‘Perhaps Fowkes himself is being blackmailed. Maybe someone’s using him to exert leverage over you. So he’s come up with this story.’
‘Doesn’t help. Because it doesn’t kill the story.’
Quine looked hard into Sandford’s eyes. ‘Robbie, shouldn’t you involve MI5? This is the security of the state, surely they can find a discreet way of dealing with Jed Fowkes?’
‘If only. Once maybe, not today. Can you imagine me telling all this to Sir Kevin Long or to Dame Isobel Le Marchant? I’d never be able to look them in the face again. Whatever the truth, it’d always be no smoke without fire.’ Quine could find no answer. Sandford paused, his worry lines more pronounced. ‘I don’t know,’ he continued. ‘Maybe Jed’s got to some warped point in his life. He’s so jealous, it’s worth his own destruction to bring about mine. Maybe I shouldn’t have shut myself off from him.’ He stirred the dregs in his coffee cup with a teaspoon.
‘You can’t think like that,’ said Quine. ‘You’ve said it yourself. This didn’t happen. Call his bluff. Dare him to do his worst.’
‘I wish I was brave enough.’ He covered his face with his hands. ‘But I can’t guarantee the outcome. I can’t be one hundred per cent sure there isn’t some tiny grain of truth in what he’s saying. That’s the nightmare. My rational mind tells me it can’t be. But because of the memory loss, there’s nothing I can say to prove it.’ He removed his hands and looked up. ‘To return to first base, the only way out is to find the truth. What’s true, what’s invented, what’s Jed’s motive. And I’m asking you to do that for me, Joe.’
Quine stared at him for a second. ‘You don’t ask for much, do you?’
Sandford slumped back in his chair; he’d shot his bolt. Quine felt the weight he must be carrying. And the loneliness. He also knew he could not refuse him, however inadequate he was for the task. It was not just that he owed him – even if Sandford didn’t see favours as trades – but that he was fond of him. He was a decent man. A good Prime Minister.
‘Of course, I’ll help,’ he found himself saying. ‘Succeeding is another thing.’
‘Thank you,’ said Sandford. He sat up with relief and pressed his shoulders back. ‘Thank you so much.’
17
Sandford peered out into the corridor and signalled thirty minutes to the bodyguard. Returning to his chair, he unwrapped the small red square beside his saucer, removed the piece of chocolate within, and silently revolved it in his mouth.
‘What do you need?’
‘Luck,’ said Quine.
Sandford laughed. ‘Controllables first. Money.’
‘I don’t want money,’ said Quine.
‘We’re entering a professional relationship.’ He grinned. ‘I hereby commission you to write a quick-turnaround biography of the Prime Minister. The Prime Minister will give you every assistance. He will tell his friends to speak honestly with you. Particularly those who knew him during that sometimes difficult period when he shared a flat with Jed Fowkes. You’ll be paid a monthly retainer and all reasonable expenses—’
‘Reasonable?’ Quine was enjoying the performance.
‘Only the best wine. Business class should you need to travel within Europe. Front of plane for intercontinental. The Prime Minister has a rich wife.’
‘Does she know?
‘Not yet.’
‘Sounds a good deal. I could do with the work. Do I get to take it to a publisher when it’s finished?’
‘Depends on what your research unearths.’
Silence fell, the game over. ‘This needs more than a biographer,’ said Quine. ‘It needs a strategy and resources. We have to investigate Fowkes, track him in the present, delve into his past.’
Sandford frowned in concentration. ‘I agree. All my instincts tell me there’s more to come. He’s setting up a drip-feed. He’s precise. He plans. He plays a long game. I need to go on the attack. Unsettle him. Flush him out.’
‘How?’
‘I’ve had one thought. Came from something Carol said.’
‘Can you share?’
‘Jed’s power rests on Morland-Cross. Unless he’s got a hold over him too, of course. I wouldn’t put that past him. Assuming not, I want to drive a wedge between them.’
‘How?’
‘Not sure. Leave it with me.’
