You Think You Know Someone

by J B Holman

  ‘How are you going to stay living in this house when the lease expires?’

  ‘My personal finances are none of your business. And nor is it any of your business if my husband is a mean, selfish, uncaring bastard. Now go. You’re trespassing and I‘m calling the police.’ She clicked a button and the door closed, she picked up her phone and started dialling. The unwelcome visitors left.

  ‘That was a waste of time,’ said Julie.

  ‘Not entirely. We know that she knows who we are. She’s getting her updates from the inside and not from the media, and she’s sensitive about the lease.’

  ‘D’you think she’s behind it all to get her lost love on the throne?’

  ‘What? In return for a lease extension? Nah. I don’t see it. I don’t think she’s working with Tenby. It seems unlikely. I mean, she loathes him. Why would she be working with him?’

  ‘She must be. It is a pincer movement on the DPM. He’s just the pawn in all this. The Tenbys are in cahoots for sure.’

  ‘Proof?’

  ‘Gut feel.’

  ‘Not convinced. We need to find a glass of wine and somewhere quiet. We have a puzzle to solve.’

  27

  Joining the Dots

  Hoy knocked firmly on the door. His heart was in his mouth, as if the door belonged to the headmaster and he was about to be expelled. He loved his job. He loved puzzles, investigations and solving crimes, but he was a backroom boy and proud of it. He hated confrontation. That’s why his wife won every argument. He never argued, he just agreed. He thought she liked it. She thought of it as his one failing.

  And now, still bruised from the Morgan-Tenby lambasting, he was knocking on the door of the most powerful man in the country to tell him he was wrong. This was not going to go well.

  ‘Come in.’ Storrington was standing. He indicated to Hoy to sit.

  ‘Sir, I want to talk to you.’ Storrington took a pinch of fresh snuff from a tin that must have dated back to Victorian times and sniffed. ‘Foxx is our number one most-wanted. We have Operations out looking for him, we have the police tracking him down for the Brighton killings, you have your own team on high alert to take him down and I have all my investigators scouring a world of evidence to prove it’s him. Well, the thing is, you see, I . . .’ He stalled.

  ‘You what?’

  ‘Well, sir, I . . .’

  ‘For god’s sake, just say it, man.’

  ‘I don’t think he did it.’

  Storrington just stared. The need for justification had come. Hoy held up the report, but put it down again. This was not a reading exercise. He shuffled uneasily on the chair and prepared to speak. Storrington, bored of the silence, filled the gap.

  ‘Foxx is six foot tall. The shooter was my height, which is six foot four. Foxx is not a belt wearer, certainly not one with a large metal buckle, like the one that would have caused the scratching on the concrete. He’s never been seen to wear steel toe-cap shoes and we found none in his flat, but the sniper does. Foxx is a good and competent agent with a fearsome reputation, but he’s not a sniper, never has been. It was a tricky shot. And as far as I can find out, he had no motive. Is that what you were going to say?’

  ‘No, sir. I mean, yes, sir. I was going to say, he didn’t have time between leaving the office and getting home to get in place and take the shot. Also, he left too many clues: the hat, the instructions with his name on it and, of course, his gun.’

  ‘And,’ continued Storrington, ‘the Quarter-Master never saw him sign the gun out. I had the signature checked by a graphologist, who said it wasn’t him.’

  ‘I don’t think he’s a killer,’ continued Hoy. ‘Well, I mean apart from those incidents in Azerbaijan and Georgia. I mean he is a killer, but not indiscriminate. He didn’t kill Sam Stone, he only choked him out. And he did warn us about Barrow, and the booby traps, which makes him either very arrogant or on our side.’

  ‘Yes, I agree. He left a bomb in Connor’s flat. He could have killed my men, but he didn’t. It was a flash bomb, just a lot of smoke and a big bang. It was a message.’

  ‘A message? Why didn’t he leave a note?’

  ‘But he is involved, deeply involved, I just don’t know how. Is he really on our side or bluffing? Is he in this on his own or in league with someone else, a sniper who is six foot four? And what about Julie Connor? Why is she involved? Is this to do with her position in GCHQ-2? She handles our top team’s email. I suspected that this might be an inside job, not Foxx, but someone else, someone senior, but I dismissed it as outside the range of credible possibility. Is it you?’

