by Alan Veale
‘But… he’s dead now, isn’t he?’
‘That’s what they say. But I wouldn’t imagine a little thing like dying would stop him getting his own way. He always had help. There was always someone there to carry out his orders. And there still is. I’m a risk to someone. Who would you trust in my position?’
‘Sorry, Emma. I’m not entirely sure what your position is. Surely if you have evidence that someone is a killer, even if that person is in high office, you need to go to the police?’
‘You still haven’t got it, have you, Billie? My dad was the police! That was his job, and in effect it was his boss that killed him. Although I can’t actually prove it.’
Billie sat stunned for a moment. Emma had a point. ‘Is there anything at all you have that would count in a court of law?’
‘Nothing. And don’t forget who makes the laws in the first place. I’ve made it my business to expose that person for what he is, and now I have these papers I’ve at least got some chance of doing that. My immediate problem is I need someone who can help me find the best way of getting the word out. Especially something as sensitive as this.’
‘Aren’t you working with Eric V... with that other guy?’
‘Not any more. His agent, who is also my agent, has told me he’s dropped out of the project, and isn’t to be approached on any account. What does that tell you?’
‘Well… I don’t know. What are you thinking?’
‘That the timing is very odd. The day before Peter’s death I received a very encouraging email from… that guy. I was going to visit him at his house. Two days later and he’s changed his mind. Or somebody changed it for him.’ As Billie digested that thought Emma gave him something else to consider. ‘I still need an ally, Billie. I can’t fight this man on my own any more, and if he sent someone after… that guy, then it’s obvious they’ll be after me too. That’s why I need you here, in person. Will you come?’
There was only one answer he could give. But he still had one more question.
‘Emma, you said Peter had more than one reason to be interested in your family. Why was that?’
A shadow seemed to cross Emma’s face before she answered. ‘Because seventeen years ago I tried to cut his balls off.’
Sixteen
London, 1999
Peter Gris was well pleased with the venue he had chosen for his 66th birthday: Puck’s Club in Old Burlington Street, Mayfair. It boasted an imposing Georgian frontage that could almost double for Number 10 from the outside. The doorway was all wrong, of course—far too wide—but there were similar railings, and an ornamental piece of ironwork above the entrance lent extra kudos to its venerable status. Politically, it also suited his ego as a former Cabinet Minister and a newly appointed peer of the realm.
But the real clincher was the nature by which a gentleman might conduct his private business. Gris held special privileges as a member of the club and also as a shareholder in the parent company. Tonight, he could indulge himself to excess.
Standing in front of the long mirror in his hallway, he scrutinised his reflection as carefully as before his last television appearance. No cameras this time! That would never do. The guest list included several ‘names’ who would be appalled at the possibility of being photographed on such an occasion. Which was why he had entrusted the organising of this party to Meredith. The man was both discreet and reliable. Word of the invitation had been conveyed ‘by mouth’ only, with instructions not to commit anything to paper. Gris was confident of a memorable night for himself and his like-minded friends.
The face was a little thinner now, but the hair still abundant. He had once considered a shorter style after a remark from a colleague in the Chamber, but then rejected the idea. His generous mane of hair was still his trademark, while the steel-rimmed spectacles that once complemented it had now been upgraded to rimless. What cost vanity? At his age he could still hack it. The thought brought a chuckle to his thin lips, remembering the character of Jim Hacker from his favourite television sitcom Yes Minister. He wondered if any of the writers or cast would be there tonight. Jaeger had hinted at some special surprises as part of the entertainment. No matter. He’d soon find out.
*
Meredith gave a last critical nod of approval. The club’s atmosphere was loud and electric, brimming with noisy excitement, laughter and the intoxication of sex. His boss had expressed his satisfaction to the tune of ten £50 notes slipped into a back pocket.
