Eventually, wearing his Paul Smith dinner jacket over a white wing-collar shirt, Dominic joined Jonathan in the living room and handed over his bowtie.
“Would you tie it for me, please, love? Your Glyndebourne experience means you do it so much better than me.”
Jonathan kissed him on the lips. “Flattery will get you everywhere, lover.” He picked up the two glasses of prosecco. “Let’s first drink a toast to our idiotic prime minister. The person who has so decently invited us to their country mansion.” He handed a glass to Dominic and clinked them together. “Cheers, my dear. Let’s see if I can drink them all under the table tonight.”
Dominic took a sip of his prosecco. “Hmm, as soon as we arrive, I’m going to announce that you’re dangerously allergic to alcohol, and you must be confined to orange juice for the whole evening.”
“Probably not a million miles from the truth.” Jonathan set down his glass and began to tie Dominic’s bowtie. “Why haven’t you been to Chequers before, seeing as it’s only thirty minutes down the road?”
“Well, you do have to be invited by whoever’s prime minister at the time,” replied Dominic. “But I have rambled through the grounds many times. It’s a very pleasant walk.”
Jonathan enjoyed dressing his partner, who, he felt, did not pay enough attention to how he looked. Detail was everything.
“How on earth can you walk through the grounds? Surely it’s completely locked down with security fences and barbed wire?” Jonathan flattened the butterfly wings of the completed bowtie and admired his handiwork.
“There’s actually a public footpath that runs right across the grounds of Chequers,” Dominic explained. “It’s not far from the gatehouse. Of course the path is surrounded by cameras and bollards. A previous prime minister, I think it was Tony Blair, tried to get the footpath closed. But the Ramblers’ Association successfully opposed him. Quite right too. Our rights to roam must be protected.”
Jonathan began to slide his hands down the front of Dominic’s jacket. “Oh, we all need the right to roam, don’t we?” He pulled Dominic close to him.
Dominic responded by leaning forward and kissing him. “Thank you, Jonathan. You’ve made this possible.”
Jonathan took a step back and looked quizzically at his partner.
“What on earth do you mean? It’s you, not me, that got the invitation for this gig tonight. That came courtesy of your chums on the chamber of commerce.”
“No.” Dominic held Jonathan’s hands to his side. “Tonight is much more than just a bit of a do at Chequers. This is the first time since we met that you’ll be my partner in public here in Oxfordshire.”
He let go of Jonathan’s hands so he could pass him his drink.
“I propose a toast. To you, my dear friend and lover. I think it’s taken me a bit too long to be honest in public about who I am. You’ve made tonight possible.”
“Well, thank you, my dear. This evening’s going to be a riot, isn’t it?” Jonathan grinned.
Dominic set his glass down on the coffee table with a sudden crash. “Oh my God. I forgot to tell you something Miles said earlier. When he was looking at those photographs Gemma had brought along, he asked if I had any idea where they had been taken. Do you remember when we looked at them together? The room looked very grand, oak paneled—”
“I’m afraid I didn’t notice the room very much,” said Jonathan with a grin, “There was far too much activity in the foreground.”
Dominic ignored the interruption. “Miles said it looked Tudor, with a hint of Gothic. Just as I was leaving, he said Chequers is the same style of architecture. I believe he thinks—”
“He thinks Chequers hosted a male orgy?” Jonathan put down his glass and clasped his hands to the waistband of his kilt. “Well, if it did, then I’m pleased I made the right choice to let the breeze blow free tonight.”
A DARK gray Lexus limousine arrived promptly at seven. As Dominic walked out into the hallway of Ash House with Jonathan at his side, a clatter of feet on the stairs announced the arrival of Randolph James from his first-floor apartment.
“Mr. Delingpole! You’re looking very smart. Are you going to this shindig at Chequers too? Do you need a ride? My car has just arrived.”
“Good evening, Mr. James. Thank you for the offer, but we’ve already got a car. We’ll see you there. Let me introduce you to my partner, Jonathan McFadden. Jonathan, this is Randolph James. He’s an MP for somewhere down in Devon.”
Randolph James shook Jonathan’s hand enthusiastically. “Partner, eh? How very modern. And are you a true Scotsman, or is the kilt simply the new fashion?”
Jonathan looked at the MP coldly. “My name is McFadden, and this is the tartan of my clan. Its fashion is timeless, Mr. James.”
As he and Dominic walked out of Ash House to their waiting limousine, Jonathan said the single word “asshole.” But as soon as he caught sight of the chauffeur holding the car door open for them, he visibly brightened. The man was in his early twenties, tall and muscular. He wore close-fitting black chinos and a contour-hugging black T-shirt.
“Well, hello, young man, you’re a sight for sore eyes. And what’s your name?”
“I’m Pat, sir.”
“Mmm. I’m going to call you Pat the Pecs this evening. I do hope you’ve kept your engine running for us. It’s a chilly evening, especially when you’re wearing a kilt.” Jonathan gave the chauffeur a broad wink before climbing into the back of the car.
