Kate nodded, stepping back into the pool of yellow sunlight beside the window. ‘So what did you say? As a matter of interest?’
‘I said you were a friend of mine. I said I didn’t want to see you hurt.’
‘You said that?’ She sounded surprised.
‘Yes.’
‘And what did he say?’
‘He said that you and this Billy were shacked up together, living here, more or less full time.’
‘That’s not true. Actually, it was never true, not that it’s any of his business.’
Barnaby smiled, looking down at her. She was naked under the singlet, and he could smell the lemony gel she used in the shower.
‘So tell me about Billy.’
‘Nothing to tell. He’s gone.’
‘It’s over?’
‘Yes, very much over. His doing as well as mine. I can be a cow sometimes. As I’m sure you remember.’
Barnaby knew it was true. ‘Harry said something else as well. He said you’d applied for some kind of conservation grant.’
‘He’s right. We all did. The whole terrace. Is that illegal? Wanting to make the place look nice?’
‘No, but he also said the grant had to go through your committee.’
‘And I didn’t declare an interest?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s bullshit.’ She turned away, staring out of the window, visibly angered. ‘Why don’t these bloody people ever check their facts? Why do they always believe the first bit of gossip they hear?’
‘You’re saying it’s not true?’
‘Too right it’s not true. Of course the grants go through committee. Everyone knows that. But this particular application was tabled last spring.’
‘Before you were chair?’
‘Before I was even a bloody councillor.’ She pulled at a lock of hair. ‘Can I sue? Mr Lawyer?’
‘Only if they print.’
‘Would it be worth it?’
‘Definitely.’
‘And will you represent me? Get a result?’
‘No question.’
‘Usual fee?’ She glanced round at him, the grin back on her face. ‘Or are we talking money?’
She gazed at him a moment then put a playful finger to his lips, buttoning his mouth. Seconds later she was in the kitchen, throwing open the hatch between the two rooms.
‘You want to be careful,’ she said. ‘I’m a single woman. Single women can be dangerous.’
‘I know. I remember.’
‘Yeah, and so do I. You brought me lots of grief, Mr Lawyer, but you’re still a nice man and I owe you anyway.’
‘What does that mean?’
Kate didn’t answer. Barnaby heard the fridge door open and close and then she was back again, showing him a bottle of white wine. ‘It’s Chablis,’ she said. ‘I was going to drop it in tomorrow but since you’re here …’
Barnaby stayed until nearly eleven. The first bottle led to another and over the second they shared a big bowl of pasta with a tomato and courgette sauce, sitting on the floor in the little bay window, balancing the plates on their laps.
Barnaby did most of the talking, his jacket off and his head back against the wood-panelled wall. He told her about Raymond Zhu, his last client of the afternoon, the big fat windfall that had dropped so unexpectedly into his lap. He sensed, he said, that the man had serious money and serious ambitions. The deal he’d struck for the Imperial was beyond belief. If he applied the same talent to other acquisitions, the prospects were virtually limitless.
‘Prospects for what?’ Kate asked.
‘Success. Money.’
‘And you want to be part of that?’
‘Of course.’
‘Why?’
Barnaby smiled. One of Kate’s many gifts was the ability to phrase the perfect question and to know exactly when to ask it. It was doubtless the talent that had taken her to stress counselling, and given her the basis for a surprisingly good living.
‘Why?’ he repeated. ‘Why do I want to be successful?’
‘No. Why do you want to be rich?’
‘Because money’s a measure of success. Like it or not, that’s the way it is. Not pound notes, necessarily, but everything that goes with it. Money talks. Money means respect. If you’re not rich, no one takes a blind bit of notice.’
‘That’s nonsense.’
‘No, it’s not.’ Barnaby was engaged now. ‘I know what you’re going to say. You’re going to tell me that commitment matters, and passion, and equality and all that stuff and, of course, you’re right. They do all matter. But that’s not the end of the story. I’m with you. You know I am. I speak your language. I stand up in the bloody magistrates’ court and I plead for all these misfits, these poor bloody inadequates that can’t even tie their own shoelaces. I know these people. They’re my bread and butter. Liz and I wouldn’t eat without them. But wringing my hands and getting them a conditional discharge isn’t enough. They just go back to it. Shoplifting. Credit cards. DSS stuff. Whatever. And they still can’t tie their bloody shoelaces.’
