The Reluctant Royal Read online

  Commander Holloway had been there, after all, had climbed that same mountain of pain when a takeaway box in a London park exploded, filling the air with nails and scrap and showering him with shrapnel. But Joe was back in the harness, and Patrick was stuck behind a desk, his field career over.

  But Patrick understood. The pain and the fear and the doubt weren’t alien to him, he understood it all. He’d lived it three years ago, and now he was the boss.

  Commander Holloway wasn’t half as scary as he liked people to think.

  The lift doors slid open and Joe saw himself reflected in the glass partition between the corridor and the commander’s suite, with its briefing rooms and offices, each as mysterious as the next. He looked the same, of course, yet he felt different. Nothing here had changed, from the orchids that Patrick cultivated to the commander’s navy-blue greatcoat hanging on its mahogany hatstand. Nothing had changed except Joe.

  Joe arrived at the desk of Patrick’s PA. “Look! I’m alive!”

  “Sergeant Wenlock!” She rose from her seat as though greeting a visiting dignitary, her face breaking into a grin. “Alive and very well, which we’re all very glad to see!”

  And almost not alive and not very well at all. But Joe grinned anyway. This was his job. He couldn’t shy away from danger. And surely he wouldn’t be flung in the deep end with a difficult principal to keep an eye on.

  Joe pointed towards the office door. “Shall I go straight in?”

  “I’ve just taken a drink through for you,” she told him efficiently. “White tea, no sugar.”

  Joe gave her a wave and headed through into Patrick’s office. He rattled his knuckles against the door, then popped his head out from behind it. “Good morning, Commander Holloway!”

  “Good morning, Sergeant Wenlock!” Patrick turned from the window to greet Joe, his face lit by a smile of welcome. “First day of the new term, eh? Uniform pressed, name tags present and correct, pencil case packed!” He crossed the office, the walking cane at his side tapping a tattoo on the polished wooden floor. “Welcome back, Joe, it’s good to see you up and about like old times.”

  “And you too.” Joe held out his hand to shake Patrick’s. “So odd to be back again. I sometimes wondered if I’d ever make it.”

  “Nothing much has changed in these parts.” Patrick shook Joe’s hand, then patted his arm as though to remind him that there was friendship along with the formality. “Still chronically underfunded, still ruled by the vagaries of politicians and still keeping Her Majesty and her family safe in their beds! Sit down, Joe, take a moment if you need one.”

  “Thanks.” Joe sat down in a chair by Patrick’s desk and drank a mouthful of tea. Excitement fizzed inside him at the thought of the lottery of who he’d be protecting next. “So where are you sending me off to, Commander?”

  “Well, there’s a bit of a story there.” Patrick settled into his chair, the leather creaking as he leaned back into the cushion. He opened a drawer in the desk and withdrew a sleek silver laptop, which he opened. As he spoke, he tapped at the keys, his eyes focusing on the screen before him. “I’ve had a personal request for your services, Sergeant, from our old friends, the Duke and Duchess of Albany. Even whilst touring the wonders of the distant East, your adoring duchess is still thinking of her favourite close protection officer, and when Her Majesty’s daughter-in-law says jump, even an old cripple like me asks how high!”

  “They want me to accompany them on their tour?” Now this could fun. Joe would be as far away from Wendy as possible. And from any regretful what-might-have-beens when his mind wandered back to Paloma.

  “I’m afraid not.” The commander peered over the laptop screen at Joe. “You recall, I’m sure, that Her Grace brought a son with her when she married the Duke of Albany? Bit of a handful in his youth, ran me a merry dance in my day!”

  Joe leaned forwards in his chair. “Yes, I do remember. I never met him though while I was the Albanys’ CPO. There was the odd photo of him around the flat, and I certainly overheard the duchess on the phone to him!” She’d been the source of Joe’s knowledge of Spanish profanities, no less. Joe’s eye fell to the surface of his rapidly cooling cup of tea. “Isn’t he in America? Are you sending me over there?”

  Please say you are.

