Ivory Nation, Andy Maslen [e manga reader .txt] 📗

‘But this is about as criminal as it gets,’ Gabriel said.

‘I know, I know,’ she said, with a patient air that merely infuriated him. ‘But I can’t go charging into Number Ten with Stella here waving our shiny handcuffs. There are armed guards on the gate and they no longer belong to us.’

‘Shit! How long was I away?’ Gabriel asked. ‘Have I come back to the same country I left?’

Don sighed.

‘I’m afraid not. Those of us who love this country – as it was and should be – have been fighting a rearguard action. This intel is brilliant, and if we can find a way to exploit it, we have a slim chance of getting rid of Tammerlane and cleaning out the Augean stable.’

The discussion wore on for three more, fruitless, hours. Halfway through they turned on the TV to catch a lunchtime bulletin. The newsreader announced that Joe Tammerlane and his inner circle were at Chequers, the country house residence enjoyed by British prime ministers since 1921. Gabriel grabbed the remote and snapped off the programme.

Stella asked a question that brought Gabriel up short.

‘Did you find anything else out about who hired the Syrian to murder Princess Alexandra?’

Gabriel shook his head.

‘Nothing.’

‘Let’s look at motive,’ Stella said. ‘Who could have reason to want her dead? Qui bono?’

‘Who benefits?’ Gabriel asked.

‘Exactly.’

The table fell silent. Gabriel felt himself subsiding into a personal quiet space removed from the others as he turned the problem over in his mind. Yes, who would benefit from the death of a princess? He’d never placed much credence in the idea of its being Israeli retaliation for her ill-judged attendance at the charity event, even before they’d proved it couldn’t have been Lieberman.

Alexandra wasn’t a member of ‘the inner circle’. A grand-daughter of the old queen, yes, but not what was known as a ‘working royal’. No official duties. No state visits. No public profile beyond the occasional appearance in a celebrity magazine. Just a very wealthy young lady who lived in a grand house in England’s Home Counties and happened to have a jewellery box full of tiaras.

Why her, then? If you wanted to strike a blow against the monarchy, you’d go for the head, surely? Or if not him, one of his children. Or one of the vanishingly small number two or three steps away from the throne.

Fear of public revulsion? Sure. But you’d get that whoever you killed, such was the love most ordinary people in Britain had for the royal family. As had been proved in the days following the princess’s murder and funeral.

He recalled his final conversation with Witaarde. He’d asked him if Tammerlane was involved and, instead of denying it, Witaarde had dodged the question. You’d have to ask him, he’d said.

Narratives flashed through his mind, colliding, sparking off each other. And he knew. Right there. He knew.

The princess was a distraction! It was a blow at the monarchy. But it was more subtle than attempting to strike at its heart. This wasn’t revolutionary France or Russia in 1917. You couldn’t overthrow the monarchy by killing them. This was cunning on a monumental scale. And suddenly, he knew with dread certainty who was behind the assassination. And the knowledge made him feel sick.

Gabriel looked up. Eli was staring at him. Her eyes were searching his. Her forehead was crinkled with concern.

‘Are you all right, Gabe? You look pale.’

He swallowed.

‘I know who ordered Princess Alexandra’s murder.’

Eli and Stella wore identical expressions. Shocked eyes, wide and staring, mouths dropped open a little. Frowns. Callie and Don were regarding him with appraising looks.

‘Who?’ Stella said.

‘Joe Tammerlane.’

‘What?’ Eli burst out.

‘You’re not serious?’

‘You asked who benefited from her death, Stella. Try this on for size. After her death – which, by the way, he arrived seconds too late to prevent, but still managed to kill the alleged assassin – he gets showered with praise by an already pretty favourable media. The public love him. Then he gives them his “I may be a republican but I just did what anyone would do” speech.’

‘His position on the monarchy was hardly a secret, though,’ Stella protested.

‘No, it wasn’t. And that’s my point. Boss,’ he said, turning to Don, ‘you told me he’s pretty much placed the king under house arrest. On the grounds of national security, but still.’

‘That seems pretty sensible, until they find out who really paid al-Javari,’ Eli said. ‘There could be another assassination.’

‘There’s not going to be another one,’ Gabriel said. ‘Why can’t you see it?’

‘Because you’re not making any sense,’ Eli said. ‘I can accept him being corrupt. Even being tangled up with the Paras’ murders. But this? No. It’s too much.’

Gabriel sighed with frustration.

‘First you find a pretext to get the ing away from the public eye. You keep him there. Then you find ways to protect the other members of the royal family. Then you hobble the armed forces and the police, which, by the way, it sounds like he’s doing. And then, bam!’ he clapped his hands together, ‘you announce that it’s time to usher in a brave new world of republicanism. Sling a few more freebies at the populace – give everyone free Sky Movies – and you’re home and dry. Welcome to the People’s Democratic Republic of Britain.’

‘Wow,’ Stella said. ‘That was quite a speech. And I agree,’ she added quickly, as Gabriel opened his mouth to object, ‘it’s a compelling narrative, but I ask you again. Where’s the evidence?’

‘I—’

He closed his mouth again. She was right, damn her. Bloody detectives. He ran a hand over his face. His palm came away wet. He felt a ball of tension in his stomach.

Eli rose from her chair and knelt at his feet. She placed a hand on his knee.

‘Gabe. You’ve been under so much pressure. I think this was your brain weaving a conspiracy out of unconnected events.’

‘I’m not so sure he is,’ Don said. ‘Callie, what’s your view?’

‘Look, I’ve heard some pretty outlandish tales in my