‘Not funny,’ she snaps. Her agitation silences him.
They walk towards the river, turn left along Customs House Quay and find an empty bench. Its stone is hard and flat, no back and no arms. They sit down together, backs straight, untouching, looking through railings to the river. She wants to speak, to unlock the shock of the night. Instead she slumps, unable to talk.
He stretches a hand across her leg. ‘So,’ he says gently, ‘what was all that about?’
Her eyes glisten. ‘I dunno,’ she whispers.
‘Tell me.’
She removes his hand and sits up again. ‘Was your father in the North?’ She forces herself to be calm, but firm.
‘What?’ he exclaims. His surprise rattles her.
‘Your father. Your British soldier father.’
‘What’s that got to do with anything?’
‘My brother remembered his name.’
His astonishment rises. ‘Look,’ he says, ‘that couldn’t be. It’s not possible.’
‘Why’s it not possible?’
She sees him gathering his thoughts. ‘Christ, Maire, it’s not as if they released their names. It wasn’t an invitation to a ball.’
‘But he was here,’ she states.
‘Yeah, he probably did a tour. But that was nothing. They all did.’
‘Did he do anything bad?’
‘No.’ He reflects. ‘Not that I know of. Not that ever came out. They were troubled times. Lots of bad stuff happened. But getting hold of his name. That just couldn’t be.’
‘Then I don’t understand it,’ she says meekly.
‘Look,’ he says, ‘I don’t want to go against your brother but maybe he thinks saying something like this will put you off me. I know he’ll hardly see me as ideal company for his sister.’
She slumps again and turns to the river. ‘You don’t understand those men,’ she says.
‘And you need have nothing more to do with them,’ he replies. ‘I’m sorry to have caused you such a fright.’
He buries his head in her crotch and lies there, still as a statue. She remains motionless, but allows him to stay. He moves his arms around her waist and gently strokes her, digging his fingers beneath the belt of her jeans to touch the top of her buttocks. She puts her fingers through his thick dark hair and pulls his head up.
‘All right, you beautiful, mixed-up fool,’ she says, ‘let’s get some breakfast.’ She looks at her hands. ‘God knows what I’ve just left on your hair.’
CHAPTER 13
Post-election, Monday, 8 May
Cloud stretched motionless throughout the day across the Thames and the city beyond. The fog of office, thought Anne-Marie. Office – the word kept on rearing up at her. She had been propelled by the moment to accept the new Prime Minister’s offer. With time to think, she was amazed at her impulsiveness.
It was not just the scare of her encounter with Rob McNeil. Her whole career had been about taking sides, fighting causes, standing up for the underdog. Now she was entering a world of compromises, where right and wrong were shadows. The state would not just try to shackle her judgements. The day’s very first official act – stepping into the ministerial car – was the first small step in shackling her life.
‘This is spoiling, Mr Hinds,’ she had said. Her driver angled his rear-view mirror.
‘Please call me Keith, Minister, it’s traditional.’
‘Yes, Keith. And you may call me, Anne-Marie.’
‘I’m afraid that’s not traditional, Minister.’ He smiled.
‘And I’m afraid I’d rather be on my bike. I truly can’t see myself getting used to this.’
‘Don’t worry, Minister, I’m told that’s what they all say.’
‘Oh, does that mean you’re new to the job?’
‘That’s right, Minister,’ he replied breezily. ‘You and I can make up our rules as we go along.’
He returned the mirror back to its correct position. Despite her driver’s chirpiness, she felt the closing of the cell door.
She had expected to be dropped at the main Home Office entrance in Marsham Street. Instead Hinds turned left at the traffic lights with Horseferry Road and then right to descend into the strip-lit concrete of the basement car park. Two men in grey suits and white shirts waited outside bare automatic swing doors resembling the entrance to a cancer ward.
‘Welcome, Minister,’ said the older man. She took in a stocky figure, mid-fifties, a large, no doubt brain-packed, shiny bald head with a fringe of close-cropped black hair. No glasses, but an irregular squinting suggested unfamiliar contact lenses. ‘George Jupp, Permanent Secretary.’
