by Jack Gatland
He rose from the chair, throwing his napkin to the table.
‘The only question you’d need to ask is whether you’re prepared to spit or swallow.’
‘Oh, I think the committee would learn that I’m a very considerate lover,’ Charles said, forcing a smile.
Gladwell nodded. ‘Then I’ll be in touch.’ And with that Gladwell too was gone, leaving Charles alone.
‘You pricks,’ he muttered. God he needed a drink right now. Somewhere that he wouldn’t bump into any more Gladwell sycophants.
The Sports and Social Club it was, then.
Andy Mac lived in Wiltshire, near Avebury, but due to the long hours he worked in the God’s Will TV Studio, he’d bought a small one bedroom apartment off Teddington Lock, literally around the corner from the studios for the nights he simply couldn’t get home to his wife and daughter. And as the workload grew, so did the amount of time he stayed there.
It was minimalistic; Andy used it mainly as a base to sleep in so the walls were still the original white, there were only a couple of prints on the wall and his living room was basically a sofa, a TV with a YouTube Creator Award made of gold plated brass, given for one million subscribers next to it, an expensive spinning bike with a monitor screen attached and a coffee table. But it was the bedroom that really mattered. Egyptian sheets and pure cotton pillows on a king sized bed under a duvet filled with 100% Siberian Goose Down, this was a place for kings to sleep.
But Andy Mac wasn’t sleeping. Currently he was sitting on the edge of the bed, naked and with his head in his hands, unable to believe the stupidity with which he had excelled today.
It was true that Sebastian had been worth it; the muscled torso and ruffled hair of the sleeping man were visible on the bed, the duvet mercifully hiding the rest. But at the same time this was career killing. This was marriage ending.
This was so good.
Rising, Andy walked back into the living room, picking up the strewn clothes as he did so, a force of habit more than anything else. However, as he picked up Sebastian’s black denim 502s, he felt a slight vibration in the pocket. A phone, on silent mode, most likely.
He couldn’t help himself. With a small pang of jealousy, he pulled the phone out to see who was sending Sebastian messages. Was it a boyfriend? A girlfriend? Had Sebastian lied too?
It turned out that he had.
The message was a reply to a thread, one that showed up when Andy tapped on the screen. Only two messages, but enough to freeze Andy’s blood.
So what do you think? Can we do this?
Hell, yeah. Send me the best ones and we’ll finish the bastard once and for all.
Andy pressed the ‘pictures’ icon on the screen and it flooded into life with photos of Sebastian and Andy; kissing by the first aid kit, kissing in the apartment’s elevator, even intimate photos of Andy, his head between Sebastian’s legs as they sat on the sofa in the living room, Sebastian holding the phone up like a selfie.
Andy felt physically sick as he deleted the photos. Were they on the cloud? What had Sebastian already sent?
‘What the hell?’ Sebastian was walking into the living area now. ‘That’s my phone.’
Andy threw the smartphone at Sebastian, watching it clatter to the floor as it bounced off the intern’s bare chest.
‘This was all a lie?’ he exclaimed. ‘You did this for photos and money?’
‘All of this is a lie!’ Sebastian snapped back, waving around the apartment. ‘I don’t see any photos of your family here! You’re a character made for television!’
He didn’t manage to say anything else as Andy had quickly crossed the room, ramming Sebastian against a wall, his forearm at his throat.
‘What did you send?’ he hissed.
‘Nothing!’ Sebastian replied, now starting to get scared. He might have had age on his side, but Andy was bigger built.
‘Why?’ Andy said, throwing Sebastian across the room, sending him tumbling over the coffee table. ‘I thought we had something!’
Sebastian rose, his fear replaced by anger.
‘What, you thought that I could be awestruck by the great Andy Mac?’ he hissed, pulling on his jeans. ‘You’re a charlatan. A joke.’
‘Then why do this?’ Andy waved to the bedroom. ‘I mean, Christ, you let me—’
‘I know damn well what I let you do!’ Sebastian shouted back. ‘And for those photos, it was worth it! They’ll end you!’
