by Roger Keevil
“Fine by me. Okay, grab a seat.” Benny threw himself into a chair while the detectives, after a slightly uncertain pause, perched on a spindly-looking sofa. “So, you’re the forces of law and order, sent to sort out this kerfuffle?”
“As you say, sir. Detective Inspector Constable, and my colleague here is Detective Sergeant Copper.” The two produced their identification.
Benny scarcely glanced at it. “Sheila Deare said you’d be along.” He looked at his watch. “She didn’t say you’d be quite so long about it.”
“Apologies for keeping you waiting, sir,” replied Constable. “But we have had quite a number of your colleagues to interview, and it just so happened that you were the final one.”
“Bit of a bugbear of mine, waiting times,” remarked Benny. “Keeping people hanging about waiting to be seen is one of the things I’m trying to get a handle on.”
“Sir?”
“In my Department,” explained Benny. “Social Security, in case you didn’t know. People pitch up with their problems, and then they’re kept waiting around while my staff fight the computer system. I said to the P.M., we have to get it sorted if it kills us.” He grimaced. “I didn’t mean it quite so literally.” He drew a breath. “Anyway, my computers are nothing to do with why you’re here. You’ll be wanting to sort out this business with Doris.”
“And any help you can give us will be much appreciated, sir.”
Benny leaned forward in his chair. “Ask away.”
“I suppose we’d better begin with the lead-up to this meeting of the Prime Minister’s, sir. Would you have any idea why you might have been included in the group, while some of your fellow-ministers were not?”
“Not a clue, inspector.” Benny’s expression was candid. “Maybe Doris wanted to discuss some of my new ideas. They’re not to everyone’s liking, but then, I’m not that much of a politician.”
“No, sir?”
Benny snorted. “Well, not a party politician, anyway. I came up through the trade unions. Not quite born with a silver spoon in my mouth. There weren’t that many around in the part of Whitechapel where I grew up. As you can probably tell from the accent.”
“I guessed it might be somewhere like that, sir. I imagine that might account for your interest in the work of your Department. They’re very strong on family values in that neck of the woods, aren’t they?”
Benny suddenly looked unaccountably wary. “What are you saying, inspector?”
“Oh, I’m not trying to prise any policy secrets out of you, minister,” said Constable hastily. “No, it’s just that I remember somebody mentioned that they’d heard part of a conversation between yourself and the Prime Minister over dinner about the importance of families, that’s all.”
“Oh, I see.” Benny relaxed slightly. “Anyway, you wanted to talk about how this set-up all came about, didn’t you?”
Constable nodded. “Some background information never goes amiss, sir.”
“Depends how far back you want to go, inspector. Okay, brief history of Benny Fitt. Left school the minute I could, got into the transport union, worked my way up, got selected in a by-election for a parliamentary constituency in the Midlands …”
“Not London, sir. Not where your roots were? I’m surprised.”
“No, I got out of there years ago,” said Benny. “Anyway, I got elected. That was when my old party was in opposition. But then after all this rigmarole over the past year or two, when the new party got formed and we won, Doris called me up and said she wanted to make me a minister. Bit of a turn-up, I thought, but you don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, so I grabbed it. And here I am.”
“With a number of people you never expected to have as close colleagues, I’m guessing, sir,” suggested Constable.
“You’re right there, inspector,” agreed Benny with a wry grin. “They reckon politics makes for strange bed-fellows.”
“And do you find yourself among strange bed-fellows, Mr. Fitt?”
Benny gave him a look. “Not sure exactly what you’re asking, inspector. I don’t do gossip. But if you mean, did we all start out singing from the same hymn sheet, then I’d have to say no, not by a long chalk.”
“Which might easily have led to tensions between colleagues, sir,” said Constable. “Any in particular that strike you as relevant to the Prime Minister’s death?”
“You mean … hang on. You’re saying that one of us lot is the one that killed her? Oh, you’ve got to be kidding.”