‘Hello, Sir George,’ she said.
‘George will do splendidly, Minister.’ He gestured to the younger man, around thirty, swept-back sandy hair. ‘May I introduce you to your private secretary, Alan Dalrymple.’
She gave him her most dazzling smile and detected a shy blush in return. ‘Hello, Alan.’
‘Welcome, Minister.’ A classless voice, impossible to tell whether it was once laced with Essex or Eton.
They escorted her through the doors into the lift to the ministerial floor.
‘So, Minister, poacher turned gamekeeper,’ said Sir George. Small talk not his strength, she thought.
‘No, George,’ she replied, ‘the poacher within.’ The private secretary’s eyes popped. She gave him an arch of the eyebrow. They exited the lift and walked down a corridor past Steve Whalley’s suite.
‘The Secretary of State has asked for morning prayers every Monday with his ministerial team,’ said Sir George. ‘Not literally, of course, just one of our expressions.’
‘Yes, I can’t imagine Steve Whalley invoking the Lord,’ replied Anne-Marie. ‘He wouldn’t want to lose face.’
‘In that case, we have half an hour to prepare to meet our maker – and breaker – here on earth,’ chipped in Dalrymple. Sir George cast him a silent reprimand. By contrast, she grinned and Sir George’s disapproval was magically transformed.
They arrived at a door with a newly mounted sign. ‘Anne-Marie Gallagher, Minister of State, Security and Immigration.’ Three people rose as one from their desks.
‘Minister, this is Jemima Sheffield, your diary secretary. She’s joined us today as her predecessor has been switched to different pastures,’ said Dalrymple. Anne-Marie shook the hand of an efficient-looking, fair-haired woman in her early forties, dressed in a knee-length, straight, grey skirt. ‘Jemima,’ continued Dalrymple, ‘has the reputation of being Whitehall’s briskest enforcer of train and plane timetables. We must share her with others, so that allows her only to pop in and out as needs demand.’ Anne-Marie raised an eyebrow. ‘Our first contribution to the new government’s war on bureaucratic waste, Minister,’ he continued with an archness she found herself liking. ‘And Nikki and Dan, assistant private secretaries.’ Two more handshakes.
Beneath the courtesies, the entrance of the new Minister was pregnant with uncertainty. Usually, a private office had some warning of the goods it was going to receive – or have dumped on it. It could picture a face. It could research what the likely Minister stood for and prepare briefs and policies in advance. Sometimes legislation if the party manifesto was specific enough.
But Anne-Marie Gallagher was nowhere on their radar. Dalrymple and the two assistant private secretaries had spent that Sunday night Googling, Wiki’ing, and trawling news sites. Her chambers’ own website offered résumés of a career and recent cases that were the standard fare of extradition and asylum appeals. She had represented whistleblowers and written opinion pieces for the Guardian. Newsnight interviewed her on weekly payments for asylum seekers. But it was a curiously blank personal canvas: no background or context, no sense of origin, family or place.
The one sign suggesting something out of the ordinary was that speech after her election. As the young civil servants laboured through the night and studied her words again and again, they could not help whispering whether they had a
cuckoo in the nest.
‘Your speech was amazing, Minister,’ enthused Nikki, mid-twenties, short blonde hair, white silk shirt.
‘Absolutely, Minister, totally,’ chimed Dan from the white collar and mild striped tie of his grey suit. ‘It was such a different tone from your predecessor.’
‘Thank you, Dan,’ she replied. ‘Yes, he did sound as if what he’d really like to do is wreathe the nation in barbed wire. So’ – she cast a challenging stare at them – ‘what’s the way to get things done around here?’
Alan Dalrymple moved quickly to speak first. ‘The key for a minister, Minister, is to have the ear of the Secretary of State. Without his backing, it’s hard to wade through the morass. Unless’ – he paused, engaging her eye to eye – ‘you feel you have a direct line to the Prime Minister himself.’
‘Let’s first see how the land lies with the Secretary of State, shall we?’ said Anne-Marie, smiling sweetly at them all.
