by Graham Ison
The Home Secretary Will See You Now
Graham Ison
© Graham Ison 2017
Graham Ison has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published in 1990 by St. Martin’s Press.
This edition published in 2017 by Endeavour Media Ltd.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter One
Alpha Two, a red Ford Sierra of the Diplomatic Protection Group, was waiting in Cutler’s Mews when Inspector Franklin arrived. Its roof beacon was still revolving lazily, bathing the mainly white walls in a rich blue light.
‘Turn that damn thing off,’ said Franklin testily. ‘You’ll have everyone in the mews complaining that there’s blue light bouncing off their bedroom ceiling.’
The driver grinned. ‘If they see a blue light in this part of London,’ he said, ‘they’re usually too busy flushing their cannabis down the toilet to complain.’ But he turned it off. Franklin glanced at the door of Number Seven. ‘Is that it?’ ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Have you rung the bell?’
‘No, sir, we waited for you.’
Franklin pressed the bell-push with his gloved thumb, and heard a corresponding ringing somewhere in the house. After a third attempt had brought no response, he stood back and surveyed the door, hunching his shoulders against the snow and wishing that he had brought a topcoat. ‘Well,’ he said at length, ‘I suppose we’ll have to break in.’
‘I’d better let control know, sir,’ said the radio operator. ‘The house is alarmed, and if it’s set we’ll have half the Group round here in two minutes flat.’
‘Yeah, right, do it.’ Franklin turned to the driver. ‘What d’you think?’
‘No good trying to’loid it, sir, not with that lock. I suggest we smash the glass panel and try that way. But if the bolts are on, or it’s mortised, we’ve had it.’
‘If the bolts are on, it means someone’s at home.’ Franklin
studied the door absently. ‘Could you get through that glass?’
The PC driver moved closer and examined the door. ‘Looks like it’s laminated, sir. Take a bit of doing, but I reckon so.’
‘She might be in bed asleep.’ Franklin looked at his watch.
‘Bit early, sir. It’s only just gone ten.’
‘I know.’ Franklin should have been off duty five minutes ago.
‘D’you want me to have a go then, sir?’ asked the driver flatly. He didn’t like Franklin and was glad that it was he who had to make the decision.
‘Mmm!’ Franklin dithered. At his former station, the police rarely worried about the social standing of their customers; here, on the DPG, every one of them was important. The Commissioner would hear about this — would have to be told in fact — and just about every one of Franklin’s senior officers, all the way up. He had been a policeman for seventeen years, long enough to know that he was facing a situation where anything he did was certain to be wrong, and that to do nothing would be wrong too.
The driver walked to the car and returned with his truncheon.
‘Go on, then,’ said the Inspector.
The driver hammered at the panel, succeeding at first only in denting the laminated glass. It took three or four minutes of concentrated effort before he was able to stand back to reveal a hole large enough to get a hand through.
‘Well, try it,’ said Franklin.
The PC put his gloved hand through the opening and, with the help of some strained facial expressions, found the latch. ‘Ah!’ he said, and pushed the door open. ‘Careless!’
Swiftly, Franklin pulled off his gloves and drew his revolver before stepping into the hallway. The lights appeared to be on all over the house. He pushed a door which swung open noiselessly on its oiled hinges; it was a sitting room, tastefully furnished with what appeared to be genuine antiques. Two or three table lamps cast relaxing little pools of light. But there was no one there.
‘Deserted!’
The Inspector started and turned suddenly; he hadn’t heard the PC enter the room. ‘What?’
‘There’s no one downstairs, sir.’ The PC smirked slightly at the revolver in the Inspector’s hand.
‘It’s like the Mary Celeste,’ said the radio operator, joining them from the hall.
‘Someone had to say it,’ said the driver.
‘Well don’t stand around. Search upstairs.’ Franklin hol-stered his gun, and watched the two PCs as they went up the open pine staircase. He walked through to the kitchen and looked around, whistling softly at the luxury of it, and wondering what his wife would give for such a workshop.
