Disorder (Sam Keddie thriller series Book 1)

by Paddy Magrane

  They walked on in silence for a few minutes until Baker made it clear he didn’t want to go any further and they turned back.

  Sam thought of Aidan’s parents, the effect they’d had on their child. Stirling, largely absent, then hyper-critical and dismissive of his son when he was around. And then there was the mother. Sam remembered that brief glimpse of Charlotte’s arm at the funeral, the tell-tale scars of a self-harmer, something Aidan had later confirmed. A deeply unhappy woman, drunk and without boundaries, getting the attention she craved from her husband from her vulnerable child instead.

  Sam remembered something else, a fleeting glimpse of an image. ‘Do you remember that photo of Stirling with the Moroccan Prime Minister – the one we saw in the restaurant in Marrakesh that evening? The figure Stirling had an arm around who seemed slightly distant?’

  ‘We weren’t sure if it was my father or someone else,’ said Eleanor. ‘It was Aidan, wasn’t it, dragged into a chummy, artificial shot of the two families.’

  They walked on in silence for a moment, Sam dwelling on the photo, that gap between the two men that was, in reality, a chasm.

  Eleanor drifted to his side, slipping her arm into his, drawing herself into him.

  ‘So,’ she said, her voice brighter, ‘when do you think we’ll see Stirling exit the building?’

  ‘A matter of days,’ said Sam. ‘Maybe even earlier.’

  ‘Do I sound incredibly bitter and twisted when I say I can’t wait?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ smiled Sam.

  Eleanor stopped and turned Sam gently so that they faced each other.

  ‘There’s something else I need to talk about,’ she said, her eyes flickering as she studied his face. ‘Something I’ve been thinking about a lot recently. It’s just that, what with everything that’s been happening, there hasn’t really been the right moment.’

  Sam was suddenly aware that his heart was pounding in his chest.

  ‘The thing is, Sam,’ said Eleanor, ‘I want us to be together.’

  ‘Right,’ he said, his throat dry.

  ‘But there’s one condition.’

  ‘OK…’

  A fresh gust of wind whipped across the path, but they both stood still, staring at each other. ‘I want us to do normal stuff as a couple,’ said Eleanor. ‘Watch tv, go shopping, hang out.’

  Sam smiled. ‘You mean no car crashes? No chases through alleyways?’

  Eleanor returned the smile.

  ‘Deal,’ he said.

  *

  Later that afternoon, Eleanor put on a CD in the sitting room and curled up next to Sam on the sofa. The fire was on, casting a warm glow into the darkening room.

  Wendy Scott was sitting close to them in her leather seat with its large padded arms and headrest. She seemed still, her body taking a rare rest from its involuntary spasms. Sam could see that her condition was not only debilitating, but utterly exhausting. He couldn’t even begin to guess how she absorbed her loss in the midst of battling her illness – she could no longer speak – but he sensed an incredibly tough woman within the now contorted shell of her body.

  The song began with a noise like a scratched record, a breathy fuzz in the background, which was then interrupted by the sound of someone playing the piano, almost hesitantly. A man’s voice, both soulful and sorrowful, then broke in.

  ‘It’s by Chet Baker,’ said Eleanor. ‘Dad loved him. So much in fact, that he named the dog after him. Isn’t that right, Mum?’

  Sam watched Wendy Scott. Her head was cocked at a sharp angle but he saw a smile play across her lips. A moment later, she began to cry. Eleanor leapt off the sofa and went to her mother, kneeling by her and holding her hand as the two of them cried and the song continued to its soft, melancholic conclusion.

  Sam looked at them mourning together, acutely aware of the man they both ached for. Their grief would continue for some time to come. He wondered whether Eleanor would ever reach any sense of closure, whether she’d ever truly accept what had happened. Not that her father was dead, but that he wasn’t the man she’d always believed him to be.

  She hadn’t mentioned it since that night in the shed when the man had come out of the shadows and told them what happened in Marrakesh. But for Sam, it had turned into a niggle – one that he constantly felt worming its way around his head.

