The Bell Ringers

by Henry Porter

  The news that a middle-aged woman named Kidd had been sprung from Hotel Papa by Eyam’s friend Kate Lockhart and a convicted criminal using a stolen car reached Number Ten about half an hour later. There was plenty of CCTV footage of the pair, but it was still not clear why the officer in charge had let the woman go without any proper authorisation. He maintained he had received a call from Downing Street and rang back to confirm the release, but could not say to whom he’d spoken.

  Yes, thought Cannon, it would very soon be revealed that the policeman had been given a number in the Communications Centre. They might even link that to a call from Peter Kilmartin and someone somewhere might have a recording of the conversations, but they weren’t going to do anything to him, not now that he had the ultimate protection tucked in his breast pocket – four sheets of A4 paper, which Lyme had got hold of from the Government Scientific Service and which had also been sent to the prime minister’s private office in a secure bag an hour ago. Nobody would mess with him now, least of all John Temple.

  But it was not Cannon’s style to wave a gun in the air, and he looked round his colleagues in the election strategy meeting with a mild air and waited.

  If the election was going to be called that afternoon, the button had to be pushed now to enable Temple to go to the palace at five and return to Downing Street in time to make his announcement to the media outside Number Ten before the six o’clock news. Everything was ready – a miracle had been achieved by the party. The manifesto was on the presses and campaigning in the marginal seats had virtually begun. Temple could go any time he wanted.

  Eventually the prime minister’s gaze fell on Cannon. ‘So this afternoon it is,’ he said.

  ‘Certainly, if you want the announcement of the general election to come a poor second on the news agenda, go ahead, prime minister.’ He stopped and looked round the usual faces. ‘The David Eyam story will push you off the front page,’ he continued. ‘All the TV channels are leading on it now. Even though it’s an open secret that you are going to call the election, the Eyam story has huge momentum. More and more detail is being added at every bulletin and we’re only a couple of hours into this thing.’

  ‘But Eyam is the enemy. We are his victims,’ said Temple hopelessly. ‘He is attempting to distort the legitimate democratic process.’

  Cannon blinked rapidly. ‘That’s not the way it is being presented, prime minister. The main thrust of the coverage is that a practising paedophile was at the heart of government and had access to all the nation’s secrets. An issue of competency is being raised, even though it is well over two years old. We have received a hundred calls from journalists in the last hour, and most are asking why a man who went to the trouble of staging his own death in such an elaborate fashion would bother to come back to certain imprisonment. It doesn’t make sense and when a story doesn’t add up like this it becomes an obsession. The media won’t want to let it go, not even for you.’

  ‘As soon as Eyam is arrested that will all have to stop.’

  ‘But you can’t say when that will be. Eyam’s associate has just removed a suspect from beneath our noses. Why? Why did Kate Lockhart take that risk? We can make some educated guesses but we don’t know.’

  ‘That woman,’ snapped Temple, ‘is the pivot of the whole plot. This is the second time she has made a fool of us today.’

  ‘Well, we did train her,’ said Cannon. ‘The point is that we haven’t been able to lay a hand on Eyam. We don’t know where he is. Intelligence led us to believe that there was going to be some sort of press conference in a hotel. That is beginning to look extremely unlikely. So far nothing has happened. In the last hour the St James’s Library has been raided by the police and Security Service in a manner that is now being condemned as oppressive. It’s like raiding the Women’s Institute. There are TV crews outside there now. Apparently police were acting on intelligence but clearly the information was wrong and now the great and good on the library’s board are going to cause hell about the oppressive behaviour. You’ve got the army on the streets, thousands of people being stopped and searched, scores being secretly held against their will and without legal representation.’ He stopped. ‘I respectfully submit that these are not auspicious circumstances in which to call an election where you are going to be arguing for continuation of calm, orderly government. Give the police time to arrest and charge Eyam, then call the election. Let this storm blow itself out in the media overnight.’ Cannon sat back, knowing he had used every reasonable argument. The only things left were the four sheets of paper in his pocket.

