Bliss senses that someone has turned up the heat, and he drops the phone to switch on the television. The air-waves are buzzing with the news and repeatedly show the attack from every angle, but no one, it seems, is buying heatstroke. Pundits are pointing out the obvious: that, unless someone at the palace forgot the electricity bill, Their Royal Highnesses live in a perfumed world more closely controlled than an upscale tobacconist's humidor.
“Inherited insanity” is the word on the air, and there is no scarcity of regal examples to call upon. Mary Queen of Scots and Charles VI of France, both distant relatives of Philip, get a mention, as do many of his more recent kin, including his mother, several Georges â especially the second, who died when he fell off the royal loo at Kensington Palace, and the third, who was nutty enough to be certified â Prince John, various cousins, and even Edward VIII, who, it is suggested, must have been totally round the twist to ditch the crown for a doubly divorced Yankee gold digger.
Syphilis, porphyria, and alcohol take much of the blame for the procession of royals with psychoses, although inbreeding is certainly not excluded. Heatstroke is not even on the list, and the official line is stretched still thinner when a retired chauffeur augments his pension with tales of driving the couple around in an icebox, fiercely insisting to a reporter, “The Duke would never get in the car unless it were bloomin' freezin'.”
By midnight, Bliss is struggling to sleep, while political commentators and royal watchers are being dragged off the beaches in Bali and out of bars in Melbourne to keep the discussion going. There is even suggestion that the
Lord Chancellor could return from his holiday home in the Seychelles. However, whilst his role in deposing a mentally incapacitated monarch is enshrined in law, there is apparently nothing on the books to deal with the lunacy of a monarch's spouse, beyond the commoners' Mental Health Act.
As the night wears on, the television editors run out of sensible ideas and turn to the ramblings of the Internet, where conspiracy theorists have nicknamed Prince Philip “Osama bin Windsor.”
“The Duke of Edinburgh has been electronically implanted and is being remotely controlled by Islamic fundamentalists,” claims one of loonier sites, retaliating for an earlier suggestion that Christian fundamentalists were responsible for the earthquakes and tsunamis that annihilated Muslim communities in Asia. (The Christians were quick to hit back, irrationally bolstering the Muslims' egos by accusing them of prayerfully invoking devastating droughts, hurricanes, and tornadoes in America.)
“Prince Philip â Victim of Heat?” queries the
Guardian
on Saturday's front page as Bliss blearily checks out the headlines on his way to the Yard, though less charitable rags lead more enigmatically, loudly asking, “DID HE?” or, more paradoxically, “DUBBED by the DUKE!”
Bottom-feeding paparazzi should be having lobster lunches today, but so many staffers snapped the royal visit that newsrooms are knee-deep in cuttings, and despite a flurry of passionate pleas from the Home Office and the palace, most editors have opted to show a puzzled woman cowering under her husband's sword.
Feminist organizations and abused women's groups are vitriolic in condemnation of Prince Philip, and more than one call for his immediate arrest.
“What happened to the government's zero-tolerance policy on spousal abuse?” demands a political correspondent in the
Times
.
Big Ben's clock is winding itself up to strike eight as Bliss arrives at New Scotland Yard. A few hardy pressmen have camped out on the footpath in the hope of scooping a quote from a dozy copper, but Bliss is sharp enough to keep his head down as he makes for a rear door.
“Peter Roberts, the assistant commissioner, is chairing the meeting,” says Commander Roger Fox chattily as he leads Bliss to the almost deserted top floor, then he stops with his hand on a door and puts on a straight face. “Official Secrets Act, Dave,” he says, and waits momentarily for the threat to sink in before opening the door.
“Ah. Chief Inspector. Good of you to come,” starts Roberts, rising from the head of the table with a smarmy smile, and numerous sympathetic eyes turn silently on Bliss, leaving him wondering if he has been involuntarily volunteered for something nasty.
“Pleasure, sir,” says Bliss guardedly as he scrutinizes the half-drunk coffees, the croissant crumbs, butter wrappers, orange peel, and apple cores, and the rolled sleeves and furrowed brows of six men and two women.
