As far as the eye can see

by Phil Walden

  Indeed, one of the few conversations he had listened to, the one demanding his presence in Coburn’s office that Sunday morning a year ago, still reverberated in his mind. The tone brooked no argument, no discussion and no compromise. To Deacon it had felt as final as the swipe of a guillotine. Maybe the answer to this little mystery, the explanation for the pulling of Start’s story and the real reason for their joint dismissal was hidden on these tapes. But he would need someone with the energy, skills and time to decipher them, someone who would do as they were told and ask no questions, someone in fact who would be oblivious to the possible significance of what they were studying.

  *

  Olivia was in the office by seven o’clock. Blinds down and door firmly shut, she worked on, unaware of the bustling arrival of other members of staff an hour later. Deacon had set up a desk in the corner. The newsroom had been told she was tackling certain exercises associated with her training and that these were necessary for the successful completion of her internship. To ensure maximum concentration and enhance her prospects of success, they were told she was not to be disturbed.

  Despite her initial excitement, she had been angry at being sidelined from the Angel story and especially annoyed at being deskbound. What could she learn here? Surely Deacon realised that Start needed her? Without her energy and drive cajoling him along, he was highly likely to have sunk back into idleness and drink. If so, would he ever stagger up off his backside and visit Faversham? She doubted it. The whole story could be lost. It wasn’t fair to Angel and it wasn’t fair to her.

  But any tendency to feel sorry for herself was soon banished when Deacon had shown her the tapes. He didn’t tell her much. He admitted the voicemails were obtained secretly, that they were, as he put it, technically illegal. But he assured her, as shocking as it now seemed, the practice had been commonplace across the whole national press, accepted as part of the culture, and seen as a necessary evil to get at the truth. And, after all, wasn’t the truth their raison d’etre and, in the face of an unscrupulous ruling elite, weren’t they justified in deploying any of the means available in the pursuit of that truth?

  And when he revealed, in the strictest confidence, the recipient of the voicemails, it was true her mouth dropped open and she suppressed a yelp but any doubts she might have held about the whole process disappeared. Max Coburn was one very important and powerful person. Deacon stressed that the monitoring had been done to protect others. Most of all, he reiterated that she was to say nothing to anyone and, most especially, not a word to Joe Start. What she might discover could have major ramifications for him and at present he couldn’t be trusted to act rationally. Deacon would handle everything. She must report back to him and only him. Her job was to hear all, tell all but remember nothing.

  Olivia’s mind was racing. Deacon had obviously recognised her talent and believed in her abilities. It was more than Start had ever managed. She was flattered and Deacon was reassured to see it reflected in her proud and gratified face. But he wasn’t at all worried about giving her the task. He wanted her mind first and her loyalty second. Any unfortunate breach would see him destroy the tapes and deny all knowledge of them. Any subsequent accusations could be laid at the door of a naïve and impressionable young woman, who had misunderstood her brief and simply got carried away. It would be his word against hers. The whole thing would look preposterous. He’d been hard-nosed in the past and he would be again. Anyway if it spared her a career in this shabby and doomed business, well, he might even be doing her a favour.

  Deacon had told her to home in on the messages left after the Lord Bailey scandal. The voicemail at that time had been absolutely frantic. Two voices, both men, dominated. One was undoubtedly Bailey. She couldn’t fail to recognise that languorous drawl from televised Lords debates she studied during her Politics degree. But the panic in his voice the morning after his little indiscretion had been uncovered, was tangible, far beyond what one would expect even if the story made the Press. After all he wasn’t the first and he most certainly wouldn’t be the last politician to stray and for a member of the House of Lords, it was way down in the list of crimes perpetrated by that particular cabal of miscreants. Law makers or law breakers, she asked herself. Why was he so scared and so anxious that the story was suppressed? Did he fear a mass tabloid descent upon the hotel in question, that witnesses would be sought out, questions asked, something else uncovered. Whatever the reason might be was in no way evident from the content of any of Coburn’s messages on that day.

  The second voice intrigued her. From the outset it was calm, authoritative and insistent. The caller gave the distinct impression he was superior to Coburn, his words orders not requests, his will not to be defied. Immediate action was being demanded. It was hard to imagine anyone addressing a man of Coburn’s stature in this way. A second call requested an update on progress, but it was the third which really made her sit up. Three words only: “Judas is aware.” Immediately the phone had gone dead. She had checked back, comparing the exact time of the call with information Deacon had left relating to the timing of phone calls from Coburn to him, all made from the train carrying the proprietor back to London. These messages merely sought confirmation that the story had been pulled. There was no hint of any intended dismissals. Even a chief with Coburn’s renowned reputation for ruthlessness would weigh matters carefully before he dismissed an editor who had more than quadrupled the Globe’s readership during his tenure, or for that matter a top journalist, whose society scoops won awards and had copy flying from the shelves. But within an hour of that third message, Deacon was clearing his desk and Start was history. Whoever Judas was, at this point she could not know. But one thing was certain. For Coburn to take such action, he must be powerful and feared.

