‘It must have sounded crass. But thinking of what might have happened to him is too awful. I’m just trying to deal with the here and now. Eventually, stuff will come out.’
‘Maybe. First, I have to talk to you about that weekend.’
‘I can’t discuss that here. I thought he was just playing his usual silly buggers.’
‘All right, not now. OK?’
‘OK.’
She moved closer to him, putting her hands on his shoulders, not caring who was watching. ‘So let’s discuss “now”. Others may remember me, recognize me. But you may be the only living person who knows about David and me. We spent our time together alone. Usually in his flat. Except that one weekend with you. He never wanted anyone else to know. I didn’t understand why – it was just the way he was, or liked to be.’ She hesitated. ‘And it suited me.’
She caught sight of Whalley pawing one of the new women ministers. With a shudder, she turned back to Rob. ‘Towards the end it became difficult, I thought he was being secretive. Then he disappeared. I tried to find out more but couldn’t. Now I know part of the reason – I didn’t even have the right name. As far as I’m concerned, it never happened. You remember something, Rob. Maire was the one he left behind. She was entitled to rebuild her life. To redefine herself. To have her career. To rise above it, as far as fate took her. There was nothing wrong in it. There’s no need for blowback, as you call it.’
‘It’s not that simple,’ said McNeil. ‘Things will come out.’
‘Then deal with “things”, Rob. That’s what you’re here for, isn’t it?’
McNeil’s eyes stayed trained on her as she spun on her heel. Her red dress hugged her small frame, which was as striking as ever, just leaner. The hair, smart clothes and make-up, and the adult slimness had changed her appearance. But the spirit within was the same. As she walked evenly and purposefully on her black heels, it seemed to him that ambition had given her courage – or perhaps it was the other way round.
His thoughts drifted back to that weekend and spat at him like a hornet’s buzz. Had he really been nothing more than his best friend’s patsy?
The photographs had caught him on the hop – he should have been prepared for a ruse like that. Altogether, reflected Bowman, he had played the unearthing of David Wallis badly. Trying to interfere when it would have been best left alone. The important thing now was damage limitation. His only personal jeopardy was the incident in Saudi. It may have happened long ago, but murder remained murder for life.
In the second week of January 1991, with Wallis restored to his command, Bowman, by now a full colonel, hand-picked him, the experienced Sergeant Nickold and four others to cross enemy lines into occupied Kuwait. Their orders were to kidnap an Iraqi outpost guard, and bring him back to Saudi for interrogation. The snatch was textbook and the Iraqi deposited in a cell, stripped, hooded, yelled at, kicked about, deprived of sleep, food, toilet and washing facilities and left to fester in the stink of his own body and its emissions as an encouragement to spill everything he knew. All standard stuff.
Only one thing had gone wrong. They appeared to have alighted on the one man in Saddam’s forces with such fanatical loyalty to his leader that these inducements produced nothing more than grunts and silence. Bowman told Wallis and Nickold that the potential intelligence was so vital that they should up the ante. More beatings followed, head holding in tubs of water, pincers on fingers, a slavering Doberman breathing and snarling in the Iraqi’s face and taking a chunk out of his leg. Again, all fair game, but still nothing.
Bowman only discovered later from Wallis that Nickold then introduced his cut-throat razor. With Wallis in attendance, he sliced into the back of both the prisoner’s heels, rupturing the Achilles’ tendons, opening a jagged gash in the pink sinewy flesh. The Iraqi, perhaps familiar with such matters, may have known that, even if he got out alive, he would never walk properly again. He still remained silent. Nickold did not stop there, moving up the body to slash the prisoner’s wrists. His draining blood coloured the festering cell floor a bright pink; unchecked, the blood loss would kill him. Wallis, having condoned the older sergeant’s brutality, now called for cloths to staunch the flow. He also later claimed to Bowman that he thought of summoning medical help. But, he said, Nickold told him not to be so ‘fucking stupid’ asking, in these precise words, ‘Do you want this to get out, you fucking cunt, and see us both done for murder?’
