by Phil Walden
Now Olivia was enthralled, all thoughts on the fire instantly banished from her mind. “We need to look at the schedules.”
Start pointed to the computer screen. “That’s what I’ve been trying to do.”
“I’ll be quicker.” She dragged a chair up beside him and pulled the keyboard in front of her.
He had to admit the speed of her fingers across the keyboard put him to shame but her presumptuous air of superiority was still galling.
“We’ve got two windows of time,” she said. “There’s the first time she stood and the second when she etched the symbol on the glass.”
It proved relatively straightforward for her to narrow down the search for the programmes on air around the time of Angel’s actions. It was then a question of listening through each one and noting both the content and the personalities involved. Tiresome and time consuming, Start thought. Despite her protestations, it was an easy decision to let Olivia get on with it. More importantly it allowed him to escape and seize the only free slot in Deacon’s otherwise hectic day. For, on the journey across, what had made Start determined to extract every whining ounce of acceleration from his car’s protesting engine was his editor’s latest text. The anonymous informant had called again.
*
The call had come early that morning. The voice was uncertain, nervous even with a pronounced stutter on the consonants p, b and s. It told of a briefing for all staff to explain the sound of breaking glass and the police presence in the early hours. An alarm had gone off in the local station. Two patrolmen arrived to investigate, obviously disturbing the thieves. A jemmy was hurled at a window as a distraction to allow the hoodlums to escape. Thorough checks were carried out. Nothing had been taken. Security measures were to be strengthened and there was no cause for concern. The caller was adamant: he wasn’t buying that. Something about Faversham’s manner had made him doubt the veracity of this explanation. The headmaster was strident, insistent and seemingly keen to gloss over what was a serious incident. The message ended with these stark words: ‘Faversham has much to hide.’
The anxiety evident in the call seemed to be a cry for help, a plea for them to investigate and to expose possible wrongdoing at the college. It was clear that Faversham, even if he was not hiding something, was being very economical with the truth. He had denied all knowledge of Angel and, of course, Start knew that something had been taken last night. The booty was folded up and resting neatly in the inside pocket of his jacket. But he wasn’t about to worry Deacon with the ways and means deployed to access the detail of the girl’s employment at the school. A scandal was a scandal however big or small and he intuitively felt that another one involving his good self would not go down well with his boss. To share the information gleaned was enough for now.
Deacon switched off the answer machine. “So where next?”
“We have to trace this caller, whoever he is. Find out what he knows about the school, about Faversham and Angel,” Start replied.
“He doesn’t dare use his mobile. He rings from a call box. I checked with a contact at BT. It’s just down the street from the school.”
“The fact that he recognised her picture in the paper suggests that he’s had a long association with the school. And this last message must mean he works there in some capacity.”
“So?”
“We send someone in. Flush him out.”
“Got anyone in mind?”
“It can’t be me. Faversham knows who I am,” Start insisted.
At that precise moment Olivia burst through the door. “I’ve found it!” she exclaimed.
She perched herself on Deacon’s desk and explained that the only common factor in the two windows of time was not something but someone. That someone had appeared on a political programme as the subject of an in depth interview, one of many he had subsequently done across various media outlets.
“He did the first one before he arrived in the country,” she explained. The second was as a guest on a late night music show, where celebrities were invited to share their favourite performers and songs.
“It’s a sort of poor man’s Desert Island Discs,” Olivia added. And that someone she went on to claim was the new political star recently returned from many years in the United States, the one currently taking every opportunity to raise his profile across the country as a whole. That someone was Tom Catchpole.
A possible connection between Angel and Catchpole, as much as it seemed unlikely and implausible, could not be discarded. As well as the link between the radio programmes and Angel’s actions, Olivia had turned up two other compelling facts. Firstly, she had gone on to look up the many political websites anxious to include a synopsis of Catchpole’s life and found that not only was he an alumnus of Hereward College but had been a student there at the time of Angel’s employment. Secondly, Angel had been found alone and dishevelled in the Top Fen in September the following year, around the time he left to pursue his academic career in California. It might just be coincidence but it could not be ignored. Start and Deacon both had the same thought. They turned and looked at Olivia.
“Why a cleaner, for God’s sake?” Olivia moaned loudly. “Why not pretend I’m researching a good news story?”
“Sorry. Faversham knows the paper’s sniffing. He might smell a rat,” Start replied. He was fighting hard to dispel the hugely satisfying image of Olivia, mop and bucket in hand, scrubbing the floors of academia.
“Well, I think it’s a mad idea.”
“Stop whingeing. Just brush up on your Polish and be prepared to work hard. Otherwise you’ll have no chance of fitting in.”
