by Phil Brett
We exchanged a look. This was the call which had prompted her to stop her prep work for a vitally important international conference and head to a fracking centre on the South Downs. So, now we knew who had made the call which had spooked her. It was a call from Terry Walsh. A man whom she had also gone to meet at the Battersea sub-station, not knowing that he had suddenly left for another site. Nonetheless, she had been murdered for doing so. He, himself, appeared to be the prime suspect of planting a bomb on the London Underground. Was the man who spooked her - a spook?
‘So, both Olivia and the person she wanted to meet are killed,’ Cole mused to herself.
‘You think he was murdered too? That the bomb was intended to kill him?’
‘It’s a fair bet. The size of the bomb, where it was placed. I think someone wanted them both dead.’
Looks were exchanged again. This was becoming a habit. I couldn’t say that it was a knowing one. Not on my part, in any case.
‘There’s a few things I want to look into,’ Cole said. ‘The first being what Jack Foxton was doing around the Battersea car park and why he didn’t see fit to mention it. I want to, as quickly possible, dismiss his involvement.’ She rose abruptly. ‘We'll meet in two hours at the Soul Shack. There, we can decide what to do.’
Once that had been decided, she briskly passed by the visions of the future towards the exit. Clearly, she had forgotten that she was my lift. It looked like it was public transport again for me.
29. Geranium
The receptionist recognised me from my previous visit. Must be my lovely eyes. Her eyes had lingered on my party badge and her right, well-manicured eyebrow had risen a fraction. Clearly, she hadn’t expected her boss to have a wayward Bolshevik as a relative.
‘Sophie Humes is in a meeting,’ I was curtly told.
‘I’ll wait . . . upstairs.’
She didn’t argue. Instead, she merely added to my sum of knowledge by informing me that the meeting was with representatives of the NWC. Every word was like cat’s piss on her tongue. Once that information had been dispatched, she returned to some highly important duty or other.
On reaching my sister’s floor, I was met by her secretary, who informed me that the meeting was coming to a close and that I should wait on one of the chairs in the corridor. Slightly less hostile than the receptionist, she politely treated me to a thin plastic smile, but she didn’t offer me a drink. With her duties discharged, she turned on her heels and disappeared. I wondered if the only thing she ever did was meet people at the lift. Was there any training required? Or any chances for promotion, like maybe being allowed to operate the lift? Or even meet people downstairs? Indeed, did she actually ever venture downstairs or was she a creature of this floor?
Questions concerning the secretary’s job satisfaction gave way to my own. How was it that the majority of the population supported the NWC, a good number enthusiastically, yet I ended up in places like this? Obviously, I was mixing with the wrong company.
Just then, people started coming out of Sophie's office. I recognised many of them from the power worker unions. Some had quite high public profiles. A couple looked at me with vague recognition in their eyes, but merely nodded, not having time to place my face.
Except, that is, one woman. Dressed in skin tight black jeans, black boots and thick leather jacket, Emily Messager was the last to leave. ‘Pete! What brings you here?’
She indicated to the others to go on and that she’d meet them downstairs.
‘I’m meeting Sophie Humes,’ I replied, taking a leaf out of the receptionist's book of giving nothing away.
‘Same here.’ She beamed at the coincidence of life. Ah, yes, what a wacky universe we live in. ‘It's our monthly strategy,’ she explained, without having been asked. She nodded toward the closed office door, with dearest sis behind. ‘She's never happy about them. No doubt, she’s sore about all the bonuses she’s lost, but she’s got no choice. She has to accept it. Still, to give her credit, she isn’t being too obstructive.’ She stopped, smiled and returned to enquiring on my visit here. ‘So, why are you here? I can't believe it's a social call. Has it something to do . . .’ She paused and looked around to make sure that no one was listening. Assuring herself that all was clear, she finished her sentence in an almost comically hush-toned voice, ‘. . . the murder enquiry?’
‘It is.’ I smiled and tried to look casual. ‘Just background info.’ Which basically was the truth.
