Chapter Eight

Joe sat in the passenger seat. There had been no appeal from his principal to sit in the back with him this time. And there wouldn’t be again.

The sky was indistinct above them, a grey blanket that hung there, robbing the autumn leaves of their chance to shine like precious stones.

Joe’s luggage was in the boot. He’d tidied the room. Stripped the bed. Hidden Paloma’s rose in the depths of his suitcase. He didn’t leave anything behind him.

No one spoke the whole way. Seven miles of London traffic, and not a sound from anyone in the car. Joe’s throat had closed up. He wanted to say so many things, but he couldn’t have what he wanted, so what use were words?

And from Alejandro, the man who never shut up, there was nothing but silence either. He hadn’t even emerged from his room until the car arrived, then he’d descended the stairs, a vision in a suit of the brightest pink Joe had ever seen. In his buttonhole there was one white rose, once a handkerchief.

As the car swung through the palace gates tourists craned and jostled but the darkened windows afforded no clue as to who was inside. And even if Alejandro looked back when he climbed out, he wouldn’t have seen Joe watching him, wishing this were different.

Without turning towards him, Joe said, “Goodbye, Mr Fuente.”

“Goodbye.” He felt the faintest brush of Alejandro’s fingers on his shoulder before the door was opened. “Can we— Goodbye.”

And he didn’t look back, not for a moment.

Joe pinched the top of his nose, his eyes tight shut. Then he turned to the driver and said, “Time to go to the Greenhouse, then.”

“Bet that’s a relief, isn’t it?” The driver laughed. “I’ve never known anyone go through CPOs like he can!”

“He’ll find someone eventually.” Joe looked down at his phone for something to do. He took one last look at Alejandro’s Insta account.

 

Should I keep him? #hotmen

 

A gasp rose up Joe’s throat and he disguised it with a cough.

And he couldn’t shake the fear that Alejandro would break his word, that he’d slip his leash again and next time there’d be nobody there to save him. Nobody to keep him safe from rogue fireworks, from the unseen troll, from Zak, even. It felt like something was going to happen, and there’d be no hero to stop it next time. What would Joe do then? What would he do when he heard that Alejandro’s luck had run out?

He needs somebody to look after him.

We all do.

“Here we are, Sergeant, the Greenhouse.” The car drew to a halt. “Good luck with the next one. Can’t be any tougher!”

Joe grabbed his luggage and headed up to Patrick’s office. He saw Patrick through the glass partition, his eyes fixed on the screen of the tablet he was holding. As the lift doors slid shut, Patrick looked up and raised his walking stick in greeting.

“Joe, on time as ever and we have tea waiting, thanks to the splendid Trudy.” He nodded towards his office. “Come on through, we have things to discuss!”

Joe left his bags with Patrick’s PA and followed. “Yeah, we’ve got quite a lot to discuss, actually.”

He wasn’t sure how Patrick was going to take it. Joe was sure his reason for not being Peanut’s CPO any longer would sound feeble, but he couldn’t tell him the truth.

Patrick settled into his chair and shifted his china cup and saucer along the blotter until it was right in front of him. Then he picked up the tablet and said, “Your youths last night included the son of the Home Secretary. The Eton bad boys, eh?”

“Unlikely to be firing rockets at a duchess’ son, then?” As Joe sat down opposite Patrick, he recalled Alejandro’s story about the bullies at his school. “Or likely to and they’ll get away with it?”

“You old cynic.” Patrick laughed. “Due to the miracle of the worried rich who now populate the streets of Highgate, we have CCTV of some of the incident. And, as ever, it’s as useful as a chocolate teapot. The firework was launched from a car. Black Mondeo, fake plates, no clear image of the driver. But it was definitely aimed at Mr Fuente, or Señorita Picante, as I believe she was last night. How’re you finding him, Joe? Tricky customer?”

Joe sighed as he knitted his fingers on the desk. “I need to talk to you about that. I…I can’t continue as his CPO any longer.”

“It’s only natural that you’re shaken up, given what happened before, but we get back on the horse, old thing. You’re doing an excellent job in challenging circumstances and I can assure you that I’ll be increasing security around Mr Fuente.” He put down the tablet. “There’s been a substantial increase in the online activity after his performance last night. Really quite vile, I must say, but we’ve got our people on it.”

