by Peter Watson
‘What do you know about Victoria Tatton?’
Now Leith grinned. ‘Not bad, is she? She’s like mountain snow, though – very bright but very cold. Some people like them like that.’
‘What’s her background?’
‘You tell me. I don’t know much about Miss Tatton – it is miss, by the way. I do know she lives on a houseboat on the Thames, at Chelsea, because I dropped her off there once when we worked on another project abroad and travelled in together from Heathrow. But she’s fanatical about her privacy. She never socializes, doesn’t drink, lunches God-knows-where, never carries a shopping bag. Either she’s got no sins at all, or she’s so sinful she needs to keep them under lock and key all the time.’
‘And MI6 and Scotland Yard, of course, prefer the latter.’
Leith grinned. As he did so, a high-pitched whine suddenly cascaded from his breast pocket. Others in the club looked irritably across at the source of the intrusion. Without looking down, Leith reached up and switched off his bleeper. ‘O’Day demands our presence.’ He guzzled the rest of his beer. ‘Come on.’
On their way back to the studio, they passed Wilma Winnington-Brown, who was just leaving for home. She came up to Edward. ‘Hillier’s secretary has been on the phone again. They’re getting quite tetchy. Can you see him tomorrow? It might be diplomatic.’
Edward nodded. ‘I’ll try.’
‘Any progress?’
‘I can’t tell you.’ Then he whispered, ‘Not really.’
‘Will you be staying late?’
‘I don’t know. Why?’
‘I bought a thermos flask. It’s on my desk. The soup’s in it. Don’t go hungry.’
Edward looked after her as she rushed off. Maybe he should marry Wilma.
He hurried after Leith into the studio.
‘No good,’ O’Day was shouting. ‘No bloody good at all. Not a name, not one.’
Edward dosed the door.
‘It was a long shot, anyway,’ Leith said to O’Day.
‘Ye-es, but you hope, don’t you. You always hope.’ He worried at his teeth with a fingernail. ‘Lockwood is not going to be happy. Not one bit.’
‘Maybe they drove or went by train? Maybe they went from London?’ Edward looked at Victoria Tatton as he said this. He smiled vaguely but she didn’t seem to notice. Mountain snow.
O’Day was shaking his head. ‘Of course, they wouldn’t have needed to fly direct – but we can’t check every flight on every airline in Europe. And why shouldn’t they fly direct? They weren’t doing anything wrong, not then. They wouldn’t drive or take the train. This was too urgent, too exciting! They’d be in a hurry.’
He grabbed a chair and sat on it. ‘So, we need some other approach. We can’t go to the Prime Minister tonight with nothing. I’ve enough broken blood vessels as it is.’
Leith shook his head. ‘Bricks without straw, sir, you’re trying to make bricks without straw. This is a blackmail case. It’s in the nature of the beast –’
‘I know all that.’
Leith was silent.
O’Day looked at Edward.
Edward shook his head.
The MI6 man looked at Victoria Tatton. She pushed back her chair from the computer terminal and carefully put back a strand of hair that had fallen down over her face. ‘If the pictures have been kept in a bank, maybe someone who works there is involved. Can we get a list of bank employees and check if there is any overlap with the list of names we have?’
‘Well, at least someone is using their grey matter to see things in black and white. I don’t think we can get the names of every bank employee in Switzerland – that would include the whole population except for the ski instructors. But perhaps we could restrict it to Greek employees . . .’ He reached for a phone that was connected directly with his office.
‘Clemmy? Yes, look, I want a call to Berne. Tony Riley, that’s right. As soon as.’ He sat back and looked at the others. ‘This will show how good our service is. I should be able to get in touch with anyone in the field in thirty minutes. Fifteen if we are in the middle of something.’ He raised his voice. ‘But don’t you lot relax. Keep thinking while we are waiting.’
They didn’t get the chance. Within seconds the phone was flashing: very impressive.
Except that it wasn’t the call O’Day was waiting for. It was for Edward and it was Sir James Hillier, calling from his bed.
‘Edward? It’s James.’
