‘Actually, it’s got three bedrooms.’ He smiled at Lolly. ‘Not two.’ Jessie grinned back at him, a reminder at last of the shy adolescent he’d smuggled into one or two of Soho’s wilder jazz clubs.
‘Is that an offer?’ she said. ‘Only two bedrooms would be more than enough.’
Kate got through to Barnaby at noon. She’d been phoning all morning, desperate to explain her wake-up call, but every time she’d rung, the receptionist had told her that Mr Barnaby was tied up. That, in itself, was a bad sign. Barnaby had never before refused to take her calls. Now she could feel the chill in his voice.
‘I’m sorry about this morning,’ she said, for the second time, ‘but it just felt important, that’s all.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s complicated. I can’t really explain on the phone.’
‘Where were you?’
‘At the health club. I’d been waiting for you. I just…’ She was sitting on a stool in the kitchen, staring at the unwashed dishes in the sink. She was eight hours away from the most important speech she’d ever had to make. Success or failure could literally shape the rest of her life. Yet there she was, behaving like some schoolgirl, rubbing salt in a self-inflicted wound. She looked up at the clock on the wall. ‘I’m at home,’ she began, ‘I don’t know whether—’
Barnaby cut in. ‘I’m running late. Today’s a nightmare.’
‘I’m sure. I just… It would be nice, that’s all. I wouldn’t keep you long. It’s just… I don’t know …’ Her voice trailed off. Whatever she said just made it worse. She’d never felt this pathetic. Ever.
Barnaby was on the phone again. His voice was softer, kinder, and she sensed that someone must have been in the room with him and had gone. That’s why he’d been so matter-of-fact, so insensitive.
‘Lunchtime,’ he was saying, ‘I’ve got half an hour. We could go to the pub on the corner. One fifteen? Pick me up here?’
Kate began to say yes but a click on the line told her that Barnaby had hung up, doubtless turning to yet another contract, another fat pile of business opportunities. Over the last few months, she’d watched him become the most talked-about solicitor in the city, the brief who’d stitched together an extraordinary deal on the Imperial and now travelled everywhere by private jet. She sat on the stool for a moment or two longer, trying to rid her mind of the conversation she’d pieced together in the changing room. She’d been showering after her workout. The splash of the falling water had made it hard to be certain yet the two women had definitely been talking about Liz Barnaby, she knew they had. Second honeymoon, one had said. Second coming, the other had suggested, giggling enviously.
When the courier arrived, Zhu happened to be in the Imperial’s foyer. He pushed through the revolving door, pausing to admire the new décor. After exhaustive discussions with their demanding new client, the Knightsbridge design consultancy had finally settled on pale greys and a deep shade of blue, with details picked out in a rich burgundy. The mix of colours, echoed in the luxury suites at the front of the hotel, combined a cool serenity with something altogether more opulent. The latter was understated, a quiet smile rather than a bear-hug, and Zhu was delighted with the impact the hotel made on first-time visitors.
He took the package from the courier. There was a bubbling pot of coffee in the alcove beside reception and Zhu insisted he help himself before returning to his van outside. The youth broke into a smile, attacking the plate of biscuits as well, while Zhu scissored through the big, heavy-duty plastic bag. Inside, tightly folded, was a long banner. He pulled it out, signalling to the receptionist to help him. She took one end, walking away towards the restaurant as the banner unfurled. From one end to the other, it measured forty feet, and there were instructions inside the bag on how it was to be fixed to the hotel’s façade.
The courier was still standing beside reception, finishing his coffee. Neither Zhu nor the receptionist could read the message inscribed on the banner. The courier was trying to hide a grin.
‘What does it say?’ Zhu called.
The courier shook his head. He was a thin, crop-haired youth in his early twenties. ‘It’s a wind-up,’ he said. ‘Don’t let it worry you.’
‘What?’
‘It’s a piss-take. Forget it, mate.’ He drained his cup. ‘Cheers for the coffee.’
‘But what does it say?’
The courier eyed the receptionist. She was Singaporean, a vivacious, raven-haired girl, taller than most Chinese. Unlike Zhu, she’d sensed at once that something was wrong.
