It’s November 2023 and the Royal Train has been derailed inside a tunnel on the way to an engagement in Brighton. Flanked by Private Secretary Sir Peregrine Greaves and Jon Gilhall, her protection officer, Queen Camilla and the rest of her entourage are being lead to safety by train driver Stanley Briggs. 

But more danger awaits when the Royal party emerge into the daylight, as you will discover in this exclusive extract from Peter James’s new book The Hawk is Dead …

‘He looked over his shoulder and saw The Queen keeping pace a few yards behind him, with the trail of stumbling, shadowy figures behind her.

The Queen. It was The Queen. He couldn’t quite get his head around it. The Queen stumbling through the tunnel behind him. The Queen, who he should have delivered, proudly, to the platform at Brighton Station on the dot of 10.45.

Now instead he was hurrying, as fast as he could, trying to lead her to safety, unsure whether the northbound express had been stopped, or would appear and hurtle past them at any moment. 

Hurtle into the carriages of the Royal Train, some of which now straddled the northbound line.

Please don’t let that happen. At least they were well clear of the Royal Train now. And nearly out of the tunnel.

Please God. As he strode on, his mind was a maelstrom of thoughts, going over and over those moments after he saw the obstacle, whatever it was, across the tracks. Trying to think what he could possibly have done differently.

Read our exclusive extract from Peter James’s new thriller The Hawk is Dead 

Was there anything?

He raised his phone again. And this time he saw a single bar had appeared. Finally! Thank God, thank God! Still striding fast, he hit the button to call the signaller at Three Bridges. Nothing happened.

Come on, come on, come on! Then, suddenly, to his joy – and relief – he heard a voice. ‘Three Bridges Signalling Centre.’

‘This is an emergency call from the driver of the Royal Train,’ he blurted. ‘Your team rang me earlier. We’ve been derailed inside Clayton Tunnel and the train is straddling the northbound line. 

‘You need to stop all trains in both directions and cut off the electric power. Do you read me?’

‘Copy, driver. We had already been alerted. Power has been switched off and all train traffic, northbound and southbound, has been halted. Do you have any casualties?’

‘No, no, I don’t think so. Some minor injuries, no one seriously hurt.’

He felt so much relief flooding through him that he barely noticed, two minutes later, stepping out of the tunnel into brilliant sunlight, and the smell of grass and hogweed. He closed his eyes and mouthed a silent prayer.

Chapter 13

Monday 20 November 2023

Jon Gilhall was at The Queen’s side as they emerged from the tunnel into a deep cutting and the very distant cacophony of sirens. 

The train driver, looking ashen, was waiting for them. ‘Your Majesty, I – I don’t know what – what to say. There was something on the rail—’

She smiled at him. ‘Thank you for leading us out, Stanley. It’s a big relief to be back in fresh air.’ She turned to check on Sir Peregrine Greaves, and could see the rest of her party straggling some way behind in the tunnel. Then she addressed Gilhall. 

‘I feel I’ve walked out of a foul drain. It smells like a stagnant pond – and of soot, but there can’t have been steam trains for decades.’

‘I agree with you, Ma’am,’ he said, his eyes darting everywhere, along both sides of the cutting and up the grassy bank on either side for any sign of anything untoward, then at the tunnel entrance, the old brick surround and the darkness beyond, from which more and more of the passengers were emerging then stopping and standing, looking grateful to be breathing in fresh air. Some of them clearly shaken, others fine.

Jon Gilhall radioed his colleagues; PC Julian Dambe immediately updated him. He confirmed all trains had been halted and the power turned off. 

A police helicopter would be overhead in approximately five minutes. Vehicles to transport the royal party would be on the scene shortly.

‘Can you see a service lift, Jon?’ Dambe asked.

‘I’m looking at it.’

‘There are two BTP [British Transport Police] officers with a key to operate it on their way, for anyone who is not able to climb the steps. You can see the steps?’

He stared at the steep concrete steps. ‘Roger that. I can see the steps, yes, yes.’

‘They lead up to a farm track, where the vehicles will be arriving. I’m informed there’s also enough space for a helicopter to land, and a royal helicopter has been scrambled – it will be here in twenty minutes.’

‘Copy that,’ Gilhall said.

Ending the call he turned to The Queen. He was concerned that they were all vulnerable here by the tunnel entrance. 

Any potential assailant had the height on them. He weighed his options. He could lead his boss back into the relative safety of the tunnel until the whole area was secure, or up the steps. Back into the tunnel was the sensible option. He explained it to her.

The Queen looked at him for a moment as if he was mad. ‘I’m damned well not going back into that stinking tunnel, Jon. 

‘If you’re worried that I can’t climb those steps at my age, then think again!’ She turned to Greaves. 

‘Are you up for climbing them, Perry?’

He nodded resolutely.

She turned to check again on the rest of her party. They were some distance behind them, slowly but steadily picking their way along the rough walkway.

‘You go ahead, Your Majesty, I’ll bring everyone else up,’ Briggs said.

She signalled to her Protection Officer. ‘Let’s go.’

Gilhall suppressed a smile. He admired the fact that, despite the ordeal she had been through, her torn dress and dishevelled hair, she still had poise as she made her way, sure-footed up the big, steep steps. 

He climbed them beside her, scanning everywhere with his eyes, Peregrine Greaves struggling behind them to keep up.

After several minutes of hard climb, Gilhall and The Queen emerged onto a grassy knoll and into a welcome stiff breeze. 

He led her away from the steps, looking around warily. Several blocks of concrete were scattered around, as if they were once going to form part of those steps but were then not needed. 

There was a winding track fifty or so yards away, and an expanse of farmland all around, and in the near distance the gentle wooded and bushy slope of the South Downs.

It was on the hillside that he focused his attention, feeling a deep sense of unease as he scoured it, and then the full 360 degrees around them, hand inside his jacket, close to his Glock. 

He was looking for any movement, any glint of reflected light. And hoping to hell that backup would be arriving at any moment. He knew his colleagues wouldn’t be far behind. Then he heard the voice of Sir Peregrine Greaves and turned.

‘I’m so bloody unfit!’ the Private Secretary said, gasping from the exertion.

He looked all-in, Gilhall thought. As if the climb had taken everything out of him.

Queen Camilla turned to Greaves. ‘Let’s sit down for a minute, Peregrine, and get our breath back.’ She pointed to one of the concrete blocks.

Peter James’ latest thriller, The Hawk Is Dead, is set inside Buckingham Palace and is said to have been partly inspired by the Queen 

Just as she did, there was a faint, distant sound, like the crack of a whip, and simultaneously Greaves’ hair appeared to lift up from his head.

For an instant. And for an instant, Gilhall thought that the wind had dislodged Greaves’ wig.

Then, fractions of a second later, Greaves’ head exploded, spattering blood, bone and brain in all directions.

Extracted from The Hawk Is Dead by Peter James (Macmillan, £22), to be published 21 October. © Peter James 2025. To order a copy for £19.80 (offer valid to 25/10/2015; UK P&P free on orders over £25) go to www.mailshop.co.uk/books or call 020 3176 2937.