‘What did I ever do to you?’ Andy asked softly.
‘You killed my mother,’ Sebastian replied. ‘Or at least you were one of the people that did.’
‘You said she died in an accident!’
‘An accident that you orchestrated!’
Andy stared in confusion at the young, naked man. ‘I don’t even know your mother,’ he said. ‘My assistant hired you—’
‘This was my mother,’ Sebastian said, pulling a folded old photo out of his jeans pocket and tossing it over to Andy. Picking it up off the hardwood floor, Andy opened the photo, staring at the image.
‘Oh my God,’ he said, understanding everything now.
‘Good,’ Sebastian replied. ‘Now you can tell me what really happened that night, or else I’ll take these photos and—'
He wasn’t able to finish the sentence as Andy grabbed the YouTube award and with a scream slammed it down into Sebastian’s head, the thin edge of the heavy award shattering the skull as it rammed through into the brain.
Sebastian stared in stunned shock at Andy, unable to speak, his mouth opening and shutting as the blood from the ragged hole in his head streamed down his face. And then, with an almost hurt expression, Sebastian fell to the floor, his eyes glazed and lifeless.
There was a frozen moment of silence in the room. Andy looked around it, trying to see where the phone fell. Spying it, he picked it up. It was locked, the impact with the hardwood floor causing it to restart. Luckily, it didn’t need a password, as it had face recognition. Forcing himself not to vomit, Andy held the screen up to the glazed eyed corpse. It unlocked, and slowly and methodically Andy deleted every single picture on the phone, ensuring that the deleted items folder was also emptied. He then checked to see if there were any cloud provider services linked to the photos, and was relieved to see that there wasn’t. The phone had been the only place the photos had been stored. And the message to whoever had replied had nothing either. It was simply the word of an intern with an infatuation with a star against the literal voice of God.
The voice of God who now had a half-naked, dead man in his apartment.
Grabbing the body and pulling it away from the battered award, Andy wondered if it was even worth getting dressed before he sorted this out; after all, the blood would get everywhere and it was easier to shower it off.
Andy thought about this for a moment.
And then he fell to his knees on the floor, puking violently before collapsing in tears, curling into a foetal position.
Andy Mac hoped that God hadn’t been watching this.
But he knew that whatever happened, he was damned.
8
The Memory Man
It was raining when Declan and Anjli arrived at the National Liberal Club, situated at the junction of Whitehall Place and Whitehall Court. An opulent, white brick neo-gothic building, it merged in with the surrounding constructions seamlessly, with the corner entrance an elaborate arch over a double wood and glass doorway.
Anjli stopped and looked at Declan as he paused at the doorway.
‘Well, are you coming in or not?’ she said. Declan nodded.
‘Sorry,’ he replied. ‘Bit of a memory. My dad was a member here.’
Anjli nodded back at this, aware of Declan’s recent bereavement.
‘I don’t know if I’ve said anything yet, but I’m sorry for your loss,’ she said. ‘I never met Chief Superintendent Walsh, but I heard he was a good man. And Monroe has always spoken of him highly.’
‘Thanks,’ Declan replie
d. He didn’t know what to say to things like this; usually he found that it was best to simply acknowledge and move on. Entering through the doors, they turned to the left where, in an alcove marked ‘Enquiries’, an ornate clock above it was the doorman, currently behind a chest high counter.
‘DI Walsh and DS Kapoor,’ Declan said, showing his warrant card. ‘We’re expected.’
‘Ah yes, Mister Farringdon,’ the doorman nodded. ‘He’s upstairs in the bar.’
Declan looked to the end of the hallway. ‘Up those stairs?’ he asked. The doorman nodded and returned to his work. With a look to Anjli, Declan shrugged and continued to the end of the entranceway. There the hallway opened into a large rotunda, a huge spiral staircase that ran along the white marbled wall in front of them, an ornate marble bannister circling up alongside as it rose up towards a beautifully designed glass ceiling.
Walking up the stairs, examining the paintings that seemed to watch them as they passed by on the deep red carpet, Declan smiled.