  Olivia decided to track back and listen to messages recorded prior to the events at the Norfolk hotel. She went back several weeks, listening only for calls relating to the forthcoming gathering. Messages were short and to the point, usually establishing and subsequently confirming the exact date of the meeting and the destination. The precise place was not divulged, just the name of the county, Norfolk. Was this meeting a one off or had there been others in the past? If so, were they held in the same venue or might there be a number of safe houses spread across the country? She delved back further. It was three long, hard days before she found it. In the haystack of all the questions, requests, decisions and demands relating to the many varied interests and activities of Max Coburn, lay the crucial straw. There had indeed been another assembly, six months before and this time in the county of Kent. Again there was no mention or even clues to the nature of the event, only the time and date and the county where they should congregate. Who were they? How many of them were there? Why the need for secrecy? Most intriguing of all was the caller. Olivia immediately recognised the cold and assertive tone of the second voice from the aftermath of the Norfolk debacle. Only this time he left a name: Simon.

  Simon? Judas? Was there some sort of religious connection? Or was it just a coincidence, linked, however unlikely, to someone’s actual name? She ploughed back even further over the course of the next three days, working long into the night and into the weekend, looking solely for those messages left by Simon. She found six in total and reference to two other planned meetings, one in Gloucestershire and the other in Scotland. Of more significance she thought was mention of two additional names, James and John. Both were to make what were called “contributions” to the meetings, the purposes of which were unspecified.

  In no way could anyone have labelled Olivia religious. In fact, she had railed against the Church of England doctrines routinely imposed in her schooldays, at one point in the sixth form refusing point blank to suffer the compulsory indoctrination which attendance at religious assemblies entailed. But the most threadbare knowledge of the scriptures would have sufficed to enable her to identify the pattern which appeared to be emerging. The names mentioned across the voicemails aligned with fo
ur of the Disciples. Were there eight more belonging to the group, each assuming a different moniker of the remaining followers of Christ? Why were these people so keen to hide their true identities?

  And then there was the voice. The more voicemails she listened to, the more convinced she was that she had heard that distinctive tone before. As hard as she searched her memory, it would not give up a name.

  Hence, Olivia was more anxious than ever to pursue her search. There were still hundreds of recorded messages to sift through and analyse. But Deacon had wanted to meet with her first thing that week and get some feedback. To her disappointment he had looked decidedly underwhelmed by her findings. She herself had to admit that it didn’t amount to much, given the time span her research had consumed: just a handful of meetings, four separate venues and some possible bogus names. She wasn’t surprised when he sent her packing, insisting she caught up with Start to check on progress with the Angel story. He dismissed the link with the Disciples as possibly a juvenile hangover, most likely linked to an unofficial old boys club which met irregularly to wine, dine and socialise. He claimed it was the way the old school network functioned, maintaining links, recruiting fresh blood and hence perpetuating its hold on positions of power and influence in society; unfair and indefensible but in no way sinister or threatening. He made noises about wanting her to continue at some later unspecified date but she wasn’t fooled. He thought she’d failed and that would be the end of it.

  However, to Deacon this was just the beginning. Yes, he had looked disappointed, tetchy even but it was a necessary pretence. She had to believe it was something or nothing. Easier for her to forget and not to dwell on it, to move on at least for now and not to realise that the small amount of information she had gleaned from the tapes amounted to gold dust. It confirmed what he had suspected and also dreaded. Coburn did have something to hide. Somewhere in that mass of information lay not only an answer, but also revenge for Start and retribution for himself. He had to know.

  *

  So when Start emerged from the school gates after the meeting with Faversham, it was completely understandable for him, being totally unaware of the trials of her week, to mistake Olivia’s miserable face to be nothing more than the usual glowering expression of disapproval. He was having none of it. He stalked past her, without the faintest hint of acknowledgement.

  She, for her part, angry as she was at his failure to make contact at least once in the last week, would have liked to have shared the full reasons behind her despondency, but Deacon’s warning words restrained her. She turned to follow him and found herself muttering, “I take it you’ve seen Faversham then.”

  “Yes.” His voice sounded distant and strange. He stopped by the door of the cab, staring back at the school’s wide imposing main building, lost in thought.

  “Well?”

  “Well what?”

  “How did it go?”

  “Fine… fine,” he murmured.

  Olivia’s tone picked up. “You know who Angel is?”

  “No.”

  “Was she a student here?”

  “No.”

  “Any clues about what happened to her?”

  He shook his head.

  She snapped, “What did you find out?”

  “Faversham’s lying.”

  Now she was even more curious. “Why? What’s he hiding?”

  “Do you ever stop asking questions?”

  “Do you ever give any answers?”

  “I have an idea.” Start pulled open his car door. “Get in.”

  She pointed to her Mini parked up the road. “What about my car?”

  “Do you want to know or not?”