  There was further discussion lasting ten minutes, in which Cannon took no part. At length Temple said he would consult further and asked Dawn Gruppo to be in touch with the palace and the office of the president of the European Council, who was due at Number Ten the next morning.

  As they rose, Temple murmured to Cannon: ‘We’ve got to get the woman Lockhart – she’s clearly the key to it all.’

  30

  The Joins

  Miff pulled up in a side street off the Edgware Road, and told Kate that he would find a safe place for Diana Kidd. Mrs Kidd was in no state to protest but sat in the back of the Jaguar dabbing at her chest and muttering that she never expected to be on the run from the police.

  ‘Tell David to save his strength for tomorrow and give him my love.’

  Thus instructed, Miff went off with his unlikely cargo, while Kate made her way to Bloomsbury, where she took refuge in one of the dubious small hotels in the area. She told the man behind the reception of The Corinth that she would need the room for no more than four hours and would pay double the daily rate in cash provided she didn’t have to show him an ID card. He was used to such arrangements and led her to a room at the back that smelled of stale smoke overlaid by sweet air freshener. He handed her the key and asked, with just the hint of a leer, if she expected to be joined by anyone. No, she replied, dropping her bag against a Dimplex radiator, which tolled like a bell: all she wanted was rest.

  On the way she’d seen a newspaper billboard which read Number Ten Child Porn Scandal. She reached for the remote and turned on the little television that was perched high up on a shelf in the corner. After a few minutes watching BBC News, she swore and turned the set off. Outside it was beginning to rain again, and she wondered briefly what in God’s name had persuaded her to think she could ever make a life in this damp little country. She picked up the hotel phone and dialled Eyam’s number.

  ‘How’re you feeling?’ she asked.

  ‘Rough.’

  She let her cheek sink into her hand. ‘Have you seen the news?’

  ‘Yes. At least it means they’re less likely to take a pot at us.’

  ‘Don’t be too sure.’

  ‘What is it, Kate?’

  ‘We don’t stand a chance, do we? It’s just ridiculous to think that the committee is going to hear you now. Whatever we say or do . . .’ She stopped.

  ‘What?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said.

  ‘I’ve had a lot of doubts along the way, you know. Last September I was wondering whether to give it all up and concentrate on my treatment. I was lying in the garden at the Dove, staring up at a peerless blue sky and I noticed hundreds, maybe thousands of swallows, fluttering high up like silver chaff. I watched for a bit then I noticed something else. It was a drone stationed over the valley, observing the Dove. How dare they? I thought. What bloody right do they have to do this? And that made up my mind.’

  ‘But if we don’t pull this off we are all going to be arrested. I saw where they were holding people today. This is the beginning of something really sinister – utterly new in British life. It’s in those circumstances that people are disappeared, and I am damn sure that even if you were arrested you’d never be allowed to speak in an open court. None of us would.’

  ‘There is a lot at stake. There always has been. But we have to try. We have to, Kate.’

  ‘You sound awful,�
� she said. ‘Let me put things together tonight. I’ll have Kilmartin with me. We can do it.’

  ‘But you don’t know the order of the papers. Each document illustrates a point. There is a logic to it all, an argument, a narrative.’

  ‘Look, David, that’s my job. I know how to do it. This is how I go to war. We’ll manage. You rest up for tomorrow. Are you going to be OK about getting there?’

  ‘Yes, and you?’

  ‘It’ll be a cinch. And . . . last night . . .’

  ‘Was wonderful,’ he said. ‘I am overwhelmed. More than I can say.’

  ‘Me too,’ she said, suddenly gripped by an inexpressible sense of doom. ‘OK, I’d better go now. We’ll speak later. Stay safe.’

