He sat rigid, checking other vehicles as they approached from behind.
‘That’s their idea of a warning,’ he said.
She lowered her voice. ‘My conversation in the garden with Jimmy is on that tape too. Guard it well.’
CHAPTER 35
Post-election, Thursday, 1 June
They rose in a horseshoe. She recognized four of them: the Prime Minister; Steve Whalley, who she had not been told would be there; Rob McNeil, likewise; Sir George Jupp, her Permanent Secretary; and a fifth.
A Gang of Five. How different from the ‘Gang of Four’ gathered in her Belfast home so long ago. The stench was just as toxic.
Lionel Buller’s eyes moved along the gathered faces. ‘You may not have met Sir Ted.’ The fifth man, tall and bald with a thin nose bearing small oval spectacles, stretched forward a clawlike hand. She recognized Sir Edward Latimer from his appearance before Parliament’s Intelligence and Security Committee. She would have taken him for the repressed headmaster of a failing boarding school. ‘As you may know,’ continued Buller, ‘Sir Ted spent most of his career with the Special Intelligence Service before being asked by my predecessor to take up the reins at the Security Service. So he is particularly well placed to bring an intelligence services’ perspective to your concerns.’
Buller gestured Anne-Marie towards the empty chair. Seats had been arranged around a small circular table to avoid any suggestion of taking sides. On it were placed five bound documents: the report Anne-Marie had sent the Prime Minister on the circumstances surrounding the murders of Sean Black, Brendan O’Donnell and Joseph Kennedy, and the activities and death of David Wallis. It included the infiltration of her and her family by Wallis, a.k.a. Vallely, her change of name after Wallis’s disappearance, MI5’s monitoring of her, and her discovery of Joseph Kennedy’s body. It made no reference to other events in her life. Or of her brother.
‘Anne-Marie,’ began the Prime Minister, ‘may I first say how enormously grateful I am to you for this.’ There were nods and approving murmurs around the tables.
‘Yes, indeed.’
‘I couldn’t agree more, Prime Minister.’
Only Whalley stayed silent, a smirk playing around his lips. She told herself not to be provoked.
‘It is a most commendable report,’ continued Buller, ‘and I’m grateful to you for drawing these matters to my attention. At this stage, I have discussed it only with those in this room. I’ve included Rob because of his and his family’s relationship with David Wallis. Sir Ted, your thoughts.’
The tall man’s small piggy eyes flashed through the spectacles, a vivid awakening from the half-dead. He picked up the document. ‘As you say, Prime Minister, it is an excellent report, which I view with the utmost seriousness. Indeed, I have already launched a trenchant internal inquiry into any possible misconduct by individuals in 1993 and 1994.’
‘It is toward the actions of the state,’ interrupted Anne-Maire,’ not individuals, that my report directs itself. Actions both past and present.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Buller, conveying his displeasure. Not a man improved by power, she thought. ‘But even today the Irish peace is fragile. We have regular reports of weapons finds, foiled bombings, sectarian shootings. We are still reconciling ourselves to the past.’
‘I’m interested in state killing today,’ said Anne-Marie. ‘The murder of Joseph Kennedy.’
Latimer raised an eyebrow to Buller. ‘If I may, Prime Minister?’ A glacial smoothness infused his response. ‘That, Minister, is a matter for the Metropolitan Police. I am told there is no possible connection with the Security Service.’
‘That is not true,’ retorted Anne-Marie. ‘The Security Service kept a constant watch on me precisely in order to intercept any potential contact from Kennedy.’
‘That is an operational matter, Minister,’ said Latimer. ‘I repeat that my service had no connection with the death of Kennedy. We do not go around killing people these days. Or, indeed, in past days.’ He put down his copy of the report and closed his hands together. ‘That, Prime Minister, is all I will say. Indeed it is all I am able to say.’
‘There needs to be a public inquiry,’ said Anne-Marie. ‘We all know what happens to internal inquiries.’
