by James Craig
‘I would try and avoid that, if possible,’ O’Dowd replied. ‘It would undermine the legitimacy of the whole process at a very early stage.’
‘And we wouldn’t want to do that, would we?’ Edgar’s stomach had started rumbling again and he was distracted by the thought of tucking into a hearty plate of spotted dick.
‘No, we wouldn’t.’
‘Anyway,’ Miller interjected, ‘we’ve checked out every Chief Constable in England and Wales, and none of them come without baggage of some description. So a bit of extra-curricular shagging is manageable.’
Don’t I know it. Edgar struggled to stifle a smile. ‘So – where does that leave us,’ he wondered if he sounded ever so slightly drunk, ‘in terms of the, ah, underlying issue?’
‘In the absence of anything else,’ O’Dowd told him, ‘the phone-hacking issue is still dominating the news agenda.’
‘Maybe we should do something about that,’ Edgar said.
‘Such as?’
‘I don’t know.’ This time Edgar Carlton did allow himself the merest grin. ‘Maybe we could go and bomb Syria or something.’
‘Anyway,’ O’Dowd continued, politely ignoring the infantile suggestion from his boss, ‘questions about press regulation, media ownership, the police, and relationships between politicians and journalists are not likely to go away. We all know where we are on this.’
‘After years of rumours,’ Miller chipped in, ‘the Sunday Witness newspaper has, as you know, finally admitted intercepting voicemail messages of prominent people to find stories. Zenger Corporation, the parent company, says this was the action of a few rogue members of staff who have since left the paper.’
‘As you would expect,’ said O’Dowd.
‘As you would expect,’ Miller agreed. ‘They claim that the problem has been dealt with, so there is no longer any hacking taking place.’
‘Meanwhile, the MPS has launched a series of investigations over the last few years. None of them have added up to much. That’s why we have to stick with Operation Redhead.’
‘Bloody Met,’ Edgar hissed. ‘They should have sorted this out years ago.’ In other words, before I became Prime Minister.
‘Decisive action is now required,’ O’Dowd persisted.
‘Isn’t that what I’ve been saying?’ Edgar snapped.
‘There’s decisive and there’s decisive. Sir Chester might have to go, even though it was not on his watch.’
‘The Commissioner!’ Edgar exclaimed. That was a bit close to home. Forsyth-Walker was a self-proclaimed ‘copper from the old school’ who, after an undistinguished career in the provinces, had been appointed to the top job in the Met by Christian Holyrod, in his capacity as Mayor of London. Edgar didn’t like the thought of such a senior figure having to fall on his sword. It gave people ideas.
On the other hand, if it stopped the scandal from reaching Downing Street, it was a price well worth paying.
The Cabinet Secretary inspected his beautifully polished shoes. ‘I wouldn’t rule anything out.’
‘Not with Horsegate still rumbling on,’ Miller said.
‘Tsk.’ Edgar angrily waved away the mention of the latest pseudo-scandal.
‘Mr Miller is right.’ O’Dowd smiled sadly.
‘This is nonsense,’ Edgar said testily. ‘I am the Prime Minister, for goodness sake – the Prime Minister! How many times do I have to say this? I am not going to get into a conversation about whether or not I went riding on a nag called George Canning . . .’
With some difficulty, Trevor Miller stifled a guffaw.
‘. . . or any other horse, for that matter.’ He jabbed an angry finger in the direction of O’Dowd. ‘How was I supposed to know that the Metropolitan Police were lending out their spare horses to Sonia Claesens and her bloody boyfriend?’
You idiot, Miller thought. These people are toxic. What the hell were you doing, going riding with them in the first place? ‘Look on the bright side,’ he said aloud. ‘It saved our four-legged friend from the knacker’s yard, at least for a while.’
For a moment, it looked as if the PM might explode in the face of such rank impertinence. Trying to calm the situation, O’Dowd held up a hand.
‘These things happen,’ he said. ‘With the benefit of hindsight, was it wise that you went riding on a police horse with your close friends, the head of Zenger Corporation’s media division and her toyboy? Probably not. However, now we have to look forward, not back, so it is best if we don’t fixate on it.’