‘Fine. As and when.’ Quine hid his disappointment. He suspected Sandford’s plan was more advanced than he was letting on.
‘Joe, you mentioned tracking Fowkes in the present. Meaning?’
‘Meaning this requires professional surveillance.’
‘As I’ve said, I can’t bring in MI5. Not yet anyway. You’re a journalist. You’ve tracked people.’
‘I’m not a spy.’
‘No, but—’
‘I’m a one-man band, a discredited hack. It won’t fly. You need a professional.’
‘Any ideas?’
Quine looked down at his lukewarm coffee. ‘Let me think,’ he said.
‘OK. I’ll leave that with you.’
‘I guess the final thing,’ said Quine, ‘is how we communicate.’
‘There’s no problem people knowing you’re doing a biography of me. You could tell your agent—’
‘If he’s still speaking to me…’
‘He will when he hears the Prime Minister is giving you full access. Say the deal is you write it first. You allow me to comment, though editorial control is yours. He flogs it for a vast sum to his favourite publisher.’
‘He’ll be even more pissed off if I then don’t deliver.’
Sandford got up again, went to the window and stared down at the street. He swung round. ‘Then let’s do it for real. Think of it, Joe, you’d be right back in the mainstream.’
‘Do I want to be?’
‘Course you do. I’m serious.’
‘One step at a time,’ said Quine. ‘We were discussing communication.’
‘Yes. The biography gives a cover. But my email, office phone and mobile are no good. The only safe conversation is face to face.’
‘We need a private email. Just short, sensibly coded messages.’
‘How?’
‘Let me think.’ Quine hesitated. ‘However I set it up, we can keep the names we’re using today. And put numbers or extra letters between the first and last names as they’re quite common. I’ll do 1234. So I’m jonathan1234moore. All lower case. You do abcd.’
‘OK,’ said Sandford, ‘do we have a deal?’
‘I need to nip out and get something. Have you got time?’
Sandford looked puzzled. ‘I guess …’ he began, but Quine was already out of his seat.
Five minutes later, he returned and showed Sandford two small mobile phones. ‘There was a phone shop in the high street. One for you, one for me. I’ve loaded a few quid credit on them.’ He handed one to Sandford. ‘There’s one contact I’ve added to yours – the number of the phone I’m keeping. I’ve added your number in mine. It’s one-off use only, then you chuck it.’
‘I know what a burner phone is.’
‘So you know the rule. One call or text only. More than that and a traceable pattern begins to emerge.’
Sandford stared down at the black object he was holding. ‘You know what they say. A secret remains a secret between two, but when it’s passed to a third, it’s no longer a secret.’
‘I understand.’ Quine extended his hand. Sandford shook it. There were no smiles now. ‘There’s one thing,’ he continued. ‘What happens in the hugely unlikely event… I mean it must be impossible…’
‘… that Jed Fowkes’s story is true,’ said Sandford. ‘That a girl died in my bed. That I caused her death in a black-out.’
Quine stayed silent. ‘If that proves to be the case,’ continued the Prime Minister, ‘then you’ll be sitting on the greatest political scoop of all time. With a best-selling book to follow on the destruction of a Prime Minister.’
‘You’re awake again.’ Carol stirre
d. ‘What’s the time?’
‘Dunno.’ He was sitting up, brain whirring.
‘Come on, it’s the middle of the night. You need to sleep.’
‘Thatcher didn’t.’
She turned to lean on her elbow and face him. ‘Not a good role model.’
Silence fell momentarily. ‘Actually…’ he began.
She now sat up, matching him. ‘Actually what?’
‘I had lunch with Joe Quine today.’
‘Why on earth would you do that? He’s damaged goods.’
Exactly the same words Mark Burden had used. ‘I thought you’d react that way. It’s why I didn’t tell you.’
‘Thanks for that.’
‘My pleasure.’ He said it lightly; she did not respond. ‘May I ask you one favour, love?’
‘Now?’