  Something had persuaded Charles Scott to cover up a murder. Would Eleanor – like Sam – continue to wonder what had motivated him to do this? Or was she the type who could accept a certain level of uncertainty, and let go? Only time would tell.

  Chapter 89

  Downing Street

  Stirling watched from a window on the first floor as Ministers’ cars left Downing Street one by one. He’d just endured the last of his Cabinet meetings, the talk dominated by a discussion on how to quell public anger over proposed pension reform.

  The PM, who was confident that he’d be out before being tarred with that particular brush, soon detached himself from the heated proceedings. For the rest of the meeting he felt as if he were floating somewhere above the table, occasionally making intelligent remarks but essentially observing.

  He had yet to breathe a word about his impending departure to anyone, apart from Charlotte, of course.

  He’d told her over the phone of their predicament and heard afterwards how she’d collapsed. It was not a good sign. Being the PM’s wife had given her strength. Losing that role so suddenly was going to be a huge challenge for her. She’d been reliant on all the therapy ‘wisdom’ she’d acquired over the years. Would that be enough, or would she slip back to the warm comforts of the bottle? He hoped to God not. Charlotte drunk was not just ugly, but potentially extremely damaging to a former Prime Minister looking to secure a lucrative lecturing career.

  There was a rap on the door. It opened before he’d had a chance to answer.

  ‘Need a quick word, Prime Minister,’ said Gillian Mayer. She seemed irritated.

  ‘Sit down, Gillian,’ said Stirling, a carefree lilt to his voice. The business of Government seemed suddenly so petty, trivial, when once he’d gorged on its every detail.

  ‘It’s about this Moroccan deal,’ she said, perching on the edge of a chair.

  Stirling smiled as he returned to his seat. Amazing how that ‘M’ word had so recently caused him fear, when now it had no effect whatsoever.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll have noticed that the maths has changed.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Right?’ she repeated, with a hint of indignation. ‘We’re giving away another eight million quid. When did this happen?’

  ‘Oh, a few days ago,’ he said dreamily.

  Mayer examined him like he was bacteria under a microscope. ‘Didn’t you think to discuss it with me, or the new Secretary of State for that matter, before you dipped your hands into his budget? And can I ask what prompted this sudden bout of generosity?’

  Stirling had no answer and for once, he didn’t care. He was about to shrug when there was another knock on the door. A press secretary poked her head in.

  ‘Sorry Prime Minister, another visitor. Commander Lynch. He says he needs to see you right away.’

  Stirling smiled sweetly at the Foreign Secretary. ‘Sorry Gillian. Another time?’

  Gillian Mayer fixed him with a steely look. ‘This needs resolving.’

  ‘All in good time, Gillian. Now, if you would.’

  The Foreign Secretary stormed out and moments later Lynch entered, closing the door behind him.

  ‘Commander Lynch, how can I help?’

  The police officer stood just inside the room, as if reluctant to come any closer.

  ‘I’ve had some new information,’ he said.

  Stirling felt a slight flutter in his chest, an awakening of the fear and tension that had been his bedfellows for weeks.

  ‘Can you be a bit more specific?’

  ‘It’s about your son.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, L
ynch, get to the point.’

  ‘We need to interview him. About a murder in Marrakesh.’

  *

  Stirling watched as the Foreign Secretary got into her car and the door was closed by her driver. There would be more questions about the Moroccan deal. But that matter would soon be eclipsed.

  When he might have exited with some grace, he now faced the prospect of a gruesome court case, one in which Aidan’s every last foible and twitch would be examined in detail. Inevitably his role as a parent would be questioned. And would Aidan finger him for covering up the murder? He certainly had motive. After all, he hated his father’s guts.

  He thought of Charles and how he’d chosen to keep things under wraps. It was not friendship that had prompted this unwavering loyalty. Although Scott had never said anything, Stirling was sure that it was a deal. A crowning, when his time was up.

  The Foreign Secretary’s car was accelerating down Downing Street. Stirling noticed a shape darting in front of the vehicle. He winced.

