‘Then, just last week, this charming fellow persuaded Ms A to take him home with her, to her parents’ house where she was living, her parents being overseas at the time. The man had given her a great deal to drink during the evening, and she agreed. Once there he offered her drugs, which she declined. However, she believes he gave her something because she became disoriented and fell asleep. At some stage she woke up and went to the bathroom, and on the way she saw him in her father’s office, using the photocopier. I have subsequently learned from her father, a director of Paramounts, that in his office he had a file of documents relating to that company’s importation of Dragon Stout to the UK. Madam Chair, I table this statement, which has been witnessed by a lawyer, for consideration by the committee.’
He handed the letter to the Clerk at his shoulder, and then, as if all this was costing him enormous personal effort, he snatched the blue handkerchief from his top pocket with a great flourish and dabbed at the pink dome of his head.
It was the second time he had reminded Kathy of Martin Connell’s story, and as she watched him Kathy was struck by the sudden certain knowledge that this was the MP Martin had described, and that his tale had not been told at random, but had been a quite deliberate message to her. Martin Connell, the Roaches’ lawyer, whose signature was no doubt on Magdalen’s statement, had known two weeks ago that this scene was going to be played out, and had wanted Kathy to recognise it when it came. She swore softly, then tried to tell herself that this was impossible.
‘Kathy?’ Brock was looking at her curiously.
She was about to speak when Margaret Hart’s voice cut through the noise in the committee room. ‘I believe we should take a twenty-minute break—’
‘If you please, Madam Chair, I believe that we should not!’
Hadden-Vane’s extraordinary remark silenced everyone, including Hart, whose frown became angry. But he went on. ‘The writer of the statement I have just tabled has identified the man who took advantage of her. He is here in this room. I do not think we should give him the opportunity to slip away during a break. I demand that he take the witness chair immediately and explain himself.’
‘What a showman,’ someone murmured.
Kathy felt sick, realising what was coming, and feeling as if it was on her rather than Tom Reeves that the blow was about to fall.
‘You, sir!’ Hadden-Vane pointed theatrically off-camera, and everyone turned and craned to see.
‘No!’ Michael Grant seemed suddenly to emerge from a torpor. ‘I insist that we discuss . . .’ But it was too late, the end of his sentence drowned out by the noise of voices and scraping chairs as the committee got to their feet. Slowly Tom came into view, Hadden-Vane triumphant at his side, as if displaying a prize. At the other end of the table, Margaret Hart, apparently dazed by the twists and turns of his melodramatic performance, was hurriedly consulting with the Clerk. Finally, as Tom stood in front of the witness table, she said, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, it is within our power to order a witness to appear and give evidence. Is it your wish that we do so in this case?’
The cry of assent was overwhelming, and everyone hurried back to their seats. For a brief moment, only Tom and Michael Grant remained standing, and as Brock watched the MP hesitate, he wondered if he was thinking that the slum boy from the Dungle had finally been caught red-handed among the gilt picture frames and Gothic wall panelling of the immortals.
twenty-six
‘Give us your full name, please.’
‘Thomas Reeves.’
‘What do you do for a living, Mr Reeves?’
‘I’m a police officer.’
A groan went around the office at Queen Anne’s Gate at that, but Kathy knew that Tom had no choice— Hadden-Vane already knew, and she saw that Brock realised that too.
‘Of what rank?’
‘Inspector.’
‘And in what section?’
‘I can’t say.’
‘Special Branch, perhaps?’ Hadden-Vane suggested grimly. ‘You do undercover work, don’t you? Like befriending young women and persuading them to take you home with them?’
Tom didn’t respond.
‘Why did you befriend Ms A?’
Again Tom didn’t answer, but this time a restive grumble came from several parts of the table and Hart spoke up. ‘You must answer, Inspector Reeves.’
‘I was seeking evidence in relation to an investigation.’
‘Did you have a search warrant?’ she asked.
‘No.’
