Next in Line (William Warwick, #5)(43)

He drove out of Scotland Yard and headed in the direction of Whitehall. He turned left at Trafalgar Square, passed under Admiralty Arch and onto the Mall. When the lights at the end of the Mall turned green he circled the statue of Queen Victoria, before coming to a halt outside the North Centre Gate of Buckingham Palace.

A guard checked his name on a clipboard, then directed him through the left-hand archway into a large quadrangle. Following his instructions, William parked his Mini next to the commander’s Jaguar. Once again, the Hawk had beaten him to it.

He got out of the car, unsure where to go until he spotted the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police in full dress uniform, striding out ahead of him; a man who clearly knew where he was going.

When William reached the vast double doors that heralded the state entrance to the palace, his name was taken once again before a page, bedecked in gold – who could have stepped out of an earlier century – led him silently up a wide, red-carpeted staircase, to the first floor.

‘If you go through the Long Gallery, sir,’ said the page, ‘the Throne Room is on your right.’

William glanced at his watch; there were still twelve minutes before the ceremony was due to begin, so he walked very slowly down the centre of the Long Gallery. The room was as wide as a country road, and the walls that towered high above him were littered with pictures. He stopped to admire so many paintings that until then, he’d only seen in The Queen’s Pictures, a book his father had given him when he was a boy. He came to a halt when he reached Van Dyck’s Charles I and Henrietta Maria. He had to take a step back to fully appreciate the large portrait, almost colliding with another guest.

‘Good morning, sir,’ said DS Adaja.

‘Morning, Paul,’ said William without turning round. ‘Beth’s going to be so envious,’ he added, unable to hide a smirk.

‘I doubt she’d even have made it to the Throne Room,’ said Paul. ‘And neither will we if we don’t get a move on.’

William reluctantly followed him, trying to take in a Canaletto and a Van Dyck before he finally entered the Throne Room. Once again, the phrase, ‘took your breath away’, seemed inadequate for what he saw in front of him. He stood for a moment and admired the vast crystal chandelier suspended from the high ceiling in the centre of the room, but then his eyes were drawn to the two high-backed red thrones perched on a raised dais at the far end of the room, on which only two people were entitled to sit. The huge room was filled with long lines of gold chairs that he guessed could seat a couple of hundred guests, but on this occasion, only those in the front row would be occupied. He walked slowly down the red-carpeted aisle towards the thrones. Once he had reached the front row, he spotted the Commissioner and the Hawk deep in conversation. He took his allotted seat at the far end of the row, next to Rebecca. Another ‘Good morning, sir,’ before he smiled at Ross, who was seated on her right. William was about to ask him a question, when everyone fell silent, and rose from their places. He glanced to his left, to watch his boss make her entrance.

So tiny, was his immediate thought, as the Queen walked past them. He wondered if she would sit on her throne, but she came to a halt on the step leading up to the dais, and turned to face her audience.

A gentleman usher indicated with a slight wave of the hand that they should all be seated, while another handed the Queen her speech. William remained standing.

‘First, may I welcome you, and say how glad we are you were all able to join me for this special occasion.’

William couldn’t help wondering who would have a more pressing engagement.

‘We have all gathered today to acknowledge the service given by a remarkable individual, who can surely be described as no ordinary woman.’ She paused to turn a page of her script. ‘When she was called upon to do her duty, she did not hesitate to put her life on the line. As a result of her extraordinary courage a ruthless terrorist was brought to justice.’ The Queen looked up and smiled. ‘So, it gives me considerable pleasure to award Detective Sergeant Jacqueline Michelle Roycroft the Queen’s Gallantry Medal, allowing her to join that select group of police officers who have received the honour and, in her case, the first woman.’

The gentleman usher handed Her Majesty a blue leather box which she opened as William pushed Jackie’s wheelchair forward, coming to a halt in front of the Queen.

Jackie’s colleagues burst into spontaneous applause as the Queen bent down and pinned the medal on her uniform. Until that moment, Jackie had remained reasonably composed, firmly gripping the arms of her wheelchair, determined not to show how nervous she was. Facing an armed terrorist was one thing; facing the monarch was quite another. Despite the fact Jackie had known about the award for several weeks, it didn’t help.

It later became legend among the team that the Hawk had shed a tear, although he denied it to everyone, except his wife.

During the reception that followed, the Queen spent some time chatting to Jackie, although it was William who told her about the bullet that had torn through her chest as the plane screeched to a halt, missing her heart by millimetres.

Her Majesty’s final words were: ‘We are lucky to have officers of your calibre serving in the police force.’

When HM moved on to chat to other members of the team, William took Inspector Roach to one side and thanked him for the role his unit had played in capturing the three terrorists. ‘Although I must confess,’ William added, ‘you misled me when you said Jackie would have made a damn fine member of the anti-terrorist squad, because I assumed—’