‘I don’t even know if that was the actual bloody animal I sat on,’ Edgar whined.
‘Such details don’t matter. The point is, as Mr Miller has shown, this trifling incident will, for the moment at least, keep you tied to the wider problem.’ O’Dowd spread his arms. ‘Which means we have to be seen to be treating the wider problem with the utmost seriousness. Which in turn means that, if the Commissioner’s position becomes untenable, you cannot flinch from making sure that the right decision is made. And made quickly.’
Which means I will have to lean on Christian to sack him, Edgar thought morosely. What’s that going to cost me?
‘Not that we are prejudging the issue,’ O’Dowd flashed one of his most insincere smiles, ‘in any way, shape or form.’
‘Of course not,’ Miller agreed.
‘Glad to hear it.’ Edgar took another sip of Hennessy to calm his nerves.
‘It all depends on how diligent he proves to have been in terms of dealing with . . . perceived abuses among the rank and file of the MPS.’ O’Dowd pushed back his shoulders and clasped his hands in front of his chest. This was the standard undertaker’s pose that he liked to adopt when doling out bad news to politicians and other naughty children. ‘But I’m afraid, Prime Minister, we can rule nothing out at this stage. The horse George Canning is, of course, a distraction but it is also symptomatic of how this has now become really quite a serious matter.’
‘I know all this,’ Edgar groaned. ‘The question remains: how is the issue going to be resolved? How do we make it go away?’
O’Dowd ignored the PM’s gripe. ‘In the short term,’ he said evenly, ‘I fear that it isn’t. So far, the police have a list of a thousand possible targets.’
‘Targets?’
‘Targets of the media – people who we think may have had their phones hacked by rogue journalists.’
‘The current number is fifteen hundred,’ Miller interjected, ‘and it’s growing all the time.’
‘Quite,’ O’Dowd nodded. ‘The point is that it will take years to check out all the potential cases.’ Years, as in long after the next election. ‘Meanwhile the victims will troop through the courts looking for compensation.’
‘Almost all these cases are celebrities, footballers and politicians,’ Miller continued. ‘Not groups likely to gain much public sympathy.’
‘No,’ O’Dowd agreed. ‘Far more worrying are the allegations that police officers have been selling people’s phone details to journalists.’
Not as worrying as the risk of us having to forfeit the very generous donations that Zenger has made over the years to Party funds, Edgar thought. Not to mention the Zenger cash we need to fight the next election. ‘So, what should we do?’
O’Dowd raised his gaze to the heavens, as if the PM’s question was a bolt from the blue. ‘That,’ he said finally, ‘is something that you are going to have to consider very carefully in due course. For the moment, we have to wait and see how things pan out.’
Wait and see, thought Edgar morosely. In other words, the standard civil-service line when they don’t have a clue.
‘Now, let me leave you to your meal.’
Edgar gave a curt nod and watched the Head of the Civil Service solemnly make his way to the door. ‘Bloody fence-sitter,’ he grumbled into his almost empty snifter. ‘Never gives you a straight answer.’
‘I think he wanted an invite to dinner,’ Miller grinned. He was feeling hungry himself, but was more of a
Big Mac man. Steamed suet pudding was just not his thing.
‘I’m definitely going to sack him,’ Edgar mumbled. ‘Give his jobs, all of them, to some bright young filly with a double-first from Oxford, great teeth and a monster rack.’ There were always more than a few of those knocking around Westminster.
‘What?’
‘Nothing, nothing.’ Edgar offered a tired smile to the two advisers who had been waiting patiently in the corner. One was a pollster, the other, one of the Downing Street Press Officers. ‘Sorry, guys, we’re out of time here. Let’s reconvene in the morning.’ Without a murmur of complaint, the duo shuffled off. Finishing the last of his cognac, the PM decided against another one. Doubtless Christian Holyrod was getting stuck into his first bottle of Château Haut-Brion Blanc 2006, and Edgar was keen to join him. He placed his empty glass on the table and turned to Miller, who was always the last man to leave his side. ‘So what do you think?’
‘What have we got?’ Miller shrugged. ‘Bad behaviour by tabloid hacks, gleefully reported by other tabloid hacks. Is it really so surprising?’
