A Time to Lie

by Simon Berthon

  Miller frowned. ‘No need to mince words. You mean a gang-bang. Yeah. I was out that night but heard what happened. Disgusting. One of them was a good friend of mine. He said she’d wanted it. I told him he was an idiot. That was never to happen again.’

  ‘I think Robbie was worried he might have been involved in some way.’

  ‘Christ, no. My friend said he was a bit out of it but still tried to get them to stop. When it was over, he went in to see if she was all right.’

  ‘Was she?’

  ‘Yeah, fine as far as I ever knew.’

  Quine felt a welcome shot of relief. He knew the risk of pushing too far but felt no choice. ‘Good. Was there anything else?’

  ‘What’s the point of trawling over stuff like this? Hardly matters now.’

  ‘It doesn’t have to go in the book. But as long as we have all the facts, he and I can make the choices ourselves.’

  ‘All right. If it’s what he really wants. The only thing that stands out was one morning after, maybe a Saturday, when Jed said Robbie’d had a bit of trouble with a girl. He said he’d sorted it out but he was gonna try and get someone to talk to him.’

  ‘Did he say what trouble?’

  ‘Nah. He didn’t make out it was too bad.’

  ‘Was the someone who talked to him Suzy Lancaster?’

  ‘Yeah. How’d you know that?’

  ‘Robbie told me.’

  ‘So he remembers that bit anyway.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Quine. He wondered if Miller was holding something back. Before probing further, there was one piece of information he had to get. ‘Moving on to happier memories,’ he continued, ‘I believe there was a young woman at your bank called Roisin who Robbie took a shine to.’

  Miller frowned and thought for a moment. Quine kept quiet.

  ‘Yeah,’ he replied after a good twenty seconds. ‘Yeah, it’s coming back. I think it may be the same one…’

  Quine felt a tremor of anticipation. ‘Same as…’

  ‘Yeah, Roisin. She was in personnel – that’s what we called it – then she got to be the finance director’s secretary. Irish, curly black hair, laughed a lot but smart. Ambitious.’

  ‘Even then?’

  ‘Yeah. I’m sure it’s her,’ he forged on. ‘You’ll need to ask Robbie but I think maybe he did have a go at her. Quite a few did but none of them got anywhere. She was always up for a drink but nothing more. She was after bigger fish than us.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you know what happened to her?’

  ‘Roisin? Yeah, if it’s the same one, she’s still there. A lifer. At Coulthard’s. I think she became head of something.’

  ‘What was her surname?’

  ‘Can’t remember. Anyway, I reckon she’d have got married. But there can’t be that many Roisins at Coulthard’s, can there?’

  No, thought Quine, his heart now beating hard. ‘Apparently there was one night when you, Jed and Robbie all met up in your usual pub. You had your own girlfriend in tow but you brought along Roisin and a Hungarian girl called Andrea. She was temping at the bank.’

  Miller frowned. ‘That’s a bit precise.’

  Quine knew he was treading the line that separated conversation from interrogation. Beneath the showmanship, Miller was a super-intelligent calculator.

  ‘Yes, I suppose it is,’ he admitted. ‘It adds to the richness of any biography if you can sometimes pin down precise occasions and anecdotes rather than generalities.’

  ‘Right, see what you mean.’ He took another bite of croissant. ‘Robbie took Roisin out once or twice and there was definitely times when we all had a drink together. But I usually went off with whatever girl I had. Sometimes to her place, sometimes back to ours…’

  Quine grinned. ‘To start the party?’

  ‘To be honest, if it was party-time, I preferred to lock us away in my bedroom and get on with it.’

  ‘And Andrea, the Hungarian girl, I just wondered if you remember her coming back to the flat with Robbie and Jed after the pub?’

  ‘There you go again, trying to pin me down. Early nineties there was always temps coming over after the Wall fell. So could well have been.’

  He remembers her, thought Quine. I’m sure he does.

  ‘Apparently she was thin, pretty with reddish hair. Spent a month or so at the bank.’