“Is it all from the same troll? Or are they using more names now?” Joe bit his lip. “Look, Patrick, I can’t do this. I’m not ready to come back. I’ve made silly mistakes on this case. I should’ve known— He asked his friend Mel, Lady Melanie, right in front of me, if she was going to Vicky’s bash. It should’ve occurred to me, at once, that he was talking about Pineapple, and I could’ve put something in place. And all I was thinking was, Wow, he’s not making it secret that he wants to slip off tonight! And I keep seeing that bloody firework coming at me, and hearing the car, and… It’s too close to what happened before, Patrick. I can’t do it.”

“We can’t clap them in irons, Joe, and you did precisely what I would’ve expected a good CPO to do with a difficult chap like him. You let him go his merry way and followed along, then stayed at his side no matter how much embarrassment he threw at you.” But it wasn’t embarrassing, it was wonderful. “And when the moment came, just like before, you took evasive action and kept your principal safe. I saw that box sitting on top of the bin and—well, I didn’t think as quickly as you and I paid the price for it. You got your principal to safety. I jogged past without thinking twice and received a shattered spine for my troubles, courtesy of one of Libya’s finest bloody bastards.”

“I broke his heel in the process and he was fuming!” Joe rolled his eyes. “I just… I just don’t think I’m ready for a case like this. Aren’t there any dotty old dears you can give me, who only want to sit at home and plays cards with me?”

“If you’re determined—” The phone on Patrick’s desk rang and he ignored it, pressing a button on the array that covered the device. “I’ve had the background checks run on Mr Smythe-Unwin and our young Lady Melanie. I was at Stowe with her fath—” The phone rang again and he asked, “Do you mind if I see what this is about?”

“Sure.” Joe nodded, even though the interruption meant a delay in finding out what, if anything, the background checks had brought up on Zak and Mel.

“Trudy,” Patrick said as soon as he put the receiver to his ear, “I did ask that you hold all— Of course, right away.” He glanced up at Joe, then said smoothly, “Your Grace, good morning.”

Joe looked up. Your Grace? It wasn’t Alejandro’s dear mamá, was it? Joe examined his fingernails. No, it could be anyone. There were plenty of Your Graces about. Although he could hear the distinct musical rise and fall in the voice at the other end of the phone, the hurry and stabbing emphasis, which he knew only too well from his time working for the Duchess of Albany.

“I can assure you that there’s no cause for concern— No, I absolutely understand that the material online is upsetting and—” Patrick winced and moved the phone just a little farther from his ear as her voice grew louder. “I’ve increased the security detail but Sergeant Wenlock has asked to be reassi—” Another wince and he pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m afraid this isn’t Stalin’s Russia, Your Grace, I can’t compel him to do anything. He’s here with me—”

Joe wondered what time it was wherever the duchess was at that moment. Late evening? She’d be reclining with a cocktail in one hand, phone in the other. A CPO would be in the room with her, relieved that she wasn’t talking to them.

“Of course, Your Grace.” Patrick held out the receiver and whispered, “The Duchess of Albany would like a word, Sergeant.”

Joe took the receiver from him and prepared for the barrage he was about to receive. “Good morning, Your Grace.”

“José? Darling, how are you? India is so grey without you to make me laugh!”

Joe couldn’t help but be pleased when he heard her. “Hola,” Joe said. “You wanted to speak to me about something?”

“Alejo. My little Paloma, my jewel,” she said. “All I have heard from him is Joe, Joe, Joe. How happy he has been with you! How he has kept his beautiful nose thanks to you. Who is throwing firecrackers at my boy? Thank God you were there, José. That dreadful Zachariah creature is terrorising him, you know. It’s too much!”

“We’re looking into Mr Smythe-Unwin’s background, Your Grace.” Joe glanced up at Patrick. The worst of it was, Joe couldn’t even act as a witness to seeing Zak strike Alejandro. “Look, I was doing my job, Your Grace. And to be honest, I’m not sure Alejandro has been all that happy with me.”

He had plenty of reason not to be.

“Say you will stay with Alejo?” the duchess implored, sweet as Paloma. “He is like…a rose. He seems all thorns, José, but he is sweet at heart. I wouldn’t trust anyone but you to care for him. I cannot bear to think of him alone with that boyfriend creature.”

Joe chewed his thumb, contemplating. He could risk his career going back to Alejandro. But at the same time, maybe he was the best person to protect him. He wasn’t fazed by the dragging up, except for the memories it evoked of that kiss. He hadn’t been bothered at all by Alejandro decorating for him the gayest bedroom seen since Oscar Wilde hung up his velvet jacket. He’d really enjoyed watching Alejandro at work in the studio and, unlike everyone else, Joe saw him as an artist, not an overgrown spoiled brat.

