Martin Dash

by Andy Bailey

  She had decided not to phone Martin in Danny and George’s presence and the fact was she’d been directly under their gaze from the moment she’d let them into the flat; wondering whether this had been their intent made her feel even gloomier and caged.

  She pushed these thoughts to one side and engaged Danny: “Barry was murdered how?”

  Danny looked at her carefully, as though he was considering his answer.

  “Shot. In the face.”

  Susan winced, involuntarily, but did also express a thought: “So he knew his killer.”

  Danny raised his eyebrows, saw the back of George's head tilt slightly and they both laughed. “Yeah . . . very good.”

  “Where?”

  “At 'is place.”

  “You mean Hadley Wood?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Because he’s got the flat in town as well.”

  Susan noticed George’s eyes on her in the mirror.

  “No, not the flat,” confirmed Danny, flatly.

  Silence for a while.

  “And when was this?”

  “’Bout 2 o’clock this afternoon.”

  Both George and Danny were looking at her now, with narrowed eyes.

  Susan pushed back – “And how come you boys know before it’s on the news?”

  Both men smiled again and Danny sighed: “Told you, love – your dad knows a lot of people and gets to hear stuff. First.”

  They swung into Great George Street and the familiar sight of Big Ben rose up massively against the violet sky.

  Even after the many years of visiting her father at Westminster (and on more than one occasion, as children, she and Maria had been paraded before the cameras here, with Jimmy and Rosa, to prove what a wholesome family man the Member was) she still felt a faint quiver of awe each time she came upon the great Gothic pile of the Palace, instantly recognisable the world over as the enduring emblem of British power, imperial and post, like an amber, becrowned crocodile lying in repose – but still menacing – along the edge of the riverbank. And although she didn’t care to admit it (even to herself), the fact that her father – her father – was one of its most lauded scions also delivered a deliciously guilty nip.

  Jimmy’s day-to-day office was in the Department’s nondescript building on Smith Square, three blocks away but he was currently stuck in the Palace engaged in the urgent business of trying to assess / shore up what personal support he might still have from his comrades in the face of the horrendous shit storm of the Barry Rogers saga that was blowing ever more forcefully the way of himself (and, by association, the Government).

  Upon Gordon Brown’s ascension as Prime Minister two months previously, Jimmy had, yet again, confounded all expectations by clinging on to his cabinet status, albeit with a slight demotion from Defence to Transport. That Brown had chosen to retain one of the most trusted lieutenants of his arch enemy for the new regime astounded many observers but those with a more archival perspective would point out that Sachs and Brown also went back a long way; that, in truth, Sachs would probably feel more at home, ideologically, in the bosom of the Brown tribe than the Blair creed that he had been obliged to abide these last ten years; and, most importantly, Brown knew – as Blair had – that Sachs was a big gun best kept in your own service rather than swung back at you; whose loyalty could be relied upon (a valuable rarity in a sea of perfidious sharks, all waiting for their own chance to supplant you), given that Jimmy had long since proved – by word and deed – that he knew his best role was that of trusted wingman rather than the exemplary figurehead, a position to which he was unquestionably unsuited, temperamentally and constitutionally.

  So there were obviously many in the new order who were resentful of this turncoat occupying a berth that should clearly have gone to one of their own. So they were obliged to watch and wait for their chance to put the interloper to the sword. And it looked like the opportunity might be arriving rather sooner than they could have dared to hope for.

  Danny and George appeared to have the same access as was reserved for their master so that, when they pulled up to the sentry post by an iron-grill gate on the east side of the complex, a quick flash of green and white passes pulled from their jacket pockets and a quick peer by the gate officer through the open rear window at the passless figure of Susan in the back of the car was all it took before they were sliding into the throat of a tunnel that descended down into a car park lying under the building, reserved for ministers of state, senior civil servants and their acolytes.