  “That troublesome adolescent is a boy no longer. Alejandro Fuente-Sastre.” Patrick turned the computer screen to face Joe. “Twenty-seven years old now and, as of three weeks ago, resident of Highgate. Peanut to us in the security business. Oh, to be so young, handsome and rich, eh?”

  “Alejandro, that’s it!” ‘Joder, Alejo!’ the duchess used to shout, so loudly it was if she were hoping her son would hear her thousands of miles away without the need for a phone. And after the profanities, every call would end with kisses and love. ‘Mi hijo, te quiro!’ “Forgive me for saying this, Patrick, but presumably…this is quite low level, isn’t it? The monarch’s step-grandson. I’m not complaining. It’s nice to ease back in.”

  Not handsome, Joe decided as he looked at the picture on the screen, a young man beaming at the camera over an elaborate red cocktail, making a victory sign.

  Pretty, not handsome.

  “I’m not entirely sure how he makes a living. Makeup for films, theatre, that sort of thing. He’s an influencer, they tell me.” Patrick raised his eyebrow. “Ordinarily he’d be low level but Mr Fuente has been the target of some pretty vile abuse online and in letters. I’ll let you study his file when we’re done. Pretty sure it’s a keyboard warrior but Her Majesty and Her Grace are minded to take it seriously. Which means so are we.”

  “So the computer analysts have looked into the abuse?” Joe took in the photo again. There was something so familiar about the face, but of course, he could certainly see the duchess in Alejandro’s looks. Even if he’d never studied the family photos that the duchess had had on display.

  “Burner phones, throwaway accounts, you know the drill. All incorporating Leviticus somewhere into a gibberish string of numbers.” He reached into the drawer again and withdrew a fat buff folder. “It’s all on the system, your password and access are reinstated and ready to go. This is the bumf. Letters, print outs, what have you.”

  Some light reading to start the day.

  Joe took the file and started to flip through it.

  “Right, am I heading over to Highgate later today?”

  “A word to the wise. Mr Fuente is as good at escaping his CPOs as he was at fleeing Eton. That’s in the file too.” Patrick sat back into his chair again. “You’ll be his third since he arrived, he’s not the easiest chap to get along with. Her Grace specifically asked for you this time, Joe, she’s terribly worried about her boy.”

  “Not surprising.” Joe had reached the first few pages of screenshots showing comments left on social media. The language was full of threats of violence, some so eye-watering that despite Joe’s experience in the police, he found himself squinting at the page in disbelief. He’d have to keep a close eye on Alejandro, no matter how well-honed his escapology skills. “I really hope it is just a keyboard warrior. How can people even come up with threats like this?”

  “Takes a particular sort of lunatic to come up with that sort of malarkey,” Patrick agreed. “Rather colourful, isn’t it?”

  And there was that name, every time.

  Fhcy192Leviticus

  946Leviticus

  ;)Leviticus:(

  After reading one particularly vile, homophobic comment, Joe glanced up at Patrick. It would presumably be in the file—most things would be—but Joe still wanted to ask anyway. He’d never heard the duchess mention her son’s sexuality. “So, Mr Fuente is gay?”

  “Proudly so.” He nodded. “His partner’s information is all on the system. Bright young things, as they say!”

  “Has his partner received any abuse like this online? Or any letters?” Joe flipped through some more pages until he found a photo of Alejandro, dark eyes wide with glee, his short dark hair expensi
vely tousled. His arm was looped around a chiselled young man who looked like just the sort Joe saw at the gym. More interested in staring at their reflections than working out. “Zak Smyth-Unwin, pop music director.”

  Very posh pop music director…

  “I’m reliably informed that innocent note of mine—pop music director—makes me look like an old duffer.” Patrick laughed. “He makes music videos and has a short film about to shoot in Kent in the new year. So far no abuse aimed at him or anyone other than our young Spanish chap.”

  Joe nodded. “And his background’s sound? We can rule him out?” Not that it was Joe’s job, but he wanted to know what he was dealing with. Someone far away, taking advantage of the internet to spew hatred, was easier to deal with than someone close by who presented a real, physical threat.

