The Circus

by James Craig

  ‘Well, then,’ Claesens looked like she would happily shoot both of them, given a chance, ‘getting back to our particular specific threat . . .’

  Leaning forward, Miller realized that he had taken a visceral dislike to this woman that would never be reversed. He lowered his voice and went into the little speech he had composed on the way to the restaurant. ‘Edgar has asked me to make it clear that he is all too aware of the current situation. None of us’ – the word us reminding them that he, Miller, had risen to become a player here in his own right – ‘are happy about the latest turn of events.’

  Shelbourne gave Claesens a concerned look. ‘What “latest turn of events”?’

  ‘Duncan Brown’s murder.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Jesus, Simon,’ Claesens snapped, ‘you don’t ever pay any attention, do you? He worked at the Witness for almost five years. He was there when you were still the Editor.’

  ‘More than two hundred people worked on that paper,’ Shelbourne replied huffily.

  ‘He was a news reporter; won Best Newcomer of the Year at the Press Awards three years ago.’

  ‘You’re still not ringing any bells,’ Shelbourne said tightly.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Claesens, turning her attention back to Miller, ‘it is all very unfortunate, I’m sure. But, equally, it had nothing to do with our current situation.’

  ‘Maybe not, but at this stage the possibility of some kind of connection can’t be totally ruled out.’ Having done a little discreet digging, Miller was aware that Brown had been placed under investigation after it leaked out that Metropolitan Police Officers were selling confidential information to Zenger reporters. Worse still, these were the very journalists who were championing the government’s re-election prospects. The whole tawdry mess needed to be nipped in the bud before the start of the campaign was formally announced. Edgar Carlton wanted to call an early poll and have a second term in the bag before the Opposition managed to get their act together. The last thing he needed was them sinking their teeth into a nice juicy scandal.

  Without warning, Shelbourne suddenly seemed to tune into the significance of their conversation. ‘Oh, God!’ he mumbled. ‘This thing is a total nightmare. And it’s just getting worse and worse.’

  ‘Pull yourself together, Simon,’ Claesens snapped.

  I bet she’s said that to him plenty of times before, Miller thought.

  ‘The whole business is just too horrible for words,’ the PR man groaned.

  ‘But we are where we are,’ Claesens said firmly.

  ‘But we are where we are,’ Miller echoed, a shark-like smile crossing his lips. ‘Of course, ultimately, we are not exposed to the potential fallout from this in the way that you people are.’

  ‘Is that a threat?’ Claesens picked up her fork. Gripping it tightly, she looked like she was getting ready to stab him in the chest.

  ‘Not at all,’ Miller said evenly. ‘It is just the reality of the situation.’ He turned to Shelbourne. ‘Where are you with the Meyer investigation?’

  A look of panic flashed across the young man’s face. ‘Well,’ he stammered, ‘the Chief Constable’s inquiry is independent of both the Commissioner and—’

  Miller cut him off with an impatient wave of his hand. ‘Spare me the PR guff, sonny. Sir Chester knows that if he allows himself to be outmanoeuvred by some Nottinghamshire plod, he will be straight out the back door, to be replaced by the Mayor’s latest pet.’

  For the first time, a smile tickled the edges of Claesens’ lips. ‘But surely it was the government’s decision to set up Operation Redhead? And didn’t Edgar take the credit for parachuting in Chief Inspector Russell Meyer to head it up? “A clean pair of hands” was the phrase he used, if I remember correctly.’

  ‘It was indeed,’ Miller nodded. ‘The PM has personally taken a firm lead on this thing. But, as you well know, Meyer is letting the whole thing get out of control. He now has seventy officers working on it and they spend their whole time taking calls from bloody lawyers who claim to be representing “victims” and are greedily eyeing up big fat compensation pay-outs.’

  ‘Bastards,’ Claesens clucked.

  Miller shot her an angry look. ‘Maybe if you’d kept your people under control in the first place,’ he snapped, ‘we wouldn’t be sitting here having to worry about this mess.’

  Sonia Claesens didn’t like the security man’s tone one little bit. ‘But I knew nothing about any of this before it came to light,’ she pouted. ‘Did I, Simon?’

  Hiding behind his teacup, her former underling said nothing.

  ‘I wasn’t even aware that we were using those people,’ she continued.