  Up the stairs from the car park the door opened onto a scene familiar to Susan. They stood at the beginning of a long straight corridor that stretched away to a point that you could barely see, even squinting. This was the main committee corridor, the length of which was punctuated by large double doors of solid panelled oak, framed by ornate carved stone and wood, each of which led into one of the 19 committee rooms housed here. The lower half of both side walls of the corridor were covered with the same dark oak panelling out of which jutted benches with the seats upholstered in dark green leather and small tables of the same design ran along in front of just the right-hand row. The upper halves of both walls were plain, painted a light cream and hung here and there with gilt-framed paintings of celebrated alumni. The whole length of the corridor floor was covered in a close-knit carpet design of alternate rows of blue and red and then green and yellow baroque hexagons against a pumpkin orange background, its comforting beauty contrasting with the heavy ceiling that hung directly above it of, yes – dark oak panels.

  Susan had been through here a number of times before and it always seemed somehow oppressive to her, redolent of a medieval cloister or a sinister boarding school. Which was, perhaps, how they liked it. In any event, there was quite a bustle about the place and serious types in all sorts of suits pinged in and out of nearly all of the doors as far as she could see, like a Brian Rix farce or one of Kafka’s nightmares, she couldn’t decide which. They were generally huddled together in twos and threes, always moving – up and down the corridor and in and out of the doors – their discrete chattering producing, in the aggregate, a low murmuring hum, like the bees of a particularly busy hive.

  Susan knew where they were headed – the floor above this, which housed more committee rooms but also some more anonymous redoubts that could be misappropriated for occasional use if you knew the right way to go about it. Her father had haunted that floor for many years, she knew; scheming and plotting in those back rooms with all sorts of chancers, corsairs and criminals. Danny knew which room Jimmy was in right now and strode in front, leading George and Susan swiftly over the fancy runner.

  As they went, Susan picked up on an air of real excitement about the place, some sort of term-end feeling and wondered what it was all about until she noticed that quite a number of the throng did the double-take when their little group caught the eye – she could feel their heads swivelling round to maintain the scrutiny as they passed – and then a short, rotund figure she thought she recognised as one of the Government Whips reached out to apprehend their leader with the words: “Danny. Danny – what the bloody hell is going on? Where’s Jimmy?” Danny never slowed or turned his head but, with a fluid movement, he simply brushed the man’s arm aside and called back: “Not now, Brian – sorry.”

  Then it occurred to Susan that the centre of attention, yet again, was her father and his serial adventurism and that more of the crowd were now spotting them as they passed. Which was why Danny was leading them so fast. And which was why Susan was now blushing and fixing her eyes on the colourful hexagons now blurring into each other as they flashed away under her swinging feet. And why she, once again, felt the paranoia of the hunted. Or at least the daughter of the hunted.

  Danny suddenly swung sharp left so that they exited the corridor and came upon the broad staircase leading up to the first floor. As they passed through the white limestone foyer to reach the stair foot, Susan glanced at a painting that filled the whole of one w
all – Queen Elizabeth I refusing the Commons’ plea for her to marry, with the retort that her coronation ring signified she was already married . . . to her kingdom.

  The first floor corridor was a stark contrast to the throng they had just quit. An eerie quiet prevailed with just one man sat staring at his laptop on a bench to their left. To the right, the other end of the corridor was in semi-darkness and it was into this gloom that Danny now led them.

  As they neared the end, a dark suited figure burst out through a door on the left, his oiled black hair fallen in streaks across a face red with what looked like rage. It was David Lamach, Gordon Brown’s Director of Communications, and he was obviously in a spin about something. Once out in the corridor he hesitated and glared back into the room he had just departed, clearly asking himself: 'Should I stay or should I go?'

  He caught the trio advancing towards him out of the corner of his eye and, just as he turned to face them, the unmistakable roar of The Rt. Hon. James Sachs in full voice bellowed out from within the room: “And you can tell him he can go fuck himself as well !”