She excitedly grinned. Then, being seemingly trapped in a 1950s melodrama, she tapped her nose, nodded and got into the lift, which had returned to our floor. Now it was empty and waiting. ‘Enjoy,’ was her parting word.
Was she on something? I thought to myself.
As the doors closed, the office door opened and Sophie stood there. She had an odd look on her face, hurling almost a scowl at the departing lift. Obviously, she was the villain in the Messager's melodrama. Would someone be twirling a moustache at some point?
My sister was not one of those who saw the revolution with hope and joy. I bet it stuck in her craw to have to work with the representatives from the NWC.
She glanced at the clock. It was nearly ten. She really wasn’t one for office hours was sis. ‘Come in, Pete. Meeting twice in one day. At this rate, we’ll be spending Christmas together. Assuming, that is, that Santa hasn’t been banned by the brothers and sisters of the National Workers Council.’
‘He’s okay,’ I replied to the back of her head, as she walked into her office. ‘He’s into the redistribution of wealth. That’s why he wears red.’
Perhaps I was imagining it, but did her slender back shake a little with a laugh?
She sat behind her desk, and I took one of the seven chairs arranged in a circle in front of it. Obviously, for the NWC there had to be non-hierarchical seating, but not for me. Waiting for me to move the chair, she offered me coffee and something to eat. I declined both. It was late, but I was wide awake, with adrenalin pumping through me. Hunger was being held at bay by the knots binding my stomach, as I faced a woman who I knew to be quite formidable. Not least because she knew so much about me.
For a second, I didn’t say anything, but looked at her. We had shared a childhood, but we were in so many ways different from each other. It didn’t take Dr Brakus to analyse what the reason for that was. It was the big P: Politics. From idolising her big brother, over flowing with sibling worship, she had begun to become more questioning. Going to university, she had become that rarest of beast: the campus conservative. To my horror, she had become ever bluer, as I travelled in the other direction. It wasn't just the case of where we put our X every election but our whole world view. Very soon, we found that we had little in common, except the same parents. When they had died, there had been little to keep us together. Blood, after all, wasn’t that thick or unifying.
I noticed that she didn’t speak either, but sat there, elegantly, her back ramrod straight and not the slightest movement on her face. She was waiting for me to start.
For my part, I was debating how to broach the subject which was the reason for my visit. Not thinking of any subtle ways in, I just got straight to the point. ‘I’ve come here to talk about the approaches MI5 made to you.’
Her voice was almost a whisper. For a moment, I wondered if the place was bugged but dismissed the idea. If it was, then a whisper wouldn’t be of much use. No, she was using the voice she used when she was worried. She had used it when she had visited me at the Anchorage. ‘I feared you might not let it go, Peter. You always are obsessive. I shouldn’t have said anything.’
‘But you did. Why?’
‘I hoped that I could make you realise who you are dealing with.’
‘So who am I dealing with?’
‘People who are very dangerous. Very dangerous, Peter. More than you can imagine.’
I didn’t answer. Her look startled me. I had only seen it once before. I had been with my more physically minded friends and had been attempti
ng to climb a rather large tree. Not wanting to look a wimp in front of my sister, I had followed them way up an ancient oak in the park. We’d all made it quite high, but I had chosen badly which branch to rest on. Her look had frightened me more than the sound of breaking wood. I had managed to get off the branch just before it fell, throwing myself onto another. I hadn’t forgotten her look: one of total fear. Fear for my safety.
She had it now.
She spoke quickly. ‘Why don’t you leave all this detective work to your friend, Victoria Cole? She seems more suited to it. God knows, Peter, you don’t owe your blessed revolution anything. You’ve done your bit. Can’t you find a job cataloguing all the art works the NWC have stolen from their rightful owners? That’s you, not playing Sam Spade.’
‘Why not? I’ve got the suits.’
She didn’t laugh. Worry and fear were now the dominant facial feature. All the horded expensive French foundation cream in the world couldn’t hide that.
