A Time to Lie

by Simon Berthon

  ‘It’s fine, you did it. Well done. Follow me upstairs and walk out through the front door. There’s a car waiting to drop you at the tube. I’ll see you later. You’ve never been here. This place doesn’t exist.’

  39

  It would be perfect if they ended up killing each other.

  Sandford could hardly believe he had used those words. What a firestorm. If he had imagined in a million years that it could lead to this, would he have played it this way? His predicament had been so critical that he could not, to his self-disgust, easily answer that question. Now he must see the game through. With Morland-Cross literally dead, Fowkes, at least figuratively, must follow.

  The strange end of the Deputy Prime Minister and Chancellor of the Exchequer, the second most powerful man in the land, was bound to run and run. Even sixteen years on, the death of a rising but far more junior Conservative MP in similar circumstances was still attracting conspiracy theories. That, too, had included a lemon. No doubt it was a deliberate copycat. For the moment, because of Morland-Cross’s reputation as a sexual predator, now supplemented by the allegations of violence, the media would have a field day. Every angle would be indulged: the perverted reaction to the shame of exposure; the fear of more women coming forward; the knowledge that his career was over, that he could never become Prime Minister; the resignation that was about to be forced on him; that he was deliberately flirting with death as his best way out.

  It was a useful narrative for the authorities – police, intelligence agencies, civil service, the coroner, the state in all its manifestations. Sandford felt as sure of the sun rising at dawn tomorrow that no physical evidence would appear to suggest otherwise. Yet here he was, the Prime Minister, the apex of that state, one hundred per cent sure that it was murder. This time he was the conspiracy theorist.

  He was trapped. To convince any investigator to dig deeper, he would have to tell a story that was impossible for him to reveal. Without implicating himself, he could offer nothing more than his hunch, his assessment of his colleague’s state of mind. He would be courteously listened to and then dismissed, seen as wanting to protect a colleague and friend. Perhaps he would be asked what his alternative theory was. What difference would that make? If he began to hint at murder or conspiracy, eyes would roll, the pillars of the ‘state’ asking themselves whether there was a fantasist at 10 Downing Street.

  I am not just alone, he reflected, I am powerless. A horrifying thought hit him. Was the death of Morland-Cross a coded warning? ‘You fall into line, because what happened to him can happen to you too.’

  The phone rang. ‘It’s Jed Fowkes, Prime Minister. Will you take the call?’

  My God, what timing. ‘Yes, Mark, put him through.’ A switch clicked.

  ‘Thank you for talking to me, Prime Minister.’ Both men knew that the PPS would listen in to the call; this was government business on government phones.

  ‘I could hardly not, Jed. A tragedy.’

  ‘Yes, awful.’ Fowkes hesitated. ‘I’d never have suspected M-C of that sort of thing.’

  ‘Nor me,’ agreed Sandford.

  ‘Women of course, but never that.’

  ‘Perhaps there’s a part of everyone that we never truly know.’

  ‘But a fine man. And a great thinker.’

  ‘Yes, indeed.’

  The line fell silent. The obligatory platitudes exchanged, Fowkes broke the moment. ‘But we can’t stand still.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Sandford with uncharacteristic vehemence.

  ‘Perhaps it was as well we had that discussion.’

  Sandford wondered whether to give him what he wanted straightaway or allow him to sweat. Just follow Quine’s rule. ‘Yes, it was.’ He waited, curious to see if Fowkes showed impatience. For once, he did not. ‘I’ll speak to Margaret Lascelles straightaway. Sort it out quickly, maintain confidence in the markets and all that.’

  ‘I couldn’t agree more. In the meantime I’ll keep an eye on things for you.’

  ‘Thanks, Jed, I really appreciate that.’

  The call went dead. It was not yet noon; Fowkes had not wasted a moment. Sandford rang Margaret Lascelles inviting her to be Chancellor, with just one condition.

  ‘Margaret, I’d like Jed Fowkes to continue as the senior Treasury special adviser. Chancellor is the hardest of all jobs to settle in to. I suggest that, effectively, you and I allow Jed to oversee things for two or three months. In the first instance this will be signing off Treasury input into the Royal Speech. I’ll be closely involved myself too. In fact I intend that Jed and I will work together to achieve the final version of the full speech.’

  She did not hesitate; perhaps she felt a sense of relief. ‘Of course, Prime Minister, I know how far back you and Jed go. I look forward enormously to working with him.’

  He put the phone down. Enter the puppet. Let Jed play it.

  He reconsidered. No, that’s not right. I’m the puppet Jed Fowkes is playing.

  40

  Back at the flat after a tube journey marred by nervous glances, Quine missed the first breaking of the story. Now he sat watching, flicking between Sky News Live and the BBC News Channel, as it snowballed into the full avalanche of speculation and motivation. Sandford had stepped out into a sunlit Downing Street, wearing a white shirt and tie so dark blue that it was almost black.

  ‘I have just heard the sad, indeed tragic, news of the death of the Chancellor of the Exchequer, Henry Morland-Cross. He was a close colleague for many years. As well as his great good humour, he was a man of principle. In recent times he became a real friend as we steered our nation through turbulent times. No doubt much will be said and written about his death. But I hope the focus will be on his productive, energetic and beneficial life. I will remember, as I hope we all will, a gifted man who gave his best to his country when it needed him most.’

  Yes, thought Quine, you haven’t lost the knack, Robbie, whatever your own troubles might be. Hearing his words and the tributes of others speaking with wildly varying degrees of honesty, he was shocked to realize the change within himself. A year or two ago, nothing would have excited him more than being at the centre of the story. Now it left him cold, repelled by the sheer volume of noise as every straw was clutched at to enhance sensation. Had he gone soft? Or was it the world, in thrall to instant and social media, that had gone hard? A lethally weaponized world.

  He heard the click and creak of the front door and jumped up, his heart thudding again as it had on the journey home.

  ‘It’s just me,’ came a familiar voice. He wished he did not feel so overwhelmed with relief.

  Sophie walked into the room. ‘You’re back early,’ he said, trying to look cheerful.

  ‘It’s my reading at home time.’ She frowned. ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Yes. Sort of.’ He nodded at the television. ‘It’s just this. I thought I’d want to watch it all. But I can’t stand it.’

  ‘Switch it off.’ She grabbed the zapper from the sofa and did it for him.

  He stretched out an arm. ‘I’d better have it back.’ She handed it over. ‘Trouble is I can’t stand it but, once it’s on, I can’t stop myself.’

  ‘We’ve hit a wall,’ said Isla that evening.

  ‘A wall?’

  ‘Yes. I might be exposed from Fowkes first spotting us. So I guess that’s the end of my attachment to HMRC.’ She smiled ruefully. ‘You might be too. Hard to be invisible in the driver’s seat.’

  ‘Are we safe?’

  ‘I can look after myself. Let’s work it through for you. Assuming IPRM stroke Deschevaux was behind your camper van crash, we don’t know if that was because of your book or because they’d found out you were involved with this. Maybe someone told them you were nosing around Deptford. They may have ID’d you watching them today. But they’ve also exposed themselves by coming after us with Fowkes in the car. So they won’t be stupid enough to come for you again. Not in this country anyway. They’ll assume you have protection. Th
ough I wouldn’t be having a holiday anytime soon in a lawless country where IPRM has a presence.’

  ‘Thanks, Isla.’

  ‘My pleasure. Advice comes free.’

  ‘You said we’ve hit a wall.’

  ‘Yes, unless…’ Deliberately, she did not finish the sentence.

  ‘Unless what?’

  ‘Before I answer, let’s sum up. One, Morland-Cross had an explosive argument with Fowkes. Two, Fowkes had a covert meeting with Christine Patterson two nights before her TV confessional. Three, the combined surveillance and photos outside the Mayfair club means Fowkes has a relationship with that company’s two founding directors and with Deschevaux. It also means that they’re still part of that company. Four, Fowkes was seen allowing two unidentified men into the Treasury on the evening of the night Morland-Cross died. We have no evidence but it’s possible, maybe probable, they killed Morland-Cross and made it look like an accident. Five, when Fowkes spotted the car you and I were in outside the IPRM head office, the car ferrying him followed us in a way that indicated hostile intent.’

  Quine sighed. ‘But it’s hardly going to hold up in court. Is that the point?’

  ‘No. Not yet anyway. Unlike the law, we’re trying to find the truth.’ They shared a wry smile. ‘But we have a missing element.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘You have to persuade a certain person to agree a particular course of action.’

  ‘No more riddles. What do you mean?’

  ‘Come on, Joe. Robin Sandford must fully bring in the intelligence services. Right now. You and me can’t get to the truth alone.’

  ‘He won’t,’ Quine said flatly, his face a picture of gloom.

  ‘He has to.’

  ‘He’ll never tell them the real nature of Fowkes’s threat.’

  ‘He doesn’t need to. All the factors I’ve just listed would be seen by any intelligence chief as potential indicators of a criminal conspiracy at the heart of government.’

  ‘We don’t have clear evidence of the network. It’s still our theory.’

  ‘It may not add up to enough for police investigation. But it does for MI5 to intervene. That’s our job. To anticipate and prevent.’

  Quine’s phone rang. He started. Seeing the reflex action, Isla observed him closely as he answered. ‘Yes, of course… this morning – before today’s tragic news emerged… well, why not?… Your head office in Fleet Street… Ten thirty. Excellent, I look forward to it… Yes, goodbye.’

  Quine looked up at Isla, excitement in his eyes. ‘Roisin Osborne. Sandford’s delivered. She may hold the clue to what he truly has to fear.’

  ‘Now it’s my turn to ask, Joe. Are you OK to carry on?’

  ‘Sure. What have I got to lose?’

  Sandford, home half an hour after midnight after a day unlike any other in his entire life, read the latest email.

  JONATHAN MOORE

  To: paulabcdreynolds@gmail.com

  Re: Urgent

  Hi Paul

  Am seeing R tomorrow. After that, need to meet without delay and review.

  Cheers

  Jonathan

  The bedroom door was ajar, Carol’s bedside lamp on. In her hands she held a few sheets of A4 paper.

  ‘Weirdest day ever,’ he said, approaching to give her a kiss.

  She pushed him away. ‘Yes, everything’s changed, hasn’t it? I want to know what’s going on, Robbie. The lot.’

  ‘You mean M-C.’

  ‘We can start there if you want.’

  He felt queasy. There was a sternness, a tone of the interrogator in her voice. He had never heard her speak so sharply. He realized how tired he was. He must not rise to her.

  ‘I guess we take it at face value,’ he said. ‘M-C had a fetish none of us knew about.’

  ‘Not the M-C you’ve ever described to me. He liked fucking women, not himself.’

  Something was coming; she never used language like that. ‘Many people have secret lives.’

  She shuffled the sheets of paper. ‘Exactly, Robbie. It’s not M-C I’m interested in now.’

  ‘Sorry, I’m not with you.’

  ‘You’re not levelling with me in any way. I’ve looked at your email exchanges with Joe Quine.’

  ‘Carol, you’ve no right to go there. Please give them back.’

  He put out a hand to receive them. She didn’t move. ‘We’re married. We share our lives.’

  ‘I’m asking you again. Don’t do this.’

  She started reading. ‘Artefact. No sign of other supporting material. Our friend exploiting emergence for own purposes. What’s the artefact, who’s the friend?’

  ‘Stop it,’ he murmured.

  ‘Our friend left his boss’s office looking upset. Sounds as if there’d been an angry discussion.’

  ‘Don’t.’

  ‘Now this last one. Urgently need to speak to R person in attached link. I understand she’ll remember you fondly. I hit the link and googled her. What’s going on, Robbie?’

  His chest was tight, his stomach cramped. Glaring, he squeezed the hand he’d stretched out towards her into a fist. He was suddenly short of breath. He turned and went into the bathroom. Splashed water into his face, then rested his hands on the basin, trying to take deep, slow breaths.

  Watching him go, she realized that, for a split second, she actually thought he was going to hit her.

  41

  ‘I couldn’t resist,’ she said. ‘I was just amazed he’d remembered me.’

  Roisin Osborne had come down to meet Quine as, overseen by a top-hatted commissionaire, he signed Coulthard’s leather-bound visitors’ book in reception.

  ‘Goodness,’ she continued, ‘the Prime Minister on the phone. To me! It must be thirty years.’

  ‘It sounds like you remember him well too,’ said Quine.

  ‘I wouldn’t quite say that.’

  A twinkle in her eyes made her easy to warm to. But there had to be toughness underneath in order to rise from secretary to director at an institution that had survived the centuries like Coulthard’s private bank. She led him up two flights of stairs, talking as they walked. ‘But how did he track me down to here? Or maybe that was you?’

  Quine had decided not to mention Mikey Miller – an instinct told him he was not someone Mrs Osborne would recall with approval or fondness. ‘No, all him. He’d forgotten your surname but, once he looked back, a girl called Roisin was as fresh in the memory as yesterday. And he recalled Coulthard’s. I took pot luck and checked if there were any Roisins working there. And here we are.’

  ‘Well, would you believe it?’

  They reached a square landing, corridors running off to the left and right and two doors ajar. She entered one of them. ‘The dining room. Where men once traded fortunes over port.’

  It was a grand, wood-panelled rectangular room, its floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a courtyard garden. At its centre stretched a mahogany table, carver chairs at each end, broad uprights along each side – he counted seating for twenty.

  ‘Do they still have such things as directors’ lunches?’ he asked.

  ‘Only occasionally. And women directors are allowed.’ She swivelled. ‘Right, tour over. We’ll go to my office.’

  This turned out to be along one of the corridors, through a small ante-chamber, and into a generously sized room, all with the same wood panelling as the dining room. She directed him to a sofa and placed herself on its other end. ‘So how can I help you, Mr Quine?’

  ‘Joe, please.’

  ‘Roisin, likewise.’

  ‘How much did the PM explain?’

  ‘Well, he said you were researching a biography and he trusted you and wanted to help. He wanted all the ups and downs, good times and bad. I said I wasn’t sure how much I could help. He said he’d always remembered me most fondly – which was rather sweet of him – so maybe I might remember something of him.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Though I couldn’t quite hel
p wondering why he thought my memories would be any use.’ The smile remained but the observation was sharp.

  ‘I think I can give you an answer,’ Quine replied. ‘Robbie, if you and I may call him that, is trying to fill a gap in his memory. There was one year of his life – as he was starting work at the Commons after a very bad car accident – that he remembers very little about. Except for certain people like you who stand out. He believes there was perhaps an element of post-stress trauma as we now understand it. He wants to understand the person he then was and how he came across to others.’

  ‘Well, he was fun.’

  ‘Not a bad start.’ As they exchanged comfortable smiles, a young man arrived carrying a silver tray, laid with china cups, coffee and a plate of biscuits.

  ‘Thank you, Duncan,’ said Roisin in a tone of grateful surprise, even though she must have known it was on its way. She watched him leave before pouring the coffee and resuming. ‘I only met him a few times.’

  ‘What do you remember?’

  ‘Well, on the first occasion,’ her Irishness coming through with the lengthened ‘o’, ‘it was a Friday night. End of the week and all that. I always felt part of the fun of this place was being in Fleet Street, not the City. Journalists’ pubs were – how can I put it? – a little salty. Pity they’ve gone.’

  ‘A tragedy,’ Quine concurred.

  ‘I was young and… perhaps the word is cautious. By the end of an evening, things could get a little hectic. So I tended to make my way home.’

  ‘Sensible.’ As he said it, he realized how much the word fitted her. A woman of no-nonsense.

  ‘Too sensible perhaps. Sometimes I feel I missed out. Anyway, I think it was the Monday or Tuesday after one of those pub evenings Robbie asked me out to dinner. He was a nice boy, well-mannered, good-looking. We went out to dinner twice, maybe three times.’ She paused. ‘Drink seemed to affect him. So I wrapped the evening up after we’d eaten.’