“There’s no other possible explanation, sir. This house was a secure environment last night – there was no opportunity for anyone to enter or leave. It has to be one of the party.”
“Blimey.” Benny sat back and whistled in surprise. “You know, I’d never twigged that that was the reason for all this staying-put-in-our-rooms malarkey. So …” He paused in thought. “That’s what you’re getting at. You reckon someone who sat down to dinner last night ended up sticking the knife into Doris? Well … that is politics with a vengeance.”
Chapter 6
“Guv.” Dave Copper sounded excited as the detectives paused at the top of the stairs. “You don’t suppose that bit about sticking the knife in was a bit of a giveaway, do you? I mean, how many people know that Mrs. Ronson was stabbed?”
“I really couldn’t say, sergeant,” replied Andy Constable. “It could have been just a figure of speech. And we don’t know what Inspector Deare has told all these people in explanation. Maybe I should have warned her about the hazards of being too free with information, because you never know when someone is going to let slip something that ends up incriminating them. My fault for not thinking of it - I dare say she’s not as used as we are to wallowing around in the murky waters of sudden death. Well, not much point in worrying about that now.”
“No use crying over spilt blood, eh, guv?”
“And we’re back in the world of the off-colour Copper remark,” sighed Constable. “I thought you’d been unusually quiet for a while. Have you been spending your time thinking that up instead of doing your job and noting everything we’ve been told?”
“No, guv, honestly,” protested Copper. He brandished his notebook in evidence. “Pages and pages of stuff. One thing about politicians, they can’t half talk.”
“Just be grateful that we’ve only got this relatively few to deal with,” returned Constable. “If it had been the full cabinet, you’d have had over twice as many to deal with, and we’d have been here forever.”
“Grateful for small mercies, as ever, sir,” grinned Copper. “So, what now? Back downstairs and carry on?”
“Not just yet, sergeant. We still have one thing to do up here. I want to check through the Prime Minister’s room. I think we were put on the right track when we were told that there was a reshuffle in the wind. Maybe the people here were licking their wounds, as Ms. Mayall put it, because they were all potentially in line for the chop.”
“And one of them got their chop in first, guv?”
“As you say. And there’s one factor that nobody’s mentioned yet.”
“What’s that, guv?”
“Ambition. The Prime Minister’s dead. Someone is going to have to take her place. Why shouldn’t one of these people believe that they would be the appropriate successor?”
“Bit far-fetched, isn’t it, guv?”
Constable raised his eyebrows. “What, and this whole situation isn’t? I suspect we can’t rule anything out. Anyway, I want to go through Mrs. Ronson’s things. You never know, there may be something helpful.”
“Are we allowed to go poking about in state secrets, guv? Couldn’t that get us into trouble?”
“What, and you think there’s a bigger state secret than the one we’re sitting on top of?” scoffed Constable. “The Prime Minister’s lying downstairs in a pool of blood, and it looks as if she’s been murdered by one of her own cabinet colleagues. I think, at the moment, anything else, other than the nuclear launch codes, is probably fai
rly insignificant. So, back to the Chinese Bedroom.”
*
The Prime Minister’s room wore a faintly expectant air, as if it anticipated the return of its occupant at any moment to resume normal life. The door of a large black lacquered wardrobe stood slightly ajar, giving a glimpse of the rail of clothing hanging inside. A pair of shoes lay haphazard under a chair, evidently discarded in favour of a preferred choice. A brief glance through the open door of the marble-clad en-suite bathroom revealed nothing more interesting than an extensive array of dazzling white opulent towels and a contrastingly modest selection of personal cosmetics in a simple black leather wash-bag.
“Where to start then, guv?” queried Dave Copper.
“Oh, the usual routine, I think,” said Andy Constable. “You can prowl the room top to bottom, while I seat myself in comfort in this armchair and see if there’s anything to be found amongst the paperwork which I can see sitting invitingly in the despatch box on the bed.”
