Disorder (Sam Keddie thriller series Book 1)

by Paddy Magrane

  He paused then, dipping his head as if collecting himself. His tie was particularly off-centre today, the hair noticeably untamed. He had in fact been about to head down to the conference looking better presented, but Charlotte had halted him at the door of the flat, loosening his tie and slightly ruffling his hair. ‘That’s better,’ she’d said. ‘You look more vulnerable now.’

  He then spoke of how, like many families in Britain, he and Charlotte had been forced to face mental illness head on, and acknowledge the pain and suffering it could cause. ‘Aidan’s experience has opened our eyes,’ he said, ‘to how commonplace mental illness is, and how stigmatised those who suffer it can still be.’

  The reception, judging by the coverage it received the following day, was favourable. According to the Guardian, Stirling had proved, yet again, that ‘he was very human, a man who knows only too well what it’s like to face some of life’s toughest challenges.’ The Daily Telegraph claimed that ‘the Prime Minister had maintained exceptional dignity in the face of extraordinary personal difficulties.’

  In the midst of such favourable press, it surely made sense, Charlotte had argued, to be seen mourning a dear old friend, to build on the image of a very human leader.

  The second development, rather more surprisingly, had directly resulted from the episode in Downing Street. He could feel himself salivating at the prospect of his forthcoming announcement. Christ, he was an operator. Who else was capable of turning a near disaster into an unmitigated triumph?

  The car slowed, dropping down a narrow lane, the steeple of a church visible over the top of a line of trees. Despite his confidence, Stirling started to worry about the risk they were taking. It reminded him of a loose end that was still of concern – Frears.

  Since his release, the Guardsman had gone to ground. Was he disappearing for good, or biding his time?

  Given recent developments – not least Aidan’s hospitalisation and the mess in the apartment – it made sense to distance himself from Frears, to conclude the business arrangement. This was not something they had discussed. He had tried to contact the soldier, but his calls and messages had gone unanswered. The PM felt a slight knot in his stomach at the prospect of Frears and what he was up to. Silly to worry, he thought, given how his announcement would turn the tables in his favour.

  The car had dipped into woodland, the lane overshadowed by the boughs of centuries-old oaks. Trees that had seen mere mortals like him come and go. Yet Stirling was confident that, when his departure came, he’d be remembered as a good, maybe even great, Prime Minister.

  Chapter 78

  Sussex

  The day Thou gavest, Lord, is ended,

  The darkness falls at Thy behest;

  To Thee our morning hymns ascended,

  Thy praise shall sanctify our rest.

  The hymn echoed through the church as the large congregation joined in song. It was a rousing sound that seemed at odds with the subdued feel of the building, an interior of cold, grey stone weakly illuminated by a pale light coming through the stained-glass windows from the leaden skies outside. It was a mild autumnal day – the unseasonal warmth only adding to the discomfort Sam already felt in the suit Eleanor had lent him from her father’s wardrobe.

  The hymn’s words seemed a mockery to Sam, seated with Eleanor and Wendy Scott in the front pew. They suggested closure, catharsis, relief; some of the things you might ordinarily associate with a funeral. But today, if what had happened so far was any predictor, there was only tension to come.

  Eleanor was steaming mad, so angry she could barely take in the coffin before her at the head of the church.

  The night before she had discovered that Susan, her mother’s sister, had invited the PM and Charlotte Stirling. It wasn’t her aunt’s fault; she was merely attempting to translate Eleanor’s mother’s limited communiqués into a meaningful plan for the day. There had been hymns to choose, catering to organise and, of course, a guest list to finalise.

  Sam had drawn Eleanor aside and cautioned her against letting rip on her aunt. ‘You have to remember,’ he’d said, ‘Stirling’s presence is about a lot more than an unwanted guest. You don’t want to start bad-mouthing him. And it’s not something your aunt needs to know.’