  Those people meaning Wickford Associates: a group of former police officers now working as private detectives.

  ‘Is there any way that I could have had any idea that they were hacking people’s phones? Of course not!’

  No, love, Miller thought sarcastically. Of course not.

  ‘As soon as I heard about what was going on, I ordered it stopped,’ she trilled. ‘And I have the emails to prove it.’

  ‘I bloody hope so,’ Miller snorted. ‘But we still have to clean up the mess so that we can draw a line in the sand and move on.’

  Shrugging, Claesens took another sip of her lemon tea.

  ‘The point is,’ he said, ‘there are now literally thousands of people coming out of the woodwork claiming that their phones have been hacked. Not all of them can be z-list celebrities that no one cares about. Some of them must be real people.’

  Another theatrical shrug. ‘Real’ people rarely, if ever, featured on Sonia Claesens’ radar.

  ‘If there are real people involved,’ looking around, he lowered his voice even further, ‘it appears that the Metropolitan Police Service and the government have been turning a blind eye to what you’ve been doing.’

  ‘You don’t need to spell it out,’ Claesens said crossly.

  Behind his goofy glasses, trying to keep up with the conversation, Shelbourne looked like he was about to burst into tears.

  Miller took a deep breath. In an ideal world, he would take the pair of them into a windowless room and slap some sense into them. But, sadly, it was far from an ideal world.

  ‘The Prime Minister,’ he said slowly, ‘values the working relationship that exists between Zenger Media, the Metropolitan Police Service and the government. It has been very productive, on many levels, and has made several important contributions to the evolution of our civil society.’ They looked at him blankly, but he ploughed on; it was amazing how easily this meaningless crap just rolled off the tongue. He supposed that was what happened when you spent too much time hanging around politicians. ‘However, if it is discovered that there have been aspects of the relationship that were somehow dysfunctional or less than transparent, then, well . . .’ He spread his hands to signify You’re on your own.

  Claesens pulled an iPhone6 from her large combo tote and began tapping angrily at the screen. ‘Of course,’ she said, not looking up, ‘the next election is on the horizon.’

  ‘Edgar is well aware of that,’ Miller said flatly, ‘and he is grateful for your continued support.’

  Claesens dropped the iPhone back in her bag and looked up. ‘Which he should not take for granted.’

  ‘We would never do that.’ Miller held her gaze. ‘As I said, the PM values what all parties bring to the table here.’ He gestured to Shelbourne. ‘Simon here will keep his man under control.’ The boy looked doubtful but nodded anyway. ‘And you have to sort out your people.’

  ‘They are not my people,’ Claesens protested.

  ‘They are now,’ said Miller.

  Claesens glared at him but made no reply.

  ‘I will let Edgar know that we have had a productive meeting,’ Miller told them, ‘that everyone’s on the same page . . . and that this matter will be dealt with speedily, efficiently and quietly.’ He paused. When there was no response from either of his eating comp
anions, he got to his feet. ‘Thanks for breakfast. Let’s keep talking.’

  Claesens did not seem particularly pleased at the thought of a continuing dialogue on this subject. Then she remembered something and perked up a little. ‘Tell Edgar I’ll see him at the weekend.’

  Miller frowned.

  ‘We’re all going to the Harvest Food and Music Festival,’ Claesens explained. ‘It’s in his constituency, after all, and Edgar gave a great speech last year. There is excellent street food, too. Anastasia and I are looking forward to getting together.’

  ‘Mm.’ Miller didn’t want to get into an argument with the PM – or the PM’s wife – about their weekend arrangements. He knew how keen Anastasia Carlton would be to be seen out and about with her husband, if only to try and stem the gossip about Edgar’s extra-curricular activities. On the other hand, the last thing he wanted at the moment was his boss being caught in public with the toxic Ms Claesens. Worse still, what if there were horses around? The press were still having fun with George Canning, the ex-police horse that Claesens had adopted. A new picture of Edgar, Claesens and some horse – any bloody horse – would appear on every front page.

  That was simply unacceptable. It could not be allowed to happen. Even Edgar himself could see that, surely?

  ‘It’s been in the diary for months,’ Claesens said.

  ‘I’ll let him know,’ Miller said, ‘but there may be some, er, scheduling issues.’

