by J B Holman
‘No, sir. I didn’t actually see him sign. But it was him and it was his gun.’
‘Why didn’t you see him?’
‘One of the racks at the back fell over and I had to pick it up.’
‘It fell over . . . by itself?’ The question was unanswered. ‘Has it or any other rack ever fallen over by itself before?’
The answer was so timid as to be almost inaudible. ‘No, sir.’
‘And while you were picking up the gun rack, Foxx left with the gun, leaving his signature, or what looked like his signature, behind him?’
The clerk nodded guiltily.
‘Did you see him clearly when he arrived?’
‘No, sir. He had a hoodie on, but he said his name was Foxx and he had the pass code. So I let him in.’
‘Unchallenged?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Did you recognise him?’
‘I’d never seen Foxx before, so I just assumed.’
‘How tall was he?’
‘I don’t really know, he was walking with a stoop.’
‘Guess. Was he nearer your height or mine?’
‘He was over six foot; tall, even when stooping.’
‘What else do you remember? Anything?’
‘He had a black hoodie, denim jeans, big boots, or shoes, probably a biker. I think he had a scar on his face, but it could have been shadow. As I say, he was wearing a hoodie. I didn’t really look at him. I mean, he was Foxx. You don’t look at Foxx, not with his rep. You just do what he asks. And I did.’
‘Yes, you did. You know the gun he took was used in the assassination attempt on the Prime Minister?’
‘Yes, sir.’ The ensuing silence was worse than the barrage: it was ten seconds that felt like a prison sentence.
‘That will be all.’ Storrington pressed a buzzer on his desk. The door opened and in walked two security officers. ‘Take him away.’
Farringdon Churney, with its thatched roofs, cobbled corners, Norman cross in the village square and ancient bridge over the River Churt was a once-picturesque village that was being consumed on three sides by anonymous new-builds to cater for the ever-flowing London over-spill. The satnav guided them to the unspoiled edge of the village and up a narrow lane where it was quiet, quaint and rural, dotted with picture book homes overlooking rural Essex countryside. The house at the tip of the lane was their destination.
‘When we come out, I must tell you about Antelope-Beaver,’ said Julie, as an aide-mémoire.
He looked blank and said such a thing was a genetic impossibility: the required mating position would conspire against species survival.
‘I’ve been calling round about the Anderson-Bevan Report and no one seemed to have heard of it. But there is an Anderson Report and a Bevan Report, but they are completely unrelated, other than they are both written by professors, but at different universities, following different disciplines. One is about Financial Savings in the Armed Forces and the other about Health Tourism and UK Abortion Procedures.’
‘So why did you link them together?’
‘I was told about them by Charlie and she linked them, or seemed to.’ His look negated the need for words. ‘Yes, I suppose you’re right. But they are linked inasmuch as Tenby was fretting about them both and from what I’ve heard he’s not a man that frets easily.’
Foxx pulled up and put on the handbrake. ‘This is it. It’s certainly pretty. Nice view too. Now, you keep quiet. I’ll find out what we need to know. In fact, you can wait out here if you want to.’
‘What? After the way you almost destroyed our relationship with the other Mrs Tenby, asking her intrusive nonsense questions about her sexual CV? No way. I’m coming in and may I suggest you leave all the sensitive questions to me.’
‘Don’t be stupid. I can do it on my own. I don’t need your help.’
‘You’re new to this, aren’t you?’
‘What? Interviewing witnesses?’
‘No, teamwork. I’m coming with you and staying with you. That’s how it works.’
Mrs Hoy had been shopping. She was tall, fit and handsome and had taken a detour to lure her husband out of the office. They sat for twenty minutes in an olde worlde traditional English tea shoppe, supping Earl Grey and Ceylon Orange Pekoe, respectively.
‘Storrington is getting really ratty with me.’
‘Maybe he knows.’
‘No, I’ve been really careful, but you know him: gut feel. Maybe he just suspects something. It’s a nightmare.’