The element of disguise had made the difference. Inspired by a visit to the theatre to see Phantom of the Opera, Meredith originally considered a masked ball, but given the number of male invitees, the wording was adjusted to allow any form of mask or concealment. The reception spoke for itself. Imaginative combinations of dramatic make-up and stage paints, together with a wide variety of garish material, had been assembled with much enthusiasm. Dante himself would have approved of the throng of colourful bodies now occupying the stairs, hallways, bars and private rooms. Nearly eighty percent had accepted the invitation, their numbers boosted by that extra assurance of anonymity. But such a guarantee held little substance. At least half the punters would cast aside their embellishment once the alcohol flowed and their blood pressure soared. Even now, about an hour into the event, at least half a dozen pieces of theatrical headgear lay discarded and trampled among the period fixtures and fittings.
‘Good show, Merry!’ The greeting came from a portly gent with an almost bald pate and dressed in a pink velvet suit. ‘I’ll bet Grizzly’s pleased.’
‘He is indeed, Mr Jaeger. Can I top you up?’
‘Yes, you bloody well can! Got any of the decent stuff?’
‘It’s all been personally approved by Mr Gris, sir.’
‘Oh, bugger. No chance then. I’ll settle for a triple gin.’
Meredith steered the former Parliamentary Private Secretary through the noisy throng to the nearest bar and reached under the counter for a distinctive green bottle. As he placed it on the counter, Jaeger’s eyes lit up.
‘Tanqueray Malacca! You bastard! You bloody wonderful bastard, Merry. Here, fill her up and keep it under your seat for me, will you?’
‘I’ve another one under there, Mr Jaeger. Just for you.’
‘Atterboy! Now where are the girlies? I want to see some proper tits in this place.’
‘So you shall, you old rogue.’
Jaeger turned to find Peter Gris looming over his shoulder. ‘Grizzly! What a nice surprise. You might at least have dressed for the occasion.’
Gris gave a hearty laugh and placed an arm around his friend’s shoulders, guiding him towards the central staircase. ‘Sorry, Antony. I don’t have your impeccable taste in Vivienne Westwood. Now, if it’s tits and pussy you’re after, perhaps we can sample the goods together? I hope you brought some protection?’
‘Not when I’ve got you, my dear.’
The two men made their way up the stairs to the Wodehouse Room, a place normally set aside for lectures and slideshows on academic subjects. Tonight its raised dais played host to the gyrations of some professional performers of both sexes. As Gris and Jaeger entered the room two naked men were taking their bows before an enthusiastic audience of around thirty.
‘Looks like we just missed the hors d’oeuvres. How’s your appetite shaping up, Antony? Are you simply after smooth skin with fringe benefits, or do you fancy something a little more perverse?’
‘Speak for yourself, you bastard. This looks more promising.’
Two girls bounced onto the stage. The presentation of their act was apparent from the opening bars of the music, and also from the few items of their costumes: one in hard hat and toolbelt, the other in cowboy hat and a similar belt for her six-shooter.
Gris and Jaeger found seats close to the stage and were soon caught up in a clapping rhythm with the rest of the audience. Twelve feet away the performers moved on from spelling out the letters of YMCA with their arms to producing ‘tools’ from their bel
ts that were neither wrenches nor Colt 45s. Their actions became overtly sexual, legs spread wide, breasts clasped around a vibrator, slim fingers probing between thongs. Interplay between the girls—one blonde, the other brunette—became ever more intense as Queen’s Bohemian Rhapsody superseded the disco music.
‘Look at the arse on that,’ said Jaeger, possibly louder than necessary. ‘Same shape as her tits.’
The girl did indeed have a shapely figure, and was on her hands and knees with her bottom pointing directly at Jaeger and Gris. As she retrieved a ping-pong ball from her partner’s vagina, there was also a brief verbal exchange. Now she produced her prize with a flourish and peered at the audience to identify the source of the heckling.
Jaeger couldn’t resist. ‘Looks like one of mine, my dear!’