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
Deacon came back into the office. “It’s all fixed. The cleaning is done by an agency and they’re recruiting. You start first thing next week.” He held the door open, an action she took as an indication for her to leave. It was obvious she was being shut out, excluded from something bigger, something they were about to discuss. As she left, Start caught her backward glance, not the moody disgruntled pout he had expected but a genuine look of disappointment and resignation.
The two men sank back into chairs on opposite sides of the cluttered desk. To both, the situation had become clear. They had been here before, many times in the past. They recognised the signs: the glint in each other’s eyes, the nervous anticipation, the intoxicating thrill of the chase. This story had suddenly become much bigger than either of them had imagined. Whilst Olivia sought to identify the anonymous informer, Start would have to dig hard, hard into the background, history and character of a politician who was now being touted as a future leader of Her Majesty’s Opposition. They both instinctively knew. Whether he liked it or not, it had to be done. Start was going back to London.
Chapter Twelve
A black Toyota Prius drew to a halt in front of the high gates of a large, bland brick edifice situated in the outer reaches of Heathrow airport. It had become customary not only to farm out the management of the UK’s fourteen immigration centres to private companies but to locate them in inaccessible places. Here, far from the public’s gaze, hundreds of men, women and children, mostly from North Africa and the Middle East, were detained, pending an asylum hearing or, if their appeal failed, deportation.
Caroline Bruce hated these visits but they were a necessary part of opposition as well as government, a means to show that the party was engaged and serious about the issues it would have to tackle upon its eventual return to power. She wasn’t unduly surprised when Patrick Carlton asked to accompany her, claiming the presence of two big hitters would ensure maximum media coverage. He was particularly complimentary on the journey out, admiring her appearance, praising her achievements and expressing thanks for her unswerving loyalty to Devaney. She wasn’t fooled. He had yet to broker the subject but she knew he would. It was only a matter of time. She had every intention of playing the game and a single minded determination to control it too.
The head of the centre, a short
balding man in his late fifties, hurried down the entrance steps to greet them effusively as they stepped out of the car. There followed the usual routine involving a quick sweep through carefully selected areas of the complex, accompanied by management figures anxiously looking ahead and sideways for any potential threat to the smooth running of the visit. Bruce and Carlton were shown the single rooms, equipped with television and internet facilities, introduced to their smiling and contented occupants and then escorted through pristine lounges and kitchens.
Caroline knew that if she chose, she could swerve away. She would find the quarters holding six to a room and inmates who would testify to poor food, bullying staff, lack of medical treatment and the ever present threat of violence. Normally, it would be powerful ammunition to use against the government but these were not normal times. It would be easy to align with human rights campaigners striving to have these centres shut but there were no headlines and no votes in that. The zeitgeist demanded that she looked and sounded tough on immigration. Her angle, discussed earlier with her aides, would be that the facilities were adequate but the processing slow, leading to long delays in the repatriation of many asylum seekers and subsequently unacceptable costs.
She would be criticised, accused of opportunism and a lack of principle and the accusers on the backbenches would be, as always, mainly men. What did they know? How could they remotely understand what it was like to be a female fighting to succeed at Westminster? The Iron Lady may have forced open the door in the nineteen eighties but she’d slammed it firmly shut behind her. On entering politics, Bruce herself had quickly learned that she would not be judged by the standards of her male counterparts. Take a stance, defend a position or simply express an opinion and you were shot down with a venom rarely deployed against men. Much better for Bruce to use the other assets she had. So she dressed to attract and worked to impress. She was passionate and personable, able to persuade an individual, captivate a small gathering or work a large crowd. As a result her peers liked her. Some even professed to adoring her. Either way, she played them. It was easier, requiring no outward commitment and no allegiance beyond the shallow and the vague. She progressed, from researcher to parliamentary aide, from Member of Parliament to junior minister and on to a place in the Shadow Cabinet. She had risen to become the face of the party, a fact tolerated by most, resented by some but denied by none.
The obligatory photo shoot followed at the rear of the building. The two politicians posed with a family newly arrived from Syria. With the help of a translator, the father fed the media mob a long, harrowing tale of death and destruction at the hands of both the government and rebel jihadists. Afterwards, the throng moved on to watch an impromptu football match being played by detainees on a grassy patch nearby. Carlton took the opportunity to guide Bruce away, detaching them a little from the main party. Bruce sensed the moment was near.
She got in first. “I’ve been expecting you, Paddy.”
Carlton feigned surprise. “Really?”
“Especially since Wilson’s death.”
“Sad business that.”
“Not like you to show your face at one of these jaunts.”
“Good now and again to get out and about. Meet the people.”
“I thought you were one of the people,” Caroline teased.
A mix of foreign languages shouted and cajoled as Albanians, Arabs and