  ‘Sounds like you know more than me.’ Miller abruptly stood and checked his smart phone. That was it, he’d get no more. ‘Emails, don’t you love ’em. We’ll do the art gallery and cinema next time. Nice to meet you, Joe. Jimmy’ll see you out.’ Without shaking hands, Miller left the room staring at his phone, opening the door to a subterranean passage that seemed to stretch for ever.

  Before Quine had time to react, Jimmy was at his side. There was no doubt – he had touched a nerve. Was Mikey Miller – self-invented Croesus of the people and creator of his own narrative – covering for the Prime Minister? Or for himself?

  As Quine drove back down the drive, any delay before he googled the Coulthard’s bank website seemed unbearable. He told himself to wait till he was out of sight and far away. The electronic gates opened to usher him through. He checked the brakes, then sped off, paying more attention to the rear-view mirror than the direction he was headed in. After a few miles, he pulled into a service station and switched on his phone.

  Mikey Miller watched him go on CCTV. Was that the weekend? He had come back on the Sunday evening to find the shower curtain missing. When he remarked on it, Fowkes had cracked one of his occasional dark jokes. ‘Sorry, mate, we had to use it to bury a body.’

  ‘Ha, ha, very funny,’ Mikey had replied. Was that when Robbie began to sort himself out?

  33

  For Henry Morland-Cross’s return visit, Sandford not only provided freshly ground coffee in a cafetière and biscuits but a couple of chocolate muffins too.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Morland-Cross. ‘Is this the condemned man’s last indulgence?’

  ‘No, that’d be champagne.’ Sandford grinned as he poured. ‘Milk and sugar?’

  Morland-Cross, unable to recall seeing the Prime Minister so relaxed, could not interpret the friendly greeting. ‘I thought you might want to meet immediately after the weekend,’ he said. ‘I hope you enjoyed yours.’

  ‘Lovely, thank you. Chequers is delightful when no politicians are staying. And you?’

  ‘Dorneywood.’ He peered briefly down at the floor. ‘Might be my last chance. Wish I’d made better use of the place now.’

  ‘Hey,’ said Sandford sympathetically. ‘Did you have company?’

  ‘I did. I think I might be transferring my affections again.’

  ‘Happily, I trust.’

  ‘This one might really last.’

  Sandford slapped him on the shoulder. ‘Good.’ They sat down on facing armchairs. ‘Let’s drink our coffee to that.’ There was an element of affection neither had felt before.

  ‘But that’s not why we’re here,’ said Morland-Cross.

  Sandford had never seen him morose like this. ‘No.’

  ‘What’s your feeling?’

  ‘What’s yours?’ replied Sandford.

  ‘Well, there’ve been no more coke allegations. That was a bloody lie.’

  ‘I accept that.’

  ‘Thank you. Which leaves a few women climbing on the wagon. It’s only just into double figures. I don’t think there’ll be many more. It was all consensual. As I said, I’ve never once forced myself on a woman. I’ll swear any oath you might choose. Even do a bloody lie detector.’

  ‘Not necessary,’ said Sandford.

  ‘I suspect it depends on whether it’s an orchestrated campaign.’

  ‘One thing I can assure you. Nothing’s come from Number 10. And nothing will.’

  ‘Thank you. Which leaves Jed. Whatever he says he told that girl.’

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘That he tried to persuade her not to do it.’ Sandford emitted a dry laugh. ‘Quite,’ conti
nued Morland-Cross. ‘I knew he was angry with me but I never thought he’d stoop to anything like this. He won’t give up. So maybe I should go. I’ve prepared. I’ll be OK. Take a break to seek forgiveness from the MeToo-ers, repent my wicked ways, and come back in a year. I’m not past it yet.’

  Sandford straightened his back, put both hands on his haunches and leant forward. ‘M-C, I want you to stay. I’ve thought about it. You shouldn’t be driven out by this. You’ve committed no crime, you’re just a victim of changing fashion. In the long term we’ll be respected for taking a stand.’

  Morland-Cross allowed a moment for it to sink in. ‘Do you really mean that?’

  ‘Yes. As long as we still have our deal.’

  ‘Of course. We shook on it.’

  ‘Jed won’t be pleased. He had a different outcome in mind.’

  ‘Yes, the little shit did.’

  ‘Will you keep him as your Spad?’