  “We can’t rule anyone out just yet.” Patrick took a sip from his own teacup. The same china teacup his father had used, a gift to his grandfather from Churchill. “Except maybe you.”

  “Fairly sure it’s not me!” Joe grinned. Ah, gallows humour. How he’d missed it. “Am I staying at Peanut’s house? Any other security, or is this a light touch case?”

  “Very light, or Peanut is likely to head for the hills and leave you in his dust. You’ll be staying with him, I’m afraid. I hope Wendy will understand?”

  “She knows the drill.” Joe shrugged. “I’m sure she’ll be glad not to have me under her feet for a while.”

  “How’s…” he frowned, as though he’d stepped in a pile of something unspeakable, “all that?”

  Joe laid the file on the desk and picked up his mug of tea but didn’t drink it. “Yeah, not so good. We had a row after her birthday drinks, and…well, I ended up on the sofa again.”

  “Perhaps Peanut will be a welcome break?”

  “Yeah. Let’s hope so. At least I’ll get a bed.” As Joe stared at his tea, it seemed to turn into hot chocolate, and for a moment he was sitting outside on the pavement again with Paloma. He shook his head. Everyone thought he was straight, and that’s how he’d wanted it. How his father had wanted it. Surely it was too late now, even though his father had passed away, for Joe to come out?

  “Would you like some time to peruse?” Patrick asked. “I need to attend to some bits and bobs, just admin nonsense, but I can take care of it next door. You’re welcome to use the office.”

  “That would be great, thanks.” At least it was quiet in Patrick’s office. Joe’s desk was out in the open-plan office where there was always at least one non-work-related conversation going on which didn’t really aid his concentration. And Joe wanted to crack on anyway. If he went back to his desk, there was a high chance of interruption from colleagues who wanted to know how he was. I’m fine, I’m here, let me get on.

  “Just…don’t let him give you the slip.” Patrick stood and leaned on his stick. “Extreme caution with this young chap. He’s potential trouble!”

  It was a babysitting job, Joe knew. For all their vitriol, the possibility of the messages turning into anything more was thankfully minuscule. A gentle easing into the saddle once more.

  “Your Peanut is currently enjoying morning tea with his step-grandmother. When he gets home, he’s all yours.” Patrick paused, his hand on the door. “I’ll have my car take you home to pack, then you and I will meet in Highgate. Welcome back to the game, Sergeant Wenlock.”

  With that, he left Joe alone.

  Joe logged into the computer. He ignored six months of emails and, with the traditional buff file at his side, went to look at Alejandro’s online file. He took in floorplans of the house and a route showing the passageway that ran along the back gardens, and he read scans of Alejandro’s school reports. A selection of documents about the death of Alejandro’s film director father offered sombre reading, followed by newspaper cuttings reporting the fairy-tale wedding of Alejandro’s mother to the Duke of Albany.

  Uprooted from his bohemian existence in Madrid, Alejandro’s life had been transformed. Given the number of escapes reported in his school records, it was clear he hadn’t been happy. And wasn’t now either, if he’d worked his way through two CPOs in under a month.

  The files told Joe that Alejandro was something of an online celebrity. A million people followed him on Instagram, and Joe gave the images of people in a surprising range of makeup a cursory glance, more interested in the comments. Alejandro was loved for his work, that much was clear. Except by whoever was his poison pen.

  But Joe had been in his job long enough to know that anyone even mildly well-known could attract unwanted attention. And surely Alejandro had only ended up the subject of someone who needed their keyboard snatched away.

  Patrick knew it too, of course, and that’s why he’d assigned Joe to Peanut, the stepson and son of the Duke and Duchess of Albany, the very duchess whose life Joe has saved six months earlier.

  Because that’s my job. Not because I’m a hero.

  The very duke whom just happened to be the son of the Queen of the United Kingdom. And when the grandson of Her Majesty—even the step-grandson—got threats like these, the Commander had no choice but to take it seriously.

  Even if that’s probably a massive overreaction.

  “Sergeant Wenlock,” Patrick’s PA said as she put her head round the door, “I’ve arranged a car to take you home. Just go down to bay three whenever you’re ready.”

