‘Extraordinary,’ said Sandford, appearing baffled. ‘Why would Fowkes do something like that?’
‘That is what we need to find out. At this point MI5 do not recommend seeking warrants for electronic surveillance. The human factor should soon tell us if this is necessary.’
‘Right,’ said Sandford. ‘Thank you for telling me, Kevin.’
‘It is of course highly confidential.’
‘Yes,’ said Sandford. Sometimes his Cabinet Secretary seemed to think he had just wandered in off the street.
Long stood up, then hesitated. ‘Forgive me for asking, Prime Minister. I just wondered if there is any connection between this and your instructions concerning the Royal Speech.’
‘As I said, Kevin, at this point my reasons are not up for discussion.’
Long walked busily out of the flat. Sandford felt a frisson of pleasure that the Cabinet Secretary might think the Prime Minister had stolen a march on him. The truth – that there was no planned connection, just a fortuitous piece of timing – was more prosaic.
A secret is no longer a secret when it passes to a third person, he reflected. Quine had spoken to someone. Who? And what exactly had he told them?
20
Henry Morland-Cross was regretting that it had become accepted practice for his special advisers to pretty much stroll in and out of his office at their pleasure. More accurately, the regret was confined to one of them.
The less experienced Thomasina Bellingham was always welcome. She was a serious, idealistic young woman who, unlike his senior Spad, Jed Fowkes, tended to agree immediately with his pronouncements. She was also in her early thirties, with wavy brown hair and lips that had a certain lusciousness. He couldn’t easily dismiss the gnawing truth that Patricia, his present ‘squeeze’ as the tabloids put it, was several years older and not wearing as well as she might. Drink was not helping.
There had been moments over the past few months when both he and Thomasina must have known they were on the cliff edge. Now, with the rekindled prospect of being a future Prime Minister, he ought to be careful. The thought of locking his office door while alone with her was fraught with unknown consequences. Leaving the door unlocked was risky beyond madness. And yet…
At least encounters with Fowkes were never coloured with any such overtones. On this morning, as the meeting wound up, he lingered.
‘A quick word, M-C?’
‘Of course, Jed.’
They resumed their seats at the oval table Morland-Cross used for meetings.
‘We’re being cut out of the Royal Speech,’ said Fowkes.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’ve asked for drafts. I’ve had nothing. Normally the Treasury’s in on it throughout. I reckon Number 10’s keeping to it themselves. What’s in that speech will dictate the whole tenor of this government. They’re back-tracking, I’m sure of it. The radical agenda’s turning into liberal mush.’
‘How?’
‘Take this arms, private armies rubbish.’
‘What about it?’
Fowkes looked puzzled at the response. ‘I mean, is that going to be in it? Is he actually serious?’
Morland-Cross remembered how he had asked the Prime Minister exactly the same question an hour and a half ago. A torrent had passed under the bridge since then. ‘It appears to mean a lot to him, Jed. We may have to let that one go.’
‘Surely not,’ Fowkes protested. ‘We… you’ve got to stop him. It’s not just the companies – I’ve had British Aerospace and Rolls-Royce shouting in my ear. “Are you seriously saying no more sales to the Saudis?” Not just them, Babcock, Serco, QinetiQ, IPRM, the whole lot of them. We’re supposed to free these guys up, not get in their way.’
‘I agree completely,’ said Morland-Cross.
‘And what about everything else?’ continued Fowkes. ‘Tax cuts, stiffing the unions, private health, everything we’ve talked about. Because of the shit we’re in, now’s the time to go for it.’
‘I know,’ continued the Chancellor in the same soft tones.
‘Look, there’s only three weeks till the State Opening and that speech.’
‘It’s tricky.’ Morland-Cross paused. ‘It’s all a matter of timing, isn’t it?’
‘Now’s the time.’
‘But is it? Is it really? Perhaps we should go more gently after all that’s happened?’
Fowkes stared at him open-mouthed. ‘We’ve discussed all this endlessly. The key is to strike fast now.’
‘He’s the PM. It’s his Cabinet.’