‘And money?’
‘Money can solve that. In fact, money’s the only bloody way it can be solved.’
‘By you getting rich?’
‘By me getting other people to take some notice of what I happen to believe.’
‘Which is?’
‘The need to spread it about a bit.’
‘Spread what?’
‘Money, of course. We used to call it taxation. Remember taxation? The rich paying their dues? The poor just a little less helpless?’ Barnaby looked up.
‘That was a political speech,’ Kate said quietly. ‘I didn’t know you made political speeches.’
‘Maybe you didn’t listen hard enough.’
‘On the contrary.’ She got up, retrieving the cat from the open hatchway. ‘I listened all the time. That’s probably what turned you on. But you were a clown, a kid, a child. And that’s what made you so attractive, believe it or not.’
Barnaby watched her stroking the cat, amazed at how effortlessly she’d stepped from politics to something infinitely more personal. He’d come here to tell her she wouldn’t be front-page news. Now she was analysing an affair that had crucified them both.
‘You’re saying you mothered me?’
‘Not at all. I’m saying I loved your enthusiasm. Your … naïvety, I suppose. There was nothing you wouldn’t do, no mountain you wouldn’t climb. Kids are like that. Until they learn.’
‘And you think I’ve learned?’
‘I think you’ve changed.’
‘Isn’t that the same thing?’
‘Possibly.’
Barnaby reached for the wine bottle. There was enough left for half a glass each.
‘A vote for the Chablis party,’ he said lightly. ‘Never take a man seriously when he’s been drinking.’
‘Bullshit. Drink lowers your guard.’
Kate raised her glass, smiling. Miles away, Barnaby could hear the howl of a police siren. He closed his eyes, knowing he should change the subject, telling himself he hadn’t come here to revive an old affair. The past was the past. Put to the test, he’d backed off, and nothing he could ever say or do would ever change that.
‘My mate Charlie,’ he began, ‘also had a very good day.’
Kate sat back, cross-legged, thoughtful, listening to Barnaby describe Charlie’s encounter with the city’s Strategy Unit. The guys that ran the place were evidently fed up with rule from Westminster and Whitehall. They’d had enough of ministerial diktats and years of trench warfare. So much so that, according to Charlie, some seemed on the edge of open rebellion.
Barnaby paused, eyeing Kate. ‘You’d know,’ he said. ‘True or false?’
‘True. Except that we run the city. The guys Charlie met are council officers. We decide. They deliver.’
‘But the real decisions are made elsewhere. That’s Charlie’s point. The guys that matter are up in London. What th
ey say goes. No?’
Kate looked briefly pained. Admitting her own political impotence wasn’t something that came easily. At length, with some reluctance, she nodded.
‘He’s right,’ she said. ‘In the end we control maybe fifteen per cent.’
‘Of what?’
‘The city’s budget.’
‘So what’s that got to do with local democracy?’
‘Nothing.’ She paused. ‘But, then, no one’s really bothered. You know the average turnout for local elections in this bloody country?’
‘No.’
‘Thirty per cent.’ She made a vague, despairing gesture with the empty wine glass. ‘You spend weeks, months, knocking on doors, holding meetings, drawing up petitions, trying to get people motivated, but when it comes down to it just three punters out of ten take the trouble to vote.’
‘You’re saying we get what we deserve?’
‘No, I’m saying it’s a vicious circle. Your friend Charlie’s right about Whitehall and Westminster. It’s a huge scandal, the way they’ve taken charge. But they justify it by saying people like me are unrepresentative. That we have no mandate. That we’re speaking for no one. In their eyes, of course, that’s wonderful. It gives them the right to walk all over us and that’s exactly what they want to do. We’re there to be crushed because we’re dangerous. And we’re dangerous because we might know a thing or two about what’s really going on. God forbid, we might even care enough to want to change things. But we can’t, of course, because they won’t let us.’ She was playing with the cat’s ear. ‘In the end, local government’s more trouble than it’s worth. They’ll just disinvent it. And no one’ll spot the difference until it’s too late.’