‘I came here as a kid, once,’ he said. ‘I was told off for wearing trainers.’
‘I’ve been here a few times,’ Anjli replied. ‘The Sherlock Holmes Society have their quarterly meetings in the David Lloyd room.’
They arrived at the door to the first floor bar, peering through the glass.
‘I am genuinely too poor to go in here,’ Declan mused as he opened the door.
It was a high ceilinged room, with red marble pillars running along each side, the space between each one either filled with the green wallpaper of the wall, or revealing a floor to ceiling bay window, complete with green drapery. Glass fronted mahogany trophy cabinets were beside several of the pillars, but as they walked past Declan wasn’t able to see what names were etched on the trophies inside.
Beside a bust of William Gladstone was a low table with three dark green leather armchairs. In one of these sat an elderly man in a military blazer. His white hair neatly parted to the right, he put aside a copy of The Guardian and stood to greet his guests, holding a hand out to shake Declan’s with a gait of a man who was once certainly in the military.
‘DI Walsh,’ he said, shaking Declan’s hand, before doing the same with Anjli. ‘And DS Kapoor. Alexander told me you’d be arriving.’
‘I’m guessing you’re Anthony Farringdon?’ Declan asked as they took their seats. Farringdon smiled.
‘For my sins.’ He replied. ‘Now, what can I help you with? Alex was a little vague when he spoke to me.’
‘Deliberately, I’m afraid,’ Anjli said, passing over the letter. ‘We wanted you to see this without prior warning.’
‘To test the old memory?’
‘More like ensuring that word of this didn’t get out yet,’ Declan replied, and was shocked to see an expression of fury cross Farringdon’s face.
‘Sir!’ the old soldier barked. ‘I used to control security for Downing Street itself! I would never reveal—’
‘Not you, not you,’ Anjli interrupted, waving Farringdon silent. ‘It’s just… Well, read the letter.’
His anger now placated, Farringdon opened and slowly read the letter.
He then read it a second time.
‘I see now,’ he eventually said as he finished reading, ‘yes, I understand. Terrible time.’
‘We were told that you might be able to help us with a number question,’ Anjli pointed to the corner of the letter. Farringdon leaned in closer, squinting.
‘Ah, that takes me back,’ he said, passing the letter back. ‘Let’s see. Ninety eight, four five, point seven six. Yes, that would be from the millennium batch. That is, the stationery printed after the start of the 2000 session.’
He leaned back, his eyes glazing.
‘So…’ he began before silently staring off into the air. Declan looked to Anjli who shrugged.
‘Monroe said he was the best,’ she said. ‘That he had a photographic memory.’
‘The term is eidetic,’ Farringdon said, still staring off into space, ‘and it’s been twenty years with over six hundred MPs in Parliament in any given time, so give me a moment.’
Returning to the present, he looked back at the letter.
‘The first part, the nine and the eight? If they were the other way around it’d be opposition, so that means that it’s Government. Which for the date on the letter, if it’s correct means that this would be Blair’s New Labour, near the end of its first term. The second numbers, four and five show that it’s not a Westminster Palace office, so backbenchers at best. If not there, it’d be the Norman Shaw building. And the last two numbers mean it’s third floor, room…’
He grinned.
‘Just before the 2000 to 2001 New Year… Then that’s Goldenballs.’
‘Sorry?’ Anjli now looked at Declan.
‘Blair’s golden boys. We called them Goldenballs. Three of them were in there before the 2001 election. It was a small office, too.’
‘Do you remember who they were?’ Declan asked, pulling out a notepad.
‘Indeed,’ Farringdon thought for a moment. ‘By the door was Shaun Donnal. He ended up being Junior Welfare Minister or something along those lines. Lost his seat in a 2012 by election. Dabbled in social activism during his time in Parliament, was almost picked to be a kind of grass roots, far left alternative to Blair, but then dropped off the map. Haven’t seen him for years.’
‘And the others?’
