The Last Queen of England by Steve Robinson Page B

need it.   Two hours at most.   That’s the trick.   It’s a mistake to be too prepared.   Steal the car the night before and the owner has time to notice it’s gone.   They have time to report it and someone else has time to spot it and point the finger.   That’s the way of the amateur - people who think that if they leave it until the last minute they won’t be able to find a car to boost in time.
    He shook his head.   “That’s not the way to do it,” he said to himself.
    There’s always a car to be had in London.   You just have to be confident.   It’s not like you care what colour it is.   Who gives a shit if it’s got leather and a decent stereo?   You’re not going to be together very long, are you?   It’s not like you’ve just taken out a five-year loan to pay for the thing.
    And that’s just it.
    You never hang on to it.   Not ever.   When it’s served its purpose the thing to do is drive a mile out from the scene, park up anywhere you like and calmly get out and walk to the Underground with everyone else.   You take the Tube from there.   That’s how you do it.   That’s the confident way.   You don’t take it home to bed for the night in case you need it again the next day.
    He laughed to himself.   “That’s just plain stupid.”
    And it will get you caught.
    The mobile phone in his breast pocket began to beep.   He slowed the car and checked the display.   It was the text message he’d been waiting for.   As he read it his face gave no hint of the pleasure he felt.   Conversely, his body began to tense and tingle with such energy that he could barely control it.   His hands were clenched so tightly on the wheel that his knuckles looked ready to pop through his driving gloves.   He liked the gloves.   He liked how a steering wheel felt through the leather in the same way he liked the sense of command and control he felt when his gloved hand was coiled around the grip of a gun.
    He arrived at a junction and slammed the brakes hard, veering right and using the handbrake to help spin the car around before he floored the accelerator.   He knew London like the owner of the black cab he’d stolen twenty-four hours ago to take care of Marcus Brown.   He’d made a point of knowing his way around town.   Being familiar with your environment was key to survival; he’d had that drummed into him enough times.   As was blending in with that environment.   Going unnoticed.   For that, a grey suit was the perfect urban camouflage.
    He glanced at the message on his phone’s display again and hit the delete button.   He was heading west now to an address he knew was close to The Mall - The Royal Society at Carlton House Terrace.   It wouldn’t take long to get there.   He would have plenty of time to learn the area, confirm his vantage point and available exits.
      
    After countless cups of coffee and almost three hours of research at the Royal Society, Jefferson Tayte sat up and pushed his laptop away.   He pinched his eyes and glanced over at officers Hampshire and Hues who could not have looked more fed up if they tried.   He checked his watch.   The glowing red digits told him it was almost five p.m.   Time to wrap things up.
    “Okay, let’s see what we’ve got.”   He looked across the table at Rakesh Dattani who still appeared as fresh as when they had started.   He was upright and perky in his chair as though he still had plenty of research time left in him.   “Rakesh, why don’t you kick us off with our soldier, Stephen Henley.”
    Rakesh Dattani stopped taking notes.   “Sir Stephen ‘Naseby’ Henley was -”
    “Naseby?” Tayte interrupted.   “As in the battle of Naseby?”
    “1645,” Jean said.   “The English Civil War.”
    “Same spelling,” Dattani said.   “I expect his father or even his grandfather fought in the battle and they adopted the name.   Anyway, Sir Stephen Henley was later wounded during the Battle of the