There was a long silence. Barnaby watched the animal nuzzle the crook of Kate’s arm. ‘A political speech.’ He mimed applause. ‘Bravo.’
‘Don’t be cheap.’
‘I’m not. I’m impressed.’
‘Are you?’ She looked him in the eye. ‘Impressed enough to want to do something about it? Or impressed because you’re back here like this?’ She gestured at the space between them.
Barnaby put down his glass and reached for her hand. She’d taken to wearing a ring on her forefinger, a big chunky thing that was slightly loose.
‘You want to know the truth?’ he said.
‘Yes, please.’
‘If I knew a way,’ he nodded, ‘I’d change it all tomorrow.’
Liz was still watching television when Barnaby got home. She looked up as he closed the front door then turned her attention back to the set. Barnaby carefully circled the room, bending over the sofa and kissing his wife on the cheek.
‘Sorry it’s so late,’ he said. ‘Got held up.’
‘What have you been eating?’
‘Pasta. Lots of garlic. Italian place.’
Liz nodded, still watching the screen. Rows of old men in berets were marching across a stretch of gleaming sand. Tiny figures on a reviewing stand offered limp salutes beneath a line of snapping tricolours.
‘Normandy,’ Liz said, after a while. ‘Extraordinary how this stuff can still move you.’
Barnaby watched the pictures for a moment or two, picking out the faces on the reviewing stand. Mitterrand was there, and so was Major, and he thought at once of Kate, cross-legged in the bay window, telling him what a fraud it all was. Flags. Medals. Marching bands. Anything to keep the people in step. Anything to prevent them thinking for themselves.
Liz was still talking about Normandy. If only their respective fathers had still been alive, all this would have meant so much.
‘My dad hated the war,’ Barnaby said. ‘He spent most of it being seasick.’
Liz glanced up. In the pale blue light from the television her face was empty of expression. Barnaby repeated the joke, thinking she couldn’t have heard it, expecting – at the very least – a smile. Instead, she reached for the remote control, muting the sound on the television.
‘Where have you been?’ she said. ‘I’ve been trying to phone you.’
Barnaby muttered something about the batteries in his mobile. In fact, he’d left it in the car. ‘I’ve been having dinner,’ he said. ‘With a Chinese man.’
He began to explain about Zhu but she turned away. It dawned on Barnaby that something must have happened. ‘What is it?’ he asked. ‘What’s been going on?’
Liz didn’t answer. When Barnaby stepped round the sofa she got up and walked out to the kitchen. Barnaby followed, hearing the angry rattle of cups and saucers from the sink. He stood by the breakfast bar, eyeing the silent television, waiting patiently for some clue to this mood of hers. The Queen was sharing a joke with a man in black. Kids were waving flags. A veteran in a wheelchair was trying hard not to weep.
Eventually Liz left the sink, knotting the drying-up cloth in her hands. Barnaby stared at her. Suddenly it was all too obvious what had gone wrong.
‘Jessie?’ he queried tonelessly.
Liz nodded. ‘She was upstairs,’ she took a deep breath, trying to control herself, ‘but she said she couldn’t wait any longer.’
BOOK TWO
March 1995
Few inhabitants in Portsmouth complain of such things as are the consequence of a garrison town, such as being examined at the gates, such as being obliged to keep garrison hours, and not be let out, or let in, after nine o’clock at night. Such things no people will count a burden where they get their bread by the very situation of the place.
