by Alan Veale
‘But you saw him at the hotel?’
‘Think so. Apart from the guys behind the desk, there wasn’t a lot of talent. Just you.’
‘Hang on a minute,’ said Billie, coming to a halt.
They were almost at the corner of Peter Street. He’d noticed a familiar colour in the huge plate glass window to Chrissie’s left. He looked over her shoulder, the reflection of the opposite side of the road given clarity in the sunshine. It took a moment for him to spot the man’s jacket, easier now its owner had also stopped walking.
‘We still need some lunch,’ said Billie.
‘Now you’re talking.’
He looked to his right at the Great Northern Warehouse. Five floors high and with white lettering painted on red brick, it occupied a whole block on the south side of Deansgate. Something tugged at his memory.
‘Or a beer. Come on, there’s a place I heard about right over there.’
He led the way across Peter Street, through large glass doors and into the cavernous interior of All Star Lanes, where a four-sided bar made a focal point. Tables and chairs surrounded the perimeter. Low-level lighting and a suspended ceiling completed the ambience with funky decor. Skittles fell under attack from an array of bowling alleys deep inside, provoking excited shrieks from the punters. They pushed past some girls greeting each other with air kisses and hugs, then Chrissie pointed Billie towards the only vacant barstool while she squeezed past hustling waiters in smart waistcoats to find the ladies room. On her return, she bargained for an adjacent seat with a flash of American charm and white teeth. Billie was studying the menu when Chrissie gave a theatrical whisper.
‘I spotted him. Burgundy jacket.’
‘Where?’
‘Just back there. Think he’s gone to use the john.’
Staring over heads towards the bowling alleys, Billie made a decision. ‘That settles it. Ed was right, they’re listening in somehow. I’ve got to be more careful, and I’m going to have to do something with this phone.’
‘You want another SIM card?’
‘Maybe. I keep thinking about what that Abram guy did to yours. Wish I could think of another way.’
‘What can I get you?’
Chrissie gave the bartender a dazzling smile and ordered a couple of cocktails while Billie looked round and spotted their follower grab a stool as it was vacated on the far side of the bar. He noticed the man place his own phone on the counter in front of him, but then someone obscured Billie's view.
‘What did you say?’
‘A chocolate orange martini, Billie! How cool is that? Call it a very late Easter present from me to you. There’s even an egg in it according to… sorry, what’s your name?’
‘Er… my name’s Matt, and it’s just the white of an egg.’
‘Well, Matt, we’ll both have one of your special martinis with the white of an egg, and then maybe some lunch, so go easy on the hors d'oeuvres, honey.’
With the order on its way, Billie came to a decision and explained his idea (and dilemma). Chrissie didn’t seem impressed.
‘But you promised me lunch! It’s been three years. We have one hour together and I’m ditched. What kind of reunion is that?’
‘The best kind. It means we can look forward to another one a lot sooner.’
Chrissie gave a girlish giggle. ‘You’re getting the hang of this flirting game, aren’t you?’
‘Not really,’ Billie admitted. ‘But it feels a lot better with you around.’
The honesty of the moment was not lost on either of them. Then the bartender broke the spell by producing two martini glasses filled with something a lot more appealing than the white of an egg.
‘Mmmm! Tasty.’ She took a second sip. ‘Great choice. Okay, Billie, that’s good to know. But you’re still ditching me?’
‘I’m not ditching you,’ Billie corrected her. ‘I’m just being cautious. They think I have something they want, or I can lead them to it, and they’re using my phone to try and get it. I think it’s best this way. We can compare notes later.’
They didn’t notice the seat on the far side of the bar had a new occupant. The previous one let the glass door swing shut behind him as he headed for a gaunt-looking man wearing a woollen hat who was sitting on a low wall, smoking.
‘You stand out like a traffic light in that thing, you wanker.’
‘No matter. I got the job done, didn’t I?’
‘So you say,’ was the grudging response. ‘Give me your phone. That green LED confirms the tag’s in place, right?’