  Not quite a speedboat.

  Joe flipped Alejandro’s file closed. “I’m ready,” he replied.

  Chapter Three

  Joe stood at the granite kitchen worktop, leaving a note for Wendy. He knew better than to ring her up at work as she seemed to spend all day in uninterruptible meetings with clients or partners. And voicemail and text seemed too informal.

  So Joe wrote a quick note.

  I’ve been assigned a case. It’s a live-in one, so I won’t be at home. Not sure how long it’ll last. I’ll have my phone with me though. Love from Joe.

  He took one last look around the well-appointed kitchen, and the open-plan dining room that led off from it. The sofa by the French windows had been Joe’s home for months as he’d recovered, but it was now back to its usual show-home style with flat cushions in silver velvet propped across it. Everything was tidy and neat, as if no one ever actually lived in the house.

  Which was quite true given that Joe’s cases often took him away from home, and Wendy worked long hours.

  When do we ever see each other?

  Joe grabbed the handle of his suitcase and picked up his suit bag, then headed out to the waiting car.

  What sort of home would Paloma live in, he wondered as he watched the world speed past. Would she be in the suburbs or the city, in a show home like his or a cosy little palace, filled with colour and fun? The latter, Joe concluded. Somewhere without pristine, empty surfaces, definitely a place that didn’t look like a show home.

  And not a place that looked like a mansion either, Joe told himself. The suburbs were growing more expensive by the minute, tightly packed roads filled with bustle opening out into wide avenues lined by gates and walls, behind which were homes that no ordinary person could afford to own. Here the wealthy lived, watched over by guards and cameras, their Bentleys and Ferraris tucked away beside manicured gardens, tended by unseen minions.

  But this wasn’t Alejandro’s turf either.

  The car passed Hampstead Heath and wove into a narrow network of roads until Joe saw the dark Audi favoured by Patrick parked at the kerb in front of a red brick Georgian terrace. And there was the door to his new life. The door was the same blue as a kingfisher’s feathers and its brass knocker sparkled in the autumn sunlight, just as Paloma’s lips had sparkled in the moon.

  Stop thinking about her, Sergeant. She won’t be thinking about you.

  A wrought-iron fence separated the small garden from the pavement and three steps led up to that blue door, three steps that would take him back to work. He glanced across the road to the heath, the sort of place th
at was a godsend to the type of person Joe was expected to protect Alejandro Fuente-Sastre from. The trees were thick and dark even in daylight and Joe’s jaw hardened and his heartbeat quickened. It was instinct, and it was in his blood.

  Time to get to work.

  Joe climbed out of the car and headed up the steps with his luggage. Tidy and not too conspicuous in a smart, inexpensive black suit, he tapped the knocker against the door. In the seconds that passed as he waited, he glanced over his shoulder, watching a woman bundled in reams of knitwear amble up the pavement with a shopping bag. Not a threat. Perhaps.

  The door swung inwards to reveal Patrick, a look of unmistakable relief in his welcoming smile. He glanced down at Joe’s bag and murmured, “Good luck with this.”

  “Shall we just fit a revolving door?” The voice came from somewhere in the house, the voice of Alejandro. “It might be easier!”

  Joe raised his eyebrows at Patrick.

  Oh, great! he mouthed to Patrick.

  He glanced at the hallway walls as he entered. They were covered in eye-popping posters for the films directed by Alejandro’s father, most of them featuring younger versions of the now-Duchess of Albany in various guises. As though she were an Iberian Mona Lisa, the duchess’ gaze seemed to follow Joe from the posters as he passed them.

  She’s keeping an eye on you, Serjeant! You look after her boy!

  Joe left his luggage neatly against a wall and called to the unseen voice, “Good morning, Mr Fuente-Sastre!”

  “Good morning, copper number three,” came the reply. “And what do we call you?”

  Joe heard footsteps approaching along the landing above as Patrick stood back, fading into the background.

  Joe clasped his hands in front of him, feet slightly less than shoulder-width apart. “Wenlock, sir. Sergeant Wenlock.”