She was acutely aware of her mission – of the need to stay focused – but for a moment it was all too easy to imagine that sweet but rather troubled little boy from Cornwall heading towards her.
He stood before her rather awkwardly. Eleanor got up and then Aidan leaned forward to plant a kiss on her cheek.
‘I’m sorry about your dad,’ he said, his voice raised against the din of the pub.
‘Thank you,’ she replied, realising that she too was talking loudly to be heard.
They sat down, Aidan brushing the hair from his face. ‘Your dad was very kind to me,’ he said. ‘Fatherly,’ he added.
Eleanor, despite her nerves, sensed that this was entirely sincere on Aidan’s part.
‘Listen,’ he then said, ‘do you want a drink?’
‘Thank you,’ said Eleanor. ‘A gin & tonic would be great.’
Aidan moved towards the bar and stood waiting to be served. Eleanor knew that more alcohol probably wasn’t the best idea but she felt it was the only way to calm her nerves. She watched Aidan’s back as he leaned against the bar. There were about ten other people waiting to be served.
A tall man in a suit appeared at Aidan’s side and leaned into him, whispering in his ear. Aidan turned and gave the man a look of utter contempt, spitting some words back at him. The man smiled slyly, and then said something else.
As Aidan looked back to the bar, as if trying to ignore the man, Eleanor heard a voice in her ear.
‘Miss Scott.’
Eleanor turned round sharply and found a bald man leaning down towards her.
‘Do I know you?’ she said, although she had already guessed. As her heart leapt, her mind began rapidly processing her options. Could she run from here? Probably not. Could she start screaming?
‘Before you do anything rash,’ the man said, his voice quietly loaded with threat, ‘I want you to know there’s a man outside your mother’s house in Sussex. If you become uncooperative, he will go inside and kill her.’
Eleanor turned away from the man to stare at the table top before her, its surface covered with pale, ghostly rings where wet glasses had stained the varnish. She felt her stomach drop, the blood drain from her face. She thought she was going to pass out.
‘Now when Aidan gets back from the bar,’ the voice continued, ‘he’s going to suggest a drink back in Downing Street. You’re going to accept. Understood?’
Eleanor felt paralysed, numb from the tip of her head to her toes.
‘Understood?’ repeated the man, with more vehemence.
Eleanor managed a nod.
She then turned again. The man had disappeared.
She closed her eyes, grappling for something solid to hold on to. Could she text Sam? Of course not. She was still being watched. She thought of her Mum, vulnerable, unprotected. These people were monsters.
Aidan was coming back to the table. Had this been a trap all along? Was he in on it? The man’s sudden appearance at his side suggested otherwise. As if this sudden change had been sprung on him as much as her. Aidan’s expression seemed to confirm this. He looked rattled.
‘Listen, Eleanor,’ he said. ‘I’ve been up at the bar for ages and I’m nowhere near being served. It’s also getting really noisy in here.’ It was as if he were reading from a script. ‘So I had a thought. How about a drink back in Downing Street? Mum and Dad are out at some engagement. I could show you round.’ He attempted a grin.
Eleanor thought of her mother at home. It was her suppertime. Jill would be feeding her right now. No doubt she would also be killed.
‘OK,’ she said, offering what she hoped was a reasonably enthusiastic smile.
She downed her gin & tonic then followed Aidan out of the pub.
‘Hope you’re OK walking,’ said Aidan. ‘It’s only five minutes away.’
Eleanor shrugged. ‘Sure.’
As they walked, Eleanor cast a look over her shoulder, worrying that, if Sam saw her, he would try to intervene, when she knew, with a certainty that sat like undigested poison in the pit of her stomach, that this would be a disaster. She had to comply with the request made of her.
There was no sign of Sam. Eleanor felt no relief, just a sense of utter desolation at the impossibility of her situation.