She had seen Steve Whalley on podiums and screens but never in the flesh. Flesh, it struck her on shaking his hand, was the word. Drooping jowls, two, maybe three, chins; stomach shamelessly pushing into trousers held by braces; gold cufflinks shining from formal white shirt and mauve tie; above, a full head of strong steely-grey hair and thick spectacles obscuring the gimlet eyes. He was a man with a reputation for combining avuncular charm and political brutality.
‘Anne-Marie,’ he said pressing bulbous fingers into her hand, ‘no doubt a surprise to you as much as to me.’ He had asked to see her alone before morning prayers – not, it seemed, to pay compliments.
‘Sit down, lass, sit down,’ Whalley continued. ‘You’re a mystery woman to me. I don’t mind that, I can see you’ve got something. So’ – he took a deep breath – ‘what were Lionel’s instructions?’
‘Instructions?’
‘That’s right, instructions. What did he tell you?’
She felt his eyes bearing in.
‘It went in such a blur, I can hardly remember a word he said.’
‘I’m not stupid, but I won’t push you – this time.’ He stood up, stretched his braces and shamelessly stuck out his belly. ‘Mind you, he’s given you the poisoned chalice, hasn’t he?’
‘I’m sorry . . .’
‘Immigration, country being overrun, you thinking you want to let ’em all in.’
‘I’ve never said that.’
‘It’s not what you don’t say, kid, it’s how you don’t say it. And all your refugees and asylum seekers, what’s that going to cost?’
‘It’s about a different mindset—’ she tried to interrupt.
‘He’s a crafty bastard, Lionel,’ he forced on. ‘Probably setting you up to fail.’ He walked round the desk and looked down on her, grinning amiably. She stood up in response, feeling the heat of his breath.
‘Why on earth would he want to do that?’
‘’Cos he’s a fucking politician who’s now Prime Minister. And you’re a pretty little loose cannon, who shoots her mouth off.’
‘Has it ever occurred to you he might mean what he says?’
‘No, lass, I can’t say it ever has.’ He paused and she bit her tongue.
Whalley shuffled back round to his chair. ‘You play it right with me, Anne-Marie, and I’ll see you right. You can have as many human rights as you want as long as it doesn’t affect the efficient working of this department,’ he ground on. ‘I know you’ve whistleblower friends but no blowing whistles here. No leaking, no shitting on the boss. To anyone. Including Lionel Buller.’
‘I’m not a fool.’ She felt the fury rising inside and sprang from her chair.
‘One thing before you go, Anne-Marie. No skeletons in your cupboard, are there? Funny boyfriends, girlfriends maybe – not that I care – dirty money, buried bodies? Don’t mind if there are and you tell me ’cos I’ll sort it. If you don’t and anything comes out, you’re dead.’
This time, she could not repress it. Brought up on rough streets where young men learnt to fight and young women learnt to lance old men’s leers, she leant across the desk and, enunciating each word, whispered in his ear, ‘If you ever speak to me again like that, I will squeeze your balls so tight you will scream.’
She stood upright, stretched out her hand to shake his and spoke in her loudest voice: ‘Thank you, Secretary of State, it will be a privilege to serve in your team.’
As, with measured steps, she made for the door, he murmured, ‘You can call me Steve, you know.’
Outside, Sir George Jupp approached. She realized he would have been listening in and flashed him an extravagant smile. An unwelcome thought intruded. Could a man like Steve Whalley know anything about her? If so, how? And why?
Back at the private office, Dalrymple handed her a printed sheet. ‘I’ve taken the liberty, Minister, of organizing a round of briefings to begin half an hour after the Secretary of State’s morning prayers.’
Anne-Marie looked down. Meetings with the Director-General of the Border Force; the Chief Executive of the Passport Office; updates on asylum tribunals; on contentious exclusion orders in the offing; finally, an evening welcome drink with senior officials.
‘When do I get time to think?’ she asked Dalrymple.
‘Don’t worry, Minister,’ he replied, ‘that’s for night-time when you’re with your red box.’
Eleven hours later, she returned to the office to collect her coat and go home. Dalrymple was still at work.