“Are you sure you’re allowed to do that, guv? I mean, confidential government papers and all that. We don’t want to find ourselves on the wrong end of a charge for contravening the Official Secrets Act, do we?”
“You let me worry about that, sergeant,” replied Constable, moving his chair to within easy reach of the foot of the bed. “As far as you’re concerned, you’re just following the orders of your superior officer. And as far as I’m concerned, nothing is going to stop me getting on with a murder investigation. And if the lady didn’t see fit to lock her case, I can’t see that we’re going to be the ones in trouble for looking inside.” He pulled the briefcase towards him and began to examine the contents.
The first item to hand was a substantial file, whose cover bore the crowned portcullis symbol of the House of Commons and the portentous title ‘Public Accounts Committee – Abuses of the Expenses System’.
“Oh, not again,” thought Constable. He opened the file and glanced at the contents page. There were cross-references to lists of names of Members of Parliament, as well as various functionaries of the House, with sub-headings regarding personal expenses, employment of staff, and expenditure incurred in the performance of official duties. Page after page of columns followed, with comments, footnotes, and occasional conclusions highlighted in bold type. Constable groaned. “This is going to take forever to go through,” he thought. “But there has to be something relevant here, or else why has Mrs. Ronson bothered to have this particular file with her for this particular set of meetings?” He laid the file aside and looked further into the briefcase.
Lying beneath the file was an imposing book, about the size of a substantial photograph album, bound in purple leather adorned with embossed gold leaf. On opening it, Constable was surprised to discover that it was the hotel’s register. In a large colour photograph on the first inside page, a slightly sheepish Phil Knightly formed one of a group of dignitaries on the steps of Dammett Hall, prominently fronted by a middle-aged woman wearing a floating summer dress and a striking picture hat, holding in one hand an extravagant bouquet of flowers, and in the other a large pair of golden scissors. Evidently the official opening ceremony of the hotel, surmised the inspector. The following pages were laid out as a combination of conventional register and traditional country-house visitors book – there was a list of dates of arrival, names and addresses, sometimes in the most abbreviated form, with spaces for the occasional comment, mostly fulsome, from satisfied guests on departure. Turning to the most recent entries, Constable read the list of the latest arrivals, headed by the confident sprawling hand of ‘Doris Ronson, 10 Downing Street, SW1’, followed by all her ministerial colleagues in scripts ranging from the most fastidious copperplate to the virtually illegible. What on earth, Constable wondered, is the Prime Minister doing with the hotel register in her possession? Surely she’s perfectly well aware of who is on the premises with her. Or is there something in the narrative of the building since it became a hotel which interests her? Something else which will need to be trawled through.
A small and rather battered-looking brown leather notebook, similar to that in which Copper had been making his copious notes, came next to hand. Held closed with an elastic band, it had evidently seen long service. Constable opened it carefully, conscious of the slightly ominous cracking sound from the spine of the book, and flicked through a seemingly random collection of names and phone numbers, many of them apparently of long standing, with amendments made over many years, together with notes of meetings and their conclusions, remarks on individuals, some of whom were prominent personalities and many of whom were utterly unfamiliar. There seemed to be no pattern – the book looked to be an ad hoc record of Doris Ronson’s political progress, and, it occurred to the inspector, would probably be a gold mine of information for anyone contemplating writing an autobiography. A little late for that, thought Constable with a grimace. It will have to be a biography now. As he was about to close the book, a small piece of paper fluttered from between the pages. Curious, Constable picked it up from the floor. Written on one of the hotel’s compliments slips, in what was clearly not the Prime Ministerial hand, was the somewhat mysterious legend ‘Not everyone is what they appear to be. S.D?’. Why would the P.M.‘s security officer be writing her oblique notes, mused the inspector. Wouldn’t it be simpler to find a moment to speak to her directly? And is this an implication that one of these ministers is lining themselves up, under a guise of friendly loyalty, to undertake some sort of a coup to oust the Prime Minister? Or worse?