  The simple force of this seemed to rock Lamach’s head back and he was briefly stunned. But then his pallor changed from red to white and, for a moment, he seemed ready to strike back until he remembered the group that was now awaiting his next move with no little interest. Not for the first time discretion got the better of valour and, with a lateral wave of the hand (as though to push the snarling Sachs behind him), Lamach approached the reliable consigliere from whom he hoped to get more sense.

  He started: “Danny . . .” and then, remembering his manners, nodded, "George,” to the burly backup and turned to greet Susan. It seemed it was only at this point that he realised who the men’s companion was.

  “Ah, Miss Sachs. How are you?” His body moved almost involuntarily (taken by surprise as he was) in what appeared to be a short bow.

  As Susan replied, politely, “I’m fine, thank you Mr Lamach,” the spin doctor’s eyes narrowed behind his round spectacles as he started to mentally rifle through the scraps of relevant information he held and to try and impose some order upon them. Just for a moment no-one said anything as Lamach stood staring at Susan, clearly lost in his thoughts. Susan decided to break the silence and – tilting her head – asked, smiling: “And how are you?”

  “Oh – well . . . well,” he replied, distractedly, before finally coming to and remembering the job at hand.

  “Sorry. Sorry,” he bumbled, “I was just . . .” and trailed off before turning decisively back to his opposite number – “Danny, listen. Listen. Can you make him see sense? You know . . ?”

  “How do you mean?" replied Danny, innocently, knowing perfectly well what the sweating Lamach meant but being inclined to enjoy to the full his adversary’s discomfort.

  “This bloody Rogers affair,” Lamach spat out, his temper flaring again before his pretensions to decorum brought him up again; he sheepishly put his hand up to Susan and mouthed: “Sorry,” before turning back to Danny and resuming in an altogether more hushed tone as he drew nearer.

  “The game’s up now, Danny – you know we can’t control it anymore.” Lamach shot a concerned sideways glance at Susan and now seemed to struggle for the words. “Just speak to him Danny – you know,” and then, more hesitantly, with another guilty look, almost whispering now: “We can’t allow this to reach the PM . . . you know that.” He patted Danny’s breast with an almost fatherly air and a pitiful show of benevolence and signed off: “Please, Danny,” with the final flourish of his best hangdog expression before nodding to “Miss Sachs” and “George,” in turn, and sloping off down the corridor. He turned his head back just the once, as he walked, to see that the three were watching him go. Just to be sure.

  As they turned into the door through which David Lamach had just been so rudely expelled, Susan beheld the sight of her father slumped in a deep blood red leather armchair, morosely staring at the whisky in his hand – probably not his first, she thought.

  This was not one of the committee rooms but a small, rather homely, study decorated in subdued green and red hues and appointed with expensive Edwardian furniture. Jimmy sat just to one side of an oak-surrounded fireplace in the wall facing them, a heavy mahogany desk over to the left and the right hand wall covered with dark shelf bookcases.

  Susan realised that she had been here before – 10 years ago she, her mother and her sister had, together, called in to see Jimmy just after Labour’s joyous return to power after 18 years in the wilderness. Then, it had seemed like a new beginning – the loathed Tory rule of cuts and strife were over and her father’s tribe looked forward to a different, more progressive era of greater opportunity and justice.

  They had clinked champagne glasses happily with Blair and Brown in this very room, assured that these were the men to lead them all up to that glad realm. Ten years later and it all seemed rather more tawdry and drab. The mandate had been tarnished by the exigencies of circumstances – Blair’s vanity had dragged the country through the mire and Brown’s lust for power had fed the neglect that brought it to its knees.

  And her father had supported them throughout, always pleading that it was all justified simply to keep the Tories out but Susan wondered now whether it had, all along, been simply about keeping themselves in; whether that first lethal draught of power hadn’t poisoned them all so that staying in office was, by now, the only rationale.