‘Sixth sense. He’s an old blood hound. But if he doesn’t know, then he doesn’t know.’
‘He fired someone else today. If it goes pear-shaped and I get fired, that will really cock up the plan.’
‘Well then, my little man, you’d better win back his confidence.’
‘How?’
She poured another cup from the quintessentially English tea pot and scooped a large serving of Devon cream onto her over-sized English scone, ignoring the decadence and indulgence that epitomised the Western world. Turning a blind eye to her increasing bulges, she peered down on her husband who, even sitting, was a good deal shorter than her.
‘I don’t know. That’s your problem. But I know what we said in Iran. We made a pact. Nothing has changed. This is the most important thing in your whole life, the one true way for future happiness. Don’t screw it up.’
‘I won’t. But it’s Foxx that’s the problem. He was the clear, undisputed perpetrator. All I had to do was catch him and prove it, but the more proof that turns up, the less proof there is to pin it on him.’
‘Does Storrington still think Foxx pulled the trigger?’
‘I think he’s beginning to doubt it. But fortunately, he is fixated on getting Foxx, trigger man or not.’
‘Good. That works for us. That’s how to be golden boy again. Tell him your theory that Foxx didn’t actually pull the trigger. He’ll respect you for it. It’s vital he trusts you. Then catch Foxx. This is your way back in. Do it. And . . .’ she waited for him to finish the sentence.
‘Don’t screw it up.’
Hoy knew his wife was right. She was always right. But not yet, it was too soon. He knew Storrington. It was a matter of timing, and the time right now, was not right.
A wheelchair rolled its way down the corridor. Julie watched the well-dressed occupant press a button that opened the wide glass door.
‘Good afternoon, are you Mrs Elizabeth Tenby?’
‘Yes.’
‘Wife of Nickolas Tenby?’
‘Yes.’
‘We’re writing a piece for the in-house magazine about your husband and hoped you might spare us a few minutes to give us some background.’
‘Of course. Come in.’ They entered the beautiful white-walled, thatched cottage. The hall was dark, the floral wallpaper faded, the carpet had seen better days. It was tired, but homely - the outside of the house was smarter than the inside and if the height of the magazine piles was anything to go by, she had been there a long time. She checked their ID.
‘It’s lovely here,’ said Julie, as they left the darkness of the corridor and looked out of the living room window across the wide expanse of fields.
‘Yes, isn’t it? The only way they’ll get me out of here is in a box!’
She was well-dressed and finely preened. She had not known they were coming, so it was not on their account she had attended to her appearance. She was neat and prim, if a little stuffy, as was the house. It had piles of paper and a mass of books ranging from the theories of Karl Marx to the full works of William Shakespeare, but it was clean, tidy and cared for. There were fussy, frilly edged table-cloths on the numerous side tables that dotted the room; the pictures on the wall were free of dust; and the tea that arrived, after all offers of help were refused, was served in best bone china. It was all very orderly, except for the stairs, which were dusty, dark and used as a receding set of shelves. The downstairs shower room and bedroom were visible across the hall. Her l
iving was slow, sedentary and traditional; her husband’s was fast and loose. They were poles apart.
The conversation started with banal background around his school days and life in the RAF, moving on to the lavish wedding in Henley.
‘You know about the honeymoon in Bali, I suppose?’ said Elizabeth Tenby.
‘Yes, of course,’ said Foxx. These were three words he used frequently in interviews, whether he knew or not.
Julie lent forward.
‘You are separated now, I understand. That must have been upsetting?’
‘For him or me?’ Julie felt accused, of what she didn’t know, and waited for Elizabeth to continue. ‘It was after the car accident. Everything was upsetting.’ A curtness crept into her voice.
‘Was that when you lost the use of your legs?’ interjected Foxx, with his customary tact.
‘It was,’ she replied.
