by Jay Gill
Quite some time ago it had occurred to him that journalists these days had no respect for politicians and were intent on making ministers jump through hoops in an effort to increase audience ratings. Clearly this radio station considered their audience to be nothing more than a baying mob, ready and waiting to hear a minister hang themselves.
These days every interview left him feeling as though he’d spent the whole time avoiding a barrage of questions coming at him like jabbing spears. At any moment one of those spears could mortally wound his credibility or even end his political career. It was a hateful way to live, and a long way from the political life he’d hoped for back in his early days.
He’d studied politics at university and, like so many before him, had fallen in love with the idea of making a real impact on the lives of millions of British families. An avid, idealistic political student, he had been full of big ideas and even bigger dreams. His enthusiasm was infectious and even in those early days it had been clear he could captivate an audience. It was also during those wonderful days at university that he’d met the love of his life, Rowena Flynn.
He remembered standing on stage and seeing her walk in late to a lively ‘drinking and debating’ evening. She was with her boyfriend of the time, a self-centred chap called Matty Hawkins, who was more interested in every other woman in the room, and what he might be missing out on, than the girl at his side.
Brannon could still remember the feeling of speaking to that audience on autopilot as his eyes followed Rowena around the room. Eventually, she had glanced up at him, and as she caught his gaze, she’d flashed him a shy smile and self-consciously adjusted her clothes a little. In that moment, his life had changed forever. He’d felt something he’d never felt before; he wasn’t sure what it was, but he knew he had to know her. The possibility of talking to her had both scared him and excited him in equal measure. Until that moment he’d felt shy and awkward around women, but suddenly he felt unstoppable. He knew with absolute certainty that nobody, certainly not Matty Hawkins, would stop him pursuing this beautiful young woman and convincing her he could make her happy for the rest of her life. He was right. Within eighteen months they were married.
Today, forty-five years later, they were still together and more in love than ever. Their youthful ideals may have changed as the practicalities of a career in politics, a mortgage and children had taken over, but Duncan wouldn’t change the good years they’d had together for the world.
Rowena had graduated with a first-class science degree and gone on to work in research for a pharmaceutical giant in west London. Duncan had managed a 2:1 in History and Politics and, after a shaky start, had eventually risen to the second-highest ministerial post in the land. Some day he still might reach the top job, if he really wanted it.
But four years ago, Rowena had begun showing signs of memory loss, and after a battery of tests and consultations, the diagnosis had come back: early-onset Alzheimer’s disease. And now, with the illness gaining a tighter grip on her each day, it wouldn’t be long until she’d need him full time. He was fine with that. Nothing mattered more to him than his darling Rowena.
Life could be cruel; he knew that. He’d seen cruelty manifest itself in many ways over the years. He’d held terminally ill children on hospital wards and seen the aftermath of atrocities by brutal dictators in godforsaken countries around the world. But in his opinion, nothing came close to the heartache of seeing the one you hold most dear slipping away from you in front of your eyes. Why did it have to be her? She’d dedicated her whole life to the pursuit of helping others.
She had been part of small research team that had developed a vaccine for a strain of river blindness. It had changed the lives of millions, and instead of receiving a Nobel Prize she was handed Alzheimer’s. Where was the fairness in that? She was still so young and vibrant and full of life, just like the girl he first met.
As her memory loss worsened, he constantly worried she might not return to him. The disease was like a slowly gathering storm: it never stopped moving; imperceptible at first but gradually growing and gathering force. Worry kept him awake most nights. He feared the day might come when his beautiful Rowena no longer remembered their love and the life they’d built and shared together.
‘Sir, are you okay? The car is ready.’ Eric Parker, the security officer, was standing in front of his desk. Parker was from SO1 Specialist Protection, part of the Metropolitan Police’s Protection Command. He smiled reassuringly at Brannon. ‘If you’re ready, sir? We’ve made provision for you to exit through the back. With the current threat level the way it is, it will be safer.’
‘Good. Yes, thank you, Parker. That will be great. I’m sorry – I was miles away. Let me gather my notes and we’ll make a start. I’m keen to get back as soon as possible.’
‘We’ll have you back home in no time, sir. A couple of hours at the most. We’ll use the blue lights if we need to. That’ll clear the road.’ Parker smiled as if using the blue flashing lights still gave him a thrill, then turned and nodded to the officer at the end of the corridor to indicate they were on the move.
He then radioed to officers stationed outside the building to let them know he was on his way out with the deputy prime minister. He reminded them, not that they needed reminding, that they were to be ready for anything.
Preparations complete, Parker took a deep breath and led Deputy Prime Minister Brannon to the waiting car.
Chapter Twelve
Parker sat in the front passenger seat beside Stanton, who was driving, and Brannon sat in the back. Parker was satisfied. They’d made it safely to the car and were now driving at speed to Deputy Prime Minister Brannon’s constituency of Wycombe. He checked his watch again and glanced over his shoulder. ‘Are you okay, sir? You look anxious.’
‘Yes, thank you, Parker. I’ll be glad to get home. Rowena hasn’t been herself for the last couple of days, so I’m keen to get back and check on her. I could have done without all this, but duty calls.’ Brannon smiled weakly.