‘I’m pleased to hear you, sir. And to know you are on the mend.’
‘You might act like you mean it, my boy. This is the third time I’ve had to call you today.’
‘I . . . I’m sorry. I was planning to drop by and see you tomorrow. Bring you abreast of all that’s been happening.’
‘See that you do. They’ve moved me from the hospital – I’m at Windsor and not dead yet, far from it.’ The line went dead.
Edward replaced the receiver. What was he going to say to Hillier? The old man wouldn’t like it if he thought he was being kept out of something when his deputy was in it up to his ears.
The phone flashed again.
It was Riley, in Berne. O’Day explained what he wanted – the names of any Greeks employed in banks in Switzerland. Whoever Riley was, he appeared not to be thrown by this demand, nor by the urgency. ‘I need to hear from you’, O’Day was saying, ‘by this time tomorrow and I know it’s Saturday. Without fail and I mean that in both senses. The service is on the line here.’ He put down the receiver and rubbed his face with his hand.
Edward spoke to O’Day. ‘Is there anything else we can usefully do tonight? I have some catching up, with my other job, I mean.’
O’Day groaned. ‘When we see Lockwood at midnight, what are we going to tell him? Nothing. We are twenty-four hours down the line and no further forward. If you worked for me, Andover, I could order you to sit here all night and worry at this problem until something did shake loose, until one of us had a brainwave. But you don’t so I can’t. I do believe, however, that you only make progress by worrying at something.’ He rubbed his face with his hand again. ‘All right. You can stand down for the time being. I shall expect you all at the midnight committee. You too, Tawsy.’
They began to disperse. However, as Edward left the studio and turned towards his office, Victoria Tatton said softly, ‘May I come?’
‘I’m just going to my office, to collect –’
‘There must be some paintings here from the Royal Collection. This is a palace, after all. I’d love to see them.’
Edward looked at her and then nodded. ‘We’d better go this way, then.’ He led her along the balcony overlooking the courtyard. He pointed out the de Vries bronze. ‘This has been here for ever. It’s been growing here. No one ever really paid any attention to it – but then a few months ago someone paid seven million pounds for another de Vries at Sotheby’s. Now we’re having it restored.’ They worked their way back to Edward’s office, inspecting along the way a Gentile da Fabriano, a Hogarth and the Canaletto by the dead fireplace. While he retrieved things from his desk, Victoria stood in front of the Veronese drawing. ‘When I see all this,’ she said quietly, ‘I know I was right to stick to computers and languages. I would never have been good enough.’
Edward smiled. ‘From what Inspector Leith tells me, you live like an artist. On a houseboat, I mean.’
‘You were talking about me?’ She turned to eye him.
‘Only in the nicest way.’
‘I wonder. What did he say?’
‘That you are fanatical about your privacy. I hope I haven’t intruded.’
She didn’t reply but looked at the Veronese again.
Edward collected his things and locked his desk. Victoria dragged herself away from the drawing as he locked the office. Outside, she stood by her official car as he prepared to bicycle. He put his papers in the basket fastened to the handlebars. When he had finished, she handed him a scrap of paper on which she had just scribbled her
address.
‘Ever been on a houseboat?’
‘No.’
‘It’s not a palace.’
‘They used to have royal barges on the Thames in Tudor times. But I thought you were fanatical about your privacy?’
Now she smiled and the creases reappeared in her cheeks. ‘I’m fanatical about three things . . . four things, really. Pictures, pasta, rare books – and not mixing those three with married men like Bob Leith.’
*
The Prime Minister’s flat, ‘above the shop’, was not only the most comfortable part of Downing Street, it was also the most exclusive. Although nine hundred and ninety-nine people out of a thousand in Britain had never been to the official Number Ten, it was visited by many of the country’s leading lights. The flat, on the other hand, was not.
