It had taken that man and two other burly male nurses half-an-hour before Aidan could be restrained and finally, a tranquiliser could be administered. Aidan had been railing about Frears when they’d finally reached the apartment, shouting about him being ‘a bloody psychopath’ and ‘a violent cunt’. By all accounts, that was all he’d been saying, thank God, as members of the DPG had been waiting with him when Stirling and Charlotte had arrived.
Aidan now sat, slack-jawed, like some stunned animal. It was clear, immediately, that he hadn’t been taking his medication. But for how long? Stirling, himself still dressed in white tie and tails, glared at his wife. He wanted to murder her right now. She was fucking hopeless.
Finally, the forms signed, the psychiatrist stood and nodded to the two nurses. Aidan was pulled up from the sofa, all floppy and compliant. He was gently led to the lift. They were to take him down to the service exit at the rear of the building, to a small minibus and, thankfully, not a big white ambulance with the words ‘Nut House Transport’ on the side.
At the door of the lift, Charlotte kissed her son on the cheek, hugging him briefly. Stirling wanted to vomit. The doors then closed and Aidan was gone.
‘I’m finished,’ Stirling muttered, closing the door of the sitting room behind them.
Charlotte collapsed on the sofa. It was clear she wasn’t prepared to take her share of the blame just yet. She was rooting frantically around in the cushions. ‘What the hell has Aidan done with the remote? We must find out what the media has made of this.’
She froze momentarily, shooting Philip an alarmed look.
‘What is it?’
‘Look at these,’ she said. Her hand had emerged from beneath the cushion and was now held, palm out, in his direction.
Stirling moved closer and leaned down to get a better look. ‘Fucking hell, Charlotte,’ he hissed.
The palm of Charlotte’s hand contained dozens of little white pills.
‘The little bastard hasn’t been taking his medication at all,’ said Stirling. ‘For Christ’s sake, Charlotte, that was meant to be your department. After everything that has happened, how could you have been so stupid?’
For once, Charlotte was too stunned to come back at him.
Stirling’s BlackBerry rang. ‘Yes,’ he snapped. ‘OK,’ he then said more calmly. There was a pause as he listened to the voice at the other end. Then Stirling spoke: ‘I’ll be down right away.’
He turned to Charlotte. ‘The police want to talk to me. “A chat”, they called it.’
‘What are you going to say to them?’
‘I don’t know right now. Apparently Eleanor Scott has told the police that Frears attacked Aidan,’ said Stirling. ‘But who knows what else she saw and heard?’
He ran a hand through the dense thicket of his hair. Eleanor Scott alive and talking to Aidan. He wanted to crawl into a dark hole and disappear forever.
As Stirling left the front door of 10 Downing Street, receiving a nod from the officer on duty – how long will that deference last, he wondered? – he began mulling over his options. Apparently Frears had chosen to remain silent. Was that a sign of loyalty to the operation? Or was he simply weighing up his options?
There was a chill in the air as he moved down the deserted street. There were still plenty of cars parked outside the terrace. Vehicles left overnight by staff who’d fled the building and weren’t allowed to return. The heels of his shoes clicked against the tarmac, the noise echoing around the surrounding buildings, their tall, grand frontages seeming to mock him. What’s a Northern lad like you doing in a place like this?
Think, Stirling said to himself. Think. First and foremost, he needed to handle the soldier carefully. He couldn’t afford to piss him off, let alone bollock him for allowing this to happen. Yes, Aidan had slipped out yet again. But the person really at fault here was Charlotte, who’d neglected the little bastard’s medication regime. Frears needed to know that he wasn’t going to get in shit. Right now, in custody, the Guardsman was probably feeling cornered.
Stirling, thanks to recent pay rises he’d driven through for the police, had a good relationship with them, certainly when compared to some of his predecessors. He hoped this might go some way to containing the fall-out from this event. Perhaps a leak could be avoided, at least until he’d had a chance to think through his options.
He was greeted by a man called Lynch, and led into a small kitchen and sitting area.