Fowkes fell silent. Cat on a hot tin roof, thought Morland-Cross. Fowkes had once or twice displayed the fury of rejection, an experience that he himself was not unacquainted with, though from spurned mistresses. He wondered if another explosion was building.
‘You have to move when the stars are aligned,’ Fowkes continued coldly.
‘Hmm…’ mused Morland-Cross. The moment seemed to have passed. ‘It’s only about timing. Let’s get halfway through the rest of this term, don’t rock too many boats, and then, yes, we’ll go radical.’
Fowkes stood slowly, half-turned, stopped and swung back. ‘Have you been to see him?’ His voice seemed near to cracking.
Morland-Cross looked at him with a puzzled smile. ‘We are allowed to speak.’
‘You’ve done a deal…’
Morland-Cross stood too. ‘He’s entitled to make arrangements with his colleagues.’
‘I see.’ Fowkes turned and, without a further word, walked out. Glowering, he marched the few yards into his office, closing the door behind him.
From her desk some twenty yards away in HMRC’s tax collection policy unit – where she had arrived an hour and a half earlier on her first day on ‘attachment from the Department of Trade and Industry’ – Isla McDonald observed Jed Fowkes’s passage down the corridor. There goes an angry man, she thought.
A fly on the wall would have found the conversation that had just taken place most interesting. But, for the moment, rather than the full story Quine had told her, she had confined her report to her head of desk to a cover story of suspected misconduct by Fowkes. That was not strong enough to justify bugs and taps. The coming days would dictate whether she would need to tell him more.
21
At 10 a.m. sharp Quine knocked on the black-painted front door of a narrow terraced house a few hundred yards uphill from the tourist bustle of Greenwich. It was opened by a crouching figure – early seventies, Quine reckoned – wearing a brown jacket, woollen tie and corduroy trousers.
‘Joseph Quine, I take it,’ he said, stretching out a hand.
‘Yes,’ said Quine. Wearing a suit was the right decision.
‘Come in, meet Jim.’ He led him into a sitting room with just enough space for a sofa and two chairs. A gas heater sat between the decorative tiles of the fireplace; on the wooden mantelpiece above, which had sustained chips at both corners, lay a couple of small china vases.
A second man rose, taller, a few years younger, with a neatly clipped moustache, also wearing jacket and tie. His whole being displayed the legacy of a lifetime of cigarettes.
Quine suspected that both lived alone. Two figures from a past world wanting, in their own way, to reconnect to the present.
‘I could hardly believe it when I got your email, Mr Quine,’ said Boyes.
‘Joe. Please,’ said Quine.
‘In that case it’s Jim and Geoff.’ Boyes looked across at Letts and they exchanged an easy grin. They go back a long time, thought Quine.
‘Of course, I knew the name, but never the face. I always enjoyed reading you.’
‘Thank you.’
‘What’s brought you to these parts?’ interrupted Betts, spotting the danger of old journalists reminiscing.
It was the obvious question and Quine had given thought to the answer. As always, a strong element of truth was best. ‘I was directed,’ he replied, ‘to a Mail story about a young woman’s hand being unearthed in this
area.’ There were two sharp intakes of breath. ‘I wanted to ask you whether you’ve heard about this. And whether or not the reporting of the find is accurate.’
Boyes and Letts looked at each other and grinned.
‘Have we heard about it?’ said Letts.
‘Is it true?’ echoed Boyes. ‘Jim was first to the story! Then I sold it to the Mail ahead of the official police statement.’
‘Gosh, well done!’ said Quine, genuinely surprised. ‘How did you get it?’
‘As you protect sources, so do we,’ said Letts with quiet pride.
‘Jim is former Lewisham CID and a popular copper with many friends still in the force,’ said Boyes.
‘I understand,’ said Quine. ‘Congratulations. A real scoop.’
‘What’s your interest?’ asked Letts.
‘The report said the remains were dated from twenty-five to thirty-five years ago…’ Quine began.
‘Their best guess,’ said Boyes. ‘The piece of shower curtain helped but there was nothing more precise.’