‘And were you instructed by your superiors to befriend Ms A or search her house?’ Hadden-Vale said quickly, reluctant to let anyone else take over his role as interrogator.
‘No.’
‘And this investigation, it’s been approved, has it? It is official?’
Tom hesitated, glanced at the Chair, who peered back at him as if trying to place where she’d seen him before.
‘Not at present.’
‘So you inveigled your way into Ms A’s house without authorisation on a case of your own invention, broke into her father’s study, photocopied his private business papers, stole some letterheads that unfortunately happened to be out of date, and forged—’ ‘No!’ Tom interrupted, but Hadden-Vane continued relentlessly.
‘—forged additional documents to create an incriminating body of evidence.’
‘Those documents were all exactly as I found them. I didn’t manufacture any of them.’
The MP shook his head as if that wasn’t worthy of a reply. ‘I noticed you were sitting next to Mr Grant’s research officer just now,’ he said. ‘How long have you known Mr Grant?’
‘A . . . a couple of weeks, perhaps.’
‘Have you visited his offices?’
Another image of Hadden-Vane came into Kathy’s mind as she was listening to this, of the MP leaving the concert, and leaning in to give his little bow to Kerrie, Grant’s office manager, and the woman’s oddly vivacious response.
‘Yes, once or twice.’
‘In connection with what?’
‘I think you should ask him, sir.’
‘I’m asking you, and let me remind you that if you attempt to mislead the committee you will be in contempt of the House.’
‘He felt I might be interested in some information he had been collecting, on crime in his constituency.’
‘What kind of crime?’
‘Drugs, violent crimes, Yardie gangs.’
‘And also the business activities of the Roach family, am I right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did he ask for access to police information?’
Tom hesitated, then said, ‘Yes.’
‘And you obliged.’
‘No.’
‘But you gave him the material you stole from Ms A’s house?’
‘That was the first time.’
‘With the knowledge of your superiors?’
‘No.’
Hadden-Vane gave a sigh of satisfaction, took a drink from the glass of water in front of him, sat back and mopped his brow with the blue handkerchief. ‘Thank you.’
Now the others came in like a vengeful chorus. Was it commonplace for Special Branch officers to carry out investigations without the knowledge of their superiors? How many other innocent citizens’ homes had he broken into? How many other documents had he forged? Tom answered in a stoic monotone, until finally they had exhausted the possibilities and seemed satisfied, at which point Margaret Hart declared a recess.
At Queen Anne’s Gate the watchers sat back in stunned silence. Someone muttered ‘Bastards’, as if to put on record the general outrage at what had been done to Tom, but it was said without much conviction, for they all felt contaminated by what Tom had apparently done, and failed to do.
‘What got into him?’ someone asked, and then Bren, shaking his head, said, ‘And how did that smug bastard get all that stuff in just two days?’
He turned to Brock. ‘It was the Roaches, yes? They must have fed it to
him.’
Brock nodded.
‘But why did they want to crucify Tom?’
‘It’s not Tom they’re after, Bren. They’re not finished yet.’ Brock checked his watch and got stiffly to his feet. ‘I’d better make some calls.’
‘Madam Chair,’ Michael Grant said, sounding bereft of any real hope, ‘I ask that we suspend this matter for a few days. My colleague’s revelations this morning, if they’re true, have been as disturbing to me as to the rest of the committee, and I need time to frame a response to his questions.’
‘By all means,’ Hadden-Vane responded, with a shark’s smile. ‘After you’ve heard all of my questions. We know the “What” and the “How”. But we still have to consider the “Why”.’
Grant tried to object, but it was clear that the committee was against him.
‘I’m sorry, Michael,’ Hart ruled. ‘Nigel is right. We need to get all the issues out on the table.’