‘Have you any idea why Frears was in the apartment, Prime Minister?’ asked Lynch. ‘Or why he might have attacked your son – and tried to restrain him?’
‘None whatsoever.’
‘Did Major Frears and your son have any kind of relationship?’
The inference lingered in the air. ‘Not that I know of,’ said Stirling. ‘I mean, they’d met each other. I had meetings with Major Frears in the apartment, and they’d certainly been introduced, but beyond that, no.’
Lynch nodded. His forehead creased.
‘Eleanor Scott said that your son was really angry about him being there, and he’d said something along the lines of “why can’t you leave me alone?”. Major Frears had apparently said that it wasn’t safe to do that.’
Stirling felt his heart leap in his chest. ‘Well, I’ve no idea what that means.’
Lynch paused, pursing his lips. ‘And how is your son?
‘Pretty shaken up,’ said Stirling. ‘He’s not well, to be honest. Sedated.’
‘We’d like to talk to him when he’s better.’
‘I’ll be in touch when that happens,’ said Stirling, who wanted Aidan tranquilised for eternity. ‘Now, I wonder if I could have a word with Frears?’
Lynch raised an eyebrow.
‘See if I can get some sense out of him,’ continued Stirling, unfazed. ‘Obviously he’s not top of my Christmas card list right now, but we were friends, close colleagues. That might mean something. He might talk to me.’
‘I appreciate the offer of help, but –’
‘Please, Commander Lynch.’
Stirling watched as the policeman struggled with balancing a request from the Prime Minister and the constraints of procedure.
‘Perhaps a couple of minutes,’ said Lynch. ‘But I should probably accompany you. And you’ll need additional protection too.’
Stirling smiled. ‘Commander Lynch, Major Frears has been a loyal adviser to me – and to Her Majesty’s Government. He’s also served in the armed forces, with distinction. Whatever he’s done today should not wholly define him.’
‘You’re a forgiving man, Prime Minister,’ said Lynch. ‘If someone had attacked my son, I’m not sure I’d feel the same way.’
‘I’m not forgiving him. I’m just saying that if I treat him with a little respect, he might cough up the information he’s so far chosen to withhold from you.’
Lynch continued to squirm.
‘You know what a fan I am of the police,’ said the PM. ‘All I’m asking is a moment with a friend. It may well provide the break you need. If he attacks me, I’ll scream and you can be in the room in seconds.’
‘Two minutes,’ said Lynch.
Frears’ cell contained a narrow bed attached to the wall and a small toilet in one corner. The room was harshly lit from high above. The soldier sat on the bed, his back to the wall.
Stirling perched on the end of the bed. ‘You’re in a hole here, Frears. And I want to help you out.’
Frears looked up at the PM, a deadened expression on his face.
‘Look,’ said Stirling. ‘We’re both fucked if this isn’t resolved.’
There was no response. Stirling racked his brains for a solution.
‘I’ll make sure Aidan doesn’t press charges. And of course we won’t either.’ He was on a roll now, winging his way forward. ‘Perhaps your presence can be explained as a misunderstanding, that you were up there to see me – crossed wires or something – and that Aidan got shirty because he was trying to get Eleanor into
bed. And that you’d had a long week and an argument turned into –’
‘That won’t wash,’ said Frears bluntly.
‘How so?’
‘It won’t tally with what Eleanor Scott has said.’
‘We don’t know what Eleanor Scott has said,’ lied Stirling.
Frears’ eyes narrowed. ‘Just ensure Aidan doesn’t press charges. I’ll take care of everything else. And get me out of here.’
As he walked back down the street to Number 10, Stirling knew that Frears had seen right through him when he lied. And of course he was right: Eleanor Scott’s evidence would contradict any story they concocted. So what could he do? Getting the charges dropped would be easy enough, but that line about it not being safe to leave Aidan alone would be the sticker. They had to find a way to explain it.
To add to his problems, it was clear Frears no longer trusted him. Stirling shuddered. He thought of the Guardsman’s favourite word, ‘containment’. Now it was Frears himself – keeper of his darkest secrets – who needed containing.