‘Peter, things are serious now. With the situation in Portugal and events moving quickly elsewhere in Europe, those of us wanting a peaceful return to parliamentary democracy are in the minority. Things have moved on too much for that now and they are looking for more extreme measures.’
‘Such as?’
She gracefully shook her head. ‘Oh, no. I told you this morning. I’m not going to help you or your NWC. I just don’t want you to get hurt.’
‘When you visited me at the Anchorage, you said that you did not want to get involved in anything which meant people losing their lives. I think you know how that might happen. Help me to stop it, Sophie.’
‘No. No, I won’t.’
‘Sophie, you’re highly intelligent, and you read the news from across the political spectrum. You will know that three quarters of Britain support the NWC, so whatever they plan to do, it will have to be major to turn that around. What is it?’
‘What makes you think that you can stop them?’
‘I can try. Come on. You don’t want people to die.’
She shook her head. ‘You’re simply no match for them, Peter!’ She was seeing me up that tree. Legs dangling, wood creaking.
Time for some good emotional blackmail to be unzipped. ‘Then,’ I said, ‘tell me what you know or what you suspect and help me protect myself. It won’t be helping the revolution – it will be helping me.’
Momentarily, her look changed and a mixture of amusement and incredulity appeared. ‘My word! Even for you, that’s lame!’
‘It’s all I could come up with at short notice.’ I grinned, now deploying the charming brother approach.
She smiled. She knew what I was doing but was happy to respond to it. At least with a smile. ‘I thought you had arrested Olivia Harrison’s murderer? That was what it said on the news.’ She pointed to one of her screens. ‘The announcement was made just as my meeting was closing. I was receiving my orders and political lecture. I say “my” meeting, but it would be more accurate to say the meeting the new powers-that-be had, graciously, not only invited me to, but had held it in my office. I suppose it isn't really even my office anymore.’
I was surprised at the speed, and indeed the foolishness, of the TV report. Sophie clocked both.
‘Did you not know?’
I admitted that I hadn’t.
Amusement appeared in her eyes. ‘That Glen Bale made the announcement outside the Courtauld Gallery. I presume you’re educating him in the grand masters now that you’ve looted the stately homes. Despite his rather robotic manner of speaking, the good “comrades” I've just been entertaining seemed pleased. I sense, though, that you are not.’
‘I think it is rather presumptive.’
‘Because he is not your man? Or should I not use such a gender-specific term?’
Call it sibling clairvoyance or simply that I didn’t have a poker face, but I was pretty sure that she guessed my opinion. His guilt, that is, not the semantics.
I ignored the sarcasm. I had always been better at it. ‘I’m pretty certain that he is not responsible for the death of either Olivia Harrison or Youssef Ali. He’s too small fry. MI5 would want someone near the top to make a difference. You said yourself: things have gone too far for minor irritations. More aggressive and greater actions are required. Some bloke who happens to live near the car park where she parked is unlikely to be Mr Big. I doubt if MI5 has, at the top of their agenda, a desire to snoop on the debates and activities of the Battersea Workers Council.’
She nodded in agreement. ‘Silly comrade Bale, then.’
I shrugged. ‘We’re an inclusive party – we don’t discriminate against berks. But let’s stick to the point, Sophie. I think you also know full well that Jack Foxton is not our man. I’ll ask again for help. For my safety and for others. Do you know any names?’
Concern returned to her face, and she pressed her palms onto the desk. Her perfectly manicured crimson finger nails were directly pointing at me. She was mentally wrestling between dislike of the revolution and fears for my safety.
‘I honestly don’t know any names, Peter. Honestly, I don’t. I have suspicions, but no names and no proof. I can say that I got the distinct impression when I was talking to them that they had someone who was of such a position in the regime that they have access to the different parts of the energy industry.’
‘And you really don’t have any idea of who it is?’
‘No, Peter. I’m telling the truth here.’
‘So, why did they need you, if they had someone with an important elected position?’
Her reply was proof that she had made a decision and, bless her little heart, my safety appeared to be great enough to override her political opposition. We might be sitting by the Christmas tree yet.
