The Last Queen of England by Steve Robinson Page A

he tried to keep up with Jean, briefcase clutched to his chest.
    When they reached the bottom Jean grabbed Tayte and led him into a white-tiled tunnel that was bright with overhead strip-lights.   He saw maps and signs for train destinations.   All were a blur as they ran through the people against a warm breeze that grew with the rumble of an approaching train.   A second later they were on the northbound concourse just as a train arrived, clicking over the tracks, screeching as it slowed.
    “We made it!” Tayte said.
    He ran out to meet it but Jean grabbed him again and pulled him back, pinning him to the wall as people continued to pour onto the concourse behind them, all predictably heading for the train.   Tayte saw plenty of grey suits go past, their backs to him and Jean as they went with the flow of the commuters heading home.
    “There he is,” Jean whispered.   “Keep low.”
    Then they ran back out, following the signs to the streets above where Tayte filled his lungs with the cool city air.   He pulled out his phone to call DI Fable and smiled to himself, just happy to be alive.
      
    DI Jack Fable was in a control room at New Scotland Yard studying live CCTV feeds from the national surveillance network.   A manhunt had begun.   All available police units in the area had been called in and a perimeter was fast being established, locking down a quarter-mile radius around the scene of the shooting at Waterloo Place where two Security Service officers were confirmed dead.   They had no idea where the passengers of the silver Audi were until Fable answered his phone.
    “DI Fable.”
    “Fable?   It’s Jefferson Tayte.   We’re at Piccadilly.   We’ve been attacked.”
    Tayte sounded out of breath.   A little panicked.
    “Try to remain calm, Mr Tayte.   We know what happened.”
    Fable had already seen footage of a silver Ford Mondeo blocking the road at Waterloo Place where the Audi had come under fire.   He’d seen a masked man in a grey suit get out of the Mondeo and he’d seen the Audi veer and crash.   The entire gunfight between Hampshire and the assailant had been caught on camera from two different angles, right up to the point where Hampshire went down and the masked gunman walked up and put another bullet in him for good measure.
    “Are you safe?” Fable asked.
    “We’re okay.   We managed to give him the slip on the subway.   I think he could have taken a train on the Bakerloo line, heading north.”
    Fable cupped a hand over his phone and spoke to one of the surveillance team.   “Put a call out,” he said.   “SO19 to Piccadilly station.   Cover all terminals on the Pic line and Bakerloo.”
    He went back to Tayte.   “Firearms officers are on their way to you,” he said.   “Can you give me a description of the man?”
    The surveillance team had been busy working on the continuity of the images between the camera handoff points.   They had followed the gunman north towards Piccadilly Circus, losing him somewhere along Regent Street as the rush hour hit full flow.   They had little by way of a description to go on.   After a pause, Tayte came back on the line.
    “I didn’t see him myself,” he said.   “But Jean did.   He’s about six feet tall.   Medium build.   Dark hair.   She says she’s sorry but she can’t single anything else out about him.   Just a regular looking guy, I guess.”
    Great , Fable thought.   A regular looking guy with dark hair, wearing a grey suit in London during the Monday evening rush hour.
    Fable sighed, “Okay, here’s what I want you to do.   There’s a department store opposite the Eros statue - Lillywhites.   Go inside and wait there.   I’ll have someone bring you in.”
    “No,” Tayte said.   “We’re not coming in.   We’re getting a cab.”
    Fable thought he heard the familiar chatter of an idling diesel engine in the background.   “You’re not safe,” he said.   “You need to come