Chapter 74
Downing Street
In the apartment, Charlotte Stirling was confident that, for now, the real nub of the story wasn’t out. According to the media, an electrical fault at Number 10 had triggered an alarm, prompting an evacuation of the entire staff. The Prime Minister and his wife were not present.
The story would not end there. Sooner or later, someone would get hold of the fact that her crazy son had been involved in a violent altercation. And than what?
She walked through to the kitchen. There was a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc on the table. Aidan must have offered Eleanor Scott a drink. What Charlotte wouldn’t have given for a glass of wine now. She sat down at the table and put the tip of the bottle to her nose, inhaling the fumes deeply. It smelt amazing. She could imagine losing herself in a matter of minutes, the Stirlings’ tribulations melting away in a river of booze.
The smell took her back to a time when alcohol was her constant companion, a far more reliable presence than her absent husband. And it was alcohol and unremitting loneliness, she liked to believe, far more than any degenerative trait, which had caused her to act the way she had.
She remembered, as if through a fog – those days had been so deeply clouded by the dual intoxication of self-harm and wine – the moment it had started. That holiday in Tuscany near Montalcino, a hill town famed for Brunello, its red wine – the finest, so they were told, in all of Italy. Charlotte had preferred the cheap rosé.
How the days had dragged. The humid afternoons were the worst. Lunch barely touched, at least two bottles down, she’d take a cooling bath, a place to pursue her destructive passions.
At the memory of those moments, and all that followed, Charlotte winced, pushing the bottle away.
She imagined Aidan and Eleanor Scott sharing a glass of wine. She was amazed that her son was capable of such civilised behaviour.
Looking at the table, she had a sudden realisation, a thought that caused a sickening feeling that spread upwards from the pit of her stomach. Where was the other glass?
Chapter 75
Kensington, London
The embassy, a white stucco building in a street of similarly grand properties, was closed for the night. A flag hung from a balcony above him.
Sam pressed a buzzer by the door.
Seconds later, a voice grunted back: ‘Yes?’
‘It’s Sam Keddie.’
There was a pause. Sam wondered whether Maalouf had abandoned the whole idea, not told the embassy staff. He looked over his shoulder, convinced that, at any minute, a last attempt would be made to silence him and retrieve his crucial evidence. But then Sam heard a bolt being pulled, a latch turning, and the door was opened. A short man ushered him in, indicating that he was to wait at the foot of a grand staircase.
Sam sat. Opposite was another portrait of the Moroccan King – this time a more serious image, of a swarthy, unsmiling bruiser in a suit, who looked down at Sam with displeasure. Ten minutes passed.
Sam heard a door open some distance away, and stood. A tired-looking man with pale skin and glasses was coming down the corridor, his footfall on the carpet virtually silent.
They shook hands.
‘You have the evidence?’ asked the man.
Sam nodded. He then gently lifted the glass out of Eleanor’s bag. The man produced a pair of plastic gloves and a small plastic bag from his jacket pocket. He snapped on the gloves then delicately took the glass by its stem between two fingers, lowering it slowly into the bag.
‘Just so we’re clear,’ said Sam, ‘the prints on the glass are Aidan Stirling’s.’
‘And the other man’s prints?’ asked the embassy official dryly. ‘When can we expect them?’
‘We’ve not yet had the chance to collect a set,’ said Sam, which was true, although he wondered whether Eleanor would ever willingly hand them over. ‘Please check these now.’
A minute later, Sam was back outside in the cooling night, hoping to God that Maalouf was true to his word.
Chapter 76
King’s Cross, London
It was nearly 10pm when Eleanor rang.
‘Where are you?’ asked Sam.
‘In a cab,’ she said, ‘coming to you.’
Sam could hear her crying at the other end.
‘It’s OK,’ he said. ‘You’re safe now.’
The fragile, emotional person on the other end of the phone was some distance from the nervous but single-minded woman Sam had last seen in the pub. But it wasn’t until she returned to the room, and he’d wrapped her in a tight embrace and she’d let her tension go and sobbed for over ten minutes into his shirt, that he realised just what a state she was in.