  She hung up and immediately cursed her reticence – her failure to say she loved him. A moment or two of self-recrimination was followed by a brisk ordering of her phones and computer, together with the list she’d made of the Bell Ringers that morning. Laid out before her, it all seemed hopelessly inadequate, but she phoned each one, ticking off the name as she told them where and when to deliver the packages. Each was given a time the package should arrive. She reminded them that they did not have to make the delivery in person and that cabs and messengers could be used. She ended with the same instruction. ‘When you’re done, get rid of the phone and make yourself scarce.’ She knew they all had emergency accommodation arranged.

  Last she spoke to Evan Thomas, the intense Welshman, and asked if he had any of the tools of his trade with him. He replied rather testily that of course he hadn’t, but he could go to his friend at the Alinea Bindery in Bayswater and borrow some.

  ‘It means you’ll be up all night,’ she said.

  ‘Not a problem,’ said Thomas.

  ‘Just let me know you’ve got what you need, then dump your phone.’

  ‘Righty-ho,’ he said.

  She too would have to remain awake all night. She lay on the bed, set the radio alarm on the bedside table and tried to get some sleep.

  Just after six that evening Cannon ran into Jamie Ferris outside one of the washrooms in Number Ten. ‘We’ve got the bastard,’ he said, punching a fist into his palm. ‘We’ll have Eyam in the bag by the end of the evening; in fact, we’ll have the whole lot. I have just told the prime minister.’

  ‘Well done,’ replied Cannon, seeming to share a little of Ferris’s excitement. ‘How did you manage it?’

  Ferris tapped his nose. ‘Aristotle Miff, the man seen at Hotel Papa with Kate Lockhart, has been traced to the East End. We believe Eyam is in an estate known to be frequented by one of Miff’s associates. We’re watching both locations. It’s just a matter of time before we track down that bloody woman.’

  ‘And the rest of them?’

  ‘We’ll be yanking their fucking chains by morning because they’ve got to keep in touch with Daddy Eyam. They’re nothing without Eyam. If he’s got a phone on we will soon know the number and every number it has called and that means we’ll have locations for every one of these fucking people.’

  Cannon laid a hand on Ferris’s shoulder. ‘That’s wonderful news.’

  ‘Must be getting along – I want to be there for the kill.’

  ‘No, you mustn’t miss out,’ said Cannon.

  Cannon slipped into the office occupied by the garden girls and dialled Kilmartin’s number. Then, turning his back to the room, he murmured: ‘They’ve got a position for your friend. They are monitoring the phones in the area and are confident of an early arrest.’

  She snapped awake with the first ring from Kilmartin. Before he had finished speaking she lunged for the other phone, tugging the charger from the wall socket, and pressed the last number dialled. ‘Get out now,’ she shouted at Eyam. ‘They know where you are.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Eyam. ‘But we’ll leave anyway.’

  She gave him the number of the set in her other hand – the one supplied by Kilmartin – and told him to use it only in an emergency and rang off. ‘I’ll see you later,’ she said to Kilmartin.

  ‘I await you,’ he replied, also rather coolly.

  Half an hour later she was let in a door at the rear of the British Museum in Montagu Place by a security guard. As instructed by Kilmartin, she said she was with the film crew and was led to the great Arched Room on the west of the museum.

  Kilmartin was at the furthest end of a row of tables that ran down the centre of the room, reading in a pool of light thrown from an Anglepoise lamp. His hand fidgeted with the tray in front of him.

  He stood up when he saw her. ‘Ah, welcome – glad you had no bother getting in.’

  She walked to him, looking round. The Arched Room resembled a small church. Five arches separated six tall bays either side of a central aisle. Each bay acted as a large cabinet with hundreds of trays lining the walls right up to the point where a metal gallery ran around the top of the room. On the tables in the centre were cutting pads, weighing scales, marked boxes, magnifiers and rolls of tape. ‘Where are we?’ she asked.