  Claesens gave him an icy stare. ‘There had better not be.’

  TWENTY-SIX

  Carefully announcing his arrival, Sir Gavin O’Dowd gave a loud cough as he stepped through the soundproof doors of the Cabinet Room. Rising through the ranks to the role of Cabinet Secretary, Sir Gavin had seen a lot in his time. At the same time, he had managed to not see a whole lot more. A man of the world, O’Dowd prided himself on the fact that he had let little faze him over the years. Yet, in all his time in the Civil Service, he’d never come across a situation like this.

  ‘Prime Minister . . .’

  Painted off-white, with floor-to-ceiling windows looking out on to Downing Street, the Cabinet Room was bathed in a traditional English 60-watt gloom. Edgar Carlton sat at his usual place, underneath the only painting on any of the walls, a copy of the portrait of Sir Robert Walpole by French portrait painter Jean-Baptiste van Loo. Dressed in a navy Ozwald Boateng single-breasted, two-button navy suit, with a cream shirt and a chocolate brown tie, he lounged in his mahogany chair. It was positioned facing the windows, at the centre of the boat-shaped table introduced by Harold ‘You’ve never had it so good’ Macmillan in the 1950s.

  ‘Yes?’ Less than pleased at the unexpected interruption, the PM glared up at Sir Gavin. Sitting next to him in the seat usually occupied by the Chancellor of the Exchequer, Edgar’s artist girlfriend Yulissa Vasconzuelo sat grinning wolfishly.

  ‘Your eleven o’clock,’ O’Dowd said, ‘with the Vice President of Afghanistan. The delegation has arrived a bit early.’

  ‘Bloody foreigners,’ Edgar snapped. ‘They have no sense of time. Can’t we buy him a Rolex out of the aid budget, or something?’

  ‘Hey!’ Yulissa smacked him playfully on the arm. ‘I’m a foreigner, you know.’ Her sleeveless Elie Tahari lace and leather dress crinkled provocatively. In search of divine inspiration, Sir Gavin lifted his gaze to the chandeliers.

  ‘Yes, well.’ Scratching his groin, Edgar looked at the civil servant. ‘Where are they?’

  ‘They’re waiting in the Terracotta Room.’ O’Dowd glanced optimistically at the door. ‘The meeting is scheduled to take place in the White Drawing Room.’

  ‘And where is the bloody Foreign Secretary?’

  ‘Stuck in traffic, I believe.’

  Edgar sighed in exasperation. ‘Well, serve them some tea, and tell them we’ll be along in a short while. In the meantime, they’ll have to bloody well wait.’

  Giggling, Yulissa kept her gaze on the Cabinet Secretary as her hand disappeared under the table.

  Was it his imagination, Sir Gavin wondered, or did the PM actually stiffen?

  ‘I’ve got some important business to attend to here,’ Edgar spluttered as he shifted in his chair. ‘Miss Vasconzuelo is looking at making some additional gifts to the nation from her hugely impressive . . . body of work.’

  ‘The nation?’

  ‘To the Government Art Collection, man.’

  ‘Ah, yes.’ Sir Gavin looked pleadingly at Sir Robert Walpole for some assistance. None was forthcoming.

  ‘So, maybe,’ Edgar continued, ‘you could leave us to it. Tell the Foreign Secretary, when he manages to get here, to start the proceedings. I will be along shortly.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Sir Gavin, quickly retreating out of the room.

  Nodding to Sir Gavin on the grand staircase, Trevor Miller bounded across the entrance hall and burst into the Cabinet Office with his usual aplomb – and stopped in his tracks. Slumped in his official chair, the only one in the room possessing arms, Edgar Carlton rolled his tongue across his lower lip. His eyes were half-closed and a glazed expression occupied his face. His gentle moans could have denoted pain; or they could have equally denoted pleasure.

  Miller’s trained eye noted the PM’s dishevelled appareil, as well as signs of movement under the table.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  Still, the Prime Minister didn’t seem to realize that he was there.

  ‘Shall I come back in five minutes?’

  ‘No need,’ replied a muffled voice from under the table. ‘We’re done here.’

  With a final grunt, Edgar shook himself awake. Slowly his eyes began to regain focus. Miller discreetly averted his gaze while his boss rearranged himself, making no comment when Yulissa Vasconzuelo appeared from under the table.