Finally she pulled away, her face crumpled and damp with tears, and sat down on the bed. She beckoned for him to sit by her, and then told him what happened.
Sam listened, first with a sense of guilt at having let her go in the first place, then rage as her account unravelled.
Towards the end, having managed to speak without breaking down again, she became emotional as she recounted the tall man’s arrival.
‘I was so scared,’ she said, running the back of her hand across her nose. ‘If he hadn’t been fighting with Aidan, God knows...’ She began crying again, her torso rising and falling with great heaves of emotion.
Sam pulled Eleanor’s head into his shoulder, stroking her hair. Her description of Aidan before the tall man entered the flat suggested a gauche, slightly conceited young man, nothing more. But the tall man’s behaviour – his comment that it was not safe leaving Aidan alone; and the violent restraining – suggested that they’d found their man. And if the glass proved Aidan was culpable, the operation mounted against them had to have been sanctioned by the man with the most to lose if that fact became public knowledge – Stirling himself.
‘I handed the wine glass into the embassy,’ Sam said, keen for Eleanor to know that her experience had not been in vain.
Eleanor acknowledged Sam’s comment with a grateful nod, then lay down on the bed, her eyes drooping.
Sam knew that, while sleep would come, Eleanor was going to need more than rest to get over this experience. A professional – not him, he was too close, too prejudiced – would be needed to help her through the next few weeks, to process and absorb the trauma so that it didn’t bury itself deep and begin to infect her.
‘I want to go home tomorrow,’ Eleanor said. ‘Help get ready for the funeral.’
Sam lay down next to her. The muffled sound of London traffic – accelerating engines, horns being sounded – leaked through the windows. Elsewhere in the b&b, a couple argued and a man coughed repeatedly. Sam locked on to the sounds, desperate to drown out the thoughts in his head. They’d done everything they could. But was it enough?
Chapter 77
Sussex
Police outriders ahead, the Daimler swept past a village hall and then a terrace of thatched cottages.
&n
bsp; Dressed in a dark suit, Charlotte next to him in a black dress and knee-length overcoat, Stirling looked out through the tinted windows at the honey-coloured stonework. A little boy whose mother had momentarily stopped to stare at the convoy passing through her village waved at the car as it sped by. Stirling instinctively waved back. Everyone was a voter, even a child who couldn’t see him through the glass.
It was a risk coming here today. If Eleanor Scott decided to get lippy, and started throwing about accusations, then he’d have to beat a swift retreat. But having discussed it with Charlotte the night before, they suspected that wouldn’t happen. It was a funeral at which Eleanor was likely to behave. Besides, there would be press there. Despite Stirling’s plea to the media to give the Scott family some privacy, he’d made damn sure his mournful presence would be recorded today. And even if she did decide to fling a bit of muck his way, he was now confident that it would be her who was damaged by it, not him. After all, certain developments over the past two days had given him a distinct advantage.
The first one was thanks to his son. His decision to have him hospitalised and monitored by his psychiatrist – the only way they could guarantee he was medicated and safely supervised – had, as he’d expected, become news. The Mirror was the first to break the story, an anonymous source at the clinic had told the paper that Aidan had been recently admitted as a patient. The details were still a little hazy but the gist was that the Prime Minister’s son was possibly suffering from a personality disorder and receiving treatment.
Stirling had decided to acknowledge it yesterday at a press conference in Downing Street. To a packed and unusually reverential room full of hacks, he spoke of ‘rumours floating around in the press that, unchecked, had the potential to do a great deal of damage’.
‘My son is receiving treatment for a mental health problem,’ he then announced. Stirling noted with a degree of pleasure the attention that was being paid. You could have heard a pin drop. ‘He has been suffering for a while now but his illness has become more difficult recently. Obviously, as concerned parents, we have sought the best treatment possible and we hope dearly that our son will soon be home.’
Disorder (Sam Keddie thriller series Book 1) Page 22
