Disorder (Sam Keddie thriller series Book 1)

by Paddy Magrane

  Sam stood. ‘Eleanor –’

  Her eyes locked on to his, cutting his words dead. Sam knew what was haunting her. It was the short, poisonous phrase Scott had used when he briefly talked about Eleanor, the kind of phrase that would torture any child who’d just lost a parent. She wouldn’t understand. Eleanor would now be convinced that she’d let her father down, just when he needed her most.

  Eleanor broke her stare and walked away.

  A little later, Sam was waiting outside the hotel entrance. The air was dense with small particles of mist that swirled around him, coating his face and clothes with a light film of water.

  Sam heard footsteps behind him and turned to see the manageress.

  ‘Safe journey,’ she said, an apologetic smile on her face.

  Sam nodded. As the woman turned into the hotel, Sam realised that, despite Eleanor’s clear intention to stop digging, he wasn’t finished.

  ‘One other thing,’ he said.

  The woman turned.

  ‘When you asked them to leave, was that the end of their argument?’

  The manageress shook her head. ‘There was a little more unfortunately, none of it pretty. Jane Vyner said he’d been unrecognisable since Marrakesh. Scott then bellowed “Enough” again. Jane Vyner stormed out, shortly followed by Scott. A little later she came down alone with her suitcase and asked the receptionist to order a cab. I didn’t see Scott until the following morning, when he paid up and left.’

  Just then Eleanor emerged from the hotel – her face like thunder – clutching her bag.

  They climbed into the car in silence. As she reversed the Peugeot hard, sending gravel spinning away from the car’s wheels, Sam knew that any further discussion about her father – or indeed anything else – was not welcome.

  Chapter 32

  The Lake District

  At the top of the hotel’s narrow drive, Eleanor looked briefly both ways and then accelerated into the road. The car was moving fast – too fast – into a bank of mist. The vehicle’s lights were little help, the beams swallowed up by the murky haze.

  ‘You should slow down,’ said Sam.

  Eleanor shot him a withering look, continuing down the road at the same speed.

  The car turned a corner and the windscreen was filled with a bright, blinding light. Sam pushed back into the seat, as if his weight might slow the car. Eleanor slammed on the brakes but the car didn’t stop. She yanked on the handbrake, but again the car didn’t react.

  Sam’s arm instinctively shot out to protect Eleanor from being flung forward into the steering wheel and windscreen. The futility of the gesture was soon made sickeningly clear.

  In the seconds that followed, Eleanor lost control of the vehicle as it spun right, crashing through a low-lying stone wall. There was a tearing, crunching sound, as the chassis of the Peugeot ground over the stones at high speed. Sam’s other arm was at his side, clinging to the car seat, even as he felt the vehicle take flight.

  The next thing he knew, the car’s motion came to a sudden halt as it landed in water. Their heads were flung brutally forward into the cushion of an airbag. The sense that they’d escaped being slammed into the dashboard or windscreen was little comfort. The car was now listing violently from side to side.

  Ahead, the mist briefly cleared and Sam saw the waves rippling around them, an indifferent expanse of lake ready to draw the car and its passengers into a cold, wet embrace.

  Eleanor pulled frantically at her door, muttering ‘Christ, oh Christ’ between rapid breaths.

  Sam could feel his own breathing becoming faster, his lungs desperately gasping for oxygen as his body began to panic. The claustrophobia was closing in. He experienced a sudden flash of memory from his childhood – of the dark featureless walls of a cupboard below the stairs – before he shook the thought from his head. Focus, he had to focus.

  He lunged across Eleanor, pressing the window switch on her door.

  ‘You can’t open the doors,’ he said. ‘The pressure of the water’s too great. The window’s our only way out.’

  But the switch did not respond. The window remained closed. Sam pressed again, punching it with his finger. He tried his. That too refused to budge. The electrics had gone. The water’s first victim.

  ‘Fuck.’