At the end of the road, they crossed Bird Cage Walk to the south-west corner of St James’s Park. It was a sunny evening with a slight bite to the air, the sky a magnificent deep-blue backdrop for the leaves, which were just beginning to turn orange as autumn approached. As a couple jogged along the pavement past them – each lost in their own iPod soundtrack – Aidan and Eleanor turned left, walking up the east side of the park.
‘So what are you up to these days?’ asked Eleanor. It was all she could think of to maintain an air of normality. She also wanted to keep the man by her side calm, as well as her.
Aidan paused a moment, as if contemplating the right answer. ‘Training to be an architect,’ he said.
‘That takes a while, doesn’t it?’
‘Seven or eight years,’ Aidan said. ‘But I’m totally committed. I’m going to open my own practice, build some really innovative stuff.’
Moments later, they crossed to a small green at Downing Street’s western end, just south of Horse Guards Parade Ground. To their right was a set of tall black gates guarded by a couple of policemen clutching machine guns.
‘You can drive a truck at them and they won’t budge,’ Aidan said, as if he’d been studying her gaze. He then explained how the gates had been installed in Mrs Thatcher’s time, when the threat from the IRA was at its highest.
Eleanor smiled feebly, the street’s impregnability hardly comforting. If getting in was this difficult, getting out would be just as hard.
She inhaled deeply. She wanted to encourage more conversation from Aidan. He seemed to enjoy the sound of his own voice.
Aidan approached the policemen who were standing at the gates and explained that Eleanor was with him. After her bag was checked and she was frisked, a small pedestrian entrance within the gates was opened. They then passed into Downing Street itself.
The tall building on their right – the Foreign Office, declared Aidan, when Eleanor asked – cast a long evening shadow over the houses opposite but even in the gathering gloom, the one they were heading for was instantly recognisable: the last in a terrace of dark brick houses, with an iconic, glossy black front door.
Eleanor could feel her heart hammering away.
‘Nothing is what it seems here,’ Aidan said.
Eleanor stiffened at the comment, unsure of his meaning.
‘The bricks are yellow underneath,’ he said, as if enjoying the momentary confusion he’d created in her, ‘but when the house was renovated in the 50s, they discovered that soot and pollution had stained them this colour. After cleaning, they decided to paint them black to retain the look.’
‘Guess what?’ he then said. Eleanor sensed another of his little tour guide revelations on its way.
Aidan pointed to the famous door ahead of them. ‘It’s not wood, but solid steel.’
‘Wow,’ said Eleanor, now playing the role of fascinated guest, despite the rising panic she was trying to quell. ‘I’ve always wondered how they know when to open it from the inside,’ she said. ‘You see people approaching it and then the door opens up like magic.’
They were now standing on the front porch.
‘Look up,’ said Aidan.
She saw a small CCTV camera tucked in beside the fanlight beneath the hood of the doorway. Her entry into Downing Street recorded. And surely anyone who entered Downing Street had to come out? But Eleanor then thought of the forces that had brought her here – and how powerless she now was – and her optimism swiftly faded.
As they waited for the door to open, she stole another quick glance at the man next to her, as if his face might offer some clue as to his make-up; some tell-tale sign, if not of psychosis, then at least his current motivations. He was, despite the years tha
t had passed, still boyish looking, with a face that was, without worry or laughter lines, very hard to read.
At that moment the door was eased open by a policeman.
‘Hi John,’ said Aidan cheerfully.
‘Hello Aidan,’ said the policeman. ‘And who’s this?’
Aidan introduced Eleanor and the policeman shook her hand with a slight nod of his head, as if the mention of her name had prompted a small gesture of sympathy.
They were now in a large entrance hall, dominated by black and white floor tiles and, stretching upwards to their left, a staircase Eleanor had seen countless images of. Hanging on the yellow wall up the stairs were photos and, towards the top, engravings, of past Prime Ministers.
Aidan was talking about ‘a ghastly architect’ who’d helped rebuild the house in Macmillan’s day, giving it all the fake antiquity that she saw today.
‘It’s all façade,’ he said, with a real sense of disgust in his voice.