‘Greg, you know Greg from Nickolas’s squadron? He said you must have been a bit bitter about that: first him driving you into a wall, then putting you through the court case, making you say what you said then. Then, as soon as he was free, separating and basically disowning you. I mean we won’t print any of this because we are doing a celebration of his achievements, but secretly you must be pretty upset with him.’ Foxx had gone in with all barrels firing.
‘Yes, except for one thing, he . . .’ Elizabeth paused. Julie held her breath. Silence hung. Elizabeth faltered. Her mind changed. ‘No. Nothing.’
Foxx stared into her eyes. What was she not saying? Was she still protecting her husband after all these years? He tried to read her thoughts from her expression: protecting him or protecting herself? There was selfish in her eyes. No compassion, just deceit. Realisation dawned.
‘You were driving. It was you that nearly killed that little girl and you let Nickolas take the blame.’
‘No comment.’
‘Is that why he left you? You nearly wrecked his career.’
‘Think what you like, but we talked at the time about him becoming Prime Minister one day and he could hardly socialise or network if he was at home looking after me, or go to glamorous balls with a wife in a wheelchair, so I left him. It was best all round.’ She made it sound very simple and business-like. Her manner was soft, gentle and altruistic; a demure village lady, but with an edge. The local Woman’s Institute would not want to get on the wrong side of her demeanour. Foxx pressed on regardless.
‘But you didn’t divorce?’
‘No. My only conditions were that we remained married and he got me this house. Then he took up with a series of dreadful little airheads. The latest is the worst. I wouldn’t give her the time of day. But I’m wise enough to know that when her natural talents start to head south, he’ll be off. I’ve seen it before.’
Julie was straining to understand how the relationship between Elizabeth and her husband worked. ‘Do you have much to do with him now?’
‘No, I haven’t seen him for over five years. I worked for him for a while, as his secretary. He was new to SSS and needed someone he could trust, so I said I would help him out. Once he was established, I left and I haven’t seen him since.’
‘Does that bother you?’
‘No, of course not. My life doesn’t revolve around him. I don’t have much of a body, but I still have a brain.’
Foxx and Connor exchanged looks. This was a chase of the wild red herring. She hadn’t seen him for half a decade and knew nothing of his current life. This was a lead that would lead nowhere, so they asked enough questions about her husband’s early life to keep their cover intact, Foxx did a faux loo call to check around the house, then they finished their tea, thanked her warmly and left.
‘Oh, one last thing before we go,’ asked journalist Foxx as an afterthought, as he stood outside on the step. ‘If you had to describe Nickolas in three words what would they be?’
‘Charming, devious, ruthless.’
The Prime Minister looked over the top of a pile of Brexit papers at Mr Nickolas Morgan-Tenby, exasperated. His secretary and gatekeeper should have known better.
‘Does Commander Storrington know you’re here?’ asked the PM. ‘I agreed with him that all my business dealings with SSS would be through him and my public appearances would be with you.’
‘He asked me to come,’ lied Morgan-Tenby with natural ease. ‘He’s so bogged down with all the extra security details needed to stop another assassination attempt that he’s delegated this matter to me, and asked me to move it to the next step. I just need a quick signature of approval.’
‘I want to read the full report first,’ said the PM. ‘I read the executive summary, but with these things the devil is in the detail.’
‘I can assure you, Prime Minister, that there is no devil in this document and the detail is very boring. The full report is over 700 pages long. That’s why we gave you the executive summary, especially as you have a lot on your plate at the moment,’ he said, looking round at the paper piles of Alpine proportion that filled the room.
‘Appreciated, but seven pages to save close on a billion pounds is too stripped-back for me. I need to see the original report by Anderson and understand how we have adapted it.’
