by Roger Keevil
“Very organised,” said Constable, impressed. “At which point, the wheels of Whitehall began to turn? And, I’m guessing, on this occasion, not exceeding slow.”
“Yes. I got a call from the Deputy P.M. within minutes. He put me in total control on the spot, and said that I was to expect someone from the local force. You, in fact.”
“And that ended up with the phone on my desk ringing, and here I am. And you reckon everybody’s hermetically sealed off? But do they know the Prime Minister’s dead?”
“Yes, I told them that. Just that. The bare fact – well, there wasn’t much else to tell. Other than the fact that she’s obviously been murdered, but I didn’t want to reveal even that to them at that stage.”
“But surely …” A thought struck Constable. “You can’t keep something like this under wraps. They’ll all have been on their phones straight away. I bet this story’s all round the world by now.”
“I had the hotel manager disconnect all the room phones this morning,” said Sheila grimly. “And I’d already taken charge of everyone’s mobiles.”
“Really?” Constable was astounded. “And the ministers let you have them?”
“P.M.‘s orders,” replied the security officer shortly. “She was absolutely determined that nothing about this meeting was going to leak, so she ordered them all as soon as they got here yesterday to hand over their phones into my keeping. They didn’t like it. Not one little bit. But orders are orders, and I had my job to do. Still do, for that matter. Although whether I will still have a job in twenty-four hours after what’s happened is another matter. But until I get a direct order from the top, I’ll carry on obeying Mrs. Ronson’s instructions.”
Constable shook his head in wonder. “So what’s all this about? Why are they here in the first place? And why this obsessive level of secrecy?”
“I have no idea. Above my pay grade, I’m afraid. I assume the ministers can tell you.”
“I shall have to ask them, shan’t I? And we keep talking about them as an amorphous group instead of individuals. I suppose you ought to tell me who they are.” Constable turned to his junior. “Copper, you’d better make a list of these. I dare say we’re going to have to work our way through them one by one.”
“Righty-ho, guv.” The sergeant produced his notebook.
Sheila drew a breath. “Right. Well, the most senior is Amanda Laye, the Foreign Secretary. She only got back from a trip yesterday – more or less came here straight from the airport. Then there’s the Health Secretary, Dr. Neal – Peregrine Neal, although in these ruthlessly chummy man-of-the-people days he’ll probably insist that you call him Perry. Erica Mayall is here – she’s the Secretary of State for Women’s Affairs.” Sheila thought for a moment. “We’ve got Benjamin Fitt who is Social Security Secretary, and the Education Secretary, Milo Grade. How many’s that so far?”
“Five.”
“Okay – three more. Deborah Nye is in the group – she’s the Justice Secretary, and she’s also got her Minister of State with her – that’s Marion Hayste, who’s the Prisons Minister. And the last on the list would be the Culture and Media Secretary, Lewis Stalker. That’s the lot.”
“You start to wonder who’s running the country,” murmured Dave Copper.
“Right,” said Constable briskly, declining to acknowledge his colleague’s remark. “Sequence of events. What led up to now? How come we are where we are?”
“The P.M. decided to have this meeting,” said Sheila. “For whatever reason – I don’t get to know things like why. And because of the state of things at Chequers …”
“Which I’ve been told about,” intervened Constable.
“… she got me to cast around for an alternative venue. I found Dammett Hall, which seemed to fit the bill – small, slightly away from the mainstream, discreet. The ministers all turned up here late on Thursday afternoon …” Sheila broke off. “Good lord, that’s only yesterday. It seems like forever ago. Anyway, they were all here by teatime.”
“Did they arrive together? On some sort of ministerial charabanc?”
Sheila smiled faintly. “This lot? Oh no. Far beneath their dignity. Things like that may be all right for the Royal Family when they’re moving en masse to get to Westminster Abbey for a wedding, but it would never do for our grandees. No, everyone came in their own separate official car – oh, except Dee and Marion. Same department, so they came together.”