‘But rather amazing, all the same.’
Aidan seemed to readjust his mood, smiling again. ‘Yes,’ he acknowledged. ‘I suppose you’re right.’
They moved on through one big room after another, Aidan’s commentary now flowing over her as she tried simply to remain attentive. She noticed a vast Persian carpet in one room, a terracotta wall colouring in another, and then she was through a door and down a rather non-descript staircase and into a huge kitchen of brushed steel cookers and work surfaces sitting beneath a vaulted ceiling. A handful of staff were chopping vegetables and Aidan offered them a wave, which was reciprocated.
Finally, the tour was proclaimed over and Aidan moved to a lift just outside the kitchen.
‘This takes us up to the apartment,’ he said. ‘It’s actually above Number 11. Blair swapped with Brown when he lived here because this one is bigger. Every Prime Minister since has done that too. Mum still complains it’s small though.’
They travelled upwards in silence, Eleanor now rigid with fear. At that moment the thought of the men who’d forced her here – and the man next to her and what he might have done in Marrakesh – gripped Eleanor with such ferocity that she had to lean back against the lift’s wall to stop her knees buckling.
The lift opened into a small hallway. Aidan opened the door in front of them, ushering Eleanor inside. There was a large, modern kitchen off to her right, a spacious sitting room to her left. Attempting again to appear interested, she paused at the entrance to take it in. There was a mish-mash of unstuffy furniture, a huge flat-screen television, houseplants dotted around the room and a vase of roses on a dresser between two windows that looked out on to Downing Street.
The lived-in, homely look of the apartment reminded Eleanor suddenly of the farmhouse in Sussex. She felt her eyes well at the thought of her parents – her father dead, her mother lost in another way. She knew the tears were for herself too, her imminent death a possibility she couldn’t shake from her head.
Aidan was moving down the corridor, pointing out rooms – his, a rather cramped single room with a poster of a Frank Lloyd Wright building on one wall; his parents’ bedroom, a more expansive one with a huge double bed; his father’s dressing room; a spare room with a bed that was, Eleanor noticed, still unmade from its last inhabitant.
‘Would you like a drink?’ asked Aidan, who was now heading back in the direction of the kitchen. ‘I thought we could chat up here instead of downstairs. It’s a bit cosier. We’ve got some white wine in the fridge.’
‘Sounds good,’ said Eleanor. What could be more normal, after all? Two childhood acquaintances reminiscing over a glass of wine. She felt her body tense again.
*
Aidan had never expected Eleanor Scott to get in touch. He’d not seen her in – what? – nearly twenty years. It had caught him unawares and before he’d had a chance to think things through, he’d agreed to meet. As the evening approached, he’d felt himself get more and more agitated.
But then he’d seen her and, for the first time in a very long period, he’d experienced a sense of calm in the presence of a woman. As if he’d been transported back to a more peaceful period. Before everything had gone wrong.
But that sense of calm – comparable to the stillness he felt contemplating the balance and simplicity of Falling Water – was then shattered with the arrival of one of his demons, summoning him home like a naughty child. At least the man hadn’t humiliated him, but instead given him the chance to carry on the conversation with Eleanor back at Downing Street.
Since then he’d managed to calm down again. Being with Eleanor had helped. She seemed, despite her loss, to be happy in his company. She was interested in architecture – a real bonus – and was, more importantly, a clear communicator.
But as he uncorked the bottle, the noise of the air escaping with a pop, the anger simmering away within him seemed to burst to the surface. Aidan had his back to Eleanor – his hand reaching up to a cupboard for two wine glasses – which meant he could hide his grimace from her.
He tried to imagine Falling Water, but all he could picture instead was the blueprint of an incredibly complicated house he’d been helping to design at work, a building so packed with telecommunications, entertainment and security systems that Aidan was convinced it would, through a simple fault or trip, be brought to its knees.