Zhu was getting impatient. ‘Read it to me,’ he said. ‘Please.’
The courier wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes were still on the banner.
‘Fuck Off Back To Chinkieland,’ he dropped his voice, ‘Wog Cunts.’
Charlie Epple walked the half-mile from the city’s railway station to the Regency terrace where Barnaby had his offices. The train had made good time and he still had an hour in hand before the start of his meeting. In June, the city’s Strategy Unit were sending a delegation to an important trade fair in New Jersey, and the afternoon’s meeting would finalize the pitch the Portsmouth team would be making to attract investment. To Charlie, these opportunities were priceless. With the right words and the right pictures, as he kept telling his new colleagues, anything was possible.
He stopped outside Barnaby’s office. He’d rung from Waterloo and the receptionist had assured him that Barnaby would be at his desk. He had pressing appointments all day but lunchtime he’d fenced off for paperwork.
Charlie took the stairs two at a time, wondering what Barnaby would make of Jessie’s plans. He’d left the girls at home in Wimbledon with instructions to close the place up once the removal men had finished. He’d found another ninety quid for their tickets down and told them to spend the change on champagne. His first night back in Pompey deserved a modest celebration.
The door to Barnaby’s office was an inch or two open. Charlie stepped inside. Sitting behind the desk was a woman he recognized. She had a strong, open face with a wide mouth and wonderful cheekbones. Her hair was longer than he’d last seen it and she was wearing big gold earrings that bounced around as she got to her feet.
Charlie extended a hand, introducing himself. ‘We met last year,’ he reminded her, ‘me sitting there, you this side. I can’t remember your name, though.’
‘Kate. Kate Frankham.’
‘Ah, yes, the politician, Red Kate, gotcha.’
‘Who told you that?’
‘Barnaby. Terrible gossip. Tell him something interesting and he’ll share it with anyone, even me. Bit troubling in a lawyer, don’t you think?’
Charlie sat down in front of the desk. Kate did the same, resuming her seat and pulling her coat around her. There was a longish silence. At last, Charlie burst into laughter. ‘So where is he?’ he said. ‘What have you done with him?’
‘Nothing.’ Kate consulted her watch. ‘We were supposed to be having lunch. Half an hour ago.’
‘And he hasn’t turned up?’
‘No.’
‘Typical.’ Charlie got to his feet, crossed the room and opened the door with a flourish. ‘My pleasure,’ he said. ‘Never trust a married man.’
At Kate’s insistence, they went to the pub on the corner. Charlie ordered a pastie and chips but Kate said she didn’t want anything. They sat at a table by the window, Kate’s eyes rarely leaving the door. He might still turn up, she explained, when Charlie asked why.
‘You were going to meet him here?’
‘No, the office, but we come here for lunch,’ she offered him a faint smile, ‘occasionally.’
Charlie laced his pastie with brown sauce and used a paper napkin to pick it up, curious to know why conversation was so difficult. Barnaby had mentioned Kate on a number of occasions. She was active in the Labour Party. She had a talent for getting things done. And she hated the bloody Conservatives.
‘I’m in advertising,’ Charli
e mumbled, through a mouthful of mince and carrots. ‘I used to work on some of the privatization campaigns. Fat cat bastard Tory ministers. Unbelievable people.’ For the first time, Charlie thought he detected a flicker of interest in her face, though she was still watching the door.
‘Really?’
‘Yeah, money for old rope, whichever way you cut it. We made a packet. They made a packet. Even Joe Soap wound up with a share or two. Magic, pure magic. Bloke I worked with used to call it the Paul Daniels school of economics. It’s all smoke and mirrors. You wave the wand, bribe the great unwashed with their own money, and wait for the votes to roll in. Never fails.’
Kate reached for a chip. ‘They’ll be wiped out,’ she said briskly, ‘starting in May.’
‘There’s an election then?’
‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘It’s only local and your lot’ll say they don’t count but they do, believe me they do.’
Charlie tried not to choke on the pastie. He swallowed a mouthful of Guinness.
‘My lot?’ he gasped. ‘Are you serious?’
Kate was looking at him now, the door abandoned. ‘All that money?’ she said. ‘All that work they pushed your way? Surely to God you’re not telling me you’re a socialist.’