‘Frankly, I think they wanted someone expendable. So, when whatever they have planned takes place, if there is any comeback, then it would have only been me in the firing line. Which, of course, would have had the additional benefit of embarrassing the United Revolutionary Socialist Party, what with my link to you.’
‘They said that?’ I asked, in disbelief.
‘No. But I’m not an idiot. It was pretty easy to guess.’
‘We think they've something planned to coincide with the environment conference, which is to be on the world news stage in the next few days. It is going to be big, and we think bloody. We have some ideas, but not enough detail. We – I – am determined to stop it. All the pointers are that it has some link with the South Downs Extraction Plant, but we don’t understand what.’
‘I told you. I don’t manage that particular site.’
Not a thing moved in the room. Even the screens seemed frozen. We were locked in a moment of time which didn't appear to be moving but had whose outcome was critical. One of us had to move. One of us had to crack. I'd never been a poker player. Cards bored me. Playing Snap with Lisa had been as far as it went. Here though, was a high stakes game. It was time to up them.
‘But you can make a guess,’ I said. ‘Know this, Sophie: whether you tell me anything or not, I'm not giving up. This is too important. What it boils down to is whether you're going to let me go blindly into what they are planning or help me understand what I will be facing.’
She closed her eyes for the briefest of seconds.
I waited. The stillness was almost unbearable. She was weighing up loyalties: her beliefs or my safety; they were determining which hand she played. Call or fold?
What seemed like hours passed before she finally made her play. ‘I honestly don't know, Pete. Believe me. But something they said might be of help to you. They told me that what they hoped for was to show the country that the United Revolutionary Socialist Party had “blood stained hands”.’
‘What did they mean by that?’
‘I presumed that they hoped to provoke the regime in some manner to take action which would leave, in their words, blood stained hands.’
Repeating the phrase didn’t really help.
‘How? We’ve abolished the death penalty—’
She hadn't completely given up. ‘Against some of your supporter's wishes. And something which you could easily reinstate.’
‘We won't. We have been meticulous in our observance to human rights. There have been no round-ups or clamping down on opposition. How can we have blood on our hands?’
‘I told you, Pete. I don’t know.’
I wasn’t totally convinced that she was telling the truth but decided to try something different. I knew her well enough to know that any attempt to badger or to unduly pressurise her was doomed to failure. She was a lot tougher than she looked. it was time to try a more nuanced approach. Not that it was from any masterful strategy; unless, that is, you called blindly thrashing about a strategy. ‘What damage could explosives do to such a fracking plant?’
She raised an eyebrow, but didn’t question why I had asked. Presumably, she thought she could detect a point beyond the obvious. Although, even I wasn't sure that there was one. ‘I can’t see that many could possibly be hurt,’ she replied. ‘I mean, extraction plants are mainly automated and, even pre-seizure of power, there haven’t many people employed in them.’
That was a thought.
‘South Downs is fully staffed. Unusually so.’
‘Yes, it is. Even so, I can’t see that the numbers involved would be worth the effort. The impression I get is that they are planning something major, and I don’t mean to sound callous, but blowing up twenty fracking engineers is hardly going to bring your lot down.’
I asked if explosives could be used to cause much damage to anything underground.
‘If it was large enough. But I do seem to remember that they had to take extra precautions to protect both the geological strata there and some underground streams, which flow into one of the local reservoirs. So, a carefully placed bomb might be able to damage both, possibly poisoning the water supply. But, Pete, assuming that they would countenance such terrorism, I don’t see how it would help them. Such an explosion would set alarms off everywhere. Security would be there in minutes and there’ll be emergency measures to tackle such an attack. And it would only take a phone call to alert the local population to instruct them not to drink the water until it was decontaminated. I really don’t see what such action could achieve. The damage would be minimal and surely that would be a propaganda coup for you? Your lot, with all your skills at propaganda, would be quite able to argue that any bloodshed would be the prime minister's fault. It would be on his hands. Not that I think there would be any loss of blood, let alone life. What you are suggesting sounds pointless. I mean, what would it achieve?’