‘Sorry to hear that, sir. Please pass on my regards to Mrs Brannon. If there is anything I can do, you only need to ask. Oh, and Georgina sends her best wishes. She wanted me to let you know she is praying for you both and that she hopes to visit again soon. That is, when Mrs Brannon is feeling up to it.’ He and his wife, Georgina, had recently spent a pleasant afternoon at the Brannons’ home and his wife was keen to return.
‘Thank you, Parker. I’ll speak to Rowena. I know the last visit did her the world of good. Please thank Georgina. Tell her we still talk about her delicious fruit cake.’
‘I will, sir. Thank you.’ Parker looked at his watch. ‘We shouldn’t be long now. I’ve heard from a traffic officer ahead the road is clear.’ He was well aware of Mrs Brannon’s condition and felt for the deputy prime minister. He genuinely liked the Brannons; they were good people. They’d always been considerate and respectful. Unlike other ministers he’d served, some of whom had been self-important at best, the Brannons were regular, down-to-earth people. On occasion they were almost too welcoming, and Eric had to remind himself he should keep a professional distance.
Parker looked out the window as they passed the junction for Old Beaconsfield. They were on the M40 motorway. The M40 hadn’t been his first choice; he preferred to use the M4 whenever he could. He knew it and the roads exiting it better. Today, he’d had no choice; the M4 was snarled up due to an overturned lorry. He’d had to change his plan and that made him uneasy.
He sat back in his seat and tried to relax. Why was he worrying? he chided himself. He never used to worry so much. The traffic out of London had been slow for only a short time.
Now they had broken free of the city traffic and were moving at speed. He checked his watch again. Ahead of schedule: good. Stanton was level-headed and good behind the wheel, the right choice for today’s assignment. The killing of McPherson had been audacious, and though no one would admit it, they were all on edge. Parker certainly didn’t
want to be known as the protection officer who had failed to protect the deputy prime minister.
He watched the lead vehicle begin to slow as they moved off the motorway and onto a slip road towards the Handy Cross roundabout. It was a big and unpopular interchange with multiple lanes, multiple exits, multiple traffic lights. It handled a huge volume of traffic going in and out of London, heading to and from the south coast, as well as to and from Oxford and beyond, and was always busy.
Ahead of them now Parker could see the flashing blue lights of a BMW police motorbike parked on the pavement. There was no sign of the officer who owned the bike, and the roundabout was quickly becoming congested.
‘Shit. What the hell is this?’ muttered Parker. ‘What use is it having an officer here if he isn’t keeping the traffic moving?’
Stanton looked over at Parker and, stating the obvious, said with anger, ‘This was supposed to be clear. We can either sit in this or I can hit the lights and siren.’ He wasn’t asking permission, and without waiting for a reply he turned on their blues and twos. The lead vehicle did the same.
Parker laughed. ‘I guess we’re not joining the congestion.’ He turned to Brannon in the back. ‘Stanton will have us out of this in no time, sir.’ Parker turned in his seat as they passed the police motorbike. Where was he?
The first armour-piercing round, with its strengthened body and specially hardened and shaped nose, penetrated the windshield. It tore a massive hole in Stanton’s chest. As Stanton’s body slumped sideways, the lightly armoured car accelerated forward, then veered sharply right before coming to rest against a silver transit van.
Without hesitation, Parker twisted in his seat and started for the rear of the vehicle in an effort to protect the deputy prime minister. A second bullet punched through the windshield. The round tore out a large portion of Parker’s lower back, severing his spine and devastating his internal organs.
Deputy Prime Minister Brannon was frozen to his seat. He looked around helplessly, his eyes pleading for help from the passengers in vehicles either side of him. Brannon’s final thoughts, right before two rounds tore apart the topmost half of his body, were of worry for Rowena.
The act of murdering Deputy Prime Minister Duncan Brannon took no more than sixty seconds. The repercussions would be felt for decades.
The traffic officer carefully packed away his rifle. He put his helmet on and, with the visor down, walked casually from his position of cover back to his police motorbike. To avoid suspicion he began questioning onlookers and taking witness statements. Audaciously, he even assisted security officers for a time while they closed off the area. During the chaos and confusion that ensued, he mounted his BMW police motorbike and slipped away. But not before making a phone call and leaving a message.
‘Hardy. No tricks this time. I’m sorry I had to use you the way I did last time. Anyway, I wanted you to be the first to know that number two on the list has been ticked off. Tick! You know, it never had to be like this. I wish with all my heart there could have been another way.
‘Bye for now. We’ll speak again soon.’
Chapter Thirteen
Home Secretary George Norton and Prime Minister Angela Lafferty were finishing their meeting when the PM’s phone rang.
‘Please take it. I’ll catch up with you later,’ said Norton. ‘I’ve covered everything for now.’ He stood and began collecting his papers, slipping them into a leather folder. He could feel his own phone vibrating in his jacket pocket but he ignored it. He knew what the call was about and was more interested in catching what the prime minister had to say.