‘You’re right.’ Charlie nodded vigorously. ‘I’m not telling you bloody anything. Except I hate the bastards.’
‘What bastards?’
‘Politicians.’
‘Any particular brand?’
‘Yeah, London politicians, the sort I run into. We used to get them round to the agency, vetting the rough cuts on the British Gas ads. Remember all that? Remember Sid? They used to stand there, these clowns, looking at the crap we dished up, wagging their heads, telling each other how clever it all was, how witty.’ He lifted his Guinness again. ‘Here’s to politicians. Clueless bastards.’
‘You’re talking about the Tories. We’re not all like that.’
‘Wrong. I’m talking about power. Power does something to people. Have you ever noticed that? Doesn’t matter which party, that’s irrelevant. It’s power, full stop.’
Kate was looking thoughtful now, toying with her drink.
‘I’m speaking at a selection meeting tonight,’ she said. ‘If I win, I get to be a parliamentary candidate. And if that happens, I might end up an MP.’
‘You kidding?’ Charlie was staring at her.
‘Not at all. It’s a logical progression.’
‘And you’d want to be an MP?’
‘I want to make a difference, yes.’
‘And you think that’s the way to do it?’
‘I do, yes. Unless you can think of another.’
Charlie returned to his plate, and began to mop up the pool of brown sauce with his last few chips.
‘MPs are lobby fodder,’ he said. ‘It’s a cliché but it’s true. And by the time they get to be ministers, they’ve lost it anyway.’
‘Lost what?’
‘Any clue about the real world. The lot I’ve come across could have been on another planet.’ He looked up. ‘You serious about this meeting? Tonight?’
‘Yes, why?’
‘Sounds a laugh, that’s all.’ He pushed away his plate. ‘Can anyone come? Or is it ticket only?’
‘Ticket only, I’m afraid. You have to have been a member for a year. House rules.’
‘A year? That’s absurd. Why a year?’
Kate looked briefly uncomfortable. Finally she explained how the rule was supposed to prevent the candidates from packing the meeting with their own supporters.
Charlie was sitting back in his chair, his hands clasped behind his head, delighted. ‘See?’ he said. ‘See what it does? Power?’
Owens said yes to the offer of a second cup of tea. For the first time in weeks, he felt half normal. No pains in his sinuses. No thickness in his head. No little curls of foil wrap from the endless tubes of Strepsils in his pocket.
He reached across the table for the plastic bag again, double-checking the despatch numbers on the consignment note against the figures he’d passed on to TNT Express. The package had been handed in to their Brentford depot late yesterday afternoon. The sender’s name was listed as Arthur Hengist, and under ‘Address’, the clerk had scribbled 245 Hankisson Road. Owens had phoned the address through to Special Branch at the Yard and the reply had come back within minutes: 245 Hankisson Road didn’t exist. Not, at any rate, within the Greater London area.
The lawyer, Barnaby, passed Owens the tea. The little Chinese guy was still at the back of the hotel’s restaurant, supervising his staff as they put up decorations. Tomorrow, in keeping with some tradition or other, he’d be celebrating the hotel’s opening with fireworks and a snake dance.
Owens glanced at his watch. ‘We should talk about tomorrow. We’ve been getting intelligence from London.’ He nodded at the banner, neatly folded on a neighbouring table. ‘This may be starters. Main course to come.’
‘I’m not with you.’
‘It’s nothing specific. I can’t give you names, numbers, times, nothing like that. All we’ve got is smoke in the wind.’
‘I see.’ Barnaby sat back, looking at Zhu again. ‘And what are you planning to do about it?’
‘The superintendent will be down within the hour.’
‘Bairstow?’
‘Yes.’
Barnaby frowned. He knew Bairstow well, a bluff, bad-tempered Yorkshireman with a brilliant clear-up rate and absolutely no talent for public relations. Giving him the run of the hotel during the opening banquet would be a nightmare.
‘Are you serious?’ he said slowly. ‘You think there’s a real threat?’
‘We think there may be. Mr Bairstow gets possessive about his city. You’ve probably noticed.’