“I get the vague impression that you are not necessarily a huge personal fan of some of these people?” hazarded Constable.
“Totally irrelevant,” said Sheila crisply. “I’m a professional – I do the job I’m expected to.”
“But no man is a hero to his valet, eh?” suggested Constable. “Well, go on.”
“Mrs. Ronson had a brief chat with everybody, and then they had dinner.”
“Here?”
“No. The P.M. wanted the staff numbers kept to a minimum, so it was arranged that the party would have dinner at the pub.”
“Is that the Dammett Well Inn in the village, by any chance?” asked Constable.
“That’s right. They have a private dining room, and the food is actually rather good. I’d eaten there when I checked the place out for accommodation for myself and the others.”
“I’d have thought a fleet of ministerial limousines drawing up outside the village pub would have been likely to attract attention,” remarked Constable. “Wouldn’t that rather tend to scupper the idea of keeping this affair quiet?”
“We cut it down to two,” said Sheila. “The P.M. plus four in her car, and me plus four in the escort vehicle. Not too much of a squeeze, and it kept the profile low. Everyone went in through a side door, so Joe Public never caught a glimpse. And apart from the landlord and one of his waitresses, nobody knew about the dinner. The private function room is quite separate from the rest of the Dammett Well.”
“Is Gideon Porter still the landlord down there?” enquired Copper.
“Yes,” said Sheila. “Do you know him?”
“We met on a previous case,” said Copper. He turned to Constable. “Blimey, guv. Old Gideon must have been taking cooking lessons if he’s up to catering for the great and the good.”
The inspector refused to be diverted from the narrative. “And then?”
“After the meal, everybody came back here, and Mrs. Ronson told all the other ministers’ cars to leave, and come back here at six o’clock this evening for the end of the meeting. Then she told me I wouldn’t be needed again until this morning, so the driver and the waiter and I were sent off back to the pub, leaving the ministers here alone. And that was all I knew until I arrived back here this morning.”
Constable let out a gusty sigh. “Right. Well, that puts me in the picture up to that point. As for what went on after that, I shall have to talk to all the others. And I’m going to need a SOCO team up here as soon as possible.”
Sheila shook her head. “Sorry, Andy. Absolutely not. At least, not yet. This whole thing is limited to those people on the premises until this evening. Strict instructions from the Chancellor – this is not to get out.”
“But why …?” Constable remembered. “Because of the effect on the markets. Of course. Okay – so we’re on our own. And now I suppose we’d better go and have a look at the scene of the crime.”
As Constable led the way towards the library door, it opened and the doctor emerged. “Well, Andy,” he said, “I have to say that, in a lifetime of surprises, you’ve never presented me with a bigger one than this.” He shook his head in incredulity. “The Prime Minister, for goodness sake? Talk about ending your career with a bang.”
“So she’s been shot?”
“Not her, man! Me!”
Constable frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“Nobody’s got around to telling you? Typical!” tutted the doctor. “The ones who need to know are always the last ones to find out. I’m retiring. This is supposed to be my last day. Although th
e chances of me getting away with that now look pretty remote. I seem to have acquired an unscheduled appointment with a highly-placed corpse in my dissecting room.”
“You retire, doc?” Andy Constable was disbelieving. “Never. How on earth would we manage without you?”
“Anno domini gets us all in the end, Andy.” He glanced over his shoulder towards the room he had just left. “That’s if some malefactor doesn’t beat us to it.”
“We shall be sorry to see you go, doc. Truly.”
“Anyway,” said the doctor, clearing his throat gruffly at the hint of emotion in the air, “back to business. And no, she hasn’t been shot. It’s a very simple single stab wound, inflicted from the rear, straight to the heart. Death probably instantaneous, and some hours ago, but I can’t be too exact on that without a more detailed examination. As for the weapon, there is what looks like a paper-knife still in the wound, which I wouldn’t mind betting did not come from the rather fancy Victorian bureau set on the desk next to the body.”