  ‘No, sir,’ said Hoy, taken aback. ‘Certainly not, sir.

  ‘No, I didn’t think it was, but I’ve been waiting for you to come and have this conversation with me first, before I was sure. For the record, it wasn’t me either.’

  ‘And it wasn’t Brekkenfield,’ added Hoy. ‘I checked.’ Storrington looked at him either surprised or impressed. ‘And Foxx checked him out too. I think Foxx suspects the senior team, but I can’t believe it. I have a different theory, but I am not convinced of it yet.’

  ‘What, that Connor is behind it all - she’s the mastermind?’

  ‘Kind of. What if Foxx didn’t kidnap her, but she kidnapped Foxx?’ he pondered. ‘What if she is using him, blackmailing him, or is his seductress? She lost the love of her life two years ago and has been quiet since then. This could be her revenge on a cruel world.’ Storrington didn’t entirely buy it.

  ‘I don’t envy you this investigation work, Hoy. With my job it’s a lot easier: there’s an enemy, you can see them and then you shoot them. Simple.’ He paused in a moment’s reflection. ‘Let’s take Foxx off the shoot-on-sight list, but we’ll keep Connor on it for now.’

  ‘OK, Chief, and I’ll change the direction of our investigations. There’s something here we don’t understand. We’re looking at jigsaw pieces, but we can’t see the whole picture. We’ve been looking in the wrong place. I’ve got the pieces, but to the wrong jigsaw. I’ll get on it.’

  ‘Well if anyone can sort it out, it’s you. You’re a strong asset to this Department. Just have more faith in yourself.’

  Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’

  ‘And your wife? Suzi, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I hear she’s pregnant. Is that so?’

  ‘Yes, how did you know that?’

  ‘You’re not the only one with sources and investigative ability. She’ll need you at home. Will you be taking paternity leave?’

  ‘Yes, sir, if I may.’

  ‘I insist on it. Solve this, keep the PM alive and you can have three months paid leave when she pops.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. I won’t let you down.’

  ‘No. Don’t. That’s the deal.’

  Julie sat on the bed, knees up, wine in hand, leaning against the headboard. Foxx sat on the chair, his feet on the mattress next to hers, pad on his lap. He stared at the pad, it was blank. He stared at Julie, she was silent. He stared at the puzzle book that lay unopened beside the bed. It spoke to him.

  ‘Join the Dots,’ he said. ‘We have to join the dots.’

  ‘What dots?’

  ‘There’s Tenby. He’s Dominion1431.’ He put a dot in the middle of the sheet, with initials next to it. ‘And he hired Dirk “Blackheart” Swengen.’

  ‘No.’ intercepted Julie, ‘those dots don’t join. Put Colin Lewis in the middle of them, then join Tenby to Lewis and Lewis to Blackheart. Remember? Tenby invited Lewis to a party at their house, Charlie mentioned it. Tenby then asked Lewis unofficially to put him in touch with someone in Black Ops, then Blackheart killed Lewis to cover his tracks.’

  ‘OK,’ said Foxx. ‘Then there’s you,’ he placed another dot. ‘And here is me. He asked you to get the plan, you asked me. So these dots can join.’

  ‘And you can join me to Blackheart, because Dominion1431 asked me to make contact and give Blackheart a coded instruction, just once. After that, any
dialogue must have gone on between them with burner phones or through some social media channel.’

  ‘Then there’s the Prime Minister. Where does his dot join?’ Silence. He showed her the pad with the dots.

  ‘That’s all the how, it’s not the why. That is how he did it, which we knew already. What we don’t know is why. We need more dots.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Bettie Slaker? She used to work for the PM as a speech writer, for Tenby as a secretary and for the DPM as an advisor; and she is Tenby’s wife, who is about to lose her house,’ suggested Connor.

  ‘OK. I’ll add the DPM too.’ They both stalled again. They were just saying names with no idea how or why they connected to the assassination.

  ‘So,’ added Julie, ‘what about Anderson and Bevan: abortion regulations and military spending cuts? Two unrelated issues that Tenby got aerated about.’ Foxx put two dots on the far corners at the bottom of the page.

  ‘What other select committees has he been on?’ asked Foxx.