‘And a young woman. Which takes us back to the late 1980s and early 90s,’ said Quine. ‘Strange times, the years after the Berlin Wall fell, the oligarchs taking over Russia. Smuggled cigarettes paying no tax, mountains of cocaine, Mercedes 600s stolen to order.’ He paused. ‘I’ve been commissioned to write a book about that era. And no, the name Deschevaux won’t be appearing in it.’
‘I imagine not,’ said Boyes.
‘Even if it should be. But during my researches, I’ve accumulated a great deal of knowledge. Particularly about the worst trade of the lot.’ He looked at his two listeners.
‘Yes,’ said Letts, a sadness in his eyes.
‘The nastiest,’ agreed Boyes.
‘Exactly,’ continued Quine. ‘Human trafficking. Prostitutes. No, they weren’t usually that. More likely, innocent girls kidnapped and imprisoned as sex slaves. Lives that were stubbed out as cheaply as a rolled-up cigarette.’
‘You can speculate,’ said Letts, ‘but it doesn’t give us anything concrete about our hand.’
‘No,’ said Quine. ‘But the decade, the ring of Hungarian origin, the grisly death at the very least add up to an intriguing story about that era.’
‘If the hand can ever be identified,’ said Boyes.
‘That may depend on the rest of the body turning up,’ said Quine. ‘But first, can I ask you a favour?’
‘Of course,’ said Boyes.
‘I traipsed all over this area yesterday but it’s covered with new blocks of flats and heaven knows what else. Where’s the wasteland?’
Boyes chuckled. ‘You missed the biggest development opportunity left on the Thames. I’ll ring security there to see if we can have a dekko.’
As he shuffled to a landline, Quine judged that his pitch had worked. He tried to imagine the shock of these well-meaning men if he had given them the full story – that the British Prime Minister might somehow be connected to a severed hand.
Boyes came off the phone. ‘It’s locked up today. He’ll be there tomorrow. Two p.m. OK?’
Not allowing his frustration at the delay to show, Quine went knocking on doors in the street where Sandford and Fowkes had lived, saying he was compiling a local history of the area. Only one person who answered had lived there in 1991. She remembered nothing of the young men who had lived in Sandford’s flat.
He arrived back in West Kensington around 7 p.m. Sophie was home. He wished he could tell her what he had been up to. Isla arrived an hour later. After a brief greeting, his daughter left him and Isla alone – he wondered how much Isla had told her.
‘Are we allowed to exchange information?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ Isla answered. ‘To a certain extent. First, you’re the only one who can feed back to your “informant”. Second, the cover story I’ve given my head of section is that there’s evidence of Fowkes removing confidential documents from the Treasury and copying them. It’s the sort of thing that crops up now and again and we’re always brought in if it’s high level.’
‘That’s good, thanks.’
‘The problem is, at this stage, that doesn’t justify bugging or a team of watchers. I’m on my own, just eyes and ears. I’ll need your help.’
‘I’ve not got much yet,’ said Quine. ‘Nothing from neighbours in range of the flat at that time. I’m having a tour of the site where the hand was found tomorrow. You?’
She told him about the line of sight her desk gave her and Fowkes’s angry expression as he left the Chancellor’s office.
‘Interesting,’ he said.
‘Why?’
‘I was told all this in confidence. There was a thought of trying to rattle Fowkes. Destabilize him. Drive a wedge between him and Morland-Cross. I wasn’t given details.’
‘Whatever it is, it sounds like it’s drawn blood.’ Isla frowned. ‘By the way, there’s something I never realized. The Treasury’s an open door. Not like Number 10. No searches, just wave a pass and through you go with any guest you want. Totally unchecked.’
Just before midnight, before turning in, Quine decided to try emailing Sandford.
JONATHAN MOORE
To: [email protected]
Re: update
Hi Paul
You might be interested to know that today our friend left his boss’s office looking upset. Sounds as if there’d been an angry discussion.
Cheers
Jonathan
PAUL REYNOLDS
To: [email protected]
Re: update
Hi Jonathan
Thanks.
Cheers
Paul
If nothing else, it showed the email link was working and Sandford was at home – though in front of a screen rather than in bed with his wife. Assuming they still shared one, Quine suddenly thought.
