A Sentimental Traitor

by Dobbs, Michael

  The Shengtzu Investment Fund had gone down, taking Sloppy with it. And, in turn, Sloppy had taken Harry with him. One of the letters Harry had signed over alcohol gave Sloppy access to his accounts, but that was only half of it – even the better half. One of the other letters made Harry a partner in the business, and in law that made him liable for all its losses. And the losses of the Shengtzu Investment Fund were enormous. The banks were going to retrieve their money from wherever they could. Grab first, ask questions later. Much later.

  It was fraud, of course. But that was a matter between Harry and Sloppy. So far as the banks were concerned, they had Harry’s legitimate signature and until some court told them otherwise they regarded his money as their own. They had tried to inform him of this fact, and it wasn’t their fault that he hadn’t opened his wretched letters or responded. Harry had gone down for millions, all of them.

  And, inevitably, Sloppy wasn’t answering his phone.

  ‘Order! ORDER!’ The Speaker’s voice rose, but his task was impossible. The chamber of the House of Commons was packed to oppression, even the Prime Minister had stumbled over outstretched legs as he had tried to negotiate his way to his seat by the Dispatch Box. It was the last Prime Minister’s Question Time before Parliament was sent packing for the election. By the end of the week these men and women would legally cease to be MPs, and judging by the rising slipperiness of the electoral slope, a large number of them wouldn’t be making it back.

  ‘Order!’ the Speaker shouted once more, jumping to his feet, a sign that all others must sit and desist, which they did but grudgingly. The Minister for Justice was proving a particular mouthy pain, making the Speaker wonder whether he’d already started upon his end-of-term party despite the fact that it wasn’t yet lunchtime. The Speaker, who was old school, groaned in despair. ‘The Right Honourable Gentleman must restrain himself,’ he insisted – preferably by the neck, he thought, as he received another outburst in reply. When he had first been elected Speaker he had, in the traditional manner, been dragged to his chair while feigning reluctance. There was no pretence now, the lack of enthusiasm entirely genuine. Thank God this was the final week. The South of France beckoned, where only waiters and taxi drivers would shout at him.

  ‘Mr David Murray,’ the Speaker nodded, indicating that the Leader of the Opposition should resume his efforts to be heard.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Speaker.’ Murray looked around the oak-and-leather chamber, keeping them waiting. He had deliberately started the row, now he intended to finish it. Speedbird 235. It was still a criminal investigation, of course, many aspects of it sub judice or simply secret, but none of that constrained his democratic duty to give the government a deeply unpleasant kicking. ‘Mr Speaker, I would like to help the Prime Minister.’ He smiled across the Dispatch Box, his eyes suggesting that it would be about as helpful as positioning a rectal thermometer with a hammer. ‘Help him realize the magnitude of his failure so that he might consider it in his retirement, which I hope will be happy. And soon.’ The troops behind him loved that, and so did the sketch writers scribbling away in the gallery above his head. He held up his arms, like a conductor demanding the attention of his orchestra, and the crowd fell silent once more.

  ‘Question! Ask a question!’ one of the more dogmatic members behind the Prime Minister demanded through the hole in the noise.

  ‘Is it . . .’ – the question was coming – ‘is it not incredible, inexcusable, inconceivable’ – each thought was spat out with ever greater emphasis as he glowered at the man sitting only feet away – ‘that in this day and age an airplane full of people could be shot down thirty miles from our coast without anyone seeing, hearing, plotting, tracking, recording, mapping or in any way marking what was happening?’ Every word was a hammer blow, nailing Usher to his cross. ‘In such circumstances, who can be surprised that those responsible weren’t intercepted before they had committed their foul act? And who can be surprised that it was left to the Russians to catch them?’

  That got them going again. The Justice Minister was puce. Once again Murray waited for his opportunity.

  ‘We know from all the evidence of these past long years that the Prime Minister doesn’t understand the meaning of humility. But would he, even at this late stage in his career, take a moment to look up the meaning of humiliation?’

  That’s what it had come to. Using dead children as political weapons. It was a day when the reputation of the House drowned in venom, but the reputation of the Prime Minister suffered still more.