Over the next two days the Iraqi prisoner lost consciousness, becoming too weak even to try to save his life in return for information. His body was spirited from the cell and deposited in the desert. Knowledge of the incident was kept to a tiny circle, stopping at Bowman himself. He decided that it should be viewed as an accident of war and go no further.
However, there was a consequence. Bowman did not directly blame Wallis for what took place in that cell. Rather, he blamed himself for allowing Nickold, a savage man, too much licence. But Wallis, as the presiding officer, was in charge. He argued to Bowman that it was right, good and in line with his orders to pursue all avenues to extract vital information that could save many of their own soldiers’ lives. The ends justified the means. Bowman came to an unwelcome conclusion. Wallis’s near-Jesuitical justification of the use of violence, even outside the law – which he had also displayed against the South Armagh snipers – combined with his maverick strain, made him too risky a character for a modern, rule-bound army.
Over the next year he gently conveyed this to Wallis. Two years later, Wallis, knowing his army career was going nowhere, resigned his commission, accompanying it with an embittered letter to his commanding officer. To soften the blow, Bowman offered to contact Jimmy on Wallis’s behalf to see if he might like to renew their association.
Thank heavens his own responsibility, and knowledge, ended there – but it did not stop him now ruing the day he put the two of them together.
CHAPTER 21
She had often thought of throwing away the piece of card and losing all trace and memory of it; some instinct had always prevented her. Now Anne-Marie retrieved from her purse a phone number she had kept for more than two decades. The park seemed to offer an anonymous blanket of comfort, ducks and geese honking their pleasure in the shimmer of midday sun illuminating the lake.
Using her private mobile, she dialled the seven-digit number left by ‘Uncle Jimmy’. His passport photo flashed before her – James Bernard Vallely – just another play in the deceit. Perhaps the number was fraudulent too. An answer came after a single ring.
‘Hello?’ A female voice. ‘Can I ask who’s calling?’
‘I was told to say Maire from Dublin and ask for James.’
‘Thank you, Maire, please stay on the line. I’ll route you through as quickly as I can. It should not take more than a minute or so but, to repeat, please stay on the line.’
Anne-Marie was seized with wonder. In some ways, it might be better if the number – and she – had been forgotten in the mists of past turbulence. The instant answer meant Jimmy represented some sort of continuing reality. She looked back through the trees to Horse Guards Parade and the old Admiralty buildings, once the hub of British imperial power and which long predated the grandiose pomposity of the upstart Foreign Office next door. She had escaped from a small island and ended up in this unlikely destination in a rather larger one. Now, two dead men, David Wallis and Joseph Kennedy, meant she had never got away after all.
The voice came back on the line. ‘Thank you for holding. Can I confirm this is Maire?’
‘Yes. I asked to speak to James.’
‘James has moved on. Our obligation to you has not.’
‘Excuse me, who are you?’
‘The person who has inherited his responsibilities will be at the Marine bar on the river, just west of Battersea Park, at 8 p.m. this evening.’
‘I need to check my diary.’
‘It has been checked’ – there was an almost imperceptible pause – ‘Minister. Unless yo
u have a private engagement not recorded in it.’
‘Jesus!’ murmured Anne-Marie, feeling all sense of control slipping away. ‘I have no other engagement.’
‘Like you, your new contact is a cyclist. She will be wearing cycling gear and reading Hello! magazine. It is your choice whether or not to meet her – but she will be there. Goodbye.’ The phone went dead.
In the afternoon Anne-Marie was driven by Hinds to a symposium in Oxford with the subject ‘After ISIS – Dictatorship or Democracy?’ Dalrymple had tried to exclude it from her diary as it was not of departmental relevance. She protested that it was the one commitment inherited from Audax Chambers that she would not renege on – she must be there to defend the rule of law.
Steve Whalley caught her on the way out. ‘Remember our government is here to represent British interests. That means arms sales – though I didn’t say that.’ His tone was almost friendly. ‘And just you remember, kid, I’m watching you.’ He laughed mirthlessly. ‘In a good way of course.’