‘Yeah. Look at the screen. The red blip will move when he does.’
‘Good. Now get back to your pit and plug your ears in. I want to see some results from this gizmo before I say if the job’s been done. Go on. Piss off.’ He watched his technician give a careless shrug of the shoulders and turn away. Then he gave the phone another glance and took a long drag on his cigarette.
Chrissie was the first to notice the change of personnel. ‘He’s gone.’
‘What?’
‘Your burgundy man. Must have left.’
Billie considered the situation and then shook his head. ‘He could be waiting outside. Or someone else. They might be working shifts.’
‘Sure you’re not being paranoid about this?’
‘I thought Emma was being paranoid, but not anymore. All the more reason to track her down myself and apologise.’ Billie swallowed hard, letting his gaze wander to the source of excited shouts from the nearby bowling lanes. ‘Burgundy man, as you call him, followed us from the hotel to Kendals and back. How do you explain that? I’ve got to find out what happened to Emma and I don’t want to let her down this time. Where’s Matt?’
Chrissie replaced the frown on her face with a brilliant smile and caught the attention of the bartender. ‘Matt, your drinks are delicious. This place is insane and I think I want to have your babies.’
Being several years junior to his admirer, the young man blushed at such a direct proposal from a glamorous punter. But it had the desired effect.
‘You want another one?’
‘No, sir. But my bodyguard here could use some assistance. Would you mind?’
Billie got straight to the point. ‘Matt, I’m guessing there’s a back way out of here?’ He received a nod in response. ‘Good. Would you be in a position to show me how to get there? There’s twenty quid in it for you.’
The bartender hesitated. ‘There’s no need for—’
‘Well, there’s something else too. And it could cost you a couple of quid. I might need you to post something to an address in Edinburgh.’
Billie explained to Matt what he wanted him to do. Then he turned to Chrissie. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be. It was only four thousand miles and a twenty-minute shopping trip. Guess I got myself here under false pretences.’ Chrissie finished her drink.
‘Maybe next time will work out better.’
‘There’s gonna be one?’
He gave her an apologetic smile. ‘I can but try. I owe you. But I guess this is it, for now.’ Billie stood up, reaching out to grasp her shoulders and let their lips touch for a moment. He forced himself to stay focused. ‘Don’t forget, get a new SIM. We’ll use Robin to exchange numbers. Yes?’
She gave a small nod and a defeated little sigh, watching her friend follow the tall bartender and disappear from sight towards the back of the building. Then she swallowed the last of Billie’s cocktail and left by the front door.
Before she reached the corner of Deansgate, she passed a man wearing a woollen hat and smoking a cigarette. He was staring at something in his hand, but lifted his head to steal a glance at the vision in electric blue. Then he turned back to the display on his phone and nodded to himself. The tagged target was still inside All Star Lanes, probably visiting the gents. He watched the motionless red blip on screen and waited for it to move.
Inside, Billie glanced across the bowling lanes as the collapse of another battalion of
skittles provoked a roar of celebration. Ahead of him, bartender Matt punched in a passcode then held open a door to a white-painted corridor. The contrast to the plush environment of the bar and restaurant could not have been starker. As the door swung shut behind them, Billie could hear the sound of his own feet on the concrete floor. The lighting was bright, the decor functional. They turned a couple of corners before Matt pointed out the gateway to his future.
He hoped he’d made the right decision.
Part Three
2016
Emily
Twenty-Six
It was a sparsely furnished room, which the visitor found surprising. Given that the former Parliamentary Private Secretary still had status, and thirty years earlier had been a personal aide to Margaret Thatcher, he had not expected anything so spartan. The corpse of a once brightly patterned rug lay on stone tiles the colour of bone. Walls once magnolia were now overlaid with nicotine, and remained free of further decoration. A huge window with a view to a verdant landscape sent shifting shadows into a space where the furniture seemed as elderly as its owner. The senior policeman blinked at the shape in the wheelchair: a vague relation to the man in the photographs he had examined on file that morning. Barely a hair on a moon-shaped head, grey eyes beset with glaucoma amid a complexion in shades of beetroot and potato. But Sir Antony Jaeger’s brain appeared more agile than he thought fair for an eighty-eight-year-old.