  Harry sat two rows behind Usher, squashed between the shoulders of colleagues on the packed benches. The shock of what Sloppy had done was so overwhelming that it had rendered him numb, like a man who had been given such a beating that for the moment his body had blocked out the pain. He had left the matter in the hands of his lawyer and accountant, while he tried to function as usual. He’d known men who had carried on fighting even with both legs blown away, so he just kept his head down and carried on, even when he hurt. So, like the Leader of the Opposition, he had also raised questions that day about the crash, but not here, not in this pit of vipers. Despite the many distractions he’d continued to struggle with the question Jemma had put so succinctly – Ghazi. Russians. Brussels. What connected them? What had brought such stray ends together? For brief moments he thought of giving Shelagh another call, but quickly squashed the idea. Even in his present state he wasn’t that much of an emotional Neanderthal. So instead he had tabled a question for Written Answer to the Secretary of State for Transport, asking if she would identify which of the passengers on Speedbird 235 had connected with it from other flights, and where those flights had come from. In other words, let the government do the donkey work.

  It was an entirely innocuous question. The Table Office hadn’t raised any difficulties, the answer should be published in a few days. Straightforward. At least, that’s how it seemed to Harry. But Patricia Vaine held a sharply different view. She was sitting in her red-and-gilt-clad dining room on Rue Faider later that evening; spring had come early in Brussels and the tall windows were open, the cigarette smoke drifting up to the ceiling before being sucked out into the garden. The food was done, the wine still flowing, the conversation lively and appropriately injudicious. McDeath was there, at the distant end of the table, and in-between she had assembled a collection of staffers from the European Parliament and senior Commission officials, men and women who saw the papers, heard the whispers, understood the rumours, and were responsible for making most of the decisions that their masters would later claim as their own. One of them, Callas, was responsible amongst many other things for the enormous fleet of S-class Mercedes that filled the basement beneath the Parliament building. He was also admirably drunk. The table rocked with laughter as he recounted the official version of the duties supposedly performed by the new executive assistant to the Maritime Affairs Commissioner, then contrasted that with the more analytical and anatomical version that was doing the rounds of the drivers’ pool. Drivers knew everything. It was good to keep in touch.

  She was making a mental note of the matter when she heard the alert tone pinging from her iPad. She excused herself and withdrew with her coffee to another room, then, after she read the message, sat motionless, staring sightless into an empty grate, her coffee stone cold. It was some while before she stirred. ‘Oh, Harry Jones,’ she whispered, almost in sorrow, ‘do you never know when to stop pushing?’

  She sucked her thumb. Part of her didn’t want to do this. Then she reached for her phone. ‘Emily? This is Patricia Vaine. We need to talk.’

  Harry’s phone flashed into life.

  ‘Can we talk, Harry?’

  ‘Sure, Emily.’ She sounded upset.

  ‘It’s private. Can I come to yours?’

  Bugger. More bad news. Throw it on the pile with all the rest of it. He was a little punch drunk with all the blows that had landed on him, made worse by the fact that he had spent the afternoon trying to track
down Sloppy, but for some reason the bastard had gone missing. Office locked, no one had seen him for days, even at the club. Harry had ventured out to Sloppy’s apartment in a warehouse overlooking St Katherine’s Dock, so close to where the Speedbird had come down, and begun kicking the door so hard that the concierge had threatened to call the police, until he had recognized Harry. He’d explained that Mr Sopwith-Dane hadn’t been there for days, and frankly wasn’t expected back. Some sort of problem with the lease . . .

  Harry had slunk back home and taken it out on a bottle instead. Now more trouble. Emily. It was late, he was exhausted, but he hadn’t been sleeping, so what difference did the time make? ‘Twenty minutes,’ he suggested.

  It took her less than fifteen. It was only the second occasion she had been inside his home. This time she took her coat off. She looked good in clinging cashmere, no wonder the press men liked her. But her eyes were raw. He poured her a drink and sat her on the sofa, while he refilled his own glass and propped himself against the fireplace.

  ‘Harry, I haven’t had the opportunity before.’ She sounded mournful.

  ‘For what?’

  ‘To say sorry. About the screw-up with St Mary’s.’

  He almost burst into laughter. ‘Emily, it doesn’t matter. Honestly, I haven’t thought about that for days.’