  ‘In the great library of King Ashurbanipal of Assyria.’ He smiled at her, pulled out one of the drawers nearest to them and selected a piece of pottery about the size of a packet of cigarettes, which was indented with regular, wedge-shaped cuts. ‘Cuneiform,’ he said. ‘There are over twenty-five thousand tablets from Ashurbanipal’s library alone, and maybe another hundred thousand tablets in the museum’s collection.’ He replaced the tablet. ‘Take a pew. Coffee?’

  He reached down into a shopping bag and withdrew a Thermos flask. There were parcels of silver foil, a bottle of water and some fruit. Kilmartin had prepared as though he was attending races on a summer afternoon. He looked around with relish. ‘King Ashurbanipal was a scholar as well as a great general, you know. In his brief life he built one of the greatest libraries ever to exist – maybe the first library of them all. We know from his records that he sent agents to discover new texts and bring them to his library at Nineveh.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, more interested by Kilmartin’s energised manner. He seemed different – younger.

  ‘When the Persians sacked Nineveh they burned the library,’ he continued. ‘As a result the tablets were baked, which made sure they were preserved. However, a lot were broken and that’s the business of this place. Making joins.’

  ‘Joins? What joins?’

  ‘Joining them up so the complete text can be read.’

  ‘Ah! Kind of what we’re here to do with Eyam’s documents,’ she said, looking at her watch.

  ‘That’s exactly right.’

  She pulled out the papers she’d rescued from the car park with Diana Kidd and flourished them. ‘At least we’ve got something to start with.’

  ‘Oh, we have a lot more than that. So far eight packages have arrived.’ He pointed under the table to a pile of envelopes. ‘I expect they couldn’t wait to be shot of them.’

  ‘Have you looked?’

  ‘No, I was waiting for you.’

  She drew the pile towards her. ‘Let’s clear a couple of tables.’

  They began rapidly spreading out the papers. Some were covered in clear plastic which included a flap at the left-hand edge so the document could be clipped into a file. She noticed that these often included handwritten notes and in some cases signatures. Eyam had tried to preserve any fingerprints or DNA evidence that might still cling to the surface of the papers.

  They ordered the dated documents chronologically, but this gave no sense of what they had in front of them, nor did putting them into categories, such as memoranda, accounts, emails, letters, legislation and policy papers. There were impenetrable pages of departmental accounts, obliquely worded emails, turgid sociological studies. None of it seemed to add up to much. They sat at adjacent tables and began to read. Kate bent over The Way forward: Social Intelligence, a paper from 2009, and Kilmartin started working his way through a bundle from the Home Office and a think tank called Foresight, research that was all sponsored by the Ortelius Institut
e for Public Policy Research, a fact noted in tiny print at the base of the documents.

  Over the next hour, more deliveries were made. A security guard appeared with two pizza boxes and a bunch of flowers – the cover for three packages. He advised that the pizza could not be consumed in the Arched Room and said he would find a home for the spring posy. Other packages were dropped off by messengers on motorcycles and bicycles, and in one case by a rickshaw driver. By half past nine, fifteen packages had arrived. Most of the Bell Ringers did not remember, or were too cautious, to put their names to their package so she had no idea who on her list still had to make their delivery. Part of her wished she hadn’t told them to get rid of their phones, although of course it was vital that they did so to avoid being traced and picked up. She had no number for Eyam either and that bothered her.

  But they were beginning to feel their way into Eyam’s structure. There were three groups. The first showed how different policy documents and unnoticed paragraphs from different Acts of Parliament combined to create the conditions for wholesale invasion of privacy of the British public. For instance, a paper from Ortelius argued for a discreet observation of the behaviour of all adults to assess their suitability or performance as parents. Such information would alert the state of the need for intervention in ‘problem families’ long before social workers would spot it. A clause in a bill enabled a programme called ‘Family Watch’.

  At the same time, ASCAMS was set up in anticipation of trouble at the London Olympics and this too involved trawling through enormous amounts of personal data. While the merger of all government databases under the ‘Transformational Government’ programme made this possible, the steady flow of Ortelius policy documents chipping away at the right to privacy in the face of grave social problems made it all seem desirable.