  The Downing Street cat, Balfour, had been caught by the car’s right front wheel. It appeared to have crushed the cat’s spine. The driver had felt the jolt and stopped the vehicle to get out and inspect the damage. The cat was twitching slightly, what looked like dying movements rather than an indication that there was any hope. Mayer was out of the car now, a hand over her mouth as she took in the messy feline corpse beneath her Ministerial car.

  So, thought Stirling, Balfour had lived his nine lives. He was reminded of a story he’d been told about Humphrey, the Downing Street cat during Thatcher and Major’s tenures, and how it nearly copped it under the wheels of Clinton’s two-ton armoured Presidential Cadillac.

  Like Balfour, Stirling had also lived his nine lives. It was time to leave.

  He was numb, unable to quantify what this meant to him. When you wished for something for so long, and then attained it, only to lose it, what effect did that have? Only time would reveal the true impact of this day upon his psyche.

  One thing was for sure. That woman out there wouldn’t be succeeding him.

  A sly thought came to him. In a day or so, he’d leak the story of Balfour’s death under the wheel of Mayer’s car. That would ensure the instant hatred of a few million cat lovers.

  He smiled to himself. Still playing the game, even as the casino closed.

  Chapter 90

  Sussex

  The resignation dominated the news for days. Sam and Eleanor devoured every last column inch and news bulletin. It felt at times like they were indulging in some form of binge eating, a sickening feeling that frequent, head-clearing walks helped alleviate.

  Stirling made the statement outside Downing Street. For once, the man was immaculately turned out, a precise orderly appearance quite at odds with the delivery. He faltered frequently to take steadying breaths or fight back tears, talking of his ‘beloved child, a boy with complex health problems’.

  ‘Aidan needs our support, more than I realised,’ he said. ‘And I have come to the conclusion that his ongoing care makes it impossible for me to serve the country I am so proud of. I hope you will therefore understand why I have asked Her Majesty to accept my resignation.’

  He couldn’t finish after that, breaking down in tears and, with a sad little wave, turning back, for the last time, to enter 10 Downing Street.

  The tears, Sam and Eleanor agreed, were for his career, not for his son. Sam watched him with intense loathing. Stirling should have slipped away gracefully long ago to concentrate on getting his only child the treatment he so desperately needed, but Philip Stirling had clung on and in doing so, had undoubtedly made matters worse.

  Despite his premature departure, praise was heaped on his short tenure as Prime Minister – his sound economic stewardship, crowd-pleasing measures and announcements, as well as his recent noble efforts at overseas development in Morocco. How long, wondered Sam, would the warmth be extended Stirling’s way?

  A clip began circulating on the internet of Charlotte Stirling collapsing in public. One afternoon, alone in the sitting room, Sam found it.

  Wearing an embroidered long-sleeved top, the PM’s wife had been at a south London primary school pursuing her work as the patron of a charity for children with autism. She was seen perched on a child’s chair, chatting to a little girl who was tapping away on a computer keyboard. A woman approached her and whispered in her ear, and Charlotte Stirling became visibly rattled. Sam guessed that she had told her aides not to disturb her. Charlotte Stirling had never come across as particularly soft and it would hardly have helped if she were seen exiting a room full of small children to answer a call. You could see her asking what the matter was and the assistant, now squirming, urging Charlotte Stirling to leave the room. Eventually the PM’s wife hissed at the assistant, who then whispered again in her ear. Charlotte Stirling then stood, her face draining of expression, and moments later, she collapsed to the floor.

  Sam felt sickened by his reaction to the footage. There was nothing to relish in the imagery – of Charlotte’s vulnerability exposed for all to see. He was all too aware of transference – of seeing the traits and personality of significant others in people you hardly knew – but he couldn’t escape the fact that Charlotte Stirling reminded him very strongly of his own mother. So to see her in pain gave him pleasure.

  Quite why his mother had locked him in that cupboard for the mildest of misdemeanours, leaving him there for hours on end, remained a mystery, despite his therapy. Perhaps, Sam mused, she’d done it to toughen him up. Perhaps it was simply about deliberately denying him the affection she’d obviously never experienced herself. Or maybe it wasn’t that malevolent, just a re-enactment of her childhood experience. In other words, what felt ‘normal’ to her.

