Chapter 33
After the drama of the American tour Jeff forgot her Majesty's edict that he and Crystal weren't to 'mingle' with the public in town and went back to his usual routine of an early morning ride through the nearly empty streets with Dave Riordan as his only escort.
Jeff enjoyed the short time before his day became cluttered with other people; even Crystal was left behind as he spent less than an hour with his own thoughts and no demands. He went where he wanted, often down to the docks, watching the brown river as it continued its timeless journey through the heart of the city. At other times he wanted to roar down quiet tree lined Georgian streets where elderly gentlemen watered window boxes in dressing gowns and slippers and shook their fists at him as he passed, incensed that he should violate their tranquility.
Their route varied and yet not a lot. Riordan found Jeff had settled into a pattern of routes for different days of the week which only changed if the weather was bad and he might choose to avoid exposing himself along the river or an event was planned and streets were lined with barriers. Jeff had to smile at times as Council workmen laid down crowd barriers on routes he would travel later the same day with Crystal in a large black car, waving to people who had waited for hours to see them.
On those occasions he found his life unreal and when he returned to the Palace to strip off his leathers and shower with his valet Smith hovering in his dressing room, the most surreal of all. It was only when Crystal awoke and came to him that his jangled universe returned to equilibrium: she was his centre, his balance, the reason he was there; he loved his wife and their child. Jeff would put up with anything for them.
Well, nearly anything. When Riordan took him to task about his early morning escapes and the pattern that created a security risk he baulked and dug his heels in. Everyone has patterns in their lives he told Riordan, it can't be avoided. If he had to think of a new route every morning,
'I'll go mad.' he said, 'I can't be looking over my shoulder all the time.'
He wouldn't listen and had time to regret it later because Jeff had attracted a stalker, a very determined stalker; one obsessed with hurting him.
When someone wants to hurt you they do the same things protectors do: they're with you all the time. Jeff's stalker was his shadow: present at all his public appearances; watching as he rode each morning; outside where he slept at night. At Claremore it was easy: the estate was wild nearly to the house; its rough terrain of gullies, caves and deep woods was a haven for things that wanted to be secret yet near.
The regular patrols of the grounds just didn't penetrate those secret places; they remained hidden and the man's small camp went undetected. Being a planner Jeff's stalker wanted to keep his options open: would he strike in the city or the country? He didn't know yet but Jeff and Crystal's lifestyle and routine was now well established and provided him with many opportunities. So he waited.
Sergeant Riordan was a careful man; he was also creative; Jeff's intransigence only inspired him to come up with a solution; one that would allow Jeff a measure of freedom and negate what he sensed was a growing risk. The longer Jeff's routine went on the higher the chances were of some nutter latching onto it.
When Jeff came down the next day Riordan was standing next to a new bike which gleamed in the early sunlight: a big Japanese grunt machine. Jeff fell in love with it on sight. 'Step one,' Riordan thought as Jeff circled its gleaming enamel and his hand reached out and ran along the bike's smooth lines,
'God, where did you get this?' he said.
'It's yours, a gift from Sir Robert if you agree to a couple of things.'
The negotiations were short and in the form of an ultimatum: Jeff would ride the new bike and Riordan would ride Jeff's old one; Jeff would have a new helmet and Dave would wear his old one; Dave would ride in front and choose the route.
'Or?'
'Or we stay home.'
As they rode out the palace gate Riordan set a fast pace and Jeff pushed the bike to keep up with him. The streets Riordan chose were new and to Jeff's delight, full of curves where he wrestled with the power of the new bike to keep it upright. At the end he said to Riordan,
'Fantastic, absolutely bloody fantastic.'
Riordan heaved a sigh of relief. If only he could continue to balance security with Jeff's need for excitement they'd be all right. But the danger was in the riding itself; they took risks but Riordan knew if he rode more sedately Jeff would just take off and he'd be left to follow. His role as decoy would be useless if Jeff resumed the lead.