And he cared about him. He cared that Alejandro was stuck in an abusive relationship, and he cared that some arsehole, Fuckface, as Alejandro called him, was terrorising him online.

What stopped him from going back?

The fact that he fancied Alejandro something rotten and was scared they’d be caught out.

What if they weren’t caught out?

Joe scrubbed his hand through his hair. “Okay. If you trust me with your only child, Your Grace, then…then I’ll go back.”

“Pepe!” she exclaimed, loud enough for Patrick to hear. He gave a wry grin and opened his desk drawer, taking out one of the buff folders that everyone else in the service had long since abandoned. “Is there any wonder that I adore you, darling? I shall sleep safe again! Put your man on the phone, I shall say goodnight to him and to you. Goodnight, Pepe!”

Avoiding Patrick’s glance, Joe said, as the duchess had taught him, “Buenas noches y dulces sueños.”

“Buenas noches!” she called as Patrick held out his hand and took the receiver back. He listened again, nodding, caught in her ramble once more.

Finally he was able to say, “Of course, Your Grace— Goodni— No, I quite understand. Good night, Your Grace.” He replaced the receiver with a click and said, “Wobble restored, Joe? Back on the horse like a good soldier?”

Joe threw him a sarcastic salute. A weight was off his shoulders. “If you say so, Commander. And don’t worry, I don’t normally go around wishing my principals sweet dreams. Although if you’d like to have some, feel free.”

“They’d certainly be very welcome just now!” He pushed the folder over the desk. “Lady Melanie and Mr Smythe-Unwin, or Zac Su, as he prefers to be known. Lady Melanie has led quite the saintly life, other than a little drunken silliness in the Serpentine when she was celebrating the end of exams. Mr Su is likewise disappointingly staid, when one considers his image. It’s all in there but nothing too worrying. A few episodes of being the worse for alcohol or the old wacky baccy, six points for speeding and a slapped wrist for possession of class A’s. Questionable as to whose they were, apparently, but I think the presence of Lord Bray’s son at the same gathering probably oiled the wheels of the Met on that one!”

“He’s hit Peanut.” Joe had to say it. He’d seen it with his own eyes. “Are you sure there’s nothing in there from previous partners? Or are they all too scared of him to say anything?”

“Got it in one.” The commander opened the folder, then immediately closed it again. “And if a chap isn’t out, as they say, he can hardly tell the bobbies that his boyfriend’s given him a thick ear!”

Joe examined his fingernails again. It was suddenly very warm in the room. “If I can encourage Peanut to report Zak, then…? I’m just concerned that Zak could be the troll. Only yesterday, at Peanut’s studio, I saw some dreadful behaviour and it’s clear that Peanut’s terrified of him. He’s a bully. Wants everything his way, wants the spotlight all to himself. I can see him being jealous enough to post all that abuse online aimed at Peanut. Can’t you?”

“I wonder where he was last night when that firework was launched. You leave Mr Su to me.” Patrick swirled his teacup. Where indeed? “Peanut’s out and proud, as well as he should be, but that brings other sorts out too. And then we have to step in. Poison pen is one thing but fireworks to the face? I take that very seriously.”

Joe steeped his fingers in thought. Something had occurred to him. “I think Zak sees Peanut as a meal ticket. Which makes me wonder… Online abuse is one thing, but that rocket could’ve maimed or killed Peanut. So would Zak really shoot fireworks at him?”

“One might do the strangest things whilst under the influence,” the commander pointed out. “Time will no doubt tell. There’s been a marked increase in the online material as a result of last night’s show though. Some of it very positive, some of it Outraged of Milton Keynes and some of it likely our man—or woman. We’ve had those comments removed but they’re on the system. There’s been an escalation in language, Joe, and clear threats.”

He picked up the tablet and tapped his way through a few screens before he held it out to Joe.

“This was on Twitter just after midnight, a newly created account with the same gibberish as a username. Our pal Leviticus again, of course. It’s one of fifty of so messages that appeared overnight on social media or comment sites, all proving so far untrackable.”

 

Whatever it wears, it’ll still bleed red when I cut it.

 

Bile rose in Joe’s throat. And, of course, the userpic was the out-of-the-box egg, because whoever was writing these things wasn’t brave enough to show their own face. Joe shook his head. “It? Whoever this is needs help. Dehumanising people like that. It’s revolting.”

“It’s not the most unique pseudonym either.” He took a sip of tea. “You’d be surprised how many innocent Levitici there are scattered around the internet. We have to tread carefully—we don’t want to give this one publicity and kick off copycats.”