On the drive back to London, she had a text from Rob McNeil:
Hi A-M, a Chief Inspector Carne is investigating David’s death. He’s an OK guy. Told him David had a girlfriend in Dublin, up to you whether you decide to contact him. Rob x
Her first reaction was to feel like a bird captured in a pet’s cage under endless scrutiny. Her second was a sense of McNeil protecting his rear and passing the buck.
As they passed the wired perimeter of Northolt air base, Hinds leant to his right to engage her in his rear-view mirror.
‘Mind if I speak, Minister?’ he asked.
‘Of course not, Keith.’
‘I’ve talked to my contacts in the police. There’s nothing to worry about that body you discovered this morning.’
‘Oh, how’s that?’
‘Turns out it’s a case of mistaken identity.’
‘What!’
‘It wasn’t that man, Joseph Kennedy, you thought you were going to see.’
‘That’s impossible.’ She felt a nasty tug of suspicion. ‘Who are you getting this from?’
‘I’ve a friend in the investigation, Minister.’
‘You’re certainly a fount of knowledge, Keith.’
‘Thank you, Minister.’
She hesitated to pursue the conversation but curiosity overtook her. ‘So what else did they say?’
‘Apparently he had a credit card and driving licence on him. He’s been identified as Brian Fitzgerald, a resident of Southend-on-Sea. There’s no mystery about his death. He had advanced lung cancer and only a few weeks, if that, to live. He left a note, too. Just saying he wanted to save any further trouble.’
‘There was no note,’ she stated calmly.
‘Remember, Minister, you had a bad surprise. Easy to miss things.’ She realized he was trying to help without condescending. ‘I know from my time in the force. Very understandable in circumstances like that.’
‘I wouldn’t have missed it.’
‘Anyway, Minister, with or without a letter, it’s a relief, isn’t it? One less thing to worry about.’
Anne-Marie tried to make sense of this bizarre turn of events. She had seen the man close up and dead. She had parted his lifeless hair and looked into his cold eyes. He was Joseph Kennedy, a man she had known well, albeit long ago. But too well ever to forget. The truth was that there was no sense.
Past deaths and disappearances were one thing – a suspicious death today was another.
A few minutes after 8 p.m. she arrived at the Marine on the river, locked her light-framed racing bike to some railings, took off her helmet to reveal a tied bob of brown hair, removed her yellow jacket and made straight for the far corner of the bar. A familiar-looking woman with fair hair bunched in a headband lifted her eyes from her magazine, ran over and embraced her in enthusiastic greeting.
‘Jemima!’ hissed Anne-Marie.
‘Wonderful, isn’t it?’ exclaimed Jemima Sheffield. She leant into her ear and whispered, ‘Let’s catch up with everything outside.’ Moving back, she smiled broadly. ‘Darling, you’re looking marvellous. Circuits, then a drink?’
Jemima marched outside towards a bicycle, mounted and pedalled off towards Battersea Park, Anne-Marie in tow. After two circuits they pulled up by the Chinese pagoda, dismounted and walked over to the Thames to admire the silhouetted Lots Road power station.
Anne-Marie’s cheeks flushed angrily in the evening light. ‘What’s going on, Jemima?’ During the few minutes of bike ride she had recalled how Jemima always seemed to be there at crucial moments – in the park just after she had phoned Joseph, in the ladies’ after Rob had told her about the discovery of David’s body. ‘You’ve been spying on me.’
Jemima was trying to lock eyes. ‘It might appear that way, Minister. But it’s not spying; it’s exercising a duty of care.’
Anne-Marie felt a surge of anger. ‘Who exactly do you work for? You’re not a diary secretary, are you?’
‘I am in government service.’
‘For God’s sake, Jemima, if you’re not going to give me straightforward answers to—’
‘I am employed by the Security Service.’
‘MI5.’
‘Yes, some call it that. Incorrectly, of course.’
‘As was “Uncle Jimmy”, I presume.’
‘Yes, Minister.’
Anne-Marie realized that the implications of the admission would require her to redefine her adult life. For a start the cash that had helped her reinvent herself. Not David’s money, but dirty money. There would be time for all that and she could only dismantle the edifice of deceit brick by brick.