  He was just about to release his seatbelt and wind down the rear windows when they both heard the dull metallic groan, as if the car was protesting. The Peugeot’s front was dropping rapidly below the water’s surface. Icy liquid had made entry and was pooling around their ankles.

  Sam watched, with a feeling of intense dread, as the bonnet angled downwards, the Peugeot’s windscreen dropping fast below the waterline. The liquid inside had now risen to waist level, a dark mass of freezing water that threatened hypothermia as well as drowning.

  It was as if they were being buried alive. The dim light of the day was quickly being extinguished and Sam could already feel the air in the car being eaten up.

  He knew that if the lake’s bottom was deep – and he prayed to God that at this close distance to shore it wasn’t – they were both dead.

  Within seconds, they were below the surface, a murky, diffused light all around. A dull thud, a sound muffled by a thick wall of water, interrupted Sam’s dark thoughts. The car had stopped. The water was around their chests, and rising fast. It was now a question of waiting.

  Eleanor had given into panic and was pulling frantically at her door again.

  ‘You will not be able to open that door until the car is full of water,’ he barked.

  Eleanor blinked rapidly, struggling to take in what he was saying.

  As he spoke the next words, Sam could feel his stomach tighten. ‘The car needs to fill with water to equalize the pressure. Do you understand?’

  This time Eleanor nodded. He felt a hand grab one of his, Eleanor’s fingertips digging into his skin.

  As the water reached Sam’s chin, he shouted out to Eleanor: ‘In a couple of seconds you need to release your seatbelt and then take a very deep breath.’

  Eleanor, her face white, nodded.

  A moment later Sam gave Eleanor the signal and they released their seatbelts with hands that were already numbing with cold. Their bodies were gently pushed upwards till their heads nudged the car’s roof. There were about three inches of air to spare, their heads at sharp angles to allow their mouths to take a last gasp. He blinked at Eleanor. The message was clear. They simultaneously drew in the deepest breaths they could, before the water consumed the last drops of oxygen in the car.

  The car’s interior was now full of water and they wasted no time. Eleanor reached for the handle of her door. It eased slowly open and she swam out and upwards. Sam’s door was stiffer and, as he finally emerged from the car, there was another groaning sound and the vehicle began to drop again, this time faster than before. Sam shot forward but the door frame caught his left leg. He felt the metal scrape against his skin and was then swimming upwards, his lungs close to bursting.

  His head broke through the surface, his mouth drawing in great draughts of air as he looked round for Eleanor. He saw her just feet away, a pale face framed by dark wet hair that clung to her skull.

  Her teeth were chattering, the hypothermia gradually taking hold. Suddenly the effort of escaping the lake felt monumental. His wet clothes seemed to have doubled his body weight. Simply attempting to swim was exhausting.

  But then he saw a light sweep across the surface of the water, and a shot of adrenaline raced through his system.

  ‘We need to get out of sight!’ he said to Eleanor. ‘Dive down and swim to the bank.’

  Eleanor didn’t need persuading. The last thing Sam saw before he dived under was her head disappearing.

  A moment later, they were huddled together under a small knoll at the water’s edge. They watched the bright beam – without doubt the same one that had driven them off the road – move slowly and methodically across the water’s surface, the light dense with m
inute spots of mist.

  A few agonising minutes later, the beam cut out and Sam heard footsteps and then the sound of a car door slamming. An engine started and a car accelerated away, the sound slowly becoming more distant.

  To his side, Eleanor’s body was shaking violently. He could feel his jaw tightening and teeth beginning to rattle. His body had started to shiver. He suspected they had minutes to go before they were both in danger of slipping into unconsciousness.

  Climbing the bank to the road was out of the question. It wasn’t just the steep gradient. They’d seen how little traffic passed by. No, the only possibility was to walk back along the shore to the hotel.

  ‘We need to go back,’ said Sam. He heaved himself up, the wet clothes like an anchor, and helped Eleanor to her feet. Pulling her close to him he began to walk. The wound his leg had suffered exiting the car now made itself known, a pain that shot up his left thigh with every step.