Daniel Defoe, 1724
Chapter Five
Louise Carlton had fought a number of battles during a difficult year but the sweetest victory of all had delivered her one of the best views in London. From the sixth floor at MI5’s new headquarters she sometimes felt she could almost touch the Thames. It was there day and night, a constant presence beyond the metal-braced bomb-proof curtains: the muted throb of the barges pushing upstream, the impatient parp-parp of the tourist boats jostling for precedence under Lambeth Bridge, the shriek of the gulls wheeling over the litter-strewn mudflats at the foot of the Albert Embankment. She stood at the window, nursing her second slice of chocolate gateau, aware yet again of how right she’d been to fight for this office. The job, by its very nature, was already hopelessly claustrophobic. Working in one of the cubby-holes in the back of the building would have entombed her for ever.
She finished the cake and looked at her watch. Ellis was late. He’d said he’d be over by three at the latest. Maybe the MI6 people across the river had kept him longer than he’d anticipated. Or maybe he’d had to check in at the DTI. Serving trade ministers in this government had suddenly become a twenty-four-hour-a-day occupation.
Louise returned to her desk and reached for the file, polishing her glasses and then reading quickly through the second of the reports that Ellis had prepared for her. It was still difficult to justify a full surveillance operation on Raymond Zhu but it was becoming uncomfortably plain that the latest outbreak of inter-agency turf warfare would soon force her hand. The wretched man’s name was beginning to crop up in too many of the intelligence digests that daily crossed her desk. So far she’d seen nothing outrageous, nothing to warrant a grade-one classification, but that, she knew, was hardly the point. For whatever reasons, Raymond Zhu was attracting a great deal of attention. And that alone was justification enough for her to gather in the various bits of the jigsaw and attempt to put them together. An office on the sixth floor with a commanding view of the Thames demanded no less.
To her quiet satisfaction, Ellis had become a bit of a fan. She’d only met him on a couple of occasions but she was extremely deft at penetrating the usual layers of bureaucratic body-armour, and she’d sensed an immediate rapport beneath the South London accent and the gruff one-liners. As a woman blessed with few illusions about her age and appearance, she knew that his warmth was probably synthetic, a gambit to secure an ally in some private tussle of his own, but in a sense that was a reassurance. The most productive relationships were
rarely based on anything as unreliable as sex appeal.
She glanced over the report again to check if there was anything she’d missed. Zhu had been in and out of the country a number of times since June last year. He was based in Singapore, had business contacts in Zurich and Frankfurt, but now seemed to be making the UK his European base. He travelled from country to country in a private jet, and it was Ellis himself who had noted the registration at Heathrow and commissioned discreet enquiries. The aircraft, it transpired, was Swiss-registered and on long-term charter to Celestial Holdings, Zhu’s Singapore-based trading company, and amongst other extras Zhu had stipulated a full supplement of airways maps for mainland China. Evidently he went there a great deal, though Ellis had been vague on precise destinations.
China. Louise gazed at the window-pane as the first fat drops of rain dimpled the view. Asia’s sleeping giant was currently the buzzword around a handful of the key Whitehall ministries – the Foreign Office, DTI, Ministry of Defence – and everyone agreed that rich pickings awaited the UK businessmen who could turn courtship into a solid commercial marriage. 1.2 billion consumers represented the biggest market on earth and the major European players were falling over each other trying to get there first. Winning in China had suddenly become the race that mattered and, in Whitehall terms, that made the contest irresistible.
But where did Zhu belong in all this? Louise returned to the file. Ellis had been assigned to prepare the ground for Zhu’s first visit. Zhu had contacted the DTI for assistance in placing an order for 50,000 sets of counter-insurgency equipment. He was representing a client whose shopping list was extensive. It included batons, body-armour, small arms, ammunition, specialist training and a comprehensive tactical communications set-up. The latter had been the juiciest plum on Zhu’s tree and when the tenders came in from the handful of firms contacted by the DTI, the lowest had been priced at £47 million. That sort of money wasn’t exceptional but the specification on which Zhu was insisting was extremely high, and the DTI analysts scented the possibility of more orders in the wind. As to the end-user, opinions were still mixed. Certainly not Singapore. More probably one of the bigger regional countries – Malaysia, say, or Indonesia. Maybe even the big one. China.
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