‘Hmm. Across from him was Andrew MacIntyre. Never really amounted to much, lost his seat in the 2010 election, Now he’s—’
‘Andy Mac!’ Declan exclaimed. ‘Bloody hell. He became a YouTube preacher?’
Anjli looked to Declan. ‘You watch his show?’
‘Only a bit of one,’ Declan replied. ‘He mentioned… Well, he mentioned me last week.’ He didn’t comment on the fact that it was a denouncement for Declan’s public punching of a priest on live TV.
Farringdon nodded. ‘That’s the one. Takes all sorts, I suppose. Lost his seat on a Thursday, found God by end of play Friday.’
‘And the third?’
Farringdon looked over to one of the stewards. ‘Peter, be a dear and pass me that Daily Mail, will you?’ he asked. The steward took a newspaper from the rack and brought it over, placing it on the table, facing upwards.
MEET THE NEW BOSS?
Farringdon tapped the photo of Charles Baker.
‘That bugger right there,’ he said. ‘Swapped teams in 2003, hasn’t stopped rising since.’
Declan picked up the paper, staring at the image. So Victoria Davies was pregnant, scared of her husband finding out that it wasn’t his baby and had written her sister a letter from the offices of Britain’s most popular Internet TV preacher and the next Prime Minister of the UK, among others.
‘Anything else I can do for you?’ Farringdon asked. Declan rose, putting the notepad away and shaking Farringdon’s hand.
‘Believe me,’ he said, ‘you’ve helped us out a lot here.’
Turning to leave, Declan stopped as Farringdon spoke again.
‘Your father. Good man. Didn’t have a heart attack.’
‘What do you mean?’ Declan turned to face the old man, still in the chair.
‘I mean I knew your father, DI Walsh. Patrick was a mainstay here. Fit as an ox. And no matter what they say, he didn’t ever drink and drive.’
Declan nodded.
‘Thank you,’ he said.
‘Make it right, boy,’ Farringdon continued. ‘Your father told me about you. Ex-military speaks to ex-military. Make it right.’
And with that, his point made, Farringdon curtly nodded and went back to his reading.
Leaving Anthony Farringdon to his papers, they made their way back into the rain, standing outside the National Liberal Club as they tried to make sense of this.
‘A ghost, a preacher and the next Prime Minister,’ Anjli said. ‘If we added ‘walked into a bar’ we’d have a cracker of a joke. But one of them had to know Victoria Davies well.’
‘Allegedly,’ Declan replied. ‘She might have found the sheet of paper by other means.’
‘Not one of them came forward when she died. I read the notes,’ Anjli muttered, frowning at the rain. ‘Baker, MacIntyre and Donnal were all at the party. They’re on the guest list.’
‘Not surprising,’ Declan waved for a cab. ‘Think about it. Five months before a General Election? The possibility that one of them was about to be outed as an adulterer and a soon to be father? They didn’t want this over their heads as they went to the polls.’
‘The truth will always come out,’ Anjli muttered as the cab pulled up beside them.
‘Eventually,’ Declan agreed. ‘But back then? This was a secret worth keeping silent, whatever the cost.’
‘So you think one of them killed her?’ Anjli climbed into the cab as Declan followed. He thought for a moment, then pulled out the envelope as Anjli gave the cab driver the address.
‘And then they’ll remove him, maybe in an ‘accident’ like that bitch Sarah,’ he read from it. ‘I don’t think it was the first time, either. Even decades later, this could be dangerous.’
Anjli grinned.
‘As long as there’s no priests to punch, we’ll be fine,’ she said as the cab pulled away from the pavement, en route for Temple Inn.
9
The Camera Never Lies
Monroe was talking to Billy as Declan and Anjli entered, Billy currently working on a computer as Monroe leaned over, watching the monitor.
‘Ah, excellent,’ he said as they walked over. ‘So go on, tell me what we have.’
Anjli opened her notebook and gave Monroe an account of the meeting with Farringdon, and the three MPs that shared the room the letterheaded paper had come from. On hearing Shaun Donnal’s name however, Monroe raised an eyebrow.
‘Donnal, eh?’ he asked. ‘He’s quite popular these days.’