‘It’s very simple,’ said Morgan-Tenby, in the patronising voice he normally reserved for Charlie. ‘MI5 reports to the Home Secretary, but is not part of the Home Office, but Special Branch is; MI6 report to the Foreign Office; and the rest of the military report into the Ministry of Defence. There is colossal duplication. They all work for you, as Prime Minister and Commander-in-Chief, so it makes sense that all the security and military services report in through the same channel. It would save hundreds of millions of pounds a year. The only other aspect of note is that the head of your Special Security Service, at the moment Commander Storrington, should officially be appointed as Chief-of-Staff for all military matters. He is already the de facto Chief-of-Staff, this just makes it official. It’s just a series of simple administrative changes. One signature and we’ll take it off your hands.’
The Prime Minister was not going to be bounced into a signature. He was not new to politics, unlike his Liberal side-kick, so he knew that there was always a devil lurking in the detail. The only question was whether it was a devil that mattered, and today he didn’t have time to find out.
‘It needs proper consultation. Do nothing with it. Advance it no further. Talk to no one else about it. Shelve it until Brexit is signed off.’ Morgan-Tenby hadn’t finished, but the Prime Minister had, and the visitor was waved away.
‘What do you think? Waste of time, right?’ asked Connor, as she drove out of Farringdon Churney.
‘Meh,’ grunted Foxx.
‘She left him? Yeah right! You think she walked away from his family fortune to leave him clear to go on a floozy fest? I don’t buy it! Lust, greed, jealousy - they’re the root of all evil.’
‘I can’t argue with that, but I didn’t see any lust, greed or jealousy. I mean, she did owe him. He saved her ass. She was driving and only has herself to blame,’ said Foxx heartlessly.
‘Oh, and well done for not asking her how many guys she’s slept with.’
‘You still don’t get it do you? Standard C. A. B. technique.’
‘Citizen’s Advice Bureau?’
‘No. Common Adversary Bonding. If you can get two parties united against a single third party, it brings them together. We do it in Regime Destabilisation all the time. If you and Charlie both think I’m a dick, you apologise for me, she’s embarrassed for you and it gives you a basis for better bonding - a common adversary. In this case, me. And it worked.’
‘We would have bonded like that anyway.’
‘Prove it!’
‘I still hate you, y’know.’
‘Hi, Richard. This is Nick. Hope you enjoyed Charlie’s company the other night. Sorry I had to bail. Bad form.’ Tenby listened and made affirmative grunts, as the DPM spoke as positively and enthusiastically as he dared about spending an
enthralling and enjoyable night until the early hours, with another man’s wife.
Then Tenby continued.
‘Good. I’m glad you enjoyed it. Look, I’ve just been talking to the PM about this Military and Security Rationalisation paper. Y’know, the one that Anderson drafted? The PM loved it, but said if anyone talks to him about it before Brexit is signed, he’ll scream. He asked me to get you to read the synopsis and sign it off so we can move to the next step. I’ll have Lesley bring it over to your office. She’ll be happy to wait while you scan through it and sign it, then she can bring it back. We really need it for tomorrow’s project update, I’d hate to miss a deadline because you hadn’t signed it off. I know the PM is the one that should have signed it weeks ago, but he won’t remember that when he’s asking why we’ve fallen behind. Oh, and Charlie said she would love to come back over sometime. She found you fascinating. OK, cheers. I’ll send that document over. Bye.’
‘Hello Commander. This is Merikowski, Team Leader in Planning. I asked around. The consensus is that Foxx is six foot, six one at a maximum, and of the seven people I asked, six said he didn’t wear a belt and one thought that he might, but only a discreet, slim, leather belt, no buckle to speak of. Oh, and he’s also a local hero, revered in the Department; a role model for all the guys. I hope that helps.’
And it did.
Brekkenfield lived twenty miles and a short local train journey from Farringdon Churney. Foxx and Connor sat in the car in the station car park. Julie checked property records.
‘She doesn’t own the house. Tenby bought it and put it in her name, but it’s on a lease. It was a ninety-nine year lease originally, but he bought the fag-end.’
‘The what?’
‘It’s called a fag-end lease. If a lease has less than thirty years to run, no bank or Building Society will mortgage it and it sells a lot cheaper, but at the end of the lease you have to leave.’
‘When does this lease expire?’