‘Mr Franklin!’
The Inspector walked quickly into the hallway again and looked up the flight of stairs. ‘What is it?’ He took the stairs two at a time to where the PC driver stood on the landing, and stopped in the doorway of what was obviously the master bedroom. His gaze swiftly surveyed the king-sized bed with its undisturbed counterpane, the built-in wardrobes, and the dressing table that ran the full length of the opposite wall. On the thick white fluffy carpet, between bed and wardrobes, lay the body of a woman attired in a full-length satin robe. Her arms were flung out above her head, and her long brown hair lay in a sweep across the carpet, almost as if it had been arranged.
‘It’s the Home Secretary’s wife, sir,’ said the PC driver, ‘and she’s dead.’
Detective Inspector Francis Wisley’s tour as Special Branch duty officer was due to finish at eleven o’clock. At halfpast ten, he walked into the reserve room and started to read the messages, putting his distinctive initials on each as he satisfied himself that the appropriate action had been taken.
He reached the message that recorded the information he had passed on to Inspector Franklin of the DPG about the Home Secretary. ‘Did we get a result from the DPG about
Dudley Lavery’s wife?’ He glanced across at the Detective Sergeant sitting on the other side of the room.
‘Nothing yet, sir.’
‘Give them a ring, will you? This message looks untidy without a result.’
The Sergeant was about to tap out the number when a light came up on the panel. He listened for a second or two and then glanced at Wisley. ‘Inspector Franklin’s on now, sir. Wants a word — on line two.’
Wisley flicked down the switch and picked up the handset. ‘Duty officer,’ he said. He pulled a pad towards him and then snapped his fingers at the Detective Constable. ‘Pen, quick,’ he mouthed, and started writing rapidly.
The head of Special Branch, Deputy Assistant Commissioner Donald Logan, was the first to arrive at Scotland Yard, or at least that part of it occupied by Special Branch, having been on the fifth floor for the dining-out of one of his colleagues.
‘Who have you told so far?’ Logan stood elegantly in the doorway, one hand in the pocket of his dinner-jacket.
‘The Commander Ops and Chief Superintendent Winter, sir,’ said Wislcy. ‘Mr Scott is on leave apparently.’
Logan nodded. ‘Yes, I know.’ He smiled to himself. Trust Ted Scott to start his leave the day before something like this happened. It meant that
poor old complaining George Winter would be the Acting Commander in charge of the personal protection officers, who to a man detested being called bodyguards but usually were, at least by the Press and the public. ‘Who is on protection with the Home Secretary?’ he asked.
‘DCI Lisle — ’
‘Right now, at this minute, I meant.’
‘DS Selway, sir.’
‘Have you told either of them?’
‘No, sir. As far as I know, the Home Secretary’s still at the House.’
‘Well, get on to Selway now, and tell him to bring the
Home Secretary here as soon as he can. I don’t want him going to Cutler’s Mews before we have a chance to talk to him. Can you get him on the air?’
‘I’ll try, sir.’
‘Well, don’t you do it.’ He waved at the Sergeant. ‘Let one of the others do it. And don’t tell him why; just say that it’s imperative that the Home Secretary comes here before he goes home. Right … ’ He swung back to face Wisley. ‘Now get the Commissioner for me — I’ll speak to him — and you’d better get hold of ACSO … ’ He paused to get out his wallet; the DAC always knew the exact whereabouts of the Assistant Commissioner Specialist Operations who was his boss, and head of the CID. He scribbled a number on a piece of paper and handed it to Wisley. ‘Then ring Commander Campbell and tell him to stand by.’ Logan had already decided that the Anti-Terrorist Branch would be involved in this, come what may. ‘In fact, I’ll speak to him, too.’
‘The Commissioner, sir,’ said Wisley, handing the receiver over and standing up to allow the DAC to sit down.
