Murder Most Royal

St Cyr wrote back saying if he needed cash, he could get a job on his rewilding project.’

‘After that, they spoke by phone. I doubt Lions wanted his opinions recorded. You ask for a parent’s love, and they offer you outdoor labour at minimum wage.’

‘How did you find him?’ the Queen asked.

‘He was always on our radar. For a man born with the proverbial silver spoon, he has quite a criminal record. Taking vehicles without consent, possession of Class B drugs, affray . . . He started off as a hunt saboteur but he’s been involved with increasingly extreme fringe elements on the animal rights front.

But what clinched it was the RIP meeting in the diary.’

‘This is where we give thanks for the wonders of modern technology,’ Bloomfield said proudly. ‘A cross-check of the number plate recognition cameras showed that on the fifteenth, a van belonging to one of Lions’s close associates was parked behind a building occupied by Rich Indie Productions in Soho. RIP. You see, ma’am?’

The Queen was quite capable of working out a three-letter acronym.

Her life revolved around them, after all. ‘Yes, Chief Constable. I do.’

Bloomfield noted a mild tone of irritation in her voice. ‘Of course. Anyway, the owner of the van, a man called Simon Lefevre, did two years in jail for firearms offences. The next day it was caught on camera again, heading west out of London on the A4, with none other than Lions himself in the passenger seat.’

‘That’s why we had to make sure the arrest was done safely.

We couldn’t be sure Lions wasn’t armed. We’d have arrested Lefevre, too, but he’s disappeared, along with the van. We’ll find him soon enough.’

The Queen accepted that this was very diligent deskwork by the vast team who were working on the case. She was fascinated by how it was attention to the small details, such as vehicle number plates of an associate – not even the main suspect – that enabled a breakthrough. The crime shows she watched on television usually involved brilliant sudden deductions, but the reports she read in her papers often featured almost impossible amounts of data, patiently filtered by unsung heroes at their desks.

Even so, ‘parking nearby’ and ‘driving west’ didn’t constitute conclusive proof of guilt in her view.

‘Has Mr Lions admitted anything?’ she asked.

‘Not yet. But his alibi fell apart straightaway. He claimed to be at home all day with his girlfriend and their baby.