Dominic smiled. He had met Pat at the gym six months ago. When he had found out Pat was a part-time chauffeur, Dominic had booked him for tonight especially for Jonathan’s benefit. And, he supposed, for his own appreciation too.
In a little less than thirty minutes, as the car rounded a final bend in the narrow country road, the gates of Chequers appeared straight ahead of them. Their driver pulled alongside the brick gatehouse. Jonathan opened his window to hand their invitations to the security guard as he was sitting on the side closest to the checkpoint.
“Jonathan McFadden and Dominic Delingpole?” the guard asked. “Do you have some photo ID with you, please?” Jonathan handed over his driver’s license.
Patting his chest, Dominic cursed under his breath. “Oh my God, Jonathan, I forgot to transfer it to this jacket! We’ll have to go back. God, I’m such an idiot.”
The chauffeur put the car into reverse gear but didn’t move. Dominic looked over his shoulder and saw that they were blocked in by another car immediately behind them. A moment later he heard a familiar voice at the window.
“Mr. Delingpole, is something wrong?” It was Randolph James. His car had been following theirs all the way from Ash House. In the dim interior lighting of their limousine, Dominic saw Jonathan roll his eyes.
“Mr. James, I rather foolishly left my driver’s license back at home, and I can’t get in without it. Could you ask your driver to reverse, please, so we can go back and get it?”
“Well, actually, I’ve just realized I’ve got to go back and get something as well. A fellow MP from the party is expected to be there, and I’ve been promising her a document I have in my possession. My driver can run us both back now while your, er, partner goes and joins the merry throng.”
Dominic looked across to Jonathan, who simply rolled his eyes again.
“I won’t be long, Jonathan. Don’t drink everything while I’m away.”
Dominic got out of the limousine and walked toward the black Mercedes with tinted windows waiting behind.
IT WAS past seven o’clock when John got back to the house. He was desperate to ring Gemma and tell her the new information about the data card he had learned from Simon. But his dead cell phone meant he could do nothing until he got it back to its charger.
John pushed open the front door and ran up the stairs two at a time. After plugging in the charger, he waited a few minutes until the phone restarted. Then he called Gemma several times. Each time it diverted to her voice mail.
“Ge
mma, it’s me, John. Call me as soon as you get this message. I’ve spoken to Si.”
Hanging up the call, John thought for a moment, and then he called Steve.
“John. Where the fuck are you?”
“I’m back in the house. Look, I’ve spoken to Si and….”
“Don’t say any more. Go outside. I’ll call you back in two minutes.”
“I don’t think I’ve got enough battery life for that, Steve. It’s pretty dead.”
There was a pause at the other end.
“Okay. Hang up and I’ll send you a text. When you open it, you’ll find it restarts the cell. Then your phone will be in encrypt mode. Reply with a text with the info in it. Don’t talk in the house. Things are getting hot.” The line went dead.
Within thirty seconds of the call ending, a text came through from Steve. As John opened it, the screen went dead for a moment before his phone restarted.
John rapidly texted Steve what Simon had told him about the data card and how it was the real evidence. A moment later Steve’s reply came back: Get out of the house now. It’s not safe. Go to the hospital and surround yourself with people. Check in with me every ten minutes. All text messages are now encrypted.
John stared at the message, wondering if Steve was playing a joke on him. From downstairs came the sound of glass breaking and the front door being smashed in. John knew then that Steve was deadly serious.
Chapter 23
STEVE HAD positioned himself by the partially open french windows of Dominic’s apartment. The living room lamps were switched off, but the garden lights illuminated the area immediately around the patio. He had also rigged a makeshift set of spotlights shining out into the garden. Meanwhile he had fitted motion sensors on the front door and windows. There were two more sensors placed on the lawn beyond the patio.
A laptop screen was open in front of him. It showed three pulsing red lights accurately indicating the position of the cell phones belonging to Jonathan, Dominic, and John. Steve had been unable to raise any signal from Gemma’s cell. He hoped John’s phone would hold its charge for as long as it took him to get to the Royal Sussex Hospital.
Steve was unnerved by the number of bugging devices he had found in Dominic’s apartment. He was acutely aware of the sophistication of whoever had planted the devices. It made him feel out of his depth. He pushed the concerns to the back of his mind as he concentrated on the job in hand.
There had been no answer from Dominic’s cell when Steve tried to call him with John’s information. It took Steve only a few moments to hack into the diary on Dominic’s cell to find the name of Miles Torrington. Another few minutes’ search through the address book yielded Miles’s cell phone number.
“Mr. Torrington. This is Steve Brown. I’m looking after Dominic’s security systems.”
“Brown? Ah yes, the young skinhead surveillance chappie. Dominic mentioned you. What is it?”
Steve decided he’d been called worse in his time. “Can you hang up and take your cell outside? I need to switch us to an encrypted call. Call me back on this number showing in your phone.”
The line went dead. But within a few minutes Steve’s phone rang.
“You’re an impressive young man” came Miles’s voice. “Right. I’m standing in the street outside my apartment. Are we encrypted?”
“Yes, I know you’re outside.” Steve lost no opportunity to show off his skills with tracking technology. “You’re in Silk Street by the Barbican. Do you live in one of those swanky apartments? Must have cost a bomb.”