‘Yes. While we’re alone.’
‘All right.’
‘Can you set up a private email account for me on your computer, under the name of Paul Reynolds, to communicate with Joe? We’ve agreed a name for him too.’
‘What!’
‘Nothing illegal. He’s going to do some research for me. I need to go off-piste for it.’
‘Is it connected with the story you’ve been told?’
‘Yes, sort of. Best for now to keep it in the family – if you get my drift.’
‘Hillary Clinton lost the presidency because she ran a private email.’
‘This isn’t the same. It’s temporary. Just for one thing.’
‘Why not do it through Mark Burden?’
‘I don’t want this anywhere near Whitehall. The time may come.’
‘You’re being evasive, Robbie.’
‘Sorry. I don’t like it either.’
‘OK. I’ll set it up. What do you want your password to be?’
‘Carol.’
‘I suppose I should be flattered.’
He smiled weakly. ‘Because they’re common names we agreed some digits and letters to add.’ He wrote them on a piece of notepaper on his bedside table and handed it to her. ‘Just one more thing.’
‘What?’
‘Joe’s broke.’
‘Not news.’
‘So the deal is I’m hiring him to write an authorized biography.’
‘Bit premature, isn’t it?’
‘A week is a long time in politics.’
‘Now you’re being irritating—’
‘Could you organize payments to him? Advance five thousand to get him going.’
‘Five K!’
‘We … we’re hardly short.’
‘Why won’t you tell me?’
‘I will. Soon as. It’s an unusual situation. But done like this, nothing improper. I promise.’
‘Then at least before we make any further payments.’
‘OK.’ He turned on his pleading smile. ‘You’re a wonder, Carol. I mean it. I don’t know what I’d do without you.’
‘The trouble with you, my darling, is that you’re now too powerful to refuse.’
She rolled away, her back to him. He slid down and snuggled up, putting an arm around her. She patted his hand then gently moved the arm away. He knew he’d upset her, but he could see no other way.
He lay still for a few minutes until, as usual, a soft snoring broke the silence. As quietly as he could, he rolled back his side of the duvet, slid his legs out and tiptoed towards the door. He headed down half a flight of stairs into Carol’s study overlooking the garden – in easier times, the refuge where they’d snuggled up and watched TV.
His world felt pitched into uncertainty. What if somewhere out there lay concrete evidence or a credible witness?
What he could never tell Joe was a calculation that he disliked himself for making. If Quine found Fowkes guilty of a malicious conspiracy, Sandford was a free man. He might even gain sympathy.
If Quine found evidence against him – and tried to interest the media in his story – might not people mutter, poor old Joe Quine, he’s discredited, isn’t he? The loser of the biggest libel case in recent British history. The guy who was hoodwinked by one liar has fallen for another.
Win-win. The name of the game.
18
That, reflected Quine, was the most bizarre conversation of my life. He felt a surge of sympathy for Sandford. To be unable to dismiss the possibility of something so horrible must be terrifying. He was also beginning to feel contempt for Sandford’s tormentors, whether Fowkes was acting alone or being used by others.
Out in the street, he made two immediate calls. The first to the one person in the world he both trusted unreservedly and who might have a private link to the sort of help he needed. She suggested he come to lunch the next day. The second to Mrs Trelight to say he’d be away for a short while.
‘I’m missing you already, Mr Q,’ she said. ‘Did you have a nice time with the Prime Minister?’
‘He wants to make me Foreign Secretary.’
‘Don’t take us into any wars, please. Oh, someone called round to see you this afternoon.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, he said he worked for your publisher – or did he say agent?’
‘What did he want to know?’
‘He wanted to speak to you – said he had tried calling you.’
Quine was sure there were no missed calls except for Sandford’s PPS. ‘Did you tell him anything?’
‘Good heavens, no! I said you were a law unto yourself. Never knew where you might be from one day to the next.’
‘Thank you.’
It was the second time in an hour his agent had come up. He recalled his last contact with Riley Trueman a few days after the court case was over, when he had been preparing to go to ground.