  ‘Just a lot of political nonsense and posturing, nothing earth-shattering. There was one on Minimum Wage only applying to UK residents.’ Foxx placed another dot, ‘and that Housing Reform Bill and something about Student Voting Rights. That’s about it. Nothing sinister. Oh, and some Social Services Review and the Banking Bill, which was more about freezing and seizing assets of up-risers and terrorists. It’s all very random.’

  ‘What else do we know about him?’

  ‘He’s a nepotist. He’s getting his friends into top jobs in the Military, but I suppose that’s how it’s always worked.’ He scribbled some more dots, and flicked on his phone to the list of names he’d seen at Tenby’s house.

  ‘OK, Bettie Slaker, friend and advisor to the DPM. What’s she been up to?’ asked Foxx.

  ‘Well, she was fired by the PM after getting him into power, but latched on to the DPM, who everyone says will be PM anyway when Brexit is all done and dusted - without the need to shoot the current PM first.’ He poised his pen. That gave him no more dots to add, but he did connect a line from Bettie to the DPM. ‘I can’t think of anything else. What else is going on?’

  ‘Brexit,’ said Foxx decisively. ‘They say that the PM does seem to be doing a terrible job in Europe: poor trade deals, bad relationships and about to sign up to a Defence Strategy that weakens the country, shares our secrets and kills our Defence Industry.’

  ‘And Tenby has major shares in the Defence Industry,’ chipped in Julie. Foxx added a dot for the whole defence industry.

  ‘But the PM has no wriggle room. He has a minimal majority. That’s why he can’t get a decent deal done, so he has to settle for the most middling mediocrity he can.’

  ‘There’s unrest in the back benches,’ said Julie, adding what seemed like a political non-sequitur.

  ‘So?’

  ‘So, my mate Selina says there are rumours of a new party: a strong, decisive, centralist party that’s already gaining popularity. What if Bettie is working behind the scenes to build support for this party and plans to put the DPM in control of it?’

  Foxx dotted down a new party, then, stared at the myriad of disconnected dots.

  ‘What else is there? This makes no sense, no sense to us. No sense to us at all.’

  ‘Census?’ added Julie.

  ‘Ha, ha,’ he said, showing no humour. ‘I said: sense to us, not Census.’ The room collapsed into silence, as they stared at the dots. They stared. They thought. They said nothing. There was nothing more to say. The silence was complete and long and heavy.

  ‘Hoe. Lee. Fuck!’ exclaimed Foxx, as he scribbled lines between the dots like Van Gogh on cocaine, Matisse on amphetamines or Seurat on speed. ‘I don’t believe it! Cunning little bastard.’

  ‘What? What is it?’

  ‘It’s a coup! It’s a fucking coup. Tenby is planning a military coup to take over the country. He doesn’t want Storrington’s job, he wants the whole country. Oh my god. Brilliant. He’s a maniac!’ Foxx spun the paper around.

  ‘Look. Dirk shoots the PM, the DPM takes over pre-Brexit and appoints his best mate and buddy Tenby to head up SSS. Meanwhile, the Anderson legislation goes through. It looks innocent, but it makes Tenby all round Chief-of-Staff of the whole Military and also reinforces the civil unrest provisions already in statute, posing as anti-terrorist legislation, which no one will oppose. Then, with a thumping great majority behind him, because of the new populist, centralist party, the new PM takes a firm line with Europe and gets the deal we want. OK, that’s a bit of a leap, but he could at least get a better deal than the one that’s on the table at the moment, even just by starting all the negotiations again. Then, he’s a hero as we go into the post-Brexit implementation. That’s where the Census comes in.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘For the first time, the Census has recorded how long everyone’s family has been in the UK. That’s the one thing in common in all the pieces of legislation that Tenby has been involved with. Anderson’s abortion paper covers the wider implications of paying for health care in this country if you’re a foreigner. The Census allows a sliding definition of what a foreigner is. It could be a non-resident or - and this is the crucial bit - it could be someone who is a full resident, but has only been here for a year, or five years, or fifteen years. So with ease they could demand that anyone who’s moved here in the last ten years has to pay for their healthcare.’

  ‘And Housing Benefit and Social Services,’ added Julie. ‘They could all be matched to Census results and only long-term Brits qualify.