Constable turned his attention to a small folded piece of paper which had been lying under the book. He unfolded it, to discover another example of the hotel’s compliment slips. Why can’t people use their own stationery, he thought, frustrated. It would make the authorship of these notes a great deal plainer. But at least this was clearly signed, although in a hand which did not match any of the other examples. It read ‘My dearest Nymph, I must speak with you. Heather’. Nymph?? And who on earth is Heather, wondered the inspector.
Constable leafed briefly through the few remaining papers in the case. There seemed to be nothing of significance. A memo from one of the other ministries, not represented at the meeting, concerning a forthcoming set of trade talks. A note referring to the timetable for a suggested visit by the Prime Minister of one of the Commonwealth countries. A newspaper cutting of an article on drugs in inner city estates. And briefing notes relating to the impending conference of the Mothers’ Institute, where a speech would be expected. As he was about to close the case, Constable noticed, tucked into a corner and almost invisible beneath the papers, a computer memory stick. He picked it up. Handwritten on it in cramped letters were the words ‘The Nightly Politics – that interview’. The inspector was about to replace the stick, when something about the wording struck him. Not ‘the interview’ – perhaps a simple record of a broadcast which Mrs. Ronson had done recently, and which she might have wanted to review. No. ‘That interview’. Evidently there was an air of notoriety about it. So was it by Mrs. Ronson herself, or perhaps by one of the ministers gathered together for the current meeting? And if so, did it provide fuel for concerns about someone’s future career? The stick would need to be played to provide an answer. Something else which needed time, and Constable was acutely aware that, under present circumstances, this was a commodity in short supply. He pocketed the stick.
With a slight sigh of resignation, the inspector abandoned the briefcase and looked up, to see his junior colleague, a crumpled paper in his hand, on his knees alongside a small writing desk which stood in an alcove alongside the chimney breast. “What on earth are you doing grovelling about on the floor, sergeant?” he enquired.
Dave Copper picked himself up. “Just taking you at your word, guv,” he responded cheerily. “You said do the room ‘top to bottom’, so that’s what I’ve done. Not that it’s been all that productive, mostly. Nothing in the wardrobes except a few clothes hanging up, and about the most exciting thing in there was o
ne of Mrs. Ronson’s coats in some horrible lime green colour. There ought to be a law against colours like that – it could put you right off your lunch.” A level stare from his superior encouraged him to hurry on. “Anyway, nothing in any of the pockets. And there weren’t even any handbags to rummage through. I’d have thought they were an essential accessory for a woman prime minister – didn’t they always used to talk about people getting handbagged in the old days? Anyway, nothing there, and nothing in the luggage either, apart from a pretty strong smell of new leather. Somebody had very expensive tastes in suitcases. Monogrammed, too.”
“Never mind the suitcases,” said Constable. “It’s baggage of the other kind that we’re on the lookout for – either relating to the Prime Minister herself, or one of these other people, that might put us on the track of who’d have a motive to kill her.”
“Sorry to disappoint, guv,” said Copper. “I’ve been through the chest of drawers – nothing incriminating tucked away among the underwear. No dodgy substances in her cosmetics bag, as far as I can tell. And I was just finishing up by taking a look at the desk, but there weren’t any of Mrs. Ronson’s papers there – it looks as if you’ve got them all there in her briefcase. But …”
“So, as you say, not all that productive.” Constable stopped. A thought struck him, and his eye fell on the paper in his colleague’s hand. “Just a minute. You said ‘mostly’.” He frowned slightly at the grin which spread slowly across Copper’s face. “Come on, sergeant. Don’t play games. Out with it. What’s the ‘But’? You’ve obviously got something.”
“Sorry, guv.” The grin broke out into a broad smile. “Couldn’t resist it. But I think I’ve saved the best for last. And I almost missed it. It had obviously been chucked into the waste-paper bin under the desk, but it had missed and fallen into the gap behind. But I think you’ll like it.”