‘Thank you. You see, the real mystery is why a Member of Parliament, aided by a rogue police officer, would go to such lengths to malign a family of successful and respectable British businessmen. Now it is true that this family came from humble beginnings and that some of its members were involved in their youth in minor misdemeanours. They paid their debts, learned their lessons and devoted their talents to legitimate enterprises, but perhaps there are still members of the Metropolitan Police Service who resent that success and would like to settle old scores.’
A warning to Brock? Kathy wondered.
‘Perhaps Inspector Reeves thought that he could score career points in some quarters by his actions, who knows? But why would the Member for Lambeth North encourage such a thing? Indeed, why does he maintain a research office at taxpayers’ expense that seems largely devoted to trying to find links between the Roach family businesses and the Yardies and drug dealers in his constituency?
‘Mr Grant has never hidden the intensely personal nature of his campaigns against drugs and crime, and I think we’re entitled to ask if there is perhaps some private reason for his attacks on the Roach family. After all, he knew them as a young immigrant in South London, living in the same area where they ran several small businesses. I asked myself if perhaps that was where the roots of this animosity lay, and so I took it upon myself to speak to one or two people who might be able to shed light on our dilemma. I wish to call one of them as my final witness. I believe the committee will find his testimony both credible and illuminating. His name is Father Terry Maguire.’
Margaret Hart looked puzzled. Kathy remembered seeing her talking to Father Maguire at the concert and thought she must be wondering, as Kathy herself was, why Hadden-Vane would want to call such an excellent character witness for his opponent.
‘Do you have any objection, Mr Grant?’ Hart asked.
Grant looked equally mystified. He shrugged and said no.
The priest was led into the room and shown to the witness seat. He looked somewhat overwhelmed by the setting, and beamed with relief at seeing the familiar faces of Margaret Hart and especially Michael Grant. As with each of the witnesses, the Chair thanked him for attending and explained the circumstances.
‘Oh, I’m very happy to speak on Michael’s behalf,’ Father Maguire said, ‘although I’m sure he doesn’t need any help from me. His works speak for themselves.’
‘Indeed,’ Hadden-Vale said, with ominous emphasis. ‘You’ve known Mr Grant a long time, haven’t you, Father?’
He prompted the priest to talk about Grant’s youth and early career, which the old man did with such enthusiasm and at such length that the committee members began to become embarrassed and restless. When Hadden-Vane mentioned the Roach family, however, the priest’s flow faltered. He said he knew of no particular reason for animosity between the young Grant and the Roaches, in fact didn’t think they’d had much contact.
‘What about the local criminal types, Father, the so-called Yardies—did Michael have dealings with them?’
‘No, no. He concentrated on his studies, kept his head down, an exemplary student.’
‘So where does it come from, this single-minded crusade of his against those he imagines to be criminals in his community? Some might call it almost an obsession, rather like the excessive zeal of the reformed sinner. Yet you say he didn’t get into trouble himself in those days?’
‘Certainly not. His commitment comes from his experiences in Jamaica before he came to London. Those were terrible days, and he saw at first-hand what damage drugs and violence could do to poor folk.’
‘Ah yes, in Jamaica. You’ve had a lot of experience with young people coming here from Jamaica, haven’t you?’
‘I’ve tried to help, mainly through support for the work of a colleague of mine, Father Guzowski, and his mission in Kingston. He helped many young people in trouble to leave and start a new life elsewhere.’
‘What sort of trouble was Michael in, Father?’
‘I didn’t mean . . . I meant young people who were capable of bettering themselves,’ he said, sounding flustered. ‘Doing something with their lives—’
Hadden-Vane narrowed his eyes at the priest. ‘Come, come, Father Maguire. It’s a very serious matter to mislead a Parliamentary committee.’
The old man’s face turned deep red against the frame of white hair. ‘I’ve no intention of misleading anyone, sir,’ he protested.
‘Good.’ The MP beamed at him and suddenly reached for his pocket and produced the blue handkerchief with an exaggerated flourish. Father Maguire watched, bemused, as he mopped his face.