  ‘But I feel ashamed. I’ve let you down.’

  ‘You think you’ve let me down?’ He shook his head. There were others far ahead of her in the queue.

  Yet she was not to be deflected. ‘I came to work for you because I admire you, wanted to help. And I’ve failed miserably.’ He shook his head but her eyes began to well up. ‘I think you’re wonderful,’ she whispered.

  ‘It’s mutual.’

  ‘Is it? Oh, Harry!’ she cried out, burst into tears. Then she jumped from her place and, before he knew it, had flung herself into his arms, burying her head into his chest. He was startled, his drink spilled down her sweater, but she seemed not to notice. She was pressed up against him, wanting comfort, and when her eyes came up, he could see she wanted more than a warming hug. It didn’t help his focus that the cashmere was low cut. She stretched up to kiss him.

  He didn’t push her away immediately – how many men would? Their bodies met, feeling for each other. She took his hand and slowly raised it to her breast, where she clasped it to her with such intensity that he thought it must be hurting her. Only then did he decide he had to back off.

  ‘Emily, no . . .’ he moaned, pushing her gently away. ‘There’s Jemma.’

  She looked at him with a mixture of incomprehension and despair that suggested he had slapped her. The tears returned, trickling down her face. Then she ran from the room, not even bothering to collect her coat. Seconds later the front door slammed. He knew he wouldn’t see her again. He swore, very profoundly. How much worse could his life get? He replaced his spilt drink and downed it quickly, then poured another and put on some music. Meatloaf. Full volume, as it should be, hoping it would drown out his miseries.

  It was less than an hour later when he heard a pounding at the door. Neighbours, he assumed. Music too loud. The assault on his door was repeated before he could get there. ‘OK! OK!’ he shouted through it, ‘no need to kick it down.’

  When he opened it, he found a uniformed police officer standing on his doorstep, an inspector. Two other policemen were standing behind him in the darkness. Bugger, he must really have hacked off the neighbours.

  ‘Sorry, sorry,’ he said, waving his glass in apology, ‘I’ll turn it down. Even better, I’ll turn it off and go to bed.’

  ‘Mr Jones? Mr Harry Jones?’ the inspector asked, unsmiling. The porch light above gave his face a grim, awkward appearance, like a mask.

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Would you mind coming to the station with us, sir?’

  ‘A bit excessive for playing Meatloaf, isn’t it? What the bloody hell would you do if I’d put on a bit of Manilow, for goodness sake? Look, I apologize, all right? Won’t happen again. Goodnight to you.’ He stepped back, assuming that would be the end of the matter.

  ‘Mr Harry Jones, I am arresting you on suspicion of a serious sexual assault. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you say may be given in evidence . . .’

  The rest of it was lost on Harry; he couldn’t take it in. ‘No, no, you bloody idiot,’ he muttered in disbelief, and took a further step back into the sanctuary of his hallway. That was when they handcuffed him, on his own doorstep, led him away to their car, which now had its blue light flashing in his face. That, combined with the alcohol and the shock, meant that he never saw the photographer sheltering in a nearby doorway, gleefully taking shots of the entire event. Even before he’d arrived at the police station, it was already getting calls asking for confirmation that Harry Jones had been taken into custody.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Emily had fled from Harry’s home in hysterics, wailing as she ran past the extravagantly decorated shop windows of New Bond Street, and she didn’t stop until she had reached the bronze statues of Franklin D. Roosevelt and Winston Churchill perched on their bench outside Watches of Switzerland. The bench was a landmark, and now it became her refuge as she squeezed herself between them, sobbing, coatless. Passers-by hovered, trying to offer comfort, but could get little sense from her until someone called the police. Savile Row police station was nothing more than a rabbit hop away and a squad car arrived within minutes. Still no one could make sense of her through the weeping. Only when she had reached Savile Row and had the support of a female officer and a mug of sweet tea did her story come blurting out. That Harry had summoned her to her home. Was drunk. Had berated her for the foul-up over St Mary’s. Then assaulted her. And only his drunken clumsiness had allowed her to escape.