They went on for a week and it seemed to be working until on the seventh day Jeff watched helplessly as Riordan's bike slipped from under him as he rounded the apex of a sharp corner. Riordan was trapped under the bike, his leg crushed by its weight and his body dragged across the tarmac until the bike landed against the stone gutter and bounced: it went up and came down, hard onto Dave's chest. When Jeff reached him he was already dead, his eyes wide open in amazement.
When the Police forensic experts were finished in the laboratory they reported that ordinary cooking oil had been spilt, or probably worse, spread across the width of the road. It would have been invisible to the naked eye. Travelling at speed it was unlikely Riordan would have even seen it. The same oil was found on a number of streets that led back to the Palace; they would have had to cross it somewhere on the way back.
At the funeral Jeff and Crystal met Riordan's wife, the mother of his three small children who stood bewildered as their father's coffin was lowered into the ground. She accepted Crystal's words of comfort silently. When Jeff took her shaking hand she looked at him with hatred and said,
'It was meant for you, not for him.'
Sir Robert had all of the bikes locked up in a warehouse used by the Palace for storing the paraphernalia that accumulates in a great house over hundreds of years. He needn't have done it because Jeff would not have exposed anyone else to the risk of riding with him. There would be no more early morning escapes.
The publicity was widespread, vicious and as far as Jeff was concerned, justified. He believed he'd been selfish and as a result a very good man had died. He and Crystal set up a trust for his children but it was little enough. The letter of thanks from Riordan's wife was correct and cold. It sent a chill down Jeff's spine when he read it.
'She's grieving,' Crystal said.
'She's a widow Crystal and her kids don't have a father because of me. I can never make it up to her or her kids.'
Crystal was wisely silent; he would have to work through his guilt alone; empty words telling him he wasn't to blame would be useless. By then the stalker's camp at Claremore had been found by their steward; doing a check of deer numbers he'd found it hidden in a steep gully under an overhang of rock. It was recently used but empty. Nothing was found that helped in identifying its occupant.
Special Branch were sure there was a stalker, rather than a just a homeless person camping on the estate because a well worn path led to near the house and a flattened patch of earth testified to where the man had lain watching the terrace outside the kitchen where Jeff and Crystal often ate their breakfast.
It was very well worn; he'd been there often.
The discovery of the stalker's camp at Claremore meant a surveillance team would remain on the estate for the foreseeable future. They were put in place, leaving everything in the camp undisturbed. The hope was the man would return to it when Crystal and Jeff were next at Claremore on Friday.
Surveillance cameras around the Palace were used to identify recurring faces; each was identified and traced without result. However, the presence of the camp led Special Branch to believe, quite reasonably, that they were dealing with a homeless person who may have taken up residence in parkland overlooking the Palace.
Police dogs, given the man's scent from the camp, were used to scour the parks. Nothing was found because Jeff's stalker was not only deranged, he was clever. As the government's stalking consultant from the Fixate
d Threat Assessment Centre told Jeff and Crystal, this strange combination of attributes was common in stalkers,
'Stalkers generally have a higher criminal intelligence than the average which makes them hard to trace if they don't want to be found. Our research shows that most are suffering with a psychotic illness and have pathologically intense fixations.'
'What does that mean?' Crystal asked him.
'These people pursue their delusional preoccupations to the point of obsession, that is to an abnormally intense degree.'
'You mean like trying to kill me and killing Dave Riordan instead?' Jeff said with some bitterness.
'In extreme cases, yes. But I must say this is a new category of stalking in royal terms. Usually people obsessed with the royal family fall into a number of identifiable categories: people who think they're royal; those who want her Majesty to right some wrong or other; that type of thing. Your fellow's fixation is criminally obsessive and a new category.'
Jeff was completely unimpressed with the consultant's forensic fascination with new categories of royal stalkers and began to pace around the room.
'What will happen when you catch him?' Crystal asked, watching her husband's growing frustration.
'Our job is to find the person appropriate treatment but, as this man is most likely responsible for Sergeant Riordan's death, any treatment will probably occur in a facility for the criminally insane.'
'I hope you catch him soon,' Crystal said as she looked at Jeff. He looked preoccupied and that worried her; lately he'd spent a lot of time with his own thoughts. His usually confident self was missing. Crystal wanted it back.