A moment's awkward silence is broken by the assistant commissioner as he quickly encompasses the room with a sweep of his hand. “Paulson, royal protection; Commander Fox â you already know; Mr. Michaels â Home Office; Mr. Simpson ⦔ Roberts hesitates, then changes tune. “Coffee, Chief Inspector?”
Bliss pours himself a cup as he scans the room and comes up with several familiar faces. The pinstriped pair who were not introduced at their previous meeting are still not being introduced, but they've lost their business suits and are looking more sheepish than smug.
“The Home Secretary is appointing an independent security expert, Chief Inspector,” announces Roberts unenthusiastically as he pulls Bliss into the conversation. “But,
pending his evaluation of the situation, your job is to protect the Queen.”
“From her husband?”
“Chief Inspector,” says Commander Fox, stepping in. “As difficult as this may seem, we have to divorce the two.”
“That won't go down well with the Archbishop ⦔ starts Bliss, deliberately misconstruing, and Fox bites back.
“Be serious, Chief Inspector; divorce the woman from the Crown. Ignore the fact that she's just a grey-haired old biddy with a plum in her mouth. You are charged with defending the Queen from a very serious threat.”
“That's impossible, sir,” says Bliss as he sits, realizing that he's being handed a live grenade “He'd only need a table knife. We'd have to chop the blades off all his swords and blunt his razors. What if he smothers her with a feather pillow in the middle of the night? What am I supposed to do â take a sleeping bag and kip on the floor between them?”
“Chief Inspector,” admonishes Roberts with an embarrassed eye on the pinstriped duo. “The palace is fully co-operating. Mr. Paulson and Mr. Simpson will make sure that he doesn't have access to weapons. Anyway, they've slept in separate rooms for years. Your job is to come up with strategies to ensure her safety in public.”
“I still don't get it,” complains Bliss. “This sounds like a job for a trick-cyclist with a straitjacket, especially if he's likely to try again.”
One of the pinstripers comes to life, and Bliss hears an American Midwest accent.
They look like a couple of evangelical Bible-thumpers,
he thinks as he evaluates the shiny-shoed, short-haired, smooth-shaven college boys, and the one on the left pulls himself forward in his chair and focuses on Bliss. “Chief Inspector. I am authorized to advise you that the President is very concerned about the security of the royal family.”
“And you are ⦔ starts Bliss, guessing CIA rather than Mormon, but Fox slaps him down.
“You don't need to know that, Chief Inspector.”
Lefty holds up a hand. “No. Fair question, Commander,” he says, though doesn't answer as he paints on a sickly smile and replies, “We are merely observers and advisors, Chief Inspector.”
“Isn't that what you called your people in Vietnam?” snipes Bliss, and he is pleased to see several faces redden.
“Yes, Chief Inspector,” snarls Lefty's running mate, rising heatedly. “And if we'd gotten support from certain other countries we would â”
“Gentlemen,” steps in the assistant commissioner as he waves the man back to his chair. “Can we please deal with the issue at hand.”
Lefty's partner is puce with rage and gets christened “Pimple” by Bliss, but he climbs down a few notches once he's paused for breath. “Chief Inspector,” he says, as if he's dealing with an obdurate minion, “this is FYI only, but I can inform you that the President had good reason to suspect an attack on the Queen was imminent. He's concerned, as we all are, about the effect this could have on the security of the nation.”
“Which president? What nation?” Bliss questions with deliberate obtuseness, and he is pleased to see Pimple's cheeks flush back up.
“The United States has a vested interest in global security, Chief Inspector,” preaches Lefty, adding, “And the President has tasked us to take whatever steps necessary to guarantee freedom from terrorism wherever it may occur.”
The idea of the CIA labelling the Duke of Edinburgh as a terrorist stings, but Bliss is still smarting from a previous encounter with America's Big Brother, so he forces a smile, saying, “Well that's jolly nice of your president,” and then he mentally prepares for war.
Daphne Lovelace is also on the warpath. Her dreams of a quiet weekend were dashed when her neighbours roared home at the head of a motorcycle mob at 2:00 a.m. They were still partying when she was finally driven onto the streets around six. Missie Rouge has been astray for more than a week now, and, despite her protestations that the cat was snacked on by the pit bulls, she still combs the neigh-bourhood daily for several hours, morning and night, with a scraggy photo in hand.