‘You should be home, Alan.’
‘A private secretary cannot leave before the minister, Minister.’
‘Is that a rule or a tradition?’ He could see she was teasing him.
‘Neither, Minister, it’s a sackable offence.’
She felt a tiny thrill of pleasure at his smiling as he said it. ‘Thank you, Alan, for organizing such an interesting and productive day.’
Thank you for thanking, Minister.’ He hesitated. ‘It never happened under your predecessor.’ Dalrymple shuffled some final papers, closed her red box and handed it to her. ‘Your overnight reading. Rather a lot, I’m afraid. A logjam tends to build up over elections. Appointments for you to sign off, extradition decisions which need your approval.’
‘How can I approve decisions to extradite?’ she asked, understanding instantly that it could only be a question addressed to herself.
‘Oh, one last thing, Minister,’ continued Dalrymple, ‘a man called Joseph has rung the office several times. Initially we palmed him off but he really did seem to know you and want to speak, so we took his number. He said to mention the Botanic flat. It sounded as if it might be some rather urgent property issue.’
He handed her a note with a phone number; she looked down at it, repressing the sinking in her gut. ‘Thank you, yes, that’s probably the reason.’ She picked up the box and headed for the door.
‘Your driver’s waiting, Minister, solo travel on city streets with your red box is not recommended.’
‘You’ll train me yet.’ She stuffed the note into her handbag and, avoiding the lift, headed for the back stairs. Checking that she was alone, she stopped at the top, stood tall, and composed herself.
Joseph. The one person above all she had assumed would never – could never – reappear. Who’d had to hide, to vanish for ever. She’d imagined him long dead, probably with a bullet in his head. How he must have waited. And waited. And now he had delivered his shock. She hoped she had managed to betray nothing when Dalrymple mentioned the name. She suspected the blood must have all too visibly drained from her face.
Hinds was leaning on the bonnet of the car, puzzling over a crossword. Hearing the click of heels, he sprang to his feet and opened the back door. She slid in, collapsed into her seat and dropped the red box beside her.
‘Straight home, Minister?’ asked Hinds.
For once, she wanted the safety of company. ‘Keith, would you do something for me?’
‘That’s what I’m here for, Minister.’
‘I’ve just had
some sad news. An aunt I’m fond of. They’re saying she may not have long. Could you drive me around for half an hour? Doesn’t matter where. I just need to let it sink in, phone one or two people.’
Hinds looked round at her. It was the first hint of vulnerability; she had seemed so organized, brisk, confident, at ease with herself. ‘I’d be happy to, Minister.’
He drove across Parliament Square, east along the Embankment, past the Inns of Court on her left and, across the river, the bizarrely and massively elongated pyramid that was the Shard; discordant notes in a city moulded in power and commerce rather than beauty or elegance. She allowed the images to float past; their effect was hypnotic.
She stirred herself to consider the options. She could report Joseph’s approach to the police and ask them to stop him harassing her. She assumed any police file would show him as a missing person, probably presumed dead. But his reappearance would raise awkward questions. And answers that could spill over onto her.
She could seek advice from Kieron Carnegie. It would mean taking him into her confidence – but that was a decision she would have had to make a long time ago.
She could ignore him. But, if she did, she was sure he would never leave her alone. He would remain outside, a loose cannon.
In the end, she knew, in her heart, that there were no options. She must flush him out herself. She had to know his motivation, and what he intended to do. Or, more likely, wanted her to do. Before taking action, she would allow herself the night to think it over. Over the past four days, among the triumphalism, she had felt nausea and occasional dread. Now, for the first time, she smelt fear.
She turned to Hinds. ‘So what were you doing before, Keith?’
Hinds adjusted the rear-view mirror to see her. ‘Me, Minister?’
‘Yes, you, Keith.’ She smiled.
‘Just a humble police driver for the Met, Minister,’ he replied. ‘This is where one or two of us lucky ones get pensioned off.’
‘I see,’ said Anne-Marie, ‘the policeman’s rest home. And the politician’s graveyard.’
‘Don’t worry, Minister, we’ll get you out alive.’
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