‘Father Guzowski used to tell you about the background of the men he was sending you, didn’t he? Their families, their circumstances, things like that.’
‘Ye-es, sometimes,’ the old man nodded cautiously.
‘What did he tell you about Michael Grant?’
‘Madam Chair,’ Grant interrupted. ‘I object to this. I’ve made no secret of my background. This is offensive and irrelevant.’
‘Yes, what is the point of this?’ Hart agreed.
‘It will only take a moment, if Father Maguire remembers his promise not to mislead us. Michael Grant arrived in this country with another man, Father, didn’t he?’
‘That’s true. Joseph Kidd.’
‘That’s what he called himself, but you knew that wasn’t his real name.’
‘I’m not sure—’
‘Father Guzowski told you his real name, didn’t he? What was it?’
‘I . . . I don’t remember.’
‘What about Michael Grant’s real name?’
‘I don’t know . . .’
The priest’s answer was almost drowned by a hubbub of voices and a shout of anger from Michael Grant.
‘You knew they entered the country under false names, didn’t you?’ Hadden-Vale insisted, raising his voice above the din.
‘They had to!’ Father Maguire protested, and the noise was suddenly stilled. Even Michael Grant, half-risen out of his seat, was struck silent. ‘They were in mortal danger.’
‘From whom?’
‘The police. The Jamaican police wanted them dead.’
‘Because?’
‘Because . . .’ The old man looked at Michael with a stricken face, then back at Hadden-Vane. ‘Because . . .’ His voice faded and he seemed on the point of passing out.
‘Because they’d murdered a police officer!’ Hadden-Vane roared, and the priest bowed forward, his face in his hands.
Michael Grant was on his feet. He shouted something incoherent at his tormentor across the table and began to struggle towards him, knocking his chair over and pushing aside his neighbour, who got in his way. His face was transformed by anger, mouth open in a furious snarl, his movements wild and violent. All around him people began to move in confusion, some to block him and others to get out of his way. The Clerk and a door attendant joined in, and Grant became locked in a tight scrum in the middle of the room. Beyond him, well out of range, Hadden-Vane was backed ag
ainst the oak panelling, a look of elation on his face, dabbing at his mouth with his blue handkerchief.
twenty-seven
From the window of the living room on the first floor Brock could see yellow and purple crocus tips pushing up through the last remaining crust of old snow against the fence of the garden below. If he listened carefully, he could hear the murmur of traffic on the high street, and the occasional muffled jangle of the bell on the front door of the antiques shop through the floor. He sat at the window, holding a mug of coffee, suspended.
Unlike Tom Reeves, whose suspension would become, after due process, an absolute rupture, his own, he’d been assured, was a temporary state designed to satisfy the ruffled sensibilities of the brass. All the same, it felt like being shouldered out of the way, out of the stream of life. Suicides were suspended, as were punch bags, victims in comas, and people holding their breath in fright. He wondered if that was how Suzanne’s daughter had felt before she stretched herself out above the cliffs.
While he’d been waiting for the coffee to brew, he’d come across the pile of newspapers, tactfully stacked away beneath the kitchen table for disposal. It looked as if she’d bought every one, their headlines a study in sanctimonious outrage . . .
‘Extraordinary scenes in Parliament’
‘MP was a YARDIE GUNMAN.’
‘PM condemns renegade MP’
‘Tragedy of Boy from the Dungle’
Her voice on the phone had been tentative. She hadn’t realised that he was involved, until Ginny had mentioned it, and was shocked when he told her he was suspended. What was he doing?
What he was doing was reading the papers and wondering at the speed with which they, as opposed to the police, had been able to uncover so much information in so little time. Here was a picture of a hovel beside a rubbish tip, where Michael Grant had grown up, and there an old lady, his grandmother, whose surname, Forrest, was the one that should have been on his passport. Here was Father Guzowski surrounded by small children, and there the sainted priest again, eyes closed, in a casket after his murder.
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