“Do they get equally angry with people who wear mixed fibres and eat shellfish?” Joe sighed. “Yeah, we don’t want copycats. One is bad enough. And no closer to tracking them down.”

“The social media networks have been very responsive to catching the comments, but one or two are getting into the wild.” Patrick’s phone rang again and, with a tut of annoyance, he snatched up the receiver. As he listened his eyes grew wide and he looked to Joe. Something’s happened. “Send it over. His CPO’s here with me now.”

Joe’s heart leapt with a jolt of panic. Alejandro was safe in the palace at the moment, unless he was going to shimmy down a drainpipe and run off from there too. But Joe didn’t like this at all.

“Patrick?”

“Leviticus has sent a film of the firework incident to the BBC.” His tone was urgent and he took the familiar laptop from his desk. “So far the media have agreed to keep a lid on all this—safety first, you see—but it’s going to be too juicy for them to resist if all this keeps up. A bloody film, I ask you!”

His fingers moved swiftly over the keys and he turned the laptop so both men could see it. The film had been shot on a mobile and in the darkness, lit only by gentle Highgate streetlamps. The quality was poor, but good enough to see. Joe saw the gaggle of youths in the corner of the frame, saw the service car sitting at the kerb. Then he saw himself climb out. How had he managed to get his shoulders through the door? They looked enormous on the screen.

Concentrate, Sergeant Wenlock!

Then out came Paloma, elegant and lovely, and Joe leaned his elbow on the desk, cupping the bottom half of his face in his hand to hide any stray reactions. Paloma put her hand on Joe’s arm and he could see the pair of them talking as they went to the front door. He saw the moment when he peeled Paloma’s hand from his arm, but he kept his eyes on the screen, even though he wondered what Patrick would make of it.

It’s just Alejandro, he likes to tease.

They were talking by the door, and Joe wished they’d gone indoors at once. What had possessed him to stay outside for so long? Go in, go in, go in, you pair of fools, go in!

He saw a grin on his face, then seconds later, a flash of light that bleached out the whole screen for several seconds and the film ended. Joe remembered his dive to the floor with Paloma in his arms, his every thought for her safety.

Joe stroked his lapel, removing an imaginary speck of dust. “No different to the CCTV, then.”

“The difference is,” Patrick replayed the video as he spoke, “the firework was launched from very close to the phone that filmed this. This video was taken by Leviticus, Joe.”

“So it was Leviticus who fired the rocket.” Joe banged his fist down on the desk, making Patrick’s teacup rattle against its saucer. “He was so near to him. If I’d been doing my job properly, I would’ve seen him. I could’ve reached through his bloody car window and grabbed him by the throat and shaken the bastard!”

“I’ve been to the house enough times, that road’s always nose to tail,” Patrick soothed. “We can’t drag everyone we see sitting in a car out of the window and frisk them. I’ll increase security on the house itself and I don’t want you to let Peanut out of your sight. If this continues, Joe, we may need to arm you. I don’t like it, but there it is.”

Joe’d had a Glock hidden inside his jacket before, but he was never comfortable about being armed. He didn’t want to be the one to shoot first, because he couldn’t bear the thought of initiating a bloodbath.

“Right. I’ll carry PAVA spray for now. You know how I feel about guns, though,” Joe said, worried that he would lose face in front of Patrick. “Or a Taser. To be honest, I’d enjoy using one on Leviticus.”

“None of us want to carry firearms, Joe, but we’ve all had to do it.” He closed the laptop. “Go on down to level two, pick up the PAVA and I’ll clear you for a Taser. Let’s leave the guns in the gun lockers for now, eh?”

“Definitely.” Joe looked at his watch as he pushed back his chair. “Lunch date with the wife now. It’s not easy keeping a marriage going and being away from home. And having fireworks blasted at you.”

“I envy you that. Hard-working wife, keeping the home fires burning.” Patrick smiled. “And clearly Peanut is fond of you too, if rather hands-on. Relationship building is the key to being a good CPO, Joe, and you’re just the sort of fellow who knows how to do it.”

Joe shook his head. “I just wish to God I’d got him through the front door quicker. But hindsight’s a wonderful thing, of course. I’ll see you, Patrick. Commander Holloway.” Formal now, Joe stood to attention.

“Leviticus’ days are numbered.” Patrick stood and held out his hand. “Count on it.”

Joe shook Patrick’s hand. “Certainly are if I’ve got anything to do with it.”