‘One of us should feel honoured.’ The voice had a hoarse edge, but still maintained an accent betraying his Winchester and Oxford education. ‘And I’m not yet sure it should be me.’
‘Let’s just agree that both of us have earned some respect. Especially me, as you covered your tracks pretty well. May I sit down?’
A slight inclination of the head was the only response, so the visitor chose a wingbacked chair that looked a little more solid than its neighbour. ‘Good of you to see me.’
‘I’ll let that one ride, Commander O’Brien. It is our first face to face meeting, after all. Which I find ominous. But I suppose if it has to be either you lot or a priest, and bearing in mind I’m no fan of the Pope…’ Jaeger left the sentence unfinished.
His visitor pulled a notebook from his bag. ‘You’re not religious?’
‘Not in the slightest, dear boy.’ Jaeger appeared to seek the light from the window. ‘But I do believe there’s a good amount of bolting horses now the stable door has finally been shut.’
‘Meaning?’
‘I was referring to something pertaining to a racecourse.’ Jaeger paused for effect. ‘Ascot.’
The commander raised both eyebrows. ‘You’re well informed. News does travel fast.’
‘Not as fast as a plump little newspaper boy between the sheets.’
O’Brien stared, uncertain how to react. Then he picked up on the small movement of Jaeger’s head and eyes. On a side table to his left was a copy of the Daily Mail. He didn’t need to read the headlines to understand the intimated connection. He already knew the leading story covered the collapse of a huge investigation by the Metropolitan Police into child sexual abuse and homicide. Operation Ascot was viewed as a failure by politicians on both sides of the House, many furious at so many witch-hunts.
‘How does it feel to have lost the plod?’ A crack had begun to widen between two purple lips, a breathy whistle spouting in minor eruptions. ‘Sorry! I did wonder if the reason for your visit today might be to ask for a reference. But as we hardly know each other.’ The old man’s sly humour almost brought a smile to the face of his guest.
‘Then wonder no more. Ascot is not yet officially defunct. And I still have an unofficial role to play. The investigation continues on a private footing. Small team, even smaller budget. So, I’m calling in favours, and yours is top of my list.’
‘Ah, there’s the rub, so to speak. But how likely am I to provide reliable information?’
‘Do I have a choice? Information leading to allegations of child abuse and homicide is as useful as a fart in a sandstorm without a prosecution. Alas, the last lead you provided was tenuous at best. Not your fault. Mine neither. But I’ve one more shot at a particular target. We’re narrowing our focus. Perhaps you’d like to reconsider your knowledge of someone supposedly very close to you: Peter Gris.’
Jaeger bowed his head for several seconds. ‘Close, you say?’ he addressed the floor. ‘More than you know. But I suppose that is the point.’ He let his gaze stray past his guest’s shoulder. ‘Would you care for a lemonade? I recommend the vintage in that receptacle over there.’
O’Brien glanced at the sideboard, home to a silver tray bearing crystal glasses and two plastic bottles of Schweppes lemonade, one of which was half-empty. He had no desire for the fizzy pop, but recognising it would be impolite to refuse, he poured himself a full glass and followed his host’s instructions to fill the other ‘no more than a finger’. Jaeger accepted the modest measure with grace, placing it on his side table with elaborate care.
‘Thank you. I’m not allowed alcohol of any sort. The consumption of which, so they tell me, is punishable by death.’ He shifted uncomfortably in his wheelchair before producing a hip flask from deep inside his jacket. ‘They’re entirely wrong, of course. I’ve been found not guilty on several occasions.’ With the drink topped up to at least three fingers, Jaeger secreted the contraband and raised his glass with great ceremony. ‘Chin-chin.’