It took the Commissioner twenty minutes to get from his official residence in Barnes to New Scotland Yard. Having sharply overcome the initial doubt in the mind of the operator at the Central Command Complex that it actually was the Commissioner on the phone, Sir James Gilmore was none the less surprised that a traffic car had arrived at his house within ninety seconds of his replacing the receiver; this miracle was not explained by the traffic division driver who had been fortunate enough to be patrolling less than a mile away when the call came through.
The constable on duty in the Back Hall of New Scotland Yard was not so lucky. Although he had heard the squeak of the revolving door, he failed immediately to look up from doing the crossword in the following day’s Daily Telegraph which had just arrived, and was not aware of the Commissioner’s arrival until Sir James was passing him. ‘Good evening,’ said Gilmore icily.
The constable tried to rise quickly to his feet, only to find that his stool was too close to the counter and he was trapped. ‘All correct, sir,’ he said hurriedly.
‘Good.’ The Commissioner made his way to the lift and rode to the eighteenth floor.
Wisley held open the swing door leading from the lift lobby. ‘Mr Logan’s in his office, sir.’
‘Thank you.’ The Commissioner nodded, and made his way down the corridor to the DAC’s large corner room.
Logan and his two colleagues rose as Gilmore entered. ‘You know Frank Hussey, my Commander Operations, sir,’ said Logan, ‘and this is Detective Chief Superintendent George Winter who’s acting Commander Protection.’ He smiled. ‘Ted Scott picked a good week to go on leave.’
Gilmore smiled too. ‘I don’t think we’ll be having an early night tonight somehow, gentlemen,’ he said.
Logan glanced at the clock. ‘I’d offer you a drink, sir,’ he said, ‘but I’m expecting the Home Secretary at any moment, and in the circumstances it might seem a trifle impolitic.’
‘Yes, of course. Peter Frobisher not arrived yet?’
‘Not yet, sir. He was at a CID dinner at the Novotcl in Hammersmith.’
The Commissioner laughed. ‘Pity I didn’t think of that; I passed it on the way.’
Logan thought it unwise to tell Gilmore that the Assistant Commissioner was going to get to the Yard as soon as he could, but, as Frobisher had succinctly put it: ‘If the bloody woman’s dead, there’s no rush’; consequently he had taken his wife home in his official car first before making his way back into Central London.
‘What’s the background to this business, Donald?’ asked the Commissioner.
‘In brief, sir, the Home Secretary tried to telephone his wife from the House at around six-thirty, I think it was, but got no reply. Apparently she should have been at home. He tried again, twice from his club, and then again from the House at about nine-thirty or so, but still got no reply. He expressed his concern to Detective Sergeant Selway, his
protection officer, who arranged for the DPG to check. The rest I told you on the phone, sir.’
The Commissioner nodded. ‘If I remember correctly, you had quite a fight to get him to have a protection officer, didn’t you?’
‘Yes. But we couldn’t persuade him to have a man on the door. It’s beginning to look like a case of “I told you so”.’
DI Wisley appeared in the doorway. ‘The Home Secretary, sir.’
Although Dudley Lavery was in his mid-fifties, he still retained his youthful looks, helped by a full head of dark hair, with only a trace of grey, and a loose lock that fell persistently across his forehead. He looked around at the small assembly and smiled the ready smile that had captivated hundreds of women voters. His left hand was in his jacket pocket and he seemed to be leaning forward slightly, an illusion that gave him an air of purpose. ‘James,’ he said, pushing out a hand in the Commissioner’s direction. ‘An august gathering, if I may say so. This must be something terribly serious.’
‘I think you know Donald Logan, the head of my Special Branch,’ said Gilmore, ‘and probably Frank Hussey and Mr Winter too?’
‘Indeed, indeed,’ murmured Lavery. He beamed at Logan. ‘A most enjoyable luncheon, I recall.’
