‘Lucky boy.’
She affectionately tapped his forearm. ‘That’s not the way to view it, Dad.’ They fell into comfortable silence. ‘Would it have made a difference if you and Mum had actually got married?’ she suddenly asked.
He turned. ‘Where on earth did that come from?’
‘Just wondering. Thinking of us. Do you ever wish you had?’
‘It wouldn’t have stopped her leaving me and going home.’
‘Maybe you should have tried following her.’
‘You can’t report Westminster from the Black Forest,’ he said wistfully.
‘No. That was always your first love, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes, I suppose it became obsessive. I couldn’t let it go. How’s your job?’
‘Still looking for the next Girl on the Train.’
‘I never read it.’
‘It’s OK, Dad, you’re not the target market. What about your book?’
‘Well, at least it’s done.’
‘Can I read?’
‘Sure. But you’re not the target publisher.’
They heard the front door open. Quine watched an elegant figure, taller and narrower than his daughter, enter the sitting room, shedding a long black coat as she moved. She flung it over a chair, embraced his daughter with a kiss on the lips and then turned to him.
‘Hello, Isla.’
‘Hello, Joe,’ she said with a mild Scottish accent. ‘Seems a long time. You can have a hug too.’
They stood back.
‘You’re a new man!’
‘And you haven’t changed a bit,’ he said.
‘I stopped by to get some lunch. Whatever else we’re going to talk about, Joe, it’s been over a year, I’ve just come off duty and there’s a cold bottle of white wine in the fridge.’
‘Right,’ said Isla an hour later. Sophie had gone out for a breath of crisp autumnal air. ‘Fire away.’
‘Isla, I find myself in a most unusual predicament. Though we never talk about it, I’m aware of where you work. That is allowed, isn’t it?’
‘Sure. It works like this. When we married, I made Sophie my next of kin. I can in general terms talk to her about my workplace. After her mother went back to Germany, Sophie made you her next of kin. And she’s been your next of kin for longer than that. So yes, she can tell you where her spouse works.’
‘Good. I don’t know if you can actually help, but I’ve got a problem. I’ve come across the odd person from your world over the years. But I know no one else but you. Certainly no one I can trust. Are you able to listen to me confidentially?’
‘If it’s an immediate life or death threat, like a terror attack, it can’t be confidential.’
‘It’s not. There’s no threat to life.’
‘Then I can agree to that and we can discuss afterwards what to do.’
Quine breathed more easily. The first point of tension was resolved. It was now about exactly what, and how, he told her. ‘This is very sensitive.’
‘Yes, Sophie said you sounded a bit on edge. I’m sorry. I was working yesterday evening and this morning.’
‘There’s also a double catch. One. My informant, for want of a better word, has sworn me to confidentiality. But I don’t have the resources to do what he needs. Two. MI5 does have the resources to do what he needs. But my informant’s in a position where he feels that he can’t involve either police or intelligence services.’
‘I see.’ There was a long silence. ‘Can you tell me who your informant is?’ Isla finally asked.
‘No.’
‘OK.’
‘They say a secret remains a secret between two,’ Quine said, remembering Sandford’s words, ‘but when it’s passed to a third, it’s no longer a secret.’
‘If one of us happens to be that third person, in certain situations we’re permitted to use our judgement.’
Quine hesitated. ‘Right…’ he murmured, then stopped. She waited. ‘The Prime Minister of this country,’ he saw Isla blink, ‘is under a serious threat from a man called Jed Fowkes, the senior special adviser to the Chancellor of the Exchequer.’
She sat still as a rock. ‘I know the name.’ Quine was unsure whether he could continue. ‘At this point, Joe, you’re only telling me—’
‘OK. Some thirty years ago,’ resumed Quine, speaking flatly, without expression, ‘Robin Sandford and Jed Fowkes shared a flat in South London…’ He relayed the story as he had heard it from Sandford, holding nothing back, ending with the Prime Minister and Fowkes’s most recent meeting. ‘Through a particular connection I have been tasked to find the truth of what happened on this night thirty years ago as it seems the only way to resolve the problem. I can try to dig into the background, interview people who were around Sandford and Fowkes at the time. I may get somewhere. But we need to put Fowkes under surveillance. That, obviously, I can’t do. I don’t know exactly what it is but I’m sure there’s real danger here. Tracking Fowkes can’t wait.’