  Eleanor, who at that moment was angry enough to tell anyone who would listen about Stirling, his son and the murderous henchmen that protected him, stormed out of the house.

  Sam found her a little later sitting on a bench in the garden, a smouldering cigarette between her fingers.

  ‘I didn’t know you smoked,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t,’ she said. ‘These fags are the gardener’s.’

  ‘We can’t afford to speak out about this,’ said Sam. ‘Not until we have irrefutable proof. And we must leave that to the Moroccans.’

  Eleanor took another drag on the cigarette. Tears of frustration had started to well in her eyes. Sam could tell she didn’t want comforting. He took the cigarette from her lips and drew on it.

  ‘I know this is agony for you,’ he said, exhaling, ‘But we just have to wait.’

  *

  Eleanor’s anger, while contained, was still evident the next day. She deliberately got her mother to the church early so she wouldn’t have the ordeal of dealing with Stirling’s arrival. That said, both she and Sam sensed the PM’s entry. There was a murmur of voices, a wave of energy passing through the church.

  Sam turned. There, in the midst of an extraordinary congregation – which he knew from the guest list contained diplomats, high commissioners, charity workers, journalists and numerous politicians – were Philip and Charlotte Stirling, moving down the aisle.

  Sam was glad Eleanor kept her eyes fixed ahead. She would not have been able to stomach the scene. Stirling was literally working the room, shaking hands and managing a smile – thankfully a muted one – for all his well-wishers.

  After the service Sam watched from a distance as Eleanor, with Susan and a handful of Charles’ relatives walking behind, pushed her mother to the graveside for the committal, a family-only affair. The last stretch of the short journey took them from a concrete path across the grass of the churchyard, bumpy terrain that made the wheelchair’s progress slow and awkward. Sam wanted desperately to go and help Eleanor but he could see from her pained expression that it would not be a good idea. This was her private hell and she would endure it on her own.

  A message had got to both of them that Stirling would not be attending the wake and he had sent his apologies. But any sense of relief on Sam’s part was soon shattered when, after the committal, he joined the family as they made their way out of the churchyard to the lane and their waiting cars. There, standing by the gate that led into the road – which meant they had to speak to the PM – were the Stirlings. Beyond was a semicircle of five policemen in suits, recognisable by their stance – hands clasped in front of them – and their constant scanning of the area immediately around. A pack of journalists – mercifully fewer than Sam had anticipated – were standing behind. Sam could see a handful of cameras, now raised and snapping away, and one cameraman. A ministerial Daimler sat purring to the side of the gate, waiting to whisk Stirling and his wife back to London. Further up the lane, other guests were now departing for the wake at the Scott farmhouse, car doors slamming and engines accelerating the only sounds in the still air.

  Wendy, now pushed by her sister, was the first to get the Stirling treatment. He knelt before her and took both her hands in his.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Wendy,’ he said. ‘He was such a loyal friend to me.’

  Eleanor bit her lip and turned away. He feared that, at any moment, she would scream or lash out.

  Other relatives filtered past, getting a sympathetic nod from Stirling, until it was just Eleanor and Sam. At this point, Eleanor simply barged past the Prime Minister and Charlotte Stirling.

  Sam was about to follow when Stirling offered him his hand.

  ‘Philip Stirling,’ he said, a solicitous smil
e on his face. ‘You must be a relative of Charles’.’

  Sam took the proffered hand and looked the PM in the eye. ‘Sam Keddie.’

  Stirling’s grip tightened. ‘We meet at last.’

  Charlotte Stirling cupped her husband’s elbow. Sam noticed her sleeve ride up a couple of inches to reveal a raised scar of criss-crossed lines on the pale skin of her arm.

  ‘We should go, darling,’ she said, her voice strained. A smile fixed on her face, she shot Sam a poisonous look, pupils black with hatred.

  Just up the lane, Wendy Scott’s wheelchair was rising on a platform by the open back door of a people carrier. Eleanor was by her side but looking in Stirling’s direction, her eyes blazing.