  She nodded. They hastily jumped into the cab and drove off in frosty silence. The team, such as it was, had reunited.

  Chapter Nine

  The Forest and Country Club was a somewhat incongruous occupant of the large Palladian building, residing as it did in a leafy square off Regent Street in Central London. From its formation in the mid seventeenth century it had been a favourite haunt of gentlemen farmers visiting the capital, providing comfortable and affordable rooms with the provision for relaxation after the essential business of the day had been concluded. Its reputation soared after it became the focal point for those seeking to prevent the Repeal of the Corn Laws during the 1840s and it was increasingly seen as a bastion of conservatism and English tradition, a protector of and a voice for the countryside in an ever industrialised nation. In the last one hundred years its political stance softened and the club was now frequented more for the extensive facilities which it provided both in London but also at its secondary base in the Essex countryside. At the latter, gun sports and horse riding predominated whilst the former hosted a casino, squash courts, an indoor pistol shooting range and one of the few Turkish baths still in operation in the south. However, women were still refused entry and few radical politicians would countenance membership of what was regarded by many as an outdated, irrelevant and reactionary institution.

  So, it was something of a surprise that most ex-students of Hereward College, whatever their political persuasion, sought to join the club upon their arrival in London in search of the well remunerated employment they felt their polished education deserved. The long standing link between the two organisations and the established old college network ensured a range of offers and instant acceptance into the upper ranks of metropolitan society. Harry Spenser had been anxious to enlist Catchpole as soon as possible and with the club secretary being a personal friend, he was able to bypass the long waiting list and secure his colleague immediate membership.

  The shooting range was located deep within the bowels of the building. Spenser and Catchpole had become expert shots as students, both winning awards in competitions between the cadet corps of the college and other rival public schools. Harry was keen to let Catchpole try out the facility and determine whether the long years away in America had dulled his prowess. In truth he hoped it had. As with most things Catchpole had always been that little bit better than him, regularly overshadowing his own achievements and leaving his improvement to go largely unnoticed. He was to be disappointed. As bullets from Catchpole’s pistol thudded into the centre of the target on the far wall, he gave a resigned shrug, removed his ear defenders and watched as his erstwhile rival slid his own pair down to lay against his neck.

  “You’re better than ever,” observed Spenser.

  Catchpole began to reload, with the poise and agility of someone who was still very familiar with the sport. “All down to the San Francisco Gun Club.”

  “Handguns?”

  “Yes. Smith and Wesson Chiefs Special.”

  Spenser could not contain an appreciative whistle. “Would that be the Point 357 Magnum?”

  Catchpole nodded. “Three inch barrel with a five bullet magazine.” He slammed the cylinder home.

  “Best defence revolver of its time. Shame they’re illegal over here,” Spenser said, while detecting the faintest rise of the eyebrows and a sheepish grin from his friend. “Good heavens. Tell me you haven’t brought it in.”

  “No, not yet. But I can’t give her up. Not after fifteen years.”

  “In God’s name, how?”

  “Contact in the State Department.” Catchpole lifted his ear defenders back into place.

  “What? In a diplomatic bag?”

  Catchpole turned to face the target. He took aim and fired.

  *

  The Turkish baths were seen as the highlight of a visit to the club, providing an opportunity to wash away the physical dirt of the heavily polluted capital and, as some were fond of saying, to cleanse oneself of the spiritual grime of modern day life. Both Catchpole and Spenser were keen advocates, having experienced hammans during a trip across Europe to Turkey when they were seventeen. It had been a first introduction to the world outside of Britain for Catchpole and he had embraced the different languages and new cultures with alacrity. Spenser was well travelled but ten
ded to seek out those small British enclaves, which seem to exist in every country, providing home comforts and preserving that singular insularity for which the English were renowned. For both the baths had delivered a compromise.

  The two men walked into the entrance hall, lined with ranks of wooden cubicles, where they collected dressing gowns, a cotton wrap and slippers from the attendant. They quickly undressed, wrapping the cloth around their groin in sarong style and passed through to a humid room. They strolled towards a raised stone platform, surrounded by bathing alcoves and walls decorated in a array of coloured quartz tiles. Soft light diffused through glass located in a high vaulted ceiling.

  Casting aside the gowns, both men lay down on the heated central platform and began to work up a sweat.

  “Have you thought anymore about what I said, Tom?”

  “I don’t recall. What did you say, Harry?”

  “You know exactly. Remember Wilson’s funeral?”

  “Ah that.” Catchpole exercised his neck. “This will do me the world of good. My body feels so tense.” He pointedly turned his head away and closed his eyes. Spenser smiled. Hold back a little. Don’t press. Let him breathe.

  A few minutes later an attendant tapped them gently on the shoulder and led them to a basin in one of the alcoves. Both were scrubbed clean by a coarse mitten, rubbed vigorously across the skin, removing any dirt and dead skin.

  “Well, do you want it or not?”

  “I’m a politician aren’t I? Of course I want it.”