‘Your good health!’ O’Brien toasted his host before swallowing a mouthful. He was curious to see Jaeger put his own glass back on the table without drinking from it.
‘Well, one has to take precautions. Don’t want to peg out before I’ve had time to confess, eh?’
‘A confession? So you do have one to make, Sir Antony?’
Again, Jaeger sought respite from the window before the lips framed a reply. ‘I confess I was very fond of Grizzly. Very fond. But I’m curious why you should be looking to blacken the name of a dead man. Would that justify resurrecting a discredited investigation?’
O’Brien failed to hold back a smile, acknowledging his host’s perception. ‘True. I’m not expecting another Jimmy Savile. My brief is to only pursue someone if we can personally hold him to account in court.’
Jaeger’s eyes seemed to rest somewhere beyond O’Brien’s left ear as he considered his response. ‘Which would be very difficult if my old friend’s present whereabouts was beyond the ether, so to speak.’
‘But not so difficult if you were able to confirm otherwise?’
‘Ah.’ Pale eyes retreated behind closed lids for a moment. ‘I take it you have a source other than the devil himself to assume Grizzly failed to make the appointment?’
O’Brien gave a small nod. He knew the two men had been friends since before Gris had been appointed to the Cabinet by Mrs Thatcher. They had known each other throughout Gris’s years as Secretary of State for Northern Ireland, and then for Defence under John Major. Their relationship had been a close one for almost thirty years. Who better to know what this high-profile minister had got up to behind closed doors? ‘I have one. It would be useful to hear your view, bearing in mind you wrote his obituary.’
Jaeger dropped his voice to a more intimate level as he leaned forward. ‘Before I tell you what I know, what assurance do I have there will be no recriminations?’
‘Against you? None whatsoever. As I said, this is no longer an official investigation. All I need is a lead. After that I’ll forget where it came from.’
‘Hmmm. Not what I meant, but I appreciate the sentiment.’ Jaeger’s hand found his glass and he took a cautious sip before continuing. ‘No. Recriminations can come from both sides of the House, if you get my drift?’
The commander hesitated. ‘I can assure you of my personal discretion.’
‘Indeed.’ The old man took a deep breath that seemed to rattle his upper body. He coughed, gently at first but then strained for air as the attack grew in strength. He held up his hand to reassure his guest as the spasms
subsided. ‘Should take more water with it. Or wine. I understand a religious chap once performed a good trick there. But then we’re talking resurrections again, aren’t we?’
‘Possibly. For those that weren’t dead in the first place.’
‘A moot point. Well, then… we might be in business.’ He drained his glass, holding it up for a refill. While his guest obliged, Jaeger took a breath and began his story. ‘There were occasions when I found Grizzly’s appetite to be at odds with mine. Like his father, he had a passion for games, and went to the most extraordinary lengths to feed his desires. My personal preference was not so competitive. I’ve never been a fan of anything that raises the heart rate. Apart from sex, of course. But you see, I was a civil servant, bound up prettily in all manner of red tape. Grizzly had no such restrictions, and enjoyed the act of concealment as much as copulation. Politicians are natural liars. It goes with the job. They know that if they want to get to the very top, they shouldn’t let a little old-fashioned rape and pillage get in the way. But Grizzly went too far.’
Twenty-Seven
The files were all marked North Manchester Divisional HQ in black ink against an orange background. On first inspection, none of them stood out. The reports included a wad of witness statements, drawings, photographs, written recommendations and medical data. They were each dated and noted on the front to mark their progress by the various contributing officers; a direction label was appended to mingle with all the others in an out tray.
The Staff Officer was unaware of anything out of the ordinary until she came to sort the files for onward processing. The one marked for the attention of the Chief Constable had two distinguishing features: 1) it had been stapled shut, and 2) someone had used a red felt pen to mark it at the top with the letters NQA.
‘What’s this?’ she asked a more senior colleague.
It only took a glance. ‘Do you want the official or the unofficial version?’