‘I see,’ said Isla coolly. ‘Just a question or two.’
‘I can’t tell you more.’
‘Call it clarification. One might expect a Prime Minister to be sure that such an event did not happen and immediately bring in the police or security service to report what appears to be the onset of a blackmail attempt.’
‘Yes, the problem is the gap in Sandford’s memory caused by the black-outs. So he feels the only sure way to put the allegation to rest is to discover the truth. And that’s needed because he fears that, for whatever reason, Fowkes might wish to damage him – perhaps destroy him – by going public.’
‘Why is Fowkes so certain this severed hand has any connection to the Hungarian girl?’
Quine opened his case and pulled out the two Mail articles. He allowed her time to read. ‘Fowkes seems to be implying that somebody out there knows he was complicit in getting rid of the body.’
‘He could have written those words himself,’ she said sharply.
‘It’s possible.’
‘And if it’s not him, it’s likely to be the party or parties that took the girl away and disposed of her.’
‘I assume so,’ said Quine reluctantly. Isla’s tone made it seem that one or two pieces of the jigsaw might be falling uncomfortably into place. ‘But even if there was some kind of incident, there remains nothing to connect Sandford to it except for Fowkes’s own account.’
‘Quite,’ said Isla. ‘Just one further clarification. Does anyone else know about Fowkes’s conversations with Sandford?’
Quine understood what the implication of his answer would be. He allowed himself time to think. ‘Not as far as I know. Unless, I guess, there is someone threatening him.’
‘OK. Joe, you were right to come to me. I agree about the immediacy. Why don’t you take it easy, make up lost time with Sophie. I’ll head straight back into the office.’
‘You said we could discuss how you act on this information.’
‘Sure.’ She smiled gently. ‘What do you want? That we just have this chat and I then sit on it?’
He closed his eyes and shook his head. ‘No. There’s no choice, is there?’
‘Trust me. I’ll go about it carefully. I promise.’
If it was said that a problem shared is a problem halved, Quine was feeling the opposite. Sharing this problem now seemed to have multiplied it a hundredfold. The train had left the station but neither he nor Sandford was in the driver’s seat. Surely he had made it clear enough to the Prime Minister that there had to be some form of extra help. He felt a desperate need to do something useful himself. Checking out the severed hand story at least fell within his expertise.
The Mail story’s by-line was the paper’s crime correspondent. Quine had no wish to alert him – or the police – by asking for further background. Instead he searched local news sources in the Greenwich/Lewisham area. Nothing came up. It didn’t surprise him – most local newspapers in Britain had been killed off. Instead he came across an intriguin
g header. ‘RETIRED EDITOR AND DETECTIVE JOIN FORCES’. He hit the link to find an appeal to raise support for a new local news sheet and website to be called ‘Creek News’. It proposed a community enterprise to fill the void left by the closure of the Deptford and Greenwich Press. There were email addresses for the former editor of the defunct paper, Geoffrey Boyes, and a retired Detective Inspector called Jim Letts. Quine knew Boyes would know his name from The Post and emailed him to say that something to their possible mutual advantage had arisen and perhaps they could meet in the next day or two. Within minutes, Boyes replied, giving an address in Greenwich and a time.
Sophie returned not long after Isla had left for her office.
‘Did it go OK with Isla?’ she asked.
‘Yes. She was great.’
‘Where is she?’
‘Gone back to work.’
Sophie frowned. ‘Because of what you told her?’
‘Sorry, I’ve messed up your weekend.’
‘It’s fine, they’ve been messed up before. We’ve got a couple of friends coming for supper. You’ll have to entertain them if she’s not back.’
His eyebrows rose. ‘Is that an invitation?’
‘Looks like it. You can stay the night too.’
‘There’s a Premier Inn not far away. I was going to check in.’
‘Don’t do that. There’s a sofa-bed. You can cook us breakfast in the morning.’