  They hobbled slowly round the headland, clinging to each other to stay warm, their progress slowed by wet clothes, exhaustion and, in Sam’s case, the excruciating pain of his left leg.

  Finally they rounded a corner and the white sweep of the Burn Banks Hotel emerged from the mist. A figure was standing in the near distance. Sam called out but he could barely hear the words himself. They dragged themselves up a shallow slope that felt more like a mountain and then Sam attempted another cry for help. This time the figure – a man digging a flowerbed – turned in their direction. He discarded his spade and ran towards them, just as Sam and Eleanor collapsed to the ground.

  Chapter 33

  Downing Street

  It was over. A short text from Frears – ‘problem solved’ – confirmed that Keddie and Eleanor Scott were no longer part of the picture.

  Stirling was in his office on the first floor of 10 Downing Street, a generous room with windows that looked out on the rose garden below. The scene of many a press conference and reception, the garden looked empty and bleak today, most of the roses pruned back for the coming autumn, the lawn, so perfectly emerald in summer, now looking the colour of mushy peas under the gloomy September skies. Outside the office door, the machinery of high office hummed away, manned by a large team of civil servants and advisers.

  The never-ending nature of Government meant that Stirling was rarely alone in the room designed for his sole use. There was always someone wanting a piece of him. In fact the only time he was on his own was when he was on the phone and confidentiality was required.

  Bizarrely though, the door had just closed on his Permanent Secretary and, if he ignored the pile of documents he was meant to be working through, he was finally able to think without interruption.

  For the past days Stirling had been feeling certain that, at any moment, the door would burst open and he’d be dragged from the room by the police on charges of murder.

  He was, he knew, giving into paranoia. There was nothing to connect him to the killings that Frears’ men had carried out. As far as the hospital was concerned, Jane Vyner had died from her injuries and, while he awaited the exact details from the Guardsman, he was sure Eleanor Scott and Sam Keddie’s deaths would be explained easily enough. ‘Accident’ was the word Frears had used.

  Of course, that wouldn’t stop the journalists digging. Sooner or later someone would discover that Vyner had been Scott’s lover. And that the man who died by Eleanor Scott’s side was his psychotherapist. And what if Keddie and Eleanor Scott had already set that process in motion? Spoken to a hack?

  He breathed in, held the air in his lungs, then exhaled noisily. Yes, there would be discoveries. Connections made. But these deaths were not proof of conspiracy. Look at the bloody Kennedys, for God’s sake. Assassinations, plane and car crashes, drug overdoses. The Scotts had nothing on them.

  No, he had to concentrate on the original issue – the job he’d first hired Frears for. From now on, they would double the surveillance – and keep an eye on the medication. If doses were skipped again, the implications were bloody disastrous.

  He paused for a moment to consider the leap he’d made giving Frears that more direct instruction, the deaths that he’d all but ordered. He shuddered briefly. But then he thought of the soldiers who’d died in action fighting conflicts at his behest. He simply had to place Eleanor and Keddie in the same category. Some deaths were necessary. He straightened his back. This was not a time for harsh self-reflection.

  Besides, there were other worries. Such continuous scrutiny might simply not be sustainable in the long term. Would he have to exit early from the job? The very thought was too painful for him to consider. But surely it was better to leave on his own terms, than be driven by another drama like the one he’d just escaped?

  He shook the possibility from his mind.

  And then there was the Moroccan business. If things escalated in Marrakesh, and the authorities chose to react brutally out there – and that scuppered the deal they’d all been working on – then, frankly, it was a small price to pay. They’d all had a narrow escape – and been bloody lucky.

  The phone rang.

  ‘Gillian Mayer is here, Prime Minister,’ said one of his secretaries. ‘Wondering if she can have a quick word?’

  The last thing he felt like was another meeting, but he knew that acting normal was imperative. ‘Show her in.’