‘Of course not,’ Edgar sighed.
‘The plebs love scandal, simply love it. They want to be titillated one day, outraged the next.’
‘It was ever thus.’
‘So, I would say that it’s all just a storm in a teacup.’ Miller shoved his hands into his trouser pockets. ‘We have to be seen to be taking it seriously, of course, but there’s no need to panic. Soon enough it will all be over, and everyone will move on.’
‘Absolutely,’ the PM nodded. ‘It just depends how many careers it wrecks along the way.’ The beginnings of an idea floated across his Hennessy-soaked brain. ‘Sir Gavin may well be right. Some important heads will have to roll.’
Miller thought about that for a moment. ‘How many heads are we talking about?’ he asked finally.
‘Difficult to say,’ Edgar smiled. That is the great thing about you, Mr Miller, he thought. Nothing fazes you. The Head of Security had been a key member of his team for more than seven years now. Unlike the callow youths who swarmed around Whitehall acting as special advisers, Trevor Miller was a man of the world with an extensive range of contacts. Over time, the ‘security’ brief had expanded as Edgar had come to rely on him for an ever-wider range of advice and services. Other people brought him problems; Miller delivered solutions.
‘I would assume a relatively small number,’ Miller mused. ‘Not too few but not too many either; with at least one sufficiently senior, so that the whole process doesn’t look too . . . tokenistic.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Do you have anyone particular in mind?’
Edgar glanced towards the dining room. On reflection, Christian might well be on his second bottle of Château Haut-Brion by now. ‘You know that is not my style.’ He patted Miller on the shoulder and headed for the door. ‘I’ll leave such details to you.’
EIGHT
How do I manage to get myself into these situations?
Finishing his whisky, Carlyle let his host refill the glass. He had first met Sir Michael and Veronica Snowdon about six months after their daughter Rosanna’s death. They had been given his name by Fiona Singleton, a sergeant in Fulham who had worked on the investigation and knew about the inspector’s connection to the dead girl. Never comfortable when it came to dealing with grieving relatives, Carlyle had uttered a few platitudes about what a great person their daughter had been, although in truth he had hardly known her.
At the time the couple had politely listened to him prattle on for several minutes, before Sir Michael placed a firm hand on his shoulder. ‘Thank you for your kind words, Inspector, but I was wondering if we might trouble you for some professional advice.’
Oh, no, Carlyle thought wearily, here we go. ‘How can I help?’ he asked.
‘We just need to understand,’ said Lady Snowdon cautiously, clearly unsure of her ground, ‘whether it is likely that Rosanna’s case will ever be resolved?’
No, Carlyle thought, it’s not likely at all. You should accept that and move on. After all, you’ll be dead yourselves soon enough. ‘It’s hard to say,’ he stammered. ‘I know that my colleagues in Fulham—’
Recognizing bluster when he heard it, Snowdon gently cut across him. ‘I am aware of their efforts,’ he said neutrally. ‘However, they cannot even confirm the cause of death.’
‘These things are often difficult,’ the inspector admitted, staring at his shoes. He hadn’t felt this sheepish since he was thirteen and his mother had found a copy of Fiesta under his mattress.
‘Yes,’ Sir Michael agreed, ‘they are.’
Over the last couple of years, Rosanna’s parents had come to see Carlyle as their man on the inside. Too embarrassed to disabuse them, the inspector would give the impression of making ‘discreet enquiries’ behind the scenes, while waiting patiently for them to stop plying him with drink and to finally come to terms with their daughter’s death.
With a theatrical flourish, Joe Szyszkowski glanced at his watch. Carlyle knew that Joe’s wife, Anita, would not be happy right now. Within the normal constraints of his job, she preferred her husband’s hours to be as regular as possible. Like the inspector himself, Joe was not the kind of man allowed any backsliding when it came to his family duties. The sergeant looked pleadingly at his boss but Carlyle remained impassive. He appreciated Joe tagging along with him to provide moral support on this mercy mission, but there was no scope for either of them bunking off early. Now that they were here, both officers had to stay a respectable length of time.