Barnaby nodded. Coachloads of visiting football supporters were routinely hauled off the motorway on the edge of the city for body searches and a brisk lecture. Down here we like it nice and quiet, went the official line, so behave your fucking selves.
‘So what are we saying? Vehicle checks? Riot police? The works?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘But will he tell me? Mr Bairstow?’
‘Depends if he knows. Intelligence is saying National Front.’ His eyes returned to the banner. ‘Does that ring any bells?’
Ellis was already examining the cake trolley when Louise Carlton stepped into the Palm Court restaurant at the Ritz Hotel. A uniformed waiter led her to his table, pulling back the chair to let her sit down. Beneath the huge chandelier, refugees from Harrods and Harvey Nichols were locked in conversation over plates heaped with scones and teacakes. Ellis, by contrast, was settling for two thick slices of chocolate gateau.
Louise let the waiter take her plate, ordering a pot of Lapsang. Then she turned to Ellis, waving away his apologies for having started. He had to be back at Victoria Street by five at the latest. The possibility of a bid for Portsmouth’s naval dockyard had triggered a classic Whitehall stand-off, and there was some imprecision on the line the DTI should take.
Louise smiled. She liked Ellis’s use of the word ‘imprecision’. In fact she liked Ellis. Very much indeed.
‘You think he’s serious? Our Mr Zhu?’
‘I don’t know. He can raise the money, certainly.’
‘How much are we talking about?’
‘Two hundred and fifty million. That’s ballpark, DTI figures. Nothing’s agreed.’
Louise used her fork to carve herself a fat wedge of gateau. As ever, it was delicious, one of life’s more dependable pleasures. She looked up. In a phone call to her office before lunch, Ellis had outlined Zhu’s interest in buying the dockyard. Given MI5’s responsibility for protecting UK economic interests, there was, for once, no interdepartmental clash. Selling off the nation’s premier naval port had profound security implications.
‘What are the MoD saying?’
‘The Navy Board are horrified. They think it’s a joke in extremely poor taste. The Army brass will be
gloating, of course. Until it’s their turn.’
‘What about the politicians?’
‘They’re taking the Treasury line, or at least the ultras are. These guys all sing from the same hymn sheet. Anything that reduces the PSBR. Anything that lowers the wage bill. You know the way it goes …’
Louise helped herself to another forkful of gateau. Thanks to some inspired rearguard actions, MI5 had managed so far to avoid the worst of the cultural revolution that had swept through Whitehall. Unlike the other security agencies, MI6 and GCHQ, Five was outside the direct control of the powerful Joint Intelligence Committee. This ensured a degree of immunity from ministerial diktat, an invaluable dispensation that dug a moat around the daily grind of intelligence work.
Ellis was still musing about Portsmouth dockyard. Evidently, Zhu had come up with a scheme to lease some of the key facilities back to the MoD.
‘The politicians would buy that?’
‘It’s cheaper, they’re bound to. It gets them off the hook as well. They can say that nothing’s really changed.’
‘Except ownership.’
‘Sure, but the warships still get serviced. The place looks the same. The mateys are still in jobs, some of them. Who’s going to worry about the small print?’
‘We might, if it came to a war.’
‘Quite. But you know the way it is with politicos. They’re permanently at war. And two hundred and fifty million’s a tidy windfall if it happened to coincide with an election.’
‘Has Zhu got a date in mind?’
‘Nothing specific. I get the impression he’d buy the place tomorrow if he could.’
Louise moistened her fingertip and picked up tiny flakes of chocolate from her plate.
‘Why does he want it?’ she asked. ‘Why bother? If the Navy can’t make it pay, what’s he got up his sleeve?’
The waiter arrived with a plate of warm scones for Ellis, who cut one in half, and freighted it with strawberry jam and a big dollop of cream before passing it to Louise. Louise beamed at him, still waiting for an answer.
‘I don’t know,’ he said at last. ‘The place is huge, hundreds of acres. There’s a lot of fixed plant, some of it quite modern. He’s got shipbuilding and repair interests in Singapore. I imagine he might fancy the same thing here. Maybe he’ll put work our way. Construction? Maintenance? Oil rigs? It’s an opportunity. We should grab it. That’ll be the DTI line, at any rate.’
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