The next day, Quine explored the modest terrace of houses off Lewisham Way where Sandford, Jed Fowkes and Mikey Miller had lived. The change over a single generation was evident. Most were now smartened with freshly painted front doors – single dwellings occupied by well-off families comparatively outpriced by Peckham and Brixton. Even at dusk the street Sandford and Fowkes had lived in was deserted and silent, well away from bars and clubs. If you needed to get rid of a body in the small hours, you’d be extremely unlucky to run into anyone here. For the first time he sensed that it might not be easy to knock a hole in Jed Fowkes’s story.
19
Monday morning, 7.45. ‘I owe you an apology,’ said the Prime Minister.
The Chancellor of the Exchequer’s eyes shot up, the modishly cut head of blond hair, skilfully executed by his girlfriend’s hair stylist, almost seeming to bounce. ‘An apology?’
‘Yes, I should have warned you about the arms ban.’
Henry Morland-Cross had been surprised enough in the first place by Sandford’s call on the Sunday evening. ‘Could you nip over to the flat first thing? Won’t take long.’ He was no less surprised to find himself alone with the Prime Minister who personally made coffee, assembled a tray with mugs and a pack of chocolate digestive biscuits, and then gestured him to sit down at the nondescript kitchen table of the 10 Downing Street flat.
The Chancellor puffed himself up. ‘Well, yes, you should have told me. But I accept the apology. Are you actually serious about it?’
‘Yes, I want it as a commitment in the Royal Speech if Cabinet supports me. Which it will.’
‘Hmm,’ mused Morland-Cross, ‘the majority will. They’re your people.’ There was an awkward silence. They both took a sip from their mugs.
Sandford broke it. ‘Look, M-C, these past couple of years haven’t been easy.’
‘Well, I don’t know—’
‘You won the Brexit argument, you expected to get the leadership too. You had every reason. You had the grassroots at your fingertips.’
‘Ah, the fickle mob.’
‘Seems they didn’t mind drink, dope or divorce – just not so keen on cocaine.’
‘Christ, it was a fair few years ago.’
‘As you said. That’s old ground. I’ve been thinking.’ Sandford paused. Morland-Cross sensed the reason for the summons coming. ‘I’ve told no one else this. I’m not going to fight another general election.’
‘What!’ Morland-Cross almost choked on his biscuit.
Sandford gave a watery smile. ‘Odd, isn’t it?’
‘I should say so. You must have discussed it with Carol?’
‘No.’ He paused. ‘You know why. Because my final decision depends on you.’
‘Me!’
‘I’ll explain. I know I’m not fundamentally in tune with the direction the party’s headed in. Sooner or later that’ll rear up in a way that’ll be damaging. To the party – and to me personally. I want to be gone before it does.’
‘We managed to agree a manifesto,’ said Morland-Cross.
Sandford saw the irony of his greatest rival apparently trying to buttress him. He wondered what he was thinking. Much depended on it. ‘We fudged everything. You and I know that. We both know what the majority of the party really want. Slash income and corporation tax, abolish inheritance tax, private health insurance, Singapore-on-Thames, business does what it wants, sod workers’ rights, sod the poor and useless. And it sees the shock of the past year as offering the perfect time and opportunity. Debt’s soared, the economy’s tanked, radical therapy is needed. And that’s what you want too.’
Morland-Cross grunted. ‘Wrong on one thing. Sod the lazy and useless, not the poor.’
‘I thought they were supposed to be one and the same.’
‘We don’t put it like that.’
‘Whatever the details,’ said Sandford, ‘these pressures will build. So,’ he paused, watching the mounting hunger in Morland-Cross’s eyes, ‘I have a proposal. I’ve been in office for almost a year. For the next three years, broadly speaking we follow my course. You understand what I mean by that.’
‘Yes. Go gently.’
‘If we do that, with you as my Chancellor and Deputy PM, I will then resign and support you unequivocally in the leadership election that follows. With my backing, you’ll win. Past indiscretions will be forgotten. In their hearts they’ve always wanted you. I’ll have had nearly a full term as Prime Minister trying to do things my way and going out on my terms. And you’ll have a full year to run, if you want it, before the next election.’