‘Yes, Anne-Marie, we’ve all read your document,’ said Buller icily. She felt isolated and wanted to escape; to unleash a volley of accusation; to propel the sounds of slammed doors through the complacency of Whitehall.
‘Sir George?’ asked Buller.
‘My department per se,’ replied the Permanent Secretary, ‘is not connected with the matters in this report. My duty is to my Minister. I do plead with her to allow the appropriate investigations to be made by the relevant agencies. As Sir Ted has said, we do not, and never have, condoned state murder in this country. If the case can be proved, the authorities will act.’
‘The death of Joseph Kennedy has already been covered up,’ said Anne-Marie.
‘Minister, I’ve spoken personally to the Commissioner about this. I understand that your eyewitness statement was taken into full account but the forensics did not show foul play. Nor was there a trace of evidence pointing to any individual suspect.’
‘Of course not. We don’t pay MI5 to leave a trail of guilt.’ She addressed her remark to Latimer. He emitted the mildest of snorts.
‘This is not just a matter of state,’ said Buller. ‘There is also the personal side. David Wallis’s family. We should take their wishes into consideration. Rob?’
‘Let it rest, Anne-Marie,’ said McNeil. ‘Let him rest.’
‘I was there when David was dying. There is no rest.’
Buller made a show of looking at his watch. ‘Time moves on and we have covered the ground. Anne-Marie, I will read your report again and decide whether a public inquiry is warranted.’
‘If you decide against it, Prime Minister, you will be undermining the principles of human rights, individual justice and state accountability that this government stands for and our party fought the election for.’ She spoke the words with quiet deliberation, rose from her chair and nodded to the five men in turn. ‘Thank you for your time.’ As she left the room, she sensed long masculine sighs of relief rippling between the grey suits behind the closing door.
The call came within two hours, the messenger McNeil. ‘Anne-Marie, I’m sorry, it’s not what you wanted. The PM’s asked me to say that he’s given it deep thought but doesn’t consider it in the national interest to have a public inquiry. Not to mention the cost, of course. He also wants you to know that he holds you in the highest regard and views you as a vital member of his administration, both now and in the future.’
‘We’ve let David down,’ she said. ‘You’ve shown yourself to be a weak man, Rob, something David knew, too. And why he used you.’
‘Anne-Marie, that’s—’
‘You said you wanted to know the truth about your friend’s death. I found it for you. You should have supported me.’
‘It wouldn’t have made a difference. I don’t count.’
‘Then it would have cost you nothing to back me.’ She put the phone down, then regretted that she had not said goodbye. It was not Rob she was fighting.
That evening, she texted Carne. ‘Can I take up your offer?’ The reply came instantly: ‘Collect you from the airport Saturday morning?’
She answered, ‘Yes x’.
Saturday, 3 June, to Sunday, 4 June
It was drizzling when her plane landed.
‘It’s just how I always remember it,’ she said as he led her to his car. Once inside, she peeled back her hood and he helped her off with her coat. She pecked him on the cheek. ‘Thank you for doing this.’
She shook her hair and watched the rain crawling down the windscreen. He found himself drawn to her more powerfully than ever, however much he tried not to be.
‘Where to?’ he asked.
‘The field first, I think.’
An hour and a half la
ter, he turned into the lane that twisted up the mountainside. It was less than four weeks since that first summons to a skeleton, but now, miraculously, the clouds were lifting and the rain easing. The curtain rising for her entrance.
He retraced the route of dips and rises until it evened out into the gradual climb to the now decayed barn and fields above. The gate was closed and he parked just beyond.
‘I remembered boots,’ she said. They were the first words spoken for a while, both silenced by the invasion of memory, his of a corpse, hers of a young man about to die. The grass, now lit by breaking sunlight, was sleek from rain but firm underfoot. She seemed to him to float across it.