  ‘He’ll have to grovel.’

  Sandford stood and, in what had become this morning’s habit, checked his watch. ‘Good luck with that.’

  As the Chancellor closed the Number 10 flat’s front door, the Prime Minister took a deep breath. These recent dealings with Henry Morland-Cross were having an unimaginable result. He was feeling sympathy for him. It did not change the brutal reality. In a perfect world, he and Jed Fowkes would end up destroying each other.

  There was a spring in Henry Morland-Cross’s step as he strode along the first-floor Treasury corridor, bestowing broad smiles to left and right before entering the Chancellor’s office and closing its door behind him.

  Watching his return from Number 10, the Treasury permanent secretary rose from his desk, knocked on Morland-Cross’s door and entered. After just a few minutes, he reappeared, looking puzzled. Instead of returning straight to his desk, he turned left, knocked on the Spads’ door and leant in. ‘The Chancellor can make time for you now, Jed.’

  Fowkes marched down the passage with a few long steps, opened the Chancellor’s door and shut it noisily behind him.

  Morland-Cross looked up. ‘Jed,’ he said brightly.

  ‘I understand the Chancellor can make time for me,’ replied Fowkes coldly.

  ‘Of course. As always.’

  ‘And you, M-C, are still the Chancellor.’

  ‘So it would appear.’

  ‘How did you talk him round?’

  ‘I didn’t need to.’

  Fowkes remembered Sandford’s remark. Someone will have to wield it. Well, Sandford had certainly not wielded any sword. Too weak. Or too scheming. Unless it was a challenge to him to do the wielding. ‘What do you mean, “didn’t need to”?’

  ‘I told him the coke story was a fabrication – which it was. I’ve never assaulted anyone, committed any crime. So here we jolly well are.’ He was now beaming.

  ‘Christ, M-C, you’ve got to resign,’ Fowkes said quietly. ‘You’re a joke. You’re seen as a serial predator. You’re a weak compromiser too. You need to get the message. What do you want next, a stash of cocaine to turn up in your office drawer?’

  ‘Is that a threat, Jed?’

  ‘Read it any way you want. You must go now. No more delays. You’re not fit for this office.’

  Morland-Cross’s brightness had vanished. ‘What is it, Jed? What’s driving you? Who’s driving you? This is not the real you.’

  ‘Unlike others, I drive myself.’

  ‘I don’t know what’s eating away at you. I’ll give you twenty-four hours to back off. And if you continue these threats, I’ll report you as a plotter and a liar to the Cabinet Secretary. You’ll be escorted from this building within seconds. Your computer, files, diaries and all other records will be impounded and inspected. If I were you, I’d think very carefully.’

  34

  Isla McDonald watched Fowkes leave the Chancellor’s office and retreat towards his own. Even from twenty yards away, she saw a face icy with anger. At the Spads’ door, he stopped and glanced around, swinging in her direction. Her eyes veered back to her screen and fingers to her keyboard. Had he noticed? Even if he had, surely a junior member of staff on attachment was entitled to take in what was happening around them. Still, it was a warning. She glanced through a window; storm clouds were gathering in the distance beyond Whitehall.

  She imagined the female Spad looking up at her male colleague, feeling both fear and curiosity, perhaps adopting an expression of encouragement. She envisaged him refusing to engage with her. Whatever had taken place with Morland-Cross had enraged him. He wouldn’t just sit in his office, twiddling his thumbs. Nor could he do anything that Thomasina would report back to the Chancellor. Surely he would soon leave the office and the Treasury building too.

  Events, whatever they might be, were on the move. She was on her own – there was no time to weigh the odds. If he walked out of his office, getting up immediately to follow would not be smart. Better if, when he left, she was not at her desk. She had to assume he would leave through the main exit to Horse Guards Road rather than via some sinuous route twisting through the main HMRC wing overlooking Parliament Street or via the Foreign Office. That would be a change to normality and could draw attention.

  She switched off her computer, picked up her coat and bag, murmured ‘Hospital appointment’ to the colleague beside her, went to the ladies – she might not have another chance for hours – headed downstairs into the lobby and then out into Horse Guards Parade. She crossed into St James’s Park and took up a position by the railings at the south-east tip of the duck pond.