“Have you seen my kitty?” She repeatedly questions neighbours and their children, but many of the strangers look upon her warily. Not long ago she could have named every resident and most of their offspring, but now she is a foreigner â not by nationality; by age. She is a lone passenger on a runaway bus after everyone else has bailed. Most of her long-time neighbours and friends got off at the cemetery, while a few still wait patiently in hospices and nursing homes for a passing hearse.
Daphne knows that one day soon there will be a bend in the road that's just too sharp, a wall too high, a ravine too deep, and sometimes, when she looks at all the empty seats surrounding her, she wishes that it would be today.
“I'm looking for my cat,” she explains to the young couple who bought Hilda Marshall's place after the spry octogenarian fell off a camel at Moulton-Didsley's annual Cabbage Fair, but the young man shrugs her off as he herds a pack of fractious children into their minivan.
“She's called Missie Rouge.”
“Sorry, luv,” says the mother as she struggles to strap down a squirming, sleep-deprived four-year-old. “Try the RSPCA.”
“She's ever so pretty,” carries on Daphne determinedly with the photo in hand. “Sort of a reddish colour.”
“âS'cuse me,” says the woman, pushing past to grab a fleeing five-year-old.
“I've got a picture,” she calls to the woman's back, then she gives up. “Thanks,” she mutters as she meanders off down the street, wondering if she'll get lucky; wondering if today will be the day the wheels come off her bus.
The future is also uppermost in Bliss's mind as he ambles home alongside the ageless Thames and pictures himself as a grandfather. It's a happy picture: flying kites, riding bikes, hiking, camping, sailing, and swimming. Nothing like the memories of his own grandfather, he tries telling himself, with the image of a greying, wizened old man asleep in the chair in mind â then he makes the mistake of tallying the years.
“He was only just fifty,” he mutters downheartedly, so he switches focus to his ex-wife and her husband, George, and wonders how they are coping with the news.
At least I won't be the one having sex with a grandmother
, he laughs to himself, although his mirth is short-lived with the realization that he won't be having sex with anyone at all if he doesn't do something about Daisy.
“I wonder what she'll be doing today?” he says as he stares into the murky river seeking Mediterranean blue, and then the sun comes out.
“Taxi!” he yells excitedly as he dodges the Embankment's speedy traffic, and seconds later he is on his way to France.
Why not?
he asks himself repeatedly as he speeds homeward for a change of clothes.
The Queen is in hospital for the weekend, the Duke has been sent to a doghouse somewhere deep in the country beyond the telephoto lenses of the press, and I can cobble together a protection plan just as easily on a beach in Provençe. All I need is a return ticket for the first flight next week.
“We'll get our act together at ten on Monday, Dave,” Commander Fox instructed as the morning's meeting broke
up. “We've got an appointment with the Home Office's man at eleven. Let's show him who the security experts are, shall we?”
The price of the last-minute seat to Nice leaves Bliss half-expecting champagne, but he's not entirely disappointed when all he gets is Evian water. A bottle of Bollinger with his name on it waits for him in an ice bucket at the Carlton Hotel in Cannes, and a table for two will be laid on the beach as soon as the sun has dropped into the Mediterranean. And, if Daisy's mother is able to pull herself together and put aside her fears, he and Daisy will take a second bottle of champagne to a room with a sea view and lie naked in each others' arms as fireworks burst triumphantly across the indigo sky.
“W
e're just passing Paris on our starboard side,” the crackly-voiced captain explains above the persistent background buzz on the intercom, leaving Bliss crossing his fingers over the rest of the plane's equipment as he looks down on the City of Lights.
“Hey, Mum, I wanna see the Eiffel Tower,” sings out the squirmy six-year-old on Bliss's left, and a child's boney elbow digs into his groin as he follows the snake of the Seine across the urban landscape.
“Sorry, sir ⦠just excited,” explains the young mother as she yanks her infant back into his seat, but this is third time, starting with the Channel and the White Cliffs of Dover. “It's his first trip,” she carries on as she straps him firmly down. “You know what they're like ⦔