The blonde identified her quarry, and came to stand at the edge of the stage with both hands on her hips, smiling sweetly. Then she raised her free hand to point directly at the red-faced owner of the pink suit. Jaeger’s eyes bulged and his face glowed almost puce as the girl crooked her finger to beckon him on stage. Egged on by everyone else in the room, he had no choice, especially when Gris pulled him to his feet.
‘Your dreams have come true, Antony! Take your punishment like a man.’
Jaeger was now the centre of attention, the music continuing while the stage act paused. He stumbled onto the platform, gawping at his new best friend as she continued to smile without a hint of animosity. Then she resumed her performance. Raising the ball Jaeger had claimed as his own for her audience to see, she sidled close to her victim and used her free hand to tug at the waistband of his trousers. The sticky object was pushed neatly into the gap to a storm of applause.
Jaeger beamed in generous appreciation of the girl’s prank, especially when she patted the additional bulge in his trousers. As he allowed Gris to assist him off the stage, for a brief moment the blonde exchanged a look with the man who had once torn her family apart.
*
‘Happy Birthday, old man.’ Jaeger raised his glass in salute. ‘May your private member never stray to the left.’
‘You are both gracious and verbaceous, Antony. Your good health.’
The two men had finally distanced themselves from the mob, and now occupied a private suite on the top floor. Both could argue they held seniority over the other: the one in government status; the other in years. Their respective personal tastes had been acquired over a lengthy period; a friendship strengthened despite feeling politically neutered as the party in opposition.
‘Blair got himself in a holiday hotspot… again,’ observed Jaeger.
‘Stupid little prick. Should have known the press would catch him taking a freebie. Should think himself lucky we’re in recess or Hague would have roasted his nuts for him.’
‘Hmmm. Not so sure our Willie’s got the balls for that, eh?’ Jaeger winked at Gris over his glass.
Gris giggled, his appreciation of schoolboy humour more apparent after an overindulgence of alcohol. His head was already heavy on his shoulders, and he felt irritated at how much harder it was becoming to hold his liquor, unlike his friend who displayed no difficulty consuming a second bottle of his favourite gin.
Now the older man leaned forward and tapped Gris on the knee. ‘You haven’t thanked me for your birthday present!’
‘What? A tacky card with a condom inside? Like last year?’
‘Worry not, my friend. Tonight you can finally put both to good use. Excuse me. Is that a knock on the door?’
Gris looked perplexed as Jaeger rose ponderously to his feet, and with only the slightest of wobbles walked over to a door leading to the connecting suite. Flinging it open with a flourish, he stepped to one side as the two girls who performed earlier came into the room, striking a pose side by side. Both wore decorative masks and broad smiles, the full extent of their costume.
‘As I said earlier, old man—Happy Birthday! Good night!’
And with that he took his leave, closing the door behind him. Under the blonde wig, a girl once known as Emma Faulkner looked down at Peter Gris, confident her prayers had finally been answered.
Seventeen
‘You’ve got to see it from my point of view,’ Emma continued. ‘I hadn’t planned this. It was a job like any other but I was still new to the sex industry. We were getting paid serious money, Billie! I mean serious, so anything was on the menu. But I didn’t even know who he was until a little while before we went into that room. Then I’m standing there with the most vile man ever to walk the Earth right in front of me, and I find myself looking for a weapon. I can see some bottles of wine on the table next to him, and there’s one of those fancy openers—you know the kind that has a foil cutter? So then we unzipped him—’
‘Hang on a minute!’ Billie interrupted. ‘I’m not sure I want to know the details. But you did actually… cut him?’
Emma nodded, her face flushed. ‘There was a lot of blood. Sandra started to scream the place down. Perhaps he did too. Yes, I think he did… then I ran for it. Nobody stopped me, not with all that shit going on. I dumped the wig, grabbed my dress and made myself scarce. But the bastard survived. A few days in hospital and he was out, sending his thugs to scour London for me.’
