And the press had not been kind to SOCA.
The Serious Organized Crime Agency, England’s version of America’s FBI, handled drugs, money laundering, fraud, computer crimes, human trafficking, and firearms violations. Ten years she’d been an officer. When hired she’d been told that four qualities made for a good recruit—working with others, achieving results, leadership, making a difference. She’d like to think at least three of those were her specialty. The “working with others” part had always presented problems. Not that she was hard to get along with, it was just that she preferred to work alone. Luckily, her performance evaluations were excellent, her conviction record exemplary. She’d even received three commendations. But that sense of rebellion—which seemed part of her character—constantly brought trouble her way.
And she hated herself for it.
Like during the past twenty days, sitting around her flat, wondering when her law enforcement career would end.
She had a good job. A career. Thirty-one days of annual leave, a pension, plenty of training and development opportunities, and generous maternity and child care services. Not that she’d ever need those last two. She’d come to accept that marriage might not be for her, either. Too much sharing.
She wondered what she was doing here, walking on hallowed ground inside Windsor Castle, being escorted through the rain toward St. George’s Chapel, a Gothic church built by Edward IV in the 15th century. Ten English monarchs lay buried inside. No explanations had been offered as to why she was needed and she’d not asked, chalking it up to that element of the unexpected that came with being a SOCA agent.
She entered, shook the rain from her shoulders, and admired the high vaulted ceiling, stained-glass windows, and ornate wooden stalls that guarded both sides of the long choir. Colorful banners from the Knights of the Garter hung at attention above each bench, forming two impressive rows. Enameled brass plates identified the current and prior occupiers. A checkerboard marble floor formed a center aisle, polished to a mirror shine, marred only by a gaping hole before the eleventh stall. Four men gathered around the gash, one her director, who met her halfway and led her away from the others.
“The chapel has been closed all day,” he said to her. “There was an incident here last night. One of the royal graves was violated. The intruders used PEs to crack the floor and gain access.”
Those she knew. Percussion explosives inflicted massive damage through heat, with little concussion and minimal noise. She’d caught the odor when entering the chapel, a sharp carbon smell. It was a sophisticated material, not available for sale on the open market, reserved only for the military. The question immediately formed in her mind. Who would have access to that type of explosive?
“Kathleen, you realize that you are about to be fired.”
She did, but to hear the words shook her.
“You were warned,” he said. “Told to tone your manner down. God help you, your results are wonderful, but how you achieve those is another matter entirely.”
Her file was loaded with incidents similar to the one in Liverpool. A corrupt dock crew caught with 37 kilos of cocaine, but two boats sunk in the process. A raging fire she set to flush out drug traffickers that destroyed an expensive estate, which could have been sold for millions as a seized asset. An Internet piracy gang stopped, but four people shot during the arrest. And the worst, a ring of private investigators who illegally gathered confidential information, then sold it to corporate clients. One of the targets challenged her with his gun and she shot him dead. Though it was deemed a proper kill—self-defense—she’d been required to attend counseling sessions, and the therapist concluded that risks were her way of dealing with an unfulfilled life. Whatever that meant, the silly prat of a doctor never explained himself. So after the required six sessions, she’d not returned for more.
“I have fourteen other agents under my command,” her supervisor said. “None brings me the grief that you do. Why is it they, too, achieve results, but with none of the residual effects?”
“I did not tell those men to run in Liverpool. They chose that course. I decided stopping them, and the ammunition they were smuggling, was worth the risk.”
“There were injuries on that motorway. Innocent people, in their cars. What happened to them is inexcusable, Kathleen.”
She’d heard enough rebukes at the time of her suspension. “Why am I here?”
“To see something. Come with me.”
They walked back to where the three other men stood. To the right of the dark chasm in the floor she studied a black stone slab that had been neatly cracked into three manageable pieces, laid close together, as originally joined.
She read what was engraved on the face.
IN A VAULT
BENEATH THIS MARBLE SLAB
ARE DEPOSITED THE REMAINS
OF
JANE SEYMOUR QUEEN OF KING HENRY VIII
1537
KING HENRY VIII
1547
KING CHARLES I
1648
AND
AN INFANT CHILD OF QUEEN ANNE
THIS MEMORIAL WAS PLACED HERE
BY COMMAND OF
KING WILLIAM IV, 1837
One of the other men explained how Henry VIII had wanted a grand monument here, in St. George’s, to overshadow his father’s in Westminster. A metal effigy and massive candlesticks were cast, but Henry died before the edifice was completed. An era of Radical Protestantism came after him, a time when church monuments were not erected but hauled down. Then his daughter Mary ushered in a brief return to Rome and remembering Henry VIII, the king of the Protestants, became dangerous. Eventually, Cromwell melted the effigy and sold the candelabra. Henry was finally buried beneath the floor, with only the black marble slab marking the spot.