Since he had been Prime Minister, William Lockwood had found that, when he wished to accomplish something especially tricky, or where he wanted a sense of privilege to outweigh another person’s better judgement, a discreet invitation to his flat at the end of the day worked wonders. That was why he had asked Owen Cutler here tonight. Cutler was a backbencher in the Commons, the member for a seat on the Welsh borders in Shropshire and in general a staunch supporter of the government. Lockwood hadn’t given him a job in his administration so far, because he needed three or four backwoodsmen like Cutler to accomplish the occasional unorthodox mission. Cutler, and others like him, were seen as independent of the government by both the opposition parties and the press, and that had, in the past, served its purpose. Now Lockwood was about to ‘burn’ Cutler.
It was what Lockwood thought of as the ‘unhappy hour’, the dead time before dinner. There were just the three of them in the sitting-room: Cutler, Lockwood and Eric Slocombe. The Prime Minister was waiting on the others – the absence of servants impressed people like Cutler. It emphasised how confidential, and therefore how important, the occasion was.
Having plied his guests with whisky, Lockwood then invariably blinded them with official gossip. ‘See how small this room is?’ He stood over Cutler as he said this. ‘You should see the President’s private quarters in the White House. Five times the size. Five times! Even the Australian Prime Minister has a better life than I do. Come through here a sec . . .’
Cutler got up and followed him through to the study.
‘Have you ever seen one of these?’ Lockwood took a dark-red leather-bound book from the desk. ‘A Prime Minister’s diary.’ He kept the book a good way from Cutler but, when it was opened, the backbencher could easily make out how crowded with appointments it was.
Now it was time for Lockwood to turn on the charm. ‘I hope you didn’t mind coming up here at such an awkward time, Owen. You’re probably going to the reception at the US Embassy – yes? Your wife won’t complain, will she?’ Lockwood smiled softly, as softly as he could, when he said this. Most people in politics would leave their wife hanging off an oil-rig for an invitation to the Number Ten sitting-room. ‘How is Bridget, by the way?’
‘I think she’s rather missing the children, actually. The second one is at boarding-school now and she may have too much time on her hands.’
‘Is Hugo already that old?’ Lockwood couldn’t really remember the names of Cutler’s children. He had been briefed by Slocombe not twenty minutes ago, on the way back from a visit to the National Police College at Bramshill. Cutler would know all that, at some level. None the less, Lockwood could see that the man was still flattered.
‘Yes, he’s thirteen and nearly six feet. Taller than me already.’
‘I’ve got three daughters, as you know,’ the Prime Minister said, taking Cutler by the elbow. ‘You’re lucky having a son . . . But come back into the sitting-room, Owen. We’re too far from the whisky in here. Eric and I have something we want to discuss with you. Let me freshen your drink and we can get down to business.’ They stepped back into the blue chintzes of the sitting-room and sat down. Slocombe hadn’t moved.
They all drank in silence and swallowed. Then Lockwood kicked off. ‘How do you see us performing at the election, Owen?’
Cutler made a face. ‘The polls aren’t encouraging, Prime Minister. Not for an outright victory anyway.’ He looked Lockwood directly in the eye. ‘Your own standing in the polls is worrying, too. Unless you have something up your sleeve.’
Lockwood put down his glass. ‘One or two ideas, Owen. One is for a brand new ministry. Do the media interest you? Eric here thinks we need a ministry for it. Run the BBC, promote British films, oversee the government’s relations with all forms of broadcasting and the press. Run the government’s adverts.’
Cutler’s eyes gleamed. ‘How are you planning to proceed, Prime Minister?’
‘With maximum secrecy, Owen. We maintain radio silence about this until the campaign is announced. Then the opposition can’t steal our clothes.’
‘You think this is an election winner?’ Cutler looked surprised.
‘Not by itself, of course. But the press has been guilty of so many outrages in the last few years that I think a lot of people will be pleased that we are at last doing something to control it.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Whoever ran the thing would have a high-profile job, of course. Great public presence – but great risks, too. Eric thinks we need a few new faces in the government next time around and I agree with him.