They arrived at a rectangle of fresh earth covering where he had lain. At its head stood a small wooden cross, just two lengths of wood, joined by a single nail. Carne wondered if Amy had planted it.
‘It was the middle of the night,’ she said. ‘It could have been anywhere. But I’m glad to see it in the light.’ She looked down at the earth and cross, breathed deeply, raised her head and imbibed the clean air of the clearing sky and the shades of green stretching below into the distance of her homeland. Clumps of late spring heather still sprinkled the field. She broke off a handful of blue flowers and scattered their petals over the earth.
Carne had told her about her parents’ gravestone and she asked him to pass by it on the return to Belfast. He pulled up outside the cemetery and, pointing her in its direction, waited by the gates. She stopped a couple of hundred yards away, a slim outline balanced delicately in the breeze over the stones of mortality and loneliness. She stood many minutes longer than it would have taken to read the inscription.
When she returned, he opened the passenger door for her, closed it gently, walked round the back of the car to let himself in and set off. She said nothing, as if struck mute. Nor did she cry or sigh. Her expression was blank, unreadable, immobile.
‘You know what the gravestone says?’
‘Yes,’ he replied.
‘They thought they’d lost me.’
‘I know.’
‘They didn’t. I often thought of them. But I had no choice. I couldn’t come back.’
‘No.’
‘I hoped they’d understand.’
‘I’m sure they did. More than you think.’
‘I did love them. In my way.’
‘And what I think the gravestone really shows,’ he said, ‘is how much they loved you.’
She was looking away from him, through the window towards the cemetery. He could see a single tear dropping down one side of her cheek. She wiped it away. There were no more.
That evening, after a day of memories and long silences, they stayed in and ate at his flat. He ordered pizzas and found himself watching as she licked traces of cheese and tomato off her small hands and fingers. She caught him in the act and had a déjà vu.
‘You’re staring at me like David used to,’ she said with a certain prickliness.
He swivelled his eyes away. ‘I can’t not,’ he said. ‘You’re too – what’s the word? – alluring.’ She shook her head and smiled. She thought of returning the compliment but decided not to.
They found themselves talking about their early lives, words flowing easily like crisscrossing streams. Childhood, family, youthful ambitions, music – she had noticed his piano, a pile of sheet music on the floor beside it – embarking on their careers. They allowed themselves to touch on past affairs.
‘I’m not a monk,’ he said.
She gave him a quick smile. ‘And I’m not a nun.’
‘But it never means anything.’ She stayed silent – enough had been said. With relief, she suddenly remembered his unexplained remark in the car.
‘So why did you really come back here?’ she asked. He sighed and closed his eyes, his shoulders dropping. ‘Only if you want to.’
‘I’d like to tell you. Otherwise, like I couldn’t fully know you, you can’t fully know me.’ He gathered himself to delve into past loss, whatever it might be. ‘I was a young detective constable in south London,’ he continued, ‘around ’93, ’94’
‘Just when David was in Dublin.’
‘Yes, I guess so. To cut it short, I made the mistake of discovering that the detective chief inspector at the head of my small food chain was corrupt. I knew he was friendly with one of the kings of our manor, as they saw themselves. That could have been permissible if he was interested in turning him. But I saw him accepting cash in an envelope. A white one, as it happens. Couldn’t have been anything else. I was naïve, I suppose, and came to realize it was common knowledge. But no one cared. Or maybe they were too sensible to care. Being the fool, I then made a second mistake. I confronted him and told him I was going to report him. Which I did. To the divisional commander.’
He stood up, walked over to the piano and looked at the framed photograph placed on it. He had lapsed into silence. ‘Your wife?’ Anne-Marie suggested.
Her prompt reawakened him. ‘Yes. Alice. It wasn’t just the omertà from top to bottom that was shocking. It was the denials, the vanishing of records, the finger pointed at me as the wrongdoer, not him. And then came the threats.’ He turned to the photograph. ‘Not me, her. Taps on car windows, knocks on doors, encounters in the dark. They even killed her cat. Pathetic, trying to be jumped-up Mafioso. Instead of fighting it, I gave in. Withdrew the allegation. I knew there’d be no career for me there. Alice would have always wanted to come back here, so we did it right then. At least they gave me a good reference for the force here. But I was a coward.’