‘Hmm…’ Morland-Cross was visibly calculating. ‘How do I know you’ll stick to it? Remember Blair and Brown.’
‘Blair became a zealot. I never could be. More practically, I’ll put it in writing here and now.’ He looked up with a grin. ‘We’ll call it the “10 Downing Street Kitchen Declaration”.’
Morland-Cross’s cheeks twitched. ‘Does the arms thing have to go in the Royal Speech? It sends such a bad message.’
‘Yes,’ said Sandford. ‘And it won’t harm us at the polls. But, now we’ve had this chat – and if we agree – I promise I won’t spring any more surprises on you.’
‘Hmm,’ Morland-Cross repeated. ‘It will bring difficulties with some of my people.’
‘I know,’ said Sandford. He made a show of hesitating. ‘Can I help you with any of them?’
Morland-Cross shrugged. ‘Jed Fowkes will be disappointed. More than that. Devastated. I owe him. He’s odd at times but he has real flashes of insight. He more than anyone sees now as the big chance.’
‘If there are any issues with Jed Fowkes, I will one hundred per cent support you. As you know, he and I go back.’
‘Yes. But he won’t like it.’
Sandford conveyed sympathy. ‘Are you worried about how he’ll react?’
‘Not at all,’ Morland-Cross protested.
‘Then you and I have nothing to fear.’ Simultaneously they checked the kitchen clock. Seconds ticked past.
‘Right,’ said Morland-Cross. ‘I agree.’
‘Excellent.’ Sandford beamed. ‘I’ve written out our agreement. Two copies. We can date and sign it right now. You take one with you. That is your guarantee. If you want, we can write something more elegant later.’
Sandford took two envelopes out of a kitchen dresser drawer. He handed both to Morland-Cross, who read them with careful deliberation. As the clock ticked towards 8.10 a.m., he signed both sheets of paper, handed them to Sandford who added his own signature, returning one copy to Morland-Cross. Th
e transaction had taken twenty-five minutes.
They stood and shook hands.
‘Deal,’ said Sandford, face set firm.
‘Deal,’ replied Morland-Cross.
As Morland-Cross left the Number 10 flat, Sandford suspected he had not even the slightest inkling that both the conversation and the ‘deal’ were entirely about Jed Fowkes and had absolutely nothing to do with him.
Two minutes later, the flat’s phone rang.
‘Good morning, Prime Minister.’
‘Yes, Mark.’
‘The Cabinet Secretary has asked to see you urgently,’ said his principal private secretary.
‘Now?’
‘If possible, yes.’
‘OK, send him up. I’ve got a few minutes, haven’t I?’
‘Yes. If it takes longer, I’ll rearrange.’
The chubby face of the most senior civil servant in the land seemed pinker than usual. ‘I’ll be brief, Prime Minister,’ said Sir Kevin Long, perched on the edge of an armchair in the sitting room.
‘I’m told I have time,’ said Sandford, seated more languidly.
‘A serious matter has arisen.’
‘Go straight in, Kevin.’
The Cabinet Secretary composed himself. ‘MI5 has discovered that the senior political adviser in the Treasury—’
‘Jed Fowkes…’
‘Yes. I realize you, er, know him.’
‘Not much contact in recent years, thank God.’
‘Good. Apparently Fowkes has fallen under suspicion of removing highly confidential documents from within the Treasury overnight and returning them the following morning. The suspicion is that he is either photocopying them or scanning them into a personal computer at his flat. His motive is yet to be determined. I understand the discovery of this is extremely recent. MI5 told me over the weekend they wished in the first instance for Fowkes to be observed from within the Treasury. With immediate effect. To that end I have agreed that an MI5 officer will begin a temporary attachment, with the cover of being a DTI civil servant, to the Treasury this morning. This person will be seated in the HMRC section, which neighbours the open-plan space alongside the permanent secretary and main Treasury officials. It offers a line of sight to the door into the special advisers’ office and to the Chancellor’s next along the corridor.’
A Time to Lie Page 11