  ‘I need to get going now.’ Yulissa kissed Edgar on the top of the head, though keeping her gaze firmly on his Head of Security. ‘I’ve got an art exhibition benefit at the ICA this lunchtime. Tiresome people but it has to be done. The food is terrible, as well.’

  ‘Sounds more fun than my lunch,’ Edgar said ruefully, still ignoring his staffer. ‘I’ve got to go and make nice to . . .’ he made a face as his mind went blank ‘. . . somebody or other.’

  ‘The Vice President of Afghanistan,’ Miller reminded him.

  ‘Yes, indeed.’ Edgar zipped himself up and gave his balls a hearty scratch for good measure. ‘Thank you, Trevor.’

  ‘Enjoy!’ Yulissa grinned as she skipped from the room.

  ‘What a girl!’ Edgar enthused as the door closed behind her.

  Miller smiled but said nothing.

  ‘If only we could make her Minister for the Arts, or something.’

  Miller pretended to give the idea some thought. His boss’s flights of fancy were becoming more frequent; as if the job was eating into what little brain he possessed to start with. Or maybe it was too many blow jobs? ‘She’s a foreign national,’ he pointed out eventually. ‘I think that would be a problem.’

  Edgar waved a hand dismissively. ‘Couldn’t we just give her a passport and stick her in the House of Lords or something?’

  ‘Perhaps.’ Miller had no idea. ‘Anyway, I thought that you might want an update on my breakfast with Simon Shelbourne and Sonia Claesens.’

  ‘Mm.’ Not wanting to hear about it at all, Edgar pushed himself out of the chair. ‘But the Afghan guy—’

  Trevor stepped in front of the door to block his way. ‘You’ve kept him waiting twenty minutes already. Another five won’t make any difference.’

  ‘All right,’ Edgar said huffily. He began pacing in front of the fireplace.

  Not mentioning Duncan Brown, Miller gave his boss a quick recap of the mess they were in. Even at the best of times, Edgar wasn’t a details man. ‘They are not happy about the way things are going,’ was his conclusion.

  ‘None of us are,’ Edgar grumbled.

  ‘Sonia Claesens, in particular, thinks that we should be doing something more.’<
br />
  ‘That woman . . .’ Edgar shook his head sadly.

  ‘They understand,’ Miller continued, ‘the need to progress carefully but I’m worried that she may turn out to be a loose cannon.’

  Edgar gave him an exasperated look. ‘Trevor,’ he said, ‘you’re not telling me anything new here.’

  ‘Sonia says she’s going to the Harvest Food and Music Festival. Apparently she’s already spoken to your wife about it.’

  At the mention of Anastasia, Edgar flinched.

  Miller ploughed on. ‘Clearly, all the papers would love to get a picture of you and Sonia socialising.’

  ‘That bloody horse . . . I should never have ridden that bloody horse.’

  ‘As far as I know,’ Miller said gently, ‘George Canning isn’t going to be there, but that isn’t really the point. Getting photographed consorting with such a high-profile Zenger Media exec while the phone-hacking scandal is still in full swing would not appear good.’

  Edgar raised an eyebrow. ‘And when did we suddenly become an expert in PR?’

  Miller shrugged. ‘It’s not exactly rocket science, is it? Anyway, I’ve spoken to your Communications Director, and he agrees that it would be a very bad idea for you to be present.’

  Edgar grimaced. ‘I’m sorry, but that is impossible. The festival is one of the highlights of my constituency year.’ A vague imitation of the same dreamy look that had taken flight once Yulissa Vasconzuelo left the room returned to his face. ‘Organic beefburgers, twenty-seven types of cheeses, over a hundred real ales . . .’

  You wouldn’t know a real ale if you drowned in one, Miller reflected.

  ‘It is a truly unique British event,’ Edgar continued, sounding like he’d swallowed the advertising brochure. ‘Face-painting for the kids. Lots of celebs – people that I do want to get photographed with. Jeremy Clarkson’s going to be there. Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall. KT Tunstall, for God’s sake!’

  ‘The point remains,’ Miller said firmly, ‘that there will be dozens of photographers looking to get just one particular shot – the picture of you socializing with your chum, the media executive currently accused of breaking the law on an industrial scale.’