‘The Home Secretary was a guest at our senior officers’ luncheon club a month or two back, sir,’ said Logan to the Commissioner, and turning to Lavery, said: ‘Do sit down, sir.’ ‘If you’ll excuse us, sir,’ said Commander Hussey, ‘Mr Winter and I have things to do.’ They hadn’t — at least not immediately — but Logan and the Commissioner had decided that they didn’t want a crowd when they broke the news to Lavery of his wife’s death.
‘I’m afraid we have some bad news for you concerning your wife, sir,’ said the Commissioner without preamble. A lifetime of policing had taught him that there was never much profit in skirting round the subject of bad news and he had had time to reflect that it was something like thirty-five years since he had delivered his first death message, as a very
young constable in Paddington. Tm sorry to have to tell you that she was found dead at your house earlier this evening.’ Slowly the Home Secretary’s smile ebbed from his face, and he stared at the Commissioner, transfixed and unbelieving. There was a silence in the room, as though activity everywhere had been suspended. Slowly, Lavery leaned forward, supporting his head in his hands, staring at Logan’s plain green carpet. After some time he looked up. ‘Good God!’ he said. ‘But how — I mean, was it a heart attack, or did she fall … ? What in hell’s name happened?’
‘It would appear,’ said Gilmore in measured tones, ‘that she was murdered.’
‘Murdered … ?’ Lavery repeated the word in a whisper, and slowly shook his head. ‘But what … how … who would do such a thing?’
‘A preliminary examination of the scene’ — the Commissioner struggled on pedantically — ‘indicates that she was strangled by an intruder.’ He paused, wondering, as he always did, why there was no easy way of telling the bereaved that their loved ones had met a violent death, and realising, yet again, that there never could be an easy way. ‘Although I have to say,’ he continued, ‘that there was no sign of a forced entry.’ He glanced at Logan for confirmation; the DAC nodded.
Lavery looked up sharply. ‘What d’you mean by that?’
‘In our experience,’ said Gilmore, ‘it could mean that the killer was known to your wife, or, conversely, she opened the door to a complete stranger … ’
/> ‘She would never have done that. Good God, I’ve told her never to do that.’ He looked at Logan. ‘Your people have told her that: Tony Lisle gave her a long lecture when I was appointed.’
‘I must emphasise though,’ continued Gilmore, ‘that those are only our first thoughts. We may be wrong.’
Lavery stood up suddenly. ‘I must go there,’ he said.
‘I don’t think that that would be a very good idea, Home Secretary. The Anti-Terrorist people are there at the moment, examining the scene. There are forensic scientists, fingerprint
people, and photographers. And of course they are waiting for the pathologist to arrive.’ Gilmore glanced at his watch. ‘In fact, she should be there now.’
Lavery looked up wearily. ‘Who is it?’
‘Pamela Hatcher. She’s very good.’
The Home Secretary nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I know of her work.’
‘I should sit down, sir,’ said the Commissioner. ‘There’s nothing you could do if you went there.’
‘Except get in everybody’s way, James, that’s what you’re really saying, isn’t it?’ He smiled.
‘In the nicest possible way — yes.’ Gilmore glanced at Logan before looking at Lavery again. ‘I have reason to believe, Home Secretary, that Donald has some very good brandy in his cupboard. I think we might be able to persuade him … ’
Logan crossed the room to his cocktail cabinet and poured three stiff measures of Courvoisier XO.
‘Thank you, that’s most kind,’ said Lavery, gently swirling the brandy in his glass. ‘Well, James, what happens now?’ The winsome television smile crept slowly back to his face.
‘I have ordered the Anti-Terrorist Branch to take charge of the inquiry, sir, and they — ’
‘D’you think it’s a terrorist matter then?’ asked Lavery sharply. Gilmore’s first mention of S013 Branch obviously hadn’t registered.
The Commissioner gestured briefly with his free hand. ‘We have no idea, at least not at this stage.’
Lavery took a mouthful of brandy and rested the glass on the arm of his chair, steadying it with his hand. He gazed at it briefly as the politician in him reasserted itself. ‘I’m not very keen on that, James.’