On Friday they travelled to Claremore at the usual time and in the usual way. Crystal went to bed early; the pregnancy was making her tired and she found she needed more sleep. Jeff sat up for a while and then turned out the downstairs lights. As far as his protection detail was concerned he'd gone up to bed but he remained sitting in the family room, watching the kitchen door.
His decision to leave the house by that door just before dawn was reckless at best. He felt he needed to do something; his old training driving him to find the stalker before he had the chance to act on his delusions.
It was cold outside and he shivered in his light sweater as the dewy dawn settled on him. The woods close to the house were dark; the trees damp and still as he walked slowly towards them, taking his time, allowing anyone watching to see him.
It was difficult to see the track the stalker had used so often but Jeff was careful he didn't lose it in the weak light. Half way to the camp he stopped in a small clearing where the trees were large with branches overhanging the track. He quickly climbed one and lay down along a wide branch.
Light fell through the dense foliage and birds began to stir and sing around him. Light steps came toward him and a deer broke cover on the other side of the clearing. Jeff had been holding his breath and slowly released it as heavier footfalls came from behind him, just below the tree.
A man in a dark parka and black beanie was standing below him, very still, sniffing the air like an animal. He had come along the track as Jeff had, from the direction of the house. Jeff now knew the man been at the house and had followed him; just as he'd intended. The man was carrying a bundle of things under his left arm. His right arm was free and holding a knife that glinted as a shaft of sun broke through the trees and fell on the turf.
He looked around and then crouched and put the bundle down onto the ground. His head turned from left to right, slowly taking in every inch of the clearing. Jeff watched him and moved slightly to the left, bringing his legs together so he could drop to the ground. He had made the slightest noise; it was barely audible but the man heard it and turned. He looked up and saw Jeff's clear blue eyes in the growing light. He sprang up and the hand holding the knife went back as he prepared to throw. There was a small sound and a thump as the man's arm stopped in midair and he toppled to the floor of the clearing.
'You can come down now sir,' a voice said to Jeff, 'We got him.'
A number of camouflaged bodies holding rifles drifted out of the undergrowth and gathered around the body. Jeff dropped to the ground. All he said was,
'Thanks,' as one of the soldiers radioed to their officer,
'Target neutralised.'
Crystal was furious as she and Jessie made coffee for the soldiers, who were milling around on the terrace in the sun, smoking and congratulating their sniper on his shot,
'How could you Jeff? You knew he was out there.'
'Yes, I did but I also knew they were out there,' he said, looking at the soldiers. 'They weren't going to let anything happen to me.'
Crystal was frightened and angry but he held her and she understood that it was the only thing he could do for Dave Riordan: put himself out as a decoy, just as Riordan had done for him.
Jeff's stalker was identified as a man with a long history of psychiatric illness and violence. The reason for his fixation on Jeff went with him to his grave.
No-one at Claremore, least of all Crystal and Jeff, underestimated the tragedy of the whole stalker affair: Dave Riordan's death, the shooting of the stalker himself and the fear and despair the man had created were real and left their mark.
Jeff would carry the weight of his protection officer's death all his life but his usual confidence and optimistic outlook began to return, until, on Saturday afternoon, he went down with a chill.
For a man who was never ill it came as a complete shock. He had the shivers, a high temperature and ached in every part of his body. Put to bed he wanted to snarl at the doctor Crystal summoned but he was too weak: his body wouldn't let him.
'It was probably your sojourn in the woods,' his very droll medico told him, 'Dew, light clothing, letting yourself get cold.' He paused and looked away, far off into his world of medical mysteries, 'Yes, the shock would play a part as well.'
Jeff croaked at him, for his voice was going as well, 'That's fine Doc, but how long is this going to last?'
Bright and full of confidence the doctor snapped his bag shut and smiled,
'Several days I should think. You won't really care, you're too sick.' Jeff wanted to grab him by the throat. With an infuriating detachment the doctor said to Crystal,
'Keep him warm, a hot water bottle would be good for his feet which are like blocks of ice; plenty of fluids and light food.' He turned to Jeff, 'Do you like chicken soup? My mother swore by it. See you in a couple of days,' he said and rushed out the door as though he had a plane to catch.
