Murder Most Royal

His phone records supported it, but unfortunately for him, her mother put up several videos on Facebook of herself with her daughter and baby granddaughter at a pub in Nottingham. That’s the thing about parents on social media – you can’t trust them. I think it’s only a matter of time before we get a full confession. As I say, Lions needs to talk, you can feel it. You know, I feel almost sorry for the lad. New partner, young baby . . .’

‘And you think he did it in a sudden rage?’

‘I doubt he intended violence, but something snapped and he lost it.

If he had a knife on him, it’s easy to do something you regret. Happens all the time.’

‘I see,’ she said sadly, though she didn’t, really.

‘Drugs,’ Bloomfield said with sombre finality. ‘He was worried about his mother, but he seems to be in denial about his own addiction. He was almost certainly under the influence when he acted. I’ve seen it so many times. It’s nice to think he’d get some help in prison, but he won’t. Cutbacks. But that’s politics, ma’am. That’s for the home secretary, not me.

Anyway, I mustn’t keep you.’

After he’d gone, she reflected on what the men and women of the police forces must see, day in, day out, to make it easy for them to imagine a man dismembering a parent in the way he suggested Jack Lions had done, when she could not. Not at all. She also found it difficult to be pleased that they had got their man. An image of the new mother and her child refused to dislodge itself from her mind, especially at this time of year, when2 a newborn baby was very much the theme.

All she could see was a wasted life and a missing father, and that was nothing to be glad about.

The next couple of days between Christmas and New Year were busy ones for Mrs Maddox, as some guests left to visit family elsewhere and others arrived to take their place. Philip got steadily better. He spent time closeted in his own library with Charles, the estate manager and the newly hired bean counter, discussing the future of Sandringham, which would soon be under his son’s control.

Voices were raised and fists were thumped during the more dramatic moments. The Queen knew that Charles found the whole thing exhausting, but his father thrived on it.

Rozie stared at herself in the mirror of Henry Marshal-Ward’s little wardrobe. The plain blue dress was from an upmarket retailer called Fold that her sister used for special occasions. The neck was high, the silhouette demure, and the skirt came down to her calves.