Read The Blood Royal for Free Online

the magistrate how they were skulking in the shrubbery by the Serpentine – as you do when you’re innocently studying the antics of the golden-crested wren. Or was it the great crested grebe? One or two were a little under-rehearsed. Though one of them – impressively – managed to come up with Podiceps cristatus which earned him an approving nod from the magistrate. Abruptly, their peaceful activities were curtailed by the arrival of a pair of over-officious officers of the law (that’s me and Halliday). “Aha!” says his honour knowingly, “ Custos officiosus ! Dark blue plumage? Yes … Thick as sparrows on the ground, these days.” They all fell about laughing at his little joke and were out on the street again by noon. Not even a five quid fine. Waste of police time.’
    The constable sighed and then added, her tone brightening: ‘But better than the arrests, we made at least ten interventions. Always better to prevent an attack than arrest someone for it afterwards, don’t you think, Stan? If there’s anything more satisfying than catching and thumping a rapist, it’s decking one before he’s had a chance to hoist his mainsail.’
    Stan pretended not to hear. Chattering … pent-up … mind elsewhere, he decided indulgently. Expecting trouble. He’d noticed that while she sipped her tea, smiled and talked, her eyes never stopped moving, surveying the crowd gathering along the platform on to which the incoming train would spill its west-country passengers. And she’d positioned herself behind the tea urn out of sight of anyone coming on to the platform from outside. She was using him as cover. He didn’t mind.
    The young woman seemed to have her own unorthodox tactics for crime-fighting. The male constables spent their time swaggering up and down on the platform. At the sight of the uniform, the pickpockets, con-artists and pimps melted away into the shadows, only to drift back unscathed the moment the tall helmet disappeared from view. WPC 1555 wasn’t walking about, flushing out her prey and sending it scattering before her. She was lying in wait. In her calculating watchfulness Stan saw something that reminded him of native hunters he’d seen in India in his army days. The village tiger trackers could sit for hours, days even, up a tree watching over the lure of a tied-up, bleating goat. When the moment came they would be instantly alert and firing. Stan’s tea urn was her tree and he was pretty sure he knew where she’d find her goat.
    Smart girl, this one. And careful.
    Stan looked surreptitiously at the slight form swamped by the heavy uniform and wondered how she managed with her unimpressive height and weight to convey such determination. The military cut of the jacket with its official Metropolitan Women Police Patrol badge was intimidating but it did not allow of easy movement. The high collar, Stan noted with a stab of sympathy, was, on this warm day, chafing her slender neck and raising a nasty red mark. The hat, which was held in place by a chin-strap, was a wide-brimmed dome like a riding helmet. It sat heavily on her head almost snuffing out the pretty face below.
    Stan sensed that it was a pretty face. He was not at all certain that he’d be able to identify number 1555 if he ever saw her out of her uniform. Grey eyes? Green? He’d have guessed grey eyes but – her hair? No idea. He lowered his gaze, embarrassed to be caught staring, and turned his eyes to her boots. They couldn’t be comfortable. Knee-high, laced and made of a heavy leather, they could have been designed for Charlie Chaplin. And yet he’d seen these women take off and fly in them in pursuit of a villain. They’d trip up, kick out, stamp and do their ju-jitsu – anything to get a man down and incapacitated.
    ‘You have a good view of the platform here, Stan?’
    ‘I keep an eye open. I watch for kids getting off the train without an adult. They’re always easy to spot. They don’t know which way to turn. Up