He was a keen and thoughtful officer who had joined as the son of local farmers and risen quickly through the ranks. The Queen admired him for sticking with the Norfolk force and not seeking flashier jobs elsewhere. ‘They call Yorkshire God’s own county,’ he’d said once, ‘but we know where it is really, don’t we, ma’am?’ She was pleased that his loyalty hadn’t held him back. He was well regarded among other senior officers she knew. She found him both imperturbable and affable, which was an attractive combination, despite his general demeanour of a disappointed bloodhound.

‘Chief Constable! It’s good to see you,’ she announced. ‘Very kind of you to come on Christmas Eve.’

He bowed at the neck, and apologised for his off-duty outfit of neatly pressed corduroy trousers and smart red jumper.

‘I’m off to a carol concert later. My wife’s singing with a choir in Burnham Market. I hope you don’t mind, ma’am.’

‘Not at all,’ the Queen said. ‘Very appropriate.’

‘I was hoping to give your private secretary a quick update before Christmas. I got a bit held up, I’m afraid.’

‘You’ll have trouble seeing Sir Simon. He’s in Scotland,’ the Queen informed him.

Bloomfield frowned. ‘He rang first thing to find out how the team were getting on, ma’am. He sounded very keen to know all the details. I assumed he was here.’

‘Sir Simon’s on holiday,’ the Queen said sharply, making a mental note to tell the man in no uncertain terms, when he got back, not to do Rozie’s job for her while he happened to be away. ‘And I’m afraid Captain Oshodi, my APS, is getting ready to play football. My grandson has inveigled her on to his team. Can I help?’

Bloomfield took a couple of seconds to process the information. However, he gathered himself.

‘Quite possibly you can, ma’am. You’re familiar with the victim, I gather. I don’t want to intrude into your day. I’m sure you must be . . .’

He was somewhat distracted by whatever was going on behind her – almost certainly one or several of her children and grandchildren popping their heads round the door from the armoury corridor that led to the drawing room, to see who on earth this new arrival was.

‘You’re right, we’re very busy. But I have five minutes. Where can we . . .? Ah yes, follow me.’

In the company of the dogs, she led him to the far end of the room, where a doorway was almost invisibly silhouetted in the panelling beside the fireplace. It led to a small, dark, book-lined room with a desk. The Queen turned on the light and closed the door behind them.

‘So. An update,’ she said. ‘How encouraging.’ She didn’t sit down, because stand-up meetings tended to be quicker.

Bloomfield was still adjusting to his surroundings. He paused to look down at his trousers, where Vulcan was energetically sniffing his leg, and bent to give the corgi a reassuring stroke. The Queen had a lot of time for people who instinctively fondled the ears of friendly dogs. He straightened. ‘I wish I had better news, ma’am. Edward St Cyr was last seen in London on the fourteenth of December. My senior investigating officer is up there now. Mr St Cyr spent the night at his flat in Hampstead, prior to a meeting the following morning. He was certainly in a hurry. He was caught speeding twice on the A13 in his Maserati.’

‘He was rather known for speeding, I seem to remember.’

‘Ah. We can’t say for sure if he attended the meeting on the fifteenth. However, he wasn’t at Stansted Airport to meet his fiancée that afternoon. She couldn’t get hold of him, so she reported him missing the next day, which by then was the sixteenth, eight days ago. We weren’t unduly worried because he was known to go off grid occasionally. People go missing more often than you might think, ma’am.’

‘Oh, I know,’ the Queen said. She was familiar with the statistics, which were grim. It was alarming to discover how many of those who were subsequently found had good reasons for staying away.

‘Of course, this identification casts a new light on everything,’ Bloomfield said. ‘The Maserati’s still parked outside the flat; the friends have heard nothing; St Cyr’s phone hasn’t been used since he first went up to London. There’s no record of him leaving the country. We’re confident the DNA analysis will confirm the hand is his.’

‘Oh, dear. Does anyone at Abbottswood have any light to shed on what happened?’

‘No, ma’am. Mr St Cyr lived alone, unless his fiancée was visiting. There’s a cleaning lady who comes in three times a week, a local cook who obliges on request, and a groundsman who lives in the gatehouse, but he wasn’t there.’

The Queen nodded. A few decades ago, a place like Abbottswood would have bristled with servants, but it didn’t surprise her that Ned might rattle round his house these days.