‘What is your assignment? And how did it come about?’
‘Minister, I inherited your file, that’s all. It shows that you were accidentally caught up in a British operation in Ireland in ’93 and ’94.’
‘What British operation?’
‘I will need guidance on explaining that, Minister.’
‘Guidance!’
Jemima ploughed on. ‘Most importantly, the file shows that you were to be given lifetime care and protection by the Service, should any need ever arise. When you were appointed minister, there was no need for the Service to intervene as there is no suggestion in the file of any wrongdoing by yourself. However, as soon as your appointment was announced, the Service decided that, for the first few months at least, it should carry out its obligation by placing me at your side.’
‘You are spying on me.’
‘No, Minister.’
‘You always seem to be hovering when anything potentially awkward is happening.’
‘If you have gained that impression, it is purely coincidental.’
‘I wish I could believe you, Jemima.’
‘So do I, Minister. I truly do.’
They fell quiet, a lull descending after the first shots. Anne-Marie, voice now composed, broke the uneasy calm. ‘I had an unpleasant experience this morning.’ She engaged fully with Jemima. ‘For God’s sake, you probably know about it already.’
‘I’m not aware of anything, Minister,’ Jemima replied evenly. If you’re lying, you’re good, thought Anne-Marie. She scanned their surroundings, searching for other eyes and ears.
‘There’s no one unfriendly,’ said Jemima. ‘I obviously did not want this conversation in or near the Ministry. We’re out in the open, so we’ve followed a protocol.’
‘All right,’ continued Anne-Marie. ‘After my appointment was announced, an old friend of my family, Joseph Kennedy, got in touch. I had not seen him for many years. He wanted to see me urgently. That I’m sure you do know.’ Jemima’s face was a mask. ‘He arranged a meeting for this morning at an address he gave me. It turned out to be a garage. I arrived to find him dead, hanging on a rope.’
‘I’m sorry. It must have been a horrible shock,’ said Jemima, combining surprise with sympathy. Either it was indeed news to her or, as Anne-Marie again reflected, she was an accomplished actor. The latter now seemed
more likely.
‘Jemima, it’s not comforting I need,’ she stated coldly. ‘He told me in the phone call that he was dying. There was clearly something he needed to unburden. I have, of course, ensured that the discovery of his body has been reported to the police.’
‘Good,’ said Jemima. ‘As you had no possible connection to his death, I can see no reason for you to be dragged into this. Who else knows?’
‘My driver, Keith Hinds. You probably know that too. I asked him to contact the police for me.’
‘We will speak to Hinds.’ Jemima conveyed the weight of authority.
‘That is not now my main reason for re-establishing this contact with you.’ Anne-Marie cast a sceptical smile. ‘Although it seems you have pre-empted me in re-establishing contact.’
‘Please go on,’ said Jemima. This time, it was she who looked around. A couple of hundred yards up river were two other cyclists, both male, sitting on a bench drinking from water bottles. She looked at them and turned to Anne-Marie. ‘Shall we walk with our bikes while you tell me more?’
Anne-Marie followed Jemima’s eyes to the two cyclists.
‘Who are they?’ she demanded.
‘They’re friends,’ replied Jemima. ‘You must trust me when I say that you can speak to me in confidence.’
‘Trust is not the point,’ she said. ‘A bonus perhaps, but not what matters.’ Anne-Marie halted, turned her bike towards the river and looked west. The sun was almost set and the sky darkening. A red glow seeped through the power station’s chimneys and above the rows of Victorian terraces beside it. A chill whipped up from the water. ‘You will know from the file that I had a relationship with a man calling himself David Vallely in Dublin. You will also know that his body has been found. I cannot be sure whether that is what Joseph Kennedy wanted to talk to me about, but the coincidence is obvious. I want one thing from you.’
‘Yes, Minister.’
‘I would like to know the truth about David Wallis, as I must now learn to call him: what exactly he was doing and – it’s hard to find the right way to express this – how he perceived his relationship with me.’
Woman of State Page 18