Lafferty answered the phone and her eyes immediately turned to Norton’s. ‘Oh, dear God, no. Are you sure it’s Duncan? Clear everything else for today. I want to be kept informed of every development.’ Lafferty put the phone down and turned to Norton. She was visibly shaking. ‘There’s been another attack. It’s Duncan Brannon. They’ve killed him. Two protection officers as well.’
‘What? When?’ asked Norton.
‘It happened a few moments ago.’
‘That seals it. I know you don’t like it, but you must now reconsider my proposal to restrict your movements. No more public appearances. I know the security services are in agreement; I have already discussed scenarios. We need to get on top of this as quickly as possible. I think we should make an urgent press statement.’
The PM’s personal secretary announced over the desk intercom that Detective Chief Inspector Hardy was holding on line two.
‘Tell him I’ll speak to him later,’ said Lafferty. ‘Could you please get me the home number for Rowena Brannon? I need to speak her as soon as possible and offer her my condolences.’
The prime minister looked pale, and Norton wondered whether this was the right time to mention the need for decisive action. He was keen to do so and pledge the usual: that no stone would be left unturned in the hunt for those responsible for these atrocities. He decided it was better to leave it until later. Instead, he would tackle another concern.
‘You look like you have something to say, George.’ The prime minister’s customary warm eyes had become stormy. ‘If you do, then spit it out, for God’s sake. We don’t have time for pussyfooting around.’
‘I know we want as much input as possible, and this may sound counterintuitive, but I wonder whether we should reduce the number of information channels you receive. My concern is that decision making could become difficult with too many conflicting viewpoints.’
‘I’m not sure I follow.’
‘A good example is Detective Chief Inspector Hardy. Thoroughly capable chap, I’m sure, but we have our security and intelligence services working round the clock to provide you with the very best information. As Home Secretary, I wonder how wise it is to be taking advice from a homicide detective. I’ve done a background check on him, and he’s clearly an excellent policeman; there is no denying that. However, he does have personal issues.’
The prime minister raised her eyebrows, which encouraged Norton to continue. ‘He’s a widower. As I understand it, his wife was murdered a couple of years back in a knife attack – some sort of street attack. It means he’s juggling all sorts of responsibilities. The man is bringing up two young daughters virtually alone. And he’s not your average homicide detective: he seems to specialise in the most brutal homicide cases and serial killer investigations. I’m not sure whether they find him or he finds them. The situation with his wife must be painful, and by all accounts he thinks there are still unanswered questions. My point is that, all in all, it’s difficult to judge his mental state. I might also add, Brannon’s and McPherson’s deaths are a security issue and should be dealt with using the correct channels. With respect, Prime Minister, all this is way over DCI Hardy’s pay grade.’
The prime minister sat silent for a few moments, considering his words. ‘What do you make of the fact that the killers, whoever they are, are in contact with him?’ she asked at length. ‘Should we just disregard that?’
‘Not at all. I just think he should go through the correct channels. To be blunt, you’re too busy to have him calling you on a whim. Furthermore, you have him feeding you his theories and those of Scotland Yard, while at the same time our intelligence services are following their own lines of enquiry. It could all get very confused, very quickly. Ludicrous as it might sound, for all we know he may be part of this whole thing. I mean, you also bring up a valid point yourself: Why are they contacting him?’ Norton raised his hands to indicate that he, too, thought it far-fetched but that nothing could be ruled out at this stage. He was pleased with the way he’d got his points across and the way he’d introduced seeds of doubt into the prime minister’s thinking.
‘I hear what you’re saying, George, and I’ll take it under advisement. However, unless I see damning evidence to the contrary, Inspector Hardy stays on this,’ said Lafferty. ‘I need as many good people on this as possible. And the more lines of enquiry there are the better. It seems to me
we have nothing solid right now. As soon as we do, we’ll reassess. Let’s leave it there, shall we? Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must speak with Rowena.’
‘Absolutely. I’ll leave you to it. I’ll come by later and we’ll work on the press statement.’ Norton gathered his files and slid silently away, leaving Lafferty to her thoughts.
Chapter Fourteen
As usual, the drive home had been a nightmare. Michael Cutler stepped through the front door, shrugged off his jacket and kicked off his shoes. What a shit day.
‘Daddy’s home,’ cried his son Danny as he came charging to the door with his arms wide open.
At least Danny was pleased to see him. Cutler scooped him up, squeezed him, kissed him and lifted him over his head.
‘How long have I been gone? You’ve grown for sure. How old are you now? Eight? Nine? Ten?’
‘Nooooo! I’m five,’ Danny protested, giggling and squirming.
‘Only five? Are you sure? You’re too big to be only five. Anyway, if you were five, wouldn’t you have started school?’
‘I have started school! Stop being silly, Daddy. Come on, I want to show you my paintings.’
‘Where’s Mummy?’ whispered Cutler.
‘She’s changing Zachary’s nappy. It’s a real stinker.’
Cutler laughed. ‘Shall we hide down here, then, and wait for Mummy in the kitchen?’ Cutler carried Danny into the kitchen, where he poured them each a glass of fruit juice. Danny spread his latest drawings and paintings over the kitchen table and explained what each scene was. They both looked up as Cutler’s wife appeared in the doorway.