  ‘Yes’ said Foxx getting more exited as he spoke. ‘And the minimum wage, and voting rights. It’s a barrage of legislation that disenfranchises anyone who moved here potentially since 1948. So once in power, out of Brexit and with a majority, they deprive recent immigrants of houses, health, jobs and the right to vote.

  ‘They’d go ballistic. There would be uprisings, rioting in the street.’ It slowly dawned on her. ‘Oh my god, he’s laid down all the pieces in advance.’

  ‘Exactly! As soon as there’s any trouble, which he would no doubt help to inflame, the civil unrest modifications take over and he declares martial law, seizes their assets, removes the PM and takes control. This list,’ he said, showing his phone screen, ‘are his key, high-ranking allies already signed up to the plan. Goodness knows how many more there are in the lower ranks. They’re all ready to enforce control. And that, my dear Connor, is a coup.’

  ‘We’re looking at a wholesale military takeover of the country?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Hoe. Lee. Fuck.’

  28

  Snuff

  The evening wore on. Lunchtime alcohol had worn off, but two further bottles of red kept their blood alcohol levels suitably high. Foxx and Connor were sitting together on the bed, clothed but entwined.

  ‘Shouldn’t we tell someone about the coup?’

  ‘Yes, Storrington. But that’s a conversation that’ll go better face to face and only when we’re no longer on his wanted list. We need to find Dirk,’ said Foxx, stating the obvious. ‘If you want to feed your new trigger-happy blood lust, he’s the one to aim it at. Then we can close in on Tenby and find out how much Slaker is part of this. But nothing will happen until after the Marseille trip. Blackheart will be in hiding and Tenby will be acting like the big shot Brexit negotiator.’

  ‘When’s the PM flying out there?’

  ‘The day after tomorrow - Saturday.’

  ‘Is he flying from Heathrow or Gatwick?’

  ‘Northolt.’

  ‘And the next attempt is on the plane, right?’

  ‘Hardly! Blackheart is working for Tenby, and Tenby will be on the plane, so I don’t think they’re going to blow it up! No, we can stand down for a while.’

  ‘I think we should get down there just to make sure that Tenby does get on the plane.’

  ‘Tenby will be on the plane. He’s not going to miss his Billy Big Bollocks Brexit negotiations.
Anyway, it’s Northolt, the airport equivalent of Fort Knox.’

  ‘So he couldn’t put a bomb on the plane anyway. So much for your plan!’

  ‘Except the crux of the plan is a plane switch.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter now, because it’s not going to happen.’ He topped up her wine, put her laptop out of reach and cuddled up close.

  Dirk Blackheart sat in a darkened basement bedroom of a cheap seaside hotel, staring at a computer screen. A lace bomb lay next to him, ready to be fitted along the wings and in the fuselage of an innocent plane flying into Biggin Hill from Torquay tomorrow. He would fit it tonight under cover of darkness, but for now he had other issues on his mind.

  The Prime Minister snuggled up to his wife. They’d been together since he was fourteen. Life without her was unimaginable.

  ‘I love being with you,’ he said quietly and gently. ‘I’ve enjoyed every one of our years together - every moment.’

  ‘Don’t make it sound so final! You’re only going to France tomorrow, not the moon.’

  ‘No, I didn’t mean that. I mean you’re the best wife anyone could ever want. I’m glad you got to be married to a Prime Minister, but I’m sorry he’s the one that will go down in history as the worst PM ever. That’s what people call me.’ She turned her head to look up at him.

  ‘No, that place has already been taken by your predecessor. It was he who got us into this mess. And Chamberlain, not to mention Eden or Alec Douglas-Hulme. You’re not even in the top ten worst Prime Ministers. You’ve kept the Party together, stopped the negotiations going pear-shaped and won billions back for Britain. And you’re definitely the best PM I’ve ever been married to.’ She kissed him lightly on the cheek.

  ‘Yes, I’ve been successful in not making a bad agreement, but that’s just stalling. I was wedged into an impossible situation. I wish we could go back and start again.’ Silence hung idly in the room. ‘I’ll resign after Brexit is done, not because it’s what the country wants but because it’s what I want. And I won’t be a non-exec at a bank or a large pharma company. I want to retire and spend time with you - all the years of too many hours, all the nights away and weekends going through red boxes; I just want time with you.’