  ‘You do know why Charles Scott committed suicide, don’t you?’ said Sam.

  Stirling’s eyes locked on to Sam’s. ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘What happened in Morocco haunted him. He felt hugely responsible.’

  Stirling leaned towards Sam. When he next spoke, Sam could feel the PM’s breath hot against his ear. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  Stirling then pulled away, the smile returning in a pastiche of warmth.

  ‘Dear Charles,’ he said. ‘Like all of us, full of flaws.’

  The PM and his wife moved off. The Daimler’s doors were opened, Stirling and Charlotte climbed inside and, seconds later, the car glided away, its exhaust hanging in the motionless air.

  Chapter 79

  Sussex

  The guests had departed. The caterers were busy clearing plates and empty glasses from the Scott family home. To Sam, the silence was deafening.

  He watched Eleanor struggle with well-wishers all afternoon. Friends, family and Scott’s colleagues – some of whom were household names – circled around her for the chance to pay their respects. He thought she coped admirably well. Looking at her, no one would have been able to tell that the expression on her face wasn’t just the strain of a family funeral, but the added anger and frustration he knew was bubbling away inside her.

  Sam had drifted from one conversation to another, telling anyone who asked that he was a friend of Eleanor’s and that he hadn’t known Charles Scott well. The one guest who knew better was Scott’s old neighbour, Donald. He pressed Sam for an explanation of what had happened that night at the apartment block, and Sam promised to explain at a later date.

  ‘But you’re both safe now?’ asked Donald.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Sam, though he was far from convinced.

  Eleanor was now nursing a glass of luke-warm white wine in the sitting room, the caterers moving quietly around her. It was clear she needed to be on her own so Sam moved into the kitchen – where Wendy Scott was refusing the drink she was being offered by Jill – and out into the garden.

  The light of the day was dimming. Sam wandered among flowerbeds, many of the plants cut back in preparation for the oncoming chill of winter. Beyond the beds was a stretch of lawn and then the dense dark wall of woodland that he had emerged from days before.

  Sam was watching the woodland – thinking about his encounter with Stirling after the funeral, how he’d all but admitted his guilt with that mocking denial – when he heard a twig snap from within it. It meant nothing of course. There were animals that could easily have made the noise. And yet Sam had the distinct impression he was being watched.

  He turned to head swiftly back towards the house, tired of feeling frightened.

  Chapter 80

  Esher, Surrey

  The Abbey Clinic was based in a large Georgian property on the outskirts of Esher. It was separated from its nearest neighbours by expansive gardens that surrounded the building. Unlike the more famous clinics near London that specialised in drug and alcohol addictions, the Abbey treated mental health problems only. Accommodation ranged from tastefully decorated bedrooms that looked out over the gardens to more basically furnished secure units.

  Once patients had been assessed and their drug and treatment regimen established, they were often encouraged, if weather permitted, to take a walk in the afternoon. The strength of their medication often meant patients slowed down, suffered muscle weakening and put on weight. In many cases, a walk was the only exercise they got.

  Aidan was being led by a male nurse through the lower end of the garden. Beyond the fence, the land belonged to a golf course. Other than the sound of planes overhead, it was quiet.

  The nurse had noticed that Aidan had a film of sweat on his upper lip and concluded that he needed to rest. He sat him down on a bench. Aidan sighed heavily. The nurse had read all about his patient in the papers and felt sorry for him. Another staff member had leaked his presence at the clinic to the press and now everyone knew who he was. He only hoped he’d be left alone enough to fully recover.

  *

  Hiding behind a hedge just yards away was one of Frears’ team, the narrow-eyed man. He watched as Aidan’s nurse prattled away to his patient. Aidan appeared to be utterly out of it. Which was good. If you were extracting an unwilling target, and they began resisting, it made the job twice as hard.