‘He knew who you were?’
‘Oh, he knew. Like a silly bugger, I as good as told him. I opened the cutting blade and whispered in his ear “This is for Brendan Faulkner”. I saw something in his eyes, but after that, well… I was busy down under.’
Billie winced. ‘Brendan Faulkner?’
‘My brother. I told you. Look, that’s enough for tonight. I’m fed up with you staring at my tits. If you want the full picture you know what to do. Goodnight.’
*
As working days go Billie would later agree it wasn’t one of his best. The interruption to his sleep left him drained and dysfunctional. Many of his brain cells seemed to have taken time off, and he struggled to concentrate on anything. His attention span was almost non-existent, and his colleagues at the Mitchell couldn’t fail to notice.
‘What’s up, mate?’ said one. ‘That’s twice you’ve brought me the wrong edition. You’re half asleep!’
‘Sorry. You’re right. Didn’t sleep well. Think I might be catching a bug.’
‘In your sleep?’
‘What? No. I wasn’t asleep. Not yet. Which edition was it?’
He told himself all he had to do was get through the day and then have an early night. Maybe his present performance at work would gain him some brownie points when he put in for sick leave. He’d done that before, and after Emma’s memorable appearance in the early hours he knew he had to get to Manchester as soon as possible. One thing had begun to eat at his befuddled brain as soon as she ended the call. She’d given him the name of her brother, with a surname different to her own. Also, this had been in a conversation where she’d previously been careful to avoid using full names. Was that significant? Was it a slip? And was the threat from the grave of Peter Gris real enough?
The morning passed slowly. A nap in his lunch break and some strong coffee helped to restore Billie to a more acceptable level of functionality. Even then, his normal duties took a back seat as he made time for some online research. The subject of his scrutiny was a family with the name of Faulkner in Northern Ireland, and he had to submit a few extra keywords [Brendan, Dearing, RUC, 1985, Peter Gris] before he found a conclusive result in a newspaper from August 1986. The story shocked him.
The town of Portadown is in mourning today after police recovered the body of a twelve-year-old boy from the River Bann. The deceased has been identified as Brendan Faulkner of Drumannon Park. The boy went missing on his birthday (21st August) and his death is thought to be suicide. His father Patrick Faulkner, an inspector with the RUC, was killed in a terrorist attack last year, as was his grandfather in 1984. The family are devastated, and ask that they be allowed to grieve in peace at this difficult time. The British Secretary of State for Northern Ir
eland, Peter Gris, who visited the town today, expressed his personal condolences.
Billie could accept a certain amount of coincidence, but not to this degree. Seeing the tragic story in print reinforced his belief that Emma’s story must be true, at least in part. Reference to Peter Gris clinched it in his mind. The man had actually been in Portadown at the time the body was found. What kind of impact would the death of her father, followed by her brother, have on an eight-year-old girl? If she believed the politician was responsible in some way…
‘Billie! You’re needed on the info desk. Shake a leg there.’
He shook his head instead and groaned. The information desk was his least favourite post right now. No chance of getting stuck into anything productive, whether work-related or not. But time would pass more quickly.
And it did. He suffered a couple of genuine sneezes while attending to customer enquiries, and decided to milk the opportunity as much as possible. He blew his nose frequently and asked for extra tissues. Had anyone else noticed how hot it was getting? The end of his shift was greeted with enthusiasm, as much by his colleagues as by Billie himself.
He considered stopping at MoJo’s for a curry on the way home, then rejected the idea in case it kept him awake with heartburn. He wasn’t going to risk more disturbed sleep. He also stopped himself phoning Ed. As much as he wanted to update his friend on the Skype experience and the news report about Emma’s brother, he didn’t want to have to admit his quandary over taking time off for a trip to Manchester. Better to wait another day, when he could be more certain that such an excursion would take place.