As he was talking, he pulled up a street view of the London Barbican arts complex on his screen. If he had a bit more time, he reckoned he could hack into the security cameras to see exactly where Miles was standing.
“Look, young man.” Miles sounded unnerved. “Your technical skills are impressive but would you stop showing off and concentrate on the matter in hand? What is it you want?”
Steve rapidly described what Simon had said about the data card hidden in the envelope of photographs.
“So, young Steve. It seems it’s more than just a file of names on Simon’s computer that’s important. This is getting more and more intriguing. I need to get back to my office and find that data card. I’ll call my brilliant pupil back in and get her onto it. Although knowing how keen she is, I bet she’ll still be there. I’ll call you if I find anything.”
Miles ended the call and walked to the junction with Beech Street to find a taxi.
JOHN STUFFED his cell and its charger into his jacket pocket and struggled with the old casement window until it suddenly slid up. He heard the front door slam open and was glad that in his haste to get upstairs, he had forgotten to turn any lights on in the house.
Clambering out onto the sill, he pulled the window back down and lowered himself onto the flat roof of the kitchen extension immediately below. He jumped to the ground and ran to the back gate that opened onto the path linking the row of Victorian terraced houses.
Instead of following the path along the route that eventually led back to the road at the front of the house, he jumped a fence into the garden of one of the houses behind. He knew this house had a narrow passageway opening onto a road that led toward Kemp Town. To his relief a noisy group of students were walking past. John joined them, trailing slightly behind. Pulling his hood up around his head and shoving his hands deep into his jacket pocket, he followed them onto Freshfield Road. The group headed south toward the seafront. It would be a brisk fifteen-minute walk to the hospital.
After a little over ten minutes, he came to a pub and ducked inside. He pulled out his phone and was relieved to see it still had some battery life. He sent a text reading simply OK to Steve and then cautiously stepped back outside. Standing on the pavement, he looked up and down the road. He had no idea what he should be looking for. Nor did he know if the person or persons who broke into the house were chasing him. He did know he had never felt so terrified or alone.
About a hundred yards behind him, pulled into the curb with its lights still on and the engine running, was a black van. Was it following him? John considered going back inside the pub. But he had to get to the hospital. Staying there only delayed the inevitable.
At that moment, another group of students left the pub and started walking down Freshfield Road. John stepped in behind them and followed closely. After a moment, he turned to look behind him. He could see that the black van was pulling out into the stream of traffic.
IN THE shadowy interior of the black Mercedes, Randolph James’s teeth flashed white as he smiled and patted Dominic’s arm. “It’s rather fortunate that we were just behind you, Mr. Delingpole. I’ve been wanting to have a little discussion ever since that unfortunate break-in.” He leaned forward and murmured something to the driver. A moment later the car turned off onto a side road. It accelerated rapidly and swayed from side to side as the driver expertly navigated the twisting narrow lane.
“I need to drop by the house of one of my constituents. It won’t take us long. Which reminds me. I think you may have acquired an envelope recently. An envelope containing some photographs. Could you tell me where it is?” The teeth continued to flash in the darkness, and Dominic felt a chill run down his back.
“Mr. James, could you just take me to Ash House as you promised? I really don’t want to keep Jonathan waiting too long.”
“Ah yes, the ‘partner’ you introduced me to. I’m sure the prime minister’s household staff will look after him well. And we don’t have to be long, provided you can give me that information.”
“Are you threatening me, Mr. James?”
“Consider it an opening move in our negotiation. That envelope is part of an ongoing investigation, and we don’t want the wrong sort of people getting hold of it.”
“Then perhaps it should be handed over to the police.”
Randolph James leaned in close to Dominic. “So you do have it?”
The car braked suddenly and turned left throu
gh a gateway onto a graveled drive. Ahead of them Dominic could see an ivy-clad Gothic-style building. Behind them the gates slowly swung shut. The car pulled up in front of two large oak doors that were the entrance to the house. The driver got out and held the car door open. Randolph James gripped Dominic’s arm. A little tighter this time.
“Please join us, Mr. Delingpole. There’s someone you should meet.”
JONATHAN TWIDDLED the champagne-flute stem between his thumb and index finger. A dribble of liquid lay in the bottom of the glass. He had already refused three offers of a top-up. He was acutely aware of Dominic’s concerns for his drinking at such an important event. But nearly an hour had gone by since they parted at the gatehouse, and Jonathan was getting very bored. So far he had endured a long explanation of the benefits of seamless welding from the director of a local engineering firm and some frank opinions on the threat of increasing immigration to British society from an overbearing woman who actually had tints of blue rinse in her hair.
He moved to a corner of the room, took out his cell phone from his sporran, and called Dominic. There was no answer. Puzzled, he was about to call Steve when he noticed a guest taking a close interest in his Highland outfit.
“Forgive me,” said the man, “but what is the significance of the little dagger on your leg? Is it functional, and should I be worried? Or is it merely decorative like a brooch?”
The Necessary Deaths Page 14