Chapter 65
St James’s, London
Sam couldn’t see Eleanor, and it terrified him. There’d been regular obstructions to his view but now a group of drinkers had taken up a position between them. He glanced at his watch. Eleanor and Aidan had probably only been seated for about twenty minutes – and the last thing Sam wanted to do was to put Eleanor off by making his presence felt – but he had to see if she was OK.
He stood, then began nudging his way through the dense mass of drinkers. A moment later, he reached the table where he’d left Eleanor. At the sight that greeted him, Sam felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. Another woman, with short blonde hair, was sitting in Eleanor’s place.
Sam quickly scanned the room. He couldn’t see her. Had they moved to a table in the street outside, or to the beer garden at the rear? If it was the latter, he’d certainly have seen them. They had to be at the front. He pushed his way forward, a white noise of laughter, shouted conversation and music invading his already frazzled head.
Outside, the pavement was thronged with drinkers. But Eleanor and Aidan Stirling weren’t anywhere to be seen. Sam’s heart was pounding.
Eleanor had gone, and he’d no idea where.
Chapter 66
Downing Street
Frears had gone on ahead of Aidan and Eleanor Scott, while one of his men followed them at a discreet distance to ensure they returned to Downing Street. He was fairly certain they would. After all, they both had good reason: Aidan to save face, Eleanor Scott to save her mother.
Getting them back to Number 10 had seemed the most sensible option. This way, they were quickly contained. And keen to avoid a scene, he hadn’t told Aidan that Eleanor Scott was no doubt coming to trap him in some way.
He had to hand it to Keddie and Scott. They had a canny knack for avoiding death. Unfortunately this little idea of theirs had seriously backfired.
The Guardsman had planned to be up in the apartment to meet them. He was then going to contact Stirling, drag him out of the reception he was attending and await his return and instructions.
But as he headed for the lift, he heard a shrill voice behind him.
‘Major Frears?’
He turned to see the diminutive figure of Gillian Mayer bearing down on him.
‘Might I have a word?’
‘I’m on my way to a meeting, Foreign Secretary. I haven’t really –’
‘It won’t take a minute,’ said Mayer, cutting off any further debate.
She leaned against the wall, signalling that the chat was happening here and now. Hopefully it really was to be a brief conversation. He dreaded to think what Aidan Stirling might do in
the comfort of his own home.
‘We have a spot of bother on an island off the coast of Equatorial Guinea,’ said Mayer, raising her eyebrows. ‘It seems Gabon have landed some soldiers there in an attempt to seize what they say is their territory. Ordinarily, that corner of Africa doesn’t cause me much lost sleep. But the thing is, there are some British oil workers there. Don’t want it turning into a shit storm. Any thoughts?’
Frears felt a bead of sweat escape an armpit and trickle down his side. ‘What are we talking about here, Foreign Secretary? Extraction?’
‘Well, we certainly don’t plan to send a task force,’ she said, with a snort of laughter. ‘Why is it you military want a bloody skirmish all the time?’
‘Extraction, as you know, is not that easy these days with our limited resources,’ said Frears. ‘We’re talking 48 hours at the earliest – and you’ll need a good team to ensure there’s no unnecessary bloodshed. I’d need to go away and have a think.’ He puffed out his chest and lifted his head, trying to command the situation. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me, I really must dash.’
‘In a minute, Major, in a minute,’ said Mayer, who was not to be intimidated. ‘Just so we’re clear, what sort of sized team are we talking about? And could we narrow the timeframe if we sourced men from inside Africa?’
Frears’ toes strained inside his brogues. He had to get moving. Racking his brains for a suitable response, he remembered his ill-fated stint in Nigeria.
‘There’s probably a team at the consulate in Lagos that could be mobilised. Twenty men. Experienced guys.’
Mayer looked at him with her small, hawk-like eyes, then nodded. ‘Very good, Major. I’ll mull that one over. Might pick your brains again later, if that’s OK.’ She smiled sweetly, as if they’d just been discussing knitting patterns, then turned on her heel.
Disorder (Sam Keddie thriller series Book 1) Page 20