‘That’s ridiculous,’ Anne-Marie protested. ‘You had to put her first.’
‘Well, since she died,’ he said, ‘at least I’ve had nothing to lose. I’m beholden to none of them.’ He shot her a look. ‘Except now to you.’
‘That’s ridiculous too. You owe me nothing.’
‘No, I do. Meeting you, coming to know you, however strange the circumstances, has changed me. The melancholia has lifted. I want to smile. And I don’t want ever to be beaten again.’
She rose and joined him by the piano. ‘Play me something.’
‘I’d be embarrassed,’ he said. ‘I’m hardly Rubinstein.’
‘You can’t let that beat you.’
‘You always have an answer, don’t you?’
He took a slim book of music from the pile on the floor. She saw the cover: ‘Liszt. Consolations’. She stood over his shoulder moving her eyes from his fingers to his ear and cheek, watching the fluttering of his eyelashes as he became lost in concentration. She knew little of classical piano and had not heard the piece but understood why he had chosen its flowing cadences to console for their loss.
As he came to the end, and his fingers gained pace climbing the octaves, he faltered but found a way through to the finish.
‘That was lovely,’ she said, ‘really lovely.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Now I need to sleep.’
He had moved out of his bedroom to make way for her. On her pillow he had placed a miniature box of dark chocolates, remembering her preference from that night at her flat. When she saw it, she chuckled, embraced him and said a firm ‘Goodnight.’ The feel of her breasts against his chest electrified him.
At 4 a.m. she woke abruptly, assaulted by waking seconds of uncertainty about her whereabouts and the aftershock of the returning dream. But this time it ended differently. She finally broke and unleashed tears streamed down her cheeks. She heard a tap on the door – he crept in and sat on the bed beside her.
‘I heard you,’ he said. ‘Do you want to talk?’
She stopped shaking and he handed her tissues to dry her eyes and face. ‘Damn!’ she whispered.
‘No, tears are the release.’
She sat upright, legs crossed, looking at him but through him. ‘It was the dream again. It began the same way, the blindfold in the car, flashes of light. Then, when I saw his profile, this time he turned all the way round. In his arms he was holding a newly born baby. I went over
and crouched beside him. He handed me the baby.’ She stopped to give her eyes another wipe. ‘I took it and it flopped in my arms, cold to the touch. It was dead.’
‘You poor girl.’ He offered her his arms. She sank into them briefly, then eased herself away.
‘I was carrying his child.’
‘God above!’
‘I’d confirmed it a few days before. I was three months in. There was no doubt. Finals were in two weeks, I had to decide straightaway. I phoned the number on the card Jimmy had left me and he gave me the money to sort it.’
‘I am so sorry.’
‘Abortion was illegal in Ireland. I didn’t have time to travel. There was someone in Dublin who did it for students. I bled and bled. She damaged my uterus.’
‘She?’
‘Yes, she. At least she was willing to help. I could have had another operation to fix myself but I didn’t care at the time.’ She looked away from him. ‘It’s never been relevant since.’
‘You haven’t wanted children?’
‘I made the decision then that I would never trust any man enough to have them with.’
‘It’s not too late to allow that now.’
She found no words of response. In another place, at another time – perhaps it would have needed another world – she could have imagined herself with this man. She turned away and curled up – a wounded animal. He watched her for a minute or two before raising himself from the bed. With a jerk she turned back and sat up.
‘Jon, I’m so grateful to you.’
‘How could I not have wanted to help you, to be with you?’
She stood up, her silk nightdress falling just below her thighs, and took both his hands. ‘If you want to, we can make love.’ Her voice was soft and clear.
Woman of State Page 33