The inspector took another sip of scotch, desperately trying to think of something to say. The silence was getting awkward but his mind remained completely blank. Ignoring Joe’s silent entreaties, he glanced up at the painting of the girls wearing bikinis. What was the artist called? Osmund something-or-other. What kind of a name was that?
‘So, Inspector . . .’
Blinking, he looked towards Veronica Snowdon, who was again pacing back and forth in front of the windows.
‘Yes?’ he smiled.
‘What do you think of the breakthrough in Rosanna’s case?’ she asked.
‘Sorry?’ What breakthrough? Carlyle didn’t have a clue what they were talking about. ‘Well . . .’ Gripping his glass more tightly, he looked to Joe for some help. But none was forthcoming as, making the best of the situation, his sergeant was busily helping himself to a third slice of cake.
‘After all this time,’ Snowdon chipped in, his cheeks now slightly flushed from the scotch, ‘do you really think they’ve finally got him?’
‘Well . . .’ Carlyle said, and gulped. ‘It is a possibility.’
Feeling warm and fuzzy, Hannah Gillespie squinted at the little clock in the top right-hand corner of the screen on her mobile. ‘God!’ she mumbled. ‘It’s getting late – I need to go. Mum will kill me. And I’ve still got that essay to write.’
‘Relax.’ She felt a hand on her shoulder. ‘It’s still early.’
‘But . . .’
The phone disappeared from her hand and was replaced by a glass almost full to the brim with red wine. ‘Have another drink. There’s plenty of time.’
‘Mm.’ Hannah wasn’t sure about that, but she felt too chilled-out to argue. Brian Faulkner, Ted Heath and the Troubles could wait.
‘Cheers.’ There was a gentle click of glasses.
Hannah grinned. ‘Cheers.’
Marc Harrington stood pummelling the Mosmans’ front door, banging the oversized brass knocker, in the shape of a lion’s head, until his fingers felt numb. He had been standing there for more than a minute now, but there was still no response from inside. Feeling like a prize idiot, he looked around, wondering what to do next.
‘For God’s sake,’ he mumbled, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow. If anything, the music had got louder over the last few minutes. Surely the neighbours on the other side could hear it too – if they were home, that is, rather than off sunning themsel
ves at their villa in the South of France.
Bloody neighbours, he thought. Why does this have to be my problem?
It suddenly struck him that he should call the police. Maybe they would arrest Horatio Mosman. That would give the little shit something to think about while he waited for his parents to bail him out of jail. Reaching into his trouser pocket, Harrington realized that his iPhone was still sitting on the kitchen table. ‘Shit, fuck, bollocks . . .’
Suddenly the music stopped.
Problem solved, or just a temporary reprieve?
Taking a step away from the door, Harrington counted the following seconds in his head. After thirty seconds of blissful silence, he reconsidered his options.
Should he nip back home, refill his glass, and declare victory?
Or would the selfish little sod crank 30 Seconds to Whatever back up again before Harrington could get another glass of the Chevalier-Montrachet in his hand?
He had yet to make up his mind when the door suddenly flew open. However, rather than being confronted by a dishevelled teenage onanist, he found himself face-to-face with a tall figure dressed from head to foot in black, its face hidden by a balaclava. All that Harrington could make out was a pair of blue eyes looking out at him through the slits.
‘Horatio?’
Surely the boy hadn’t grown that much. From somewhere inside the house came a noise that could have been a groan, or equally could have been a scream. Glancing along the hallway, Harrington took another step backwards. It was only when he looked back at the figure in front of him that he saw the pistol in the guy’s hand.
Holy shit! Harrington felt his heart try to leap straight out of his chest and his sphincter contracted. Breathe, he told himself. Keep calm. He had clearly stumbled upon a robbery. This is none of your business. Whatever had happened to young Horatio, there was nothing he could do about it. Just walk away. Don’t try and be a hero.
Holding up both hands, he started retreating down the drive. ‘It’s okay,’ he said, trying to keep his voice from cracking, his eyes meanwhile locked on the gun. As a devotee of The Shield and The Wire, Harrington liked to think that he knew his weapons. This one looked to him like a Glock or maybe a Sig Sauer.