  As she looked down at her father, she could see now how much those years had taken their toll on him. The room was lit by just one table lamp on the other side of the fireplace but, even in that gloom, the weariness and sorrow in that tired face were apparent to all.

  But Jimmy now looked up to his daughter and smiled; a reaction of simple delight at seeing her, despite the current circumstances, immediately triggering the same emotion in Susan, despite the current circumstances.

  “Hi, Darling,” his voice raspy; he placed his glass on the side table and jumped to his feet, arms outstretched.

  “Hi, Dad,” they kissed each other’s cheeks and hugged, a moment free of the cares and worries that brought them together this night and that transported them back 20 years, when she would run into his arms to greet his return home and, at that time, he had to bend down to scoop her up. A pair conjoined forever in a feeling.

  They moved apart a step while still holding each other’s arms, caught in a dance, the better for Jimmy to study his daughter’s face. One final broad smile and then to business.

  “Sit down, Love,” he motioned to the twin of his own chair on the other side of the fireplace, grabbed the whisky decanter and enquired, with a tilt of his head, whether she’d join him? Danny and George left the room without having to be asked, shutting the door behind them. With her glass now poured, Susan kicked off: “I’m sorry to hear about Barry – I know he was your friend.”

  A pained look shot across Jimmy’s face and he took another gulp of whisky. He remained silent for a while, starting at the carpet, evidently striving to formulate his response. “It’s a bad job,” was all he said, ultimately, placing his glass back on the table and sitting back in his chair to look directly at Susan, his plan seemingly now made.

  “Whatever Barry was, he didn’t deserve that,” was his opening gambit.

  “What was Barry, Dad?” Susan shot back.

  Jimmy thought for just a moment. “Well it turns out that Barry remained just as dodgy as he ever was. I thought – he told me – that he’d turned over a new leaf, he’d got legitimate funding lined up; foreign, yes, but not dodgy. I even had it checked out myself. Thought it was kosher . . . but it wasn’t . . .”

  “Oh, really?” Susan’s sarcasm standing in for ‘I told you so.’

  Jimmy gave her a look that said there was no need for that but then sighed, gave her the point, and continued.

  “Hmm . . . turns out that Barry’s man – who we checked out – did both sorts of deals, good and bad. I won’t give you his name; you don’t want t
hat knowledge,” at this, Jimmy’s face darkened, “but, suffice to say, Barry got the bad stuff.”

  “For the whole Crack Harbour Development?”

  Jimmy nodded: “. . . and the rest.”

  Susan’s eyes narrowed, “What – all of them?”

  “There are currently three other major developments on the go with the Grudge Group – as you know,” he added, with only the merest hint of irony, before continuing: “They’ve all had the benefit,” he lamented, sardonically “. . . allegedly.”

  “Unfortunately for all of us,” Jimmy then checked himself, “yes, for Barry the most,” he conceded, pursing his lips, “this guy was on the radar; both the FCA and SOCA. Turns out the whole operation has been conducted right under their noses.” Jimmy paused to consider whether to utter the next comment to his daughter but looked straight at her – “We’re fucked.”

  “Barry’s definitely fucked.”

  Jimmy nearly burst out laughing but, considering they were talking of the cold bloodied murder that day of his long-time friend, caught himself and made do with an ironic shake of the head, silently amazed that he was having such a conversation with his daughter. He allowed himself a moment to scrutinise his progeny and felt a sudden happy wonder and pride that such a magnificent specimen was his – his own daughter.

  He had long since come to realise that she was an independent being, with her own character and foibles, but now he marvelled afresh at the unmitigated verve she brought to the party. Like all parents, he and Rosa had had to learn the trade on the job – there was no manual – and so they had proceeded blindly, stumbling over half-formed and half-baked assumptions, making it up as they went along and, each time they thought they had got somewhere, their children had changed and moved on to a different level in the meantime. And they'd had to relearn again.