  Thirty-five minutes later – longer than she had expected – he came. After he had left the building, she assumed he would turn right or left along Horse Guards Road. Instead, to her horror, he was ambling straight in her direction. She walked fast, west along the pond. Twenty yards later, she stopped, peered at the ducks and glanced right. A slim, male figure wearing a black leather jacket was rounding the corner she had just left, but in the opposite direction, back towards Horse Guards Road. She had to assume it was him and followed. If it was him, he had done a U-turn.

  The man walked north past the parade ground. She kept him in distant sight. He gained speed. Changes of pace again. The detour via the duck pond must have been to check for a tail. She recalled her previous impression – Jed was not fully professional but not totally amateur either. Just like the man ahead. Ninety-eight per cent it was him. Perhaps the secret assignations over decades of political plotting had been sufficient in themselves to teach him how to take care of himself.

  He reached the corner of St James’s Park, crossed the Mall, and climbed the steps towards the Duke of York’s statue. He didn’t look round. She followed, hesitating halfway up the final flight, just before her face would come into the sight of anyone waiting beyond or using the statue as cover. If Fowkes had stopped to do this, he would expose her and she’d have no plausible excuse to offer.

  She took a further step or two – an adult playing blind man’s buff. Then she took off, increasing her pace as if she was rushing to a meeting. If he was waiting, she’d break into a run, ensuring she didn’t catch his eye. As the full prospect leading towards Lower Regent Street came into view, there was no sign; her fear now was that she’d lost him. A hundred yards ahead, she just caught sight of the same figure in a black jacket turning left into Pall Mall. She ran as fast as her low heels allowed.

  As she turned into the heart of London’s clubland, she had come too close and allowed him to gain distance. She could hardly imagine Fowkes as a regular of the Athenaeum or Reform or, if he turned right into St James’s, of Brooks’s or White’s.

  The pavements of St James’s Street were more populated than Pall Mall, giving better cover but a more interrupted line of sight. He reached Piccadilly, ignored a red pedestrian light and weaved skilfully through slow-moving traffic to cross. He headed left down Piccadilly. Stuck at the lights, the traffic having gained pace, she was in danger of losing him again. Once across, he must have been over
fifty yards away. She ran, attracting disapproving looks from other pedestrians. At the north-side entrance to Green Park tube, he stopped. She ducked into a shop front. If the walk had all along been a ruse before he finally descended to the tube, there was no way of making up the distance – she’d have lost him. That’s why you had teams.

  He looked back, appeared less agitated, and walked on, turning right into White Horse Street. There the pavement offered no hiding place, the pedestrians no protection. He forged on, left into Shepherd Street, then right into a street she was unfamiliar with. She turned into it. Nothing. He had disappeared. Carefully, she walked the short street, risking a glance into its single restaurant. A few yards further up, she caught sight of a brass plate with the name and number of the street. A blue-suited man approaching from the opposite direction rang a doorbell; the door was opened for him. She saw enough to suggest that inside was a well-heeled private members’ club. It had to be where he had vanished. She checked her watch – just after midday. How long would his meeting last? How could she secure evidence of who he was seeing?

  The meeting surely could not take less than forty minutes. The restaurant almost opposite was yet to fill for lunch. She entered, reserved a window table for two for 12.45, left and calculated that if she walked fast, she could return to Piccadilly, buy another scarf and cap to adapt her appearance, and be back within the half-hour. A lunchtime companion would help to complete the makeover. Even if it was almost certainly too late in the day, she texted the one person who might be able to help.

  At 1.10 p.m. Fowkes reappeared. He had not stayed on for lunch – his rendezvous must have been strictly business, not social. Maybe his host had decided that sharing a bottle of overpriced burgundy with Jed Fowkes was no one’s idea of fun. Now with a yellow scarf around her neck and a blue French beret on her head, Isla looked inwards while pointing her iPhone across the road. She clicked a flurry of pictures. One of them should be good enough to provide the visual proof of Jed Fowkes’s destination; there was no need to tail him further. It might be a long drawn-out affair but somehow she had to stick to this seat until the last lunchtime visitor to the discreet establishment opposite had left.