or me. Everything is monitored and recorded. Everyone’s vetted and new visitors have to show their passport on arrival, which they all did. They thought they’d have it sorted by teatime, and yet . . .” He shrugged. He looked very tired. Rozie knew how relentless his job was.
“Brodsky was brought down here by Peyrovski,” he continued. “So it seems most likely it was someone in his entourage. There’s the valet, who had the room next to Brodsky. He went up to the Peyrovskis’ room after the party at their request, which isn’t unheard of. He hardly knew Brodsky, from what the police have ascertained. There’s certainly no rumor of any relationship or quarrel. Mrs. Peyrovskaya brought her lady’s maid, who did know him quite well, but the woman is tiny, apparently. Doesn’t look as if she’d have the strength to wring out a hankie, never mind subdue and strangle a fit young man. And from the shape of the ligature it looks as though he was strangled first, lying down, then strung up afterwards. I’m sorry. Not a nice way to say it. It’s been a long day.”
Rozie looked up from her laptop. “Not a problem. There are other suspects, then?”
“Well, two ballet dancers performed after the dinner. Strong as oxen I should guess, but they claim to have only met him in the car on the way down from London. The girls were sharing a room and one of them was FaceTiming her boyfriend half the night and all of them swear neither of the girls left the room except to go to the loo or have a quick shower—neither of which would have given them enough time to have a sex romp with a stranger, kill him, and stage an accidental suicide.”
He rubbed his eyes and went on. “At a pinch any of them could have done it, but it’s not obvious. A couple of dozen other people were sleeping in the visitors’ quarters that night, scattered about the castle. There were conferences and meetings and all sorts going on. It was Piccadilly bloody Circus. I mean, is there a visitors’ Tinder I know nothing about? And did I mention the two o’clock cigarette?”
Rozie looked up from her laptop, frowning. She shook her head.
Sir Simon lifted his glass to the lamplight and stared into the amber glow.
“One of the policemen on duty found Brodsky smoking a fag on the East Terrace, practically under Her Majesty’s bedroom. He said he went out to enjoy the night air and got lost. How do you get lost at Windsor Castle with the Queen in residence? Oh, and don’t forget the hair.”
Rozie looked up again. “The hair?”
Sir Simon’s expression was very thoughtful. “They found a single, dark hair, trapped between the dressing gown cord and Brodsky’s neck. About six inches long. Doesn’t obviously match any of the Peyrovskis’ entourage. Obviously a DNA gold mine. Tell her about the hair. That might cheer her up.”