‘May I change the subject for a moment?’ Lockwood smiled. He had managed that rather smoothly, he thought. ‘I’m going to take you into my confidence, to show you how much I trust you, Owen, and how much I would value your advice and help. This is a matter of the utmost secrecy, as you will see.’ And for the next twelve to fifteen minutes he described to Cutler the details of the blackmail threat to the Queen. He knew he could risk it because Slocombe’s research had turned up the fact that Cutler was a devotee of the Palace. As Lockwood finished what he had to say, he got up and crossed the room to freshen Cutler’s glass a second time. Cutler waved a finger, meaning not too much. But it was only a gesture and Lockwood was more than generous. ‘Now we have a plan, Owen. But we need outside help. Someone like you. The government would be very grateful. In a practical way, I mean.’
There, the deal was on the table. As plain as it ever was in politics. The job offer had not actually been made, so that Lockwood, if he ever needed one, would always have a way out. But, that apart, the quid pro quo was as plain as a bank statement.
Cutler drank, and set down his glass. ‘What would you have me do, Prime Minister?’
Lockwood didn’t let it show but he breathed a silent prayer of relief. He paused briefly. ‘We have to leak a story to the effect that the government is considering returning the Marbles to Greece. It has to be a strong leak, from a respectable source, so that the blackmailers accept it. But, as it is a form of bluff, it can’t come from the government. As a senior backbencher, and someone who is a trustee of the National Portrait Gallery, you are perfectly placed to open up this issue. Eric?’
Slocombe nodded his head. Now the Prime Minister had hooked Cutler, the political adviser could come out of his shadow. ‘I think this should surface as a political story, not an arts one. Do you know any of the political correspondents on any of the Sunday papers? The serious broadsheets, I mean. Not the comics.’
‘I know all of them,’ said Cutler. ‘But I probably know Frank Metcalfe best. He’s on the Post.’
‘Good. What I’d suggest is this. Call him – either tonight or first thing tomorrow, Saturday. He won’t have much time to check what you tell him, so he’ll have to write it more or less as he gets it. Tell him that you’ve heard on the highest authority that the government is thinking of handing back the Marbles but that, so far, neither the Greeks themselves nor the British Museum Trustees know anything about it. Say that a secret Cabinet committee has been considering the issue and come up with a recommendation for their return. Tell Metcalfe it is all off the record, that you can’t tell him how you know all this. But trade on your governmen
t contacts and your position as a trustee. Insist that he keeps your name out of it – that will make it seem more genuine. He’ll check with Downing Street and we shall say that we cannot confirm or deny the existence of a secret committee and the same will therefore apply to the recommendations. That will sound so convoluted that he will think we are confirming it. And so the Post will run the story – right across the top of page one, I’m willing to wager.’
Cutler was silent again. He ignored his drink. Then he said, ‘What happens afterwards? I mean, how will the story develop? Metcalfe will remember that I misled him.’
‘But you may not be misleading him,’ replied Lockwood loudly, full of bluster. ‘It is certainly on the cards that we shall have to return the damned Marbles. But if we don’t, if this all has a happy ending, we’ll concoct some other story that will protect you. After all, Owen,’ he added, just a little sanctimoniously, ‘it is in my own interest to keep you clean.’ Another reference, indirect but obvious, to a future for Cutler on the government benches. ‘I’ve trusted you with everything, Owen,’ the Prime Minister went on gently. ‘You’re now a trustee of the government as well as the NPG.’
Cutler beamed. That was a direct hit. ‘I’ll call Metcalfe straight away. As soon as I get home.’
Lockwood stood up and held out his hand. ‘In that case, I’ll send you home in a government car, Owen. Just to give you a taste.’
*
When Edward reached his flat, there were three messages on the machine. He sighed. He would never have thought it possible he could loathe a machine so much. He’d already had one whisky, at the club with Leith, and there’d be more to come at the midnight committee. So, for now, he squeezed himself a grapefruit. Then he sat at the desk and pressed the ‘Answer/Play’ button.
‘This is Sammy. Great news about the concert: your effigy at school is still unmolested. In return we are taking you to the Hard Rock Café for dinner afterwards. Don’t groan – you’ll love it, and anyway it’s all we can afford.’ Edward didn’t groan. In normal circumstances, he wouldn’t have been seen dead in the Hard Rock Café – but then Sammy wasn’t normal circumstances.