  They allowed her to pour out her misery without interruption or questions, as a red-eyed digital recorder captured every word. She wasn’t accusing Harry of rape; even so, they wouldn’t rule that out. The Met had adopted what it called a victim-centric approach to all sexual crimes, and it was a matter of considerable importance that political figures shouldn’t be given preferential treatment – that would be unfair, particularly after a committee of those expense-scamming election monkeys had competed with each other to find ways of publicly humiliating the Police Commissioner. Politicians should think twice before bending over to pick up the sword of justice.

  ‘We’re going to have to ask you to undergo some tests, Emily. Is that OK? Take your clothes, and some swabs. You understand?’

  She sucked the ends of her hair, then nodded. The inquisition of Harry Jones had begun.

  Reputations are like airplanes. Once they start falling apart, things happen very quickly, and the results can be devastating.

  Harry wasn’t taken to Savile Row for fear of contamination by or with his accuser, so instead he was taken to Charing Cross station, a buttermilk stucco building in Agar Street, just back from the bustle of Trafalgar Square. He was taken to the custody suite; only then were his handcuffs removed. He was made to stand in line behind a couple of drunks before the inspector gave the custody officer reasons for the arrest, and the officer gave formal consent to Harry being held. He was taken to an inspection room where his clothes were removed and bagged – all of them, including his underwear. In their place he was given a shapeless white zip-up jump suit that felt as if it had been made from recycled paper. They took swabs – mouth, hands, genitalia. They had to get the permission of a superintendent as well as Harry himself before they started on that.

  ‘What, no photos or fingerprinting?’ Harry asked, when at last they had finished the humiliation.

  ‘No, Mr Jones. We know who you are. And where you live.’ It sounded like a threat.

  They locked Harry in a cell. Bare walls, bright light, plastic mattress. ‘Sleep it off, Mr Jones. We’ll interview you in the morning.’


  Sleep it off? They had to be joking. Then the door had slammed.

  Harry had known many forms of incarceration. He’d been trained for it during his time in the SAS camp at Hereford, where the instructors had devised many ways of inflicting physical and mental punishment on their charges, pushing them to their limits, and sometimes beyond. It was one of the ways they sorted those who would die for their country from those who might just live. He’d been banged up on other occasions since then, sometimes in the most desperate circumstances. But never had he felt more lost.

  They told him he could have two telephone calls, one to his solicitor and another to a friend or family. But it was 2.30 a.m., too early for his solicitor, and even if their long relationship gave him the moral authority to drag him from his bed, Harry suddenly realized that he was no longer sure he had the financial authority to do so. And Jemma had enough on her plate, it wasn’t how he wanted her to find out. So, at six, he called Oscar Colville.

  ‘Getting your own back, Harry?’ a weary voice enquired.

  If only. Harry gave a brief explanation, and instructed him to call several people, starting with the Chief Whip. ‘You can get him through the Downing Street switchboard. He will need to know.’

  ‘Will he be able to help?’

  ‘Help? No. He’ll probably run a thirty-second mile in the other direction. An enormous amount of sewage is being poured over me, Oscar, and it’s going to splash anyone who is standing too close.’

  A haunting silence played down the line before his constituency chairman spoke again.

  ‘Harry, you didn’t do this. Did you?’

  ‘I wish you hadn’t felt the need to ask that, Oscar,’ Harry replied, slamming down the phone. Suddenly he realized he wasn’t going to be walking out of this place a free man.

  It was almost nine before Theo van Buren, his solicitor, arrived, and only then was Harry allowed to put forward his version of events in a formal interview with a Detective Sergeant Arkwright and his colleague, Detective Constable Finch. No theatrics from them, no grandstanding, just a double-deck tape recorder and unaggressive questions about the events of the previous night. How much he’d had to drink. Whether he had kissed her. How much damage he thought the St Mary’s story had done. Why he hadn’t been married for such a long time. And particularly whether he had put his hand on her breast. Harry wanted to scream, to shout out his innocence, denounce it all as a fraud, but a warning eye from van Buren insisted he restrain himself. The lawyer had an expressive face and an equally expressive manner. A bit of a rough diamond for the high-powered legal world, a man who had got on not because of his accent or background, both of which were London-rough, but because of his ability. He had to work even harder than most to make it up through the glass-encased floors of his firm, and he did.