  In any Cabinet there were always a handful of ministers who coveted the PM’s role. Stirling accepted that as part of the job. What he liked about Mayer, the Foreign Secretary, was that, when the moment came for her to make her move, she could be trusted to plunge her dagger into his chest, and not between the shoulder blades.

  The door opened and in walked Mayer, a small, steely woman who, while not loved by either the media or public, was admired as smart and capable.

  ‘Gillian,’ said Stirling, rising from his seat to come round the desk and plant a kiss on the Foreign Secretary’s cheek. God, he was good at this.

  ‘You’re in a good mood,’ said the Foreign Secretary. ‘Hope I’m not about to change that.’

  ‘I’m sure that won’t be the case. Sit down, sit down.’

  The Foreign Secretary sat in a chair in front of the desk and Stirling returned to his seat.

  ‘Before I start,’ said Mayer, ‘may I just congratulate you on that speech on multi-culturalism, Prime Minister. Very refreshing.’

  ‘Thank you, Gillian,’ he said, placing his hands behind his head. ‘Now, what’s on your mind?’

  ‘In a word, Morocco.’

  Stirling felt his bowels shift and the colour drain from his face. He hoped to God it wouldn’t show.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘These riots –’

  ‘I wouldn’t call them riots exactly,’ interrupted Stirling, already on the defensive. The hands slowly returned to the desk.

  ‘In this part of the world,’ Mayer corrected, ‘as you of course know, any dissent is significant. Right now, we need their friendship more than ever. Obviously our recent activity could help safeguard that. But that could all be pissed away if we don’t react to these riots – and the State’s response to them – in the most sensitive manner.’

  ‘Gillian, Gillian,’ Stirling soothed, as much to calm her, as his own, frayed nerves.

  ‘What’s going on out there doesn’t amount to much, certainly compared to what we’ve seen elsewhere.’

  ‘You honestly think this won’t escalate?’ Mayer said, barely able to contain her irritation.

  ‘If and when it does we will be ready.’

  ‘With what, exactly? If these skirmishes do turn into full scale riots – and the Moroccans react with force, as we expect them to – we are caught between a rock and a hard place. We can’t condone what they do. Equally, we cannot afford to condemn. If we do that, we risk losing everything.’

  Stirling smiled a cat-like grin. ‘Perhaps you can order your thoughts in a memo, Gillian. Get them to me this evening. I’ll take a look and then we can meet again to shape it into somet
hing we’re both happy to use in the event things go pear-shaped.’

  Touché, you bitch, he thought.

  He watched as the Foreign Secretary opened her mouth, then shut it.

  ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Thank you, Prime Minister.’

  *

  Just before midnight Stirling was upstairs in his apartment, heading down the hallway to the kitchen following a visit to the loo. A meeting with his Chief of Staff – lubricated by a couple of thimbles of single malt – had been ensuing. They were hammering out their strategy for dealing with the volcano of bad press that had erupted following the death of a comedian. The man, who the press called ‘an 80s comic legend’, had, it was alleged, lain on a trolley at his local NHS hospital for three hours unattended. That time, it was claimed, had proved fatal to the man’s already weakened heart.

  The fact that the comic had never been particularly funny – something Stirling and his Chief of Staff had chuckled over – was neither here nor there. His death had rallied Middle England around the oldest chestnut in the book – that the NHS wasn’t working and it was the Government’s fault.

  As the Prime Minister moved past the sitting room and its open door, he glanced in to see Aidan sitting on the sofa. A movie was on – Stirling recognised a battered-looking Bruce Willis but couldn’t name the film; he’d never watched much tv – and Aidan was staring at the screen, slack jawed and dull eyed.

  Stirling knew that the medication had that effect, of deadening everything. And for that he was grateful. The boy’s emotional make-up was a bloody mess. Like a lot of people the PM knew – he could think of several sociopathic world leaders – Aidan could have saved himself and everyone else a great deal of trouble by developing empathy. Had that been the case, they’d never have faced the disaster that so nearly derailed his leadership.