  He’d made two preparatory visits already that week. He knew the routine, had assessed the nurse and what physical threat he presented. Of course he was hoping that it wouldn’t come to that but right now, with time pressing, he was beginning to wonder whether some engagement would in fact be necessary.

  But just then the nurse got up. He muttered something to Aidan, then nipped round the side of a large shrub. The narrow-eyed man chuckled to himself. The call of Nature. How often people failed to factor that into situations.

  The man was by Aidan in seconds. The PM’s son looked up but seemed incapable of forming the facial expression that spelt out surprise. The man grabbed him by the waist and slung him over his shoulders with a slight groan, before turning and moving back in the direction he’d come. When he reached the fence at the end of the garden, he opened a gate and walked out on to a slip road to the side of the 14th hole. There, a grey people-carrier awaited, its number plates thick with dirt.

  By the time the nurse had discovered that the padlock was no longer on the gate at the rear of the garden but lying in the grass, its loop cut through with a hacksaw, the people-carrier was on the M25, heading east.

  Chapter 81

  Sussex

  The house became a cocoon. Small windows set in thick walls let in subdued autumnal light, giving the building a womb-like feel they both craved.

  They slept together repeatedly. At first the sex seemed like a wave of relief, a celebration of their emergence from the darkest of periods. But latterly a cloud seemed to hang over them in bed – a sense that, without a genuine resolution to the whole mess, they would never be a couple.

  Soon they were almost constantly glued to the internet or television, hunting like news junkies for some developments.

  On the third day after the funeral, Sam and Eleanor were slumped on the sofa watching the BBC news at 10pm – the Scotts’ elderly Labrador, Baker, sleeping at their feet – when a story broke that made them sit bolt upright.

  A major investment project in the south of Morocco had been announced by the British Prime Minister, Philip Stirling. Sam, who’d been dozing off, rubbed his face. He felt his body tense.

  ‘Let’s go now to Downing Street,’ the news reader was saying.

  Sam and Eleanor, now sitting on the edge of the sofa, watched the journalist, positioned outside the glossy front door Eleanor had escaped from just days before, as he explained the significance of the deal.

  ‘This is a gamble,’ said the reporter, ‘in a region that’s had more than its fair share of unrest in recent years. But Philip Stirling is clearly confident that the time is right to invest on this scale in Morocco.’

  The screen then jumped to an image of Stirling talking to the press in Number 10. He looked, Sam had to admit, years younger, beaming with self-confidence, his face alive with expression as if he were adoring every minute.

  ‘– so I am d
elighted,’ the Prime Minister was saying, ‘to announce that a major partnership between our own Office for International Development, the Moroccan Government and British renewables firm, Future Systems, is to deliver a ground-breaking project in the south of the country.’ Stirling paused, the great communicator teasing his audience. ‘The photo-voltaic solar vineyard planned, which will be one of the world’s largest, is about a lot of things. The exporting of British engineering and technological expertise, thousands of jobs in a very poor region of Morocco, and the provision of dramatically subsidised electricity in this area.’

  The news reader interjected.

  ‘Stirling has been criticised by some organisations – Amnesty International among them – for getting into bed with a country whose human rights record is far from spotless.’

  The reporter in Downing Street smiled wryly. ‘For years we conducted business with the Egyptians under Mubarak. We continue to do business with the Saudi and Bahraini authorities. We now exchange intelligence with the Algerians. Morocco is by no means the only tough government in the region. Besides, you’ll notice how Stirling is diverting our attention – stressing the fact that this project brings jobs and cheap electricity to one of the country’s poorest regions. It’s a very canny mix of overseas development and business deal.’

  Sam remembered a moment in the security services building in Marrakesh. When Maalouf had abruptly silenced Badaoui as he’d talked about intense discussions taking place. This had been a big secret on both sides.

  The mention of Future Systems brought another figure into Sam’s mind. Jane Vyner. The woman who’d become so close to Charles Scott – and now Sam knew why. She’d been at the heart of these negotiations.