Constable raised an eyebrow. “Doing our job for us now, doc?”
The doctor gave a cross between a snort and a smile. “Just being observant. It’s modern, unlike the desk set, which is all there anyway, as far as I can see. And a bit late for a change of career on my part, Andy, wouldn’t you say? I just happened to notice, that’s all. Anyway, there’s the bones of it. Nothing more I can do here, so if it’s all right by you, I’ll be off, and I’ll get some transport organised to take the lady away for me to have a closer look at, back in the lab. Not that I’m anticipating any surprises.”
“I bet you’re in for one surprise at least, doctor,” said Copper. “They’re bound to have a farewell party organised back at the station. You won’t want to miss out on that.”
“They’d better not,” retorted the doctor. “No fuss, that’s what I said. I’m planning on sidling away quietly. And if you’ll take my advice, Andy, you’ll do the same when your time comes. Meanwhile, I’ll leave things in the hands of you members of the younger generation.”
Constable gave a chuckle. “Not so young any more, doc,” he said ruefully. “Every time I look in the mirror I see a few more grey hairs.” He extended a hand. “Anyway, thanks for everything. It’s been a pleasure.”
“Me too, doc.” Copper shook the older man’s hand.
“By the way, doc,” added Constable, “I probably don’t need to invoke patient confidentiality, but I’m under orders to stop any word of this getting out for now …”
“… and you’d prefer it if I didn’t go broadcasting what’s happened here? Understood. My minions will be appropriately instructed.” A dry smile. “I’ve been exercising discretion for so many years, sometimes I don’t even tell myself what I’m up to.” Without another word, the doctor turned and made his way out of the front door.
Sheila Deare, who had faded into the background when the doctor appeared, stepped forward. “I expect you still want to see the body, Andy, now that you know what the doctor’s had to say.”
“Of course,” said Constable, his hand on the doorknob.
“And then interview everyone else in the house in turn?”
“It seems sensible. Probably starting with the one who first found the body.”
“Which was Philip Knightly.”
“The hotel manager, I think you said?”
“That’s right. He’s in his office, which is what used to be the old butler’s pantry.”
“I know it. Just here off the hall.”
“So if you like, I can tell him to expect you shortly, and then I’d better go tell the ministers what’s going on, and that you’ll be up to see them in a little while.” Sheila sighed. “That’s probably going to take a great deal of time and tact. I’m expecting quite a lot of ruffled feathers. Especially from Mrs. Nye. She’ll probably want to muscle in and take over, being Justice Secretary. It won’t be easy telling her she’s been outranked by the Deputy P.M.”
“You have my sympathy,” said Constable. “No doubt I shall come in for my fair share of problems when I speak to everyone, being a mere humble detective inspector. But yes, do by all means go and attend to all that, and Copper and I will make a start by taking a look at your late boss.” He opened the library door.
Chapter 2
“Well, at least we’ve got the means, guv,” said Dave Copper, looking down once again at the body. “The doc was pretty clear on that, so you haven’t got to unravel some sort of unholy tangle like with that business in the horse-racing case. Just the motive and opportunity to go.”
“With a group of politicians,” replied Andy Constable. “Well, I can’t imagine that any of them would have anything to hide.” A wry look. “We are going to have to tread very carefully.”
“Behind you all the way, guv,” said Copper, unable to suppress a grin. “It’s probably the safest place to be. So, my notebook is standing by. You wanted to talk to this manager chap, didn’t you? So shall we?”
Constable gave a wry smile. “Taking charge, eh? Getting in some practice to be investigating officer?”
“Not just yet, sir. Not just yet.”
“And you know where to find this Mr. Knightly?”
“Inspector Deare said he was in the old butler’s pantry. Which is through that little hidden door under the stairs, sir, isn’t it?”