‘Well, Joe, what are we to do with you?’ Riley had asked. ‘I’m still your agent and you’re still a great scribe. I can get you some ghosting. You’ll need to earn.’
‘Not interested, Riley.’
‘Or write one of your biographies. You could churn out a quickie on Theresa.’
‘Yes, quick and empty. Nothing there that interests me.’
‘You always manage to find something new with your subjects.’
‘Riley, I appreciate it. But I’m going to bed down for a while. Still got the camper van. And a few quid somewhere.’
‘It’s your life. Just promise me you’ll never write another word about Quentin Deschevaux.’
That was it. Quine couldn’t imagine what Riley would want from him now. Anyway he never left London. Perhaps he’d sent a minion. Or a tabloid sneak had sussed him out. Though he couldn’t imagine why.
Being confronted by London after so long away disconcerted him. He arrived at Paddington mid-morning, took the tube to Earl’s Court and a detour around the billionaires’ curves of The Boltons. The gate into the garden by St Mary’s Church was open; he entered and, finding himself alone, sat down on a bench, gazing at the dappled light filtering through the shrubbery. Did any resident of the encircling palatial villas ever enter this church or even this garden? How many of those houses were actually lived in? The oddity of the new global class of super-rich struck him. They dug down and down to give themselves space for cinemas, swimming pools, art collections – not to mention elevators designed to lower the Bentley to its temperature-controlled car suite. All to prevent the world around impinging no further than the walls they hid behind.
So much of this city had become impenetrable, lives lived, deals made, power exchanged, money appearing and vanishing behind a barrier of shadows. Could his book, his tiny gesture against this mockery of humanity, ever see the light of day? Back here, he was seized by a sense of his own irrelevance – the sheer impossibility of the task ahead of him.
He rose with a jerk. You can’t give up before you even start. View it as a privilege – a commission from the Prime Minister himself. Yet all he could now see was a diffused image of a girl lying dead and half-undressed on a dishevelled bed. He rubbed his eyes and headed back
to the crossroads. Stopping only at Earl’s Court Road to buy a bunch of flowers, he arrived at West Kensington’s blocks of Victorian mansion flats.
‘Come in,’ yelled a voice.
The door buzzed and he floated up four flights of stairs. A year ago, he had been breathless at the first half landing. Now, he did not break sweat. The latch clicked and the door opened to reveal a familiar figure.
‘Dad!’ she cried with delight, flinging her arms around him.
‘Sophie.’
Sophie Becker released her grip and inspected him. ‘Wow, you look terrific.’
‘I’ve been trying. Pretty good yourself.’ His daughter was four inches shorter than him, curly blonde hair. ‘What are those?’ he said, staring at strawberry streaks running from the crown of her head.
‘Like it?’
‘It’s different,’ he said.
She smiled. ‘I thought I needed definition.’
‘You’ve never been short of that.’
She looked at him again. ‘It’s really good to see you. Sorry it couldn’t be earlier. She was on duty yesterday evening and had a meeting this morning. She should be back soon.’
She led him into a short corridor, with doors on either side, and onwards to a sitting room with a triple window overlooking the garden square.
‘It’s nice, this square,’ he said. ‘Leaves turning, season changing.’
‘Yes, we’re lucky.’
‘And how’s married life?’
‘Great. Actually we’ve been thinking about something.’
‘Oh?’
‘Maybe having a child.’
‘Wow!’ He gave himself a moment to take it in. ‘Great!’
‘You approve?’
‘Of course. I’d love to be a granddad.’
Her eyes lit up. ‘Brilliant. Because her work’s so intense right now, I’ll carry it. Then, if we have a second, maybe she can.’
‘Do you have a donor?’
‘Do you honestly want to know?’
‘Not really. Just make sure it’s someone as good-looking and clever as you.’ He paused. ‘And her, of course.’
‘We’ve already selected him. Not that he knows it yet.’
A Time to Lie Page 10