  ‘What are you looking at?’

  Eleanor was standing behind him. She draped an arm over his shoulder, clicking the mouse to exit the website.

  ‘I think we should designate today a Stirling-free day,’ she said.

  Sam looked down at her hand, the fingernails no longer bitten.

  ‘Agreed,’ he said.

  In the kitchen, Baker had begun beating his tail against the tiled floor, the sight of the two of them suggesting a walk.

  Despite a gentle rain falling, the fresh air did its trick, clearing Sam’s mind of the poisonous Stirlings. He and Eleanor talked of returning to London, of her going back to work and the possibility, which made his heart skip a beat, of her moving in.

  On their return, Sam began building a fire in the sitting room. As he tore strips of newspaper up, he saw another image of Charlotte Stirling. She was walking a dog in a square in Mayfair, their new home. She looked ashen. He quickly layered kindling around the paper and struck a match.

  But even as Charlotte Stirling went up in flames, he sensed another mother – and her poisonous legacy – waiting in the wings.

  Epilogue

  Days later

  Chapter 91

  North London

  It was the middle of the night. Sam sat bolt upright, eyes wide open in terror. Eleanor was watching him.

  ‘I think you need to talk about this.’ she said.

  Sam disappeared to fetch a glass of water then sat on the edge of the bed. The dream was never different, he explained to Eleanor. His mother, the scientist, in her cold, clinical laboratory, the tubes and beakers bubbling away, thickening the air with noxious clouds and vapours. Her plaintive call to him. And then the huge black horse, its coat covered in sweat, nostrils flaring, white foam around its mouth, and eyes bulging with fear. His mother would beckon to him again, this time with open arms, and then the horse would rear up, hooves flailing at Sam, a primal wall stopping him reaching his mother.

  ‘You know exactly what it means, don’t you?’ said Eleanor, reaching across the bed for Sam’s hand.

  ‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘It’s not my mother beckoning to me; it’s a part of her that’s in me. An Arctic, cut-off place. And the horse is my unconscious, t
elling me, in no uncertain terms, to run a mile.’

  ‘Tell me more about her,’ said Eleanor. The bedside light cast a warm glow across her face. She looked beautiful.

  He spoke for an hour, compressing the stories that he’d told his therapist into one long discourse, explaining how, while so much insight had been gained, there still remained the sickening thought that, inside, he was no different to his mother. It was something that had become more evident in the past weeks, during those moments when he’d drawn on a cold, calculating inner resource – while talking to Aidan, or keeping the case notes from Eleanor. He knew there were good reasons for this behaviour, but he couldn’t help feeling that it hinted at something darker.

  ‘Sorry to be blunt,’ said Eleanor, once he’d finished, ‘but you therapists don’t half complicate things.’

  Sam managed a smile. ‘How so?’

  ‘Do I need to spell it out?’

  ‘’Fraid so.’

  ‘You’re not your mother. I mean, you carry traces of her, but that doesn’t make you her. You’re way too aware of yourself to ever turn into a person like the one you describe. I’m not saying your fear isn’t real, but it’s not grounded. It’s like you’ve got yourself into a rut with this dream. It’s become habitual.’

  Sam thought of how he had avoided discussing his fear in therapy, convinced that airing it somehow gave it validity, the chance to take root and grow. In doing so, he’d merely helped it develop in the dark.

  And now Eleanor had gone straight in, told it like it is. Was she right? His mother was a cold bitch, but the evidence suggesting Sam was going in the same direction was flimsy. His thinking – both conscious and unconscious – had become ingrained.

  ‘I’m right,’ she said. ‘You know I am.’

  *

  Sam felt light, unencumbered, as he queued for a ticket at a cinema on the South Bank the following day. Two clients had cancelled and Sam had suddenly found himself with a free afternoon. He walked to the river where he discovered that a Hitchcock retrospective was on. The day was cooling, so he decided to take in a movie.