Sandford shut down Carol’s computer. It appeared his first move was having repercussions already. Over the weekend Carol had not been herself. He knew she was still disturbed by his request for the private email. He must reassure her. He stood tall, took a deep breath and stretched back his shoulders. He checked his watch – only a couple of minutes past midnight. She would still be reading. It was time to disturb her more affectionately and, this time, more lovingly.
22
‘I’d no idea,’ said Quine.
The three of them stood surveying the vast expanse of what, once upon a time, had been the backbone of the British Navy – Deptford Dockyard.
‘Most people don’t,’ said Boyes. ‘Unless you’re born and bred in these parts.’
‘That’s because speculators and planners have been sitting on it,’ added Letts. ‘Not to mention the Mayors of London.’
‘The big slab of grey is where Murdoch stored newsprint for a while,’ said Boyes. ‘He bought the site back in 1980 and demolished the Great Store House. No one seemed to give a damn about heritage then.’
‘Presumably they didn’t still have ships here.’
‘Heavens, no. Henry the Eighth started it in 1513. The land that gave birth to the Royal Navy. Golden Hind, Mary Rose, you name them. Slow decline ever since.’ His voice faded away across the unkempt grass and weeds stirring sorrowfully in the off-river breeze, broken up by slabs of brick and concrete that had once been slipways and basins servicing a maritime empire. Quine stood silently – there was a time to speak and a time to listen.
‘Onwards,’ said Boyes, perking up. ‘You didn’t come here for a history lesson.’
‘Follow me,’ said Letts, striding towards the perimeter. ‘The plan is to build three and half thousand homes here. There’ve been arguments about it for years but it looks like we’re getting some action now.’ He stopped by a newly laid, single-lane tarmac road. ‘They were repairing this service road – apparently they were worried about some sinking beneath. They found it here, a couple of feet under.’
‘Who found it?’
‘A workman. As I heard it, he called the foreman over and
he rang the police.’
‘What then?’
‘Forensics dug up the area all around. You can see where.’ He pointed to a square of ground both sides of the new lane. ‘Found nothing more. Just the hand.’
‘Any useful clues from the ring?’
‘No. It was old, goes back to the last Emperor. But not that rare.’
‘Where are the remains now?’
‘In an evidence bag at Lewisham.’
‘And that’s it?’
‘Seems so.’
‘It’s a mystery till it’s not,’ said Boyes. ‘One thing’s not a mystery,’ said Quine. ‘A young woman’s body was mutilated.’ He dished out two cards from his wallet. ‘I’m staying with friends. You have my email – that’s on here with my mobile. If there are any developments—’
‘Absolutely,’ said Boyes. ‘We’d be happy to collaborate, wouldn’t we, Jim?’ Quine assumed the retired policeman’s immobile expression meant agreement. He must have been a poker-faced interrogator. ‘Perhaps,’ added Boyes, ‘you might give Jim and me a mention in your book.’
Three hours later, just before 6 p.m., Isla McDonald watched Jed Fowkes walk out of his office. He was carrying an overcoat. From everything she had so far gathered, it was unusually early for him.
She gathered her own coat and handbag containing hat, scarf and different glasses. It was a good time to follow – nothing unusual about this moment to be packing up for the day.
Lingering inside, fiddling with her bag, she watched him leave the building and turn left. She walked out fast, donning the hat and changing spectacles, catching the back of him at the south-east corner of St James’s Park. He crossed Birdcage Walk, turned left on the opposite pavement, then right into Storey’s Gate. There was enough bustle of office workers heading for tubes to merge into them. He walked past the Westminster Arms, the smokers already outside, and Central Hall. Sounds from a practice session on the giant organ drifted faintly above. He turned right into Victoria Street and, slipping between stationary buses, crossed the road. She stayed on its north side. He walked with a committed stride. She guessed he was heading towards Victoria station. The crowds there would be helpful for cover, the many transport choices not so for pursuit. The trainers had always said solo pursuits on foot were the most difficult of all. Maybe she would never be able to do anything more than monitor him within the Treasury.
A Time to Lie Page 12