'I don't like him and he can stuff his chicken soup right up his...,' Jeff said to an amused Crystal.
'I think he's a scream,' she tucked him in but looked distracted, 'He might be right about the chicken soup though.' She left Jeff alone to snuffle and shiver while she went to the kitchen to check on the chicken situation.
Jessie came in next with Archie and Terri who were looking happy and full of vim which irritated Jeff even more,
'They're going into the bottom of the bed to warm you up. Lift your feet Sir, thank you,' she said as Jeff felt a delicious warmth begin to thaw his frozen extremities.
'God that's good.' He looked at Jessie who was smiling as well, 'What is it with these people?' he thought, 'Am I the joke of the day?'
'I'll refill Archie in a couple of hours,' she said.
A voice from the bottom of the bed, which Jeff recognised as a muffled version of Archie's usual tenor said,
'My goodness, it's like Siberia down here.'
'Sorry,' Jeff said as he drifted off to sleep, warm at last.
Jeff was a terrible patient, not because he complained but because he resented being ill. It was new to him; his normally healthy, strong body had let him down,
'Traitor,' he thought, as he lay in bed watching movies with Archie and Terri. They'd moved up the bed and were now settled on Jeff's chest which was sore from a hacking cough he'd developed.
The doctor, who Jeff vowed he'd deal with later, prescribed r
est and fluids.
'What about the cough?' Jeff asked him.
'It'll go away in a few days, don't worry.'
Crystal was no help as he battled being idle and sought the comfort of Archie and Terri. She found it hilarious that her 'strongman' as she called him, had finally succumbed to a need for the hot water bottle,
'Well, my chest hurts,' was all he said. After she'd gone he whispered to the hot water bottle and cover,
'Sorry guys, I really appreciate what you're doing for me.'
Terri, who was enjoying Jeff's arms around her, said,
'It's our pleasure,' as Archie gave her a look that said, 'I'll talk to you later.'
Which he did in the privacy of their drawer. Terri had her answer ready,
'I don't complain when Crystal gives you a kiss or a hug, do I? And you like it when she does, don't you? Archie nodded in an embarrassed fashion, 'Then just shut up and give me a cuddle, you're such a silly hot water bottle.'
Jeff was in bed for three days at the end of which he bounced up and went back to work. They returned to town and a backlog of events which Jeff dealt with on his own: he just had extra visits scheduled until he caught up. He was running, trying to find a way to deal with the fact of Dave Riordan's death and its impact on Riordan's young family.
'There has to be a something else I can do,' he thought.
Riordan's widow was constantly on his mind, keeping alive the guilt he felt that her children had lost their father. Strangely it was Smith, his valet, who helped him start to unravel what was becoming a Gordian knot.
'The only thing that helps sir is time.... and a little practicality.'
Jeff watched as Smith adjusted, for the third time, the fall of his jacket and asked,
'Spit it out Smith, you've been chewing on this for days.'
'My suggestion sir, with the greatest respect, is to get their mother a little relief. She must be exhausted coping with her own grief and the children's as well. Do something practical for her; get her some support is all I can say.'
Jeff went to Crystal who went to her grandmother who, surprisingly, sent Jeff to Crystal's grandfather. Their conversation was a revelation to Jeff, as Crystal's grandfather told him,
'I started a group many years ago to help young widows and later, widowers. There were so many widows after the war; young women left with babies and young children to raise alone. The idea is they help each other to find a way through it all, which is absolutely bloody awful, so they can rebuild their lives.
'They did all the work; all I did was give it a push with some patronage. If you let them know, they'll contact Mrs Riordan and offer their support. It's a good thing Jeff and keeps you out of it.'
That was the thing that had worried Jeff the most, that Dave Riordan's widow held him responsible for Riordan's death. No-one had to tell Jeff that, he knew it already.
Much later he learnt that Jennifer Riordan had become part of the group and, after some years, remarried. By then Jeff had done a great deal for many people but it was Jennifer Riordan and her children who stayed in his mind.