“Your powers of recall are astounding, sergeant,” said Constable admiringly. “Well, you’d better lead the way.”
The door to the former butler’s pantry was, as Dave Copper remembered, almost perfectly concealed in the wood panelling of the staircase. Inside, in contrast to the shadowy and atmospheric ambience of the main hall, the bright spotlighting came almost as a shock, reflected as it was off the surfaces of chrome, glass and gleaming laminate which featured in the room’s modernist furnishings. Metal filing cabinets were lined up against one white-painted wall, a combined desk and computer work station in pale Scandinavian wood stood against another. And seated at the desk, gazing unfocussed at the blank computer screen, sat a man. Somewhere in his forties, Constable estimated, with dark hair cut in extremely fashionable modern style and a face which, but for its present careworn expression, would probably have exuded smiling enthusiasm. He looked up, startled, as the police officers entered the room.
“Mr. Knightly?”
“Yes,” replied the man in slightly uncertain tones. He stood. “What do you want?”
“Detective Inspector Constable, sir.” Constable showed his warrant card. “This is my colleague Detective Sergeant Copper. And I’m sure you can guess why we’re here.”
“Yes. Inspector Deare said you’d be in.” A deep sigh. “You’d better sit down.” The man gestured to two uncomfortable-looking upright steel seats, and then slumped back into his white leather swivel armchair. “God, this is awful.” He rested his elbows on his desk and put his head in his hands.
“I can quite understand your feelings, sir,” said Constable. “It must have been a shock. I’m told you were the one who discovered the body of the Prime Minister. Which means, I’m afraid, that we have to ask you some questions.”
“Of course, inspector. What would you like to know?”
“I think we’d better start with the basics, sir. Your name.”
“Philip Knightly. That’s with one ‘l’, sergeant,” said the man, observing Copper beginning to make notes. “But ‘Phil’ will do.”
“And you are the manager of the hotel?” resumed Constable.
“Yes. I was the one responsible for setting the place up when the company bought the Hall, and I’ve been running it ever since.”
“Very much a full-time job, I imagine, sir. That must be very demanding. No time at all for breaks?”
“Scarcely, inspector,” smiled Phil wanly. “It comes with the territory. Although I did actually manage to take a whole weekend off last year. Around this time, as it happens. The directors took pity on me, because it was my birthday.”
“Made one or two c
hanges, I notice,” remarked Constable, looking around the room. “The sergeant and I had occasion to come here some while ago on a previous case,” he explained in response to the manager’s puzzled look. “This was the old butler’s pantry then, although they were using it as some sort of drinks store.”
“Oh, we still do,” said Phil. “Well, the old strongroom in that corner is used to keep our fine wines in. Some of them can come out at over a thousand pounds a bottle, so you want to keep them somewhere secure. But as for this room, I needed an office close to the action, and I didn’t want to take up one of the good rooms of the house – the company likes to keep the hotels as much as possible as they were when they were private houses – so I tuck myself away in here.”
“Very modern, sir.” Constable nodded approvingly.
“We’ve redecorated and modernised the bedrooms too. Made them all en-suite. But the rooms down here are probably pretty much as you’ll remember them, if you’ve been here before. So how did that come about?”
“Another murder, sir, as it happens.”
“What?”
“You didn’t know, sir?”
Philip looked shocked. “I had no idea.”
“Probably not the sort of thing the former owners would be too anxious to publicise, guv,” put in Dave Copper. “Might have dented the asking price a bit. And even if the new owners did know about the murder at the fête, they probably wouldn’t want the fact too widely known. Might put people off coming to stay here.”
“Even so, I’m surprised, Mr. Knightly,” said Constable. “I wouldn’t have thought it was possible to keep something like that from getting out. Village gossip, and all. Of course, there may have been a touch of local loyalty to it – you know, respect for the people up at the big house. Not that any of this is relevant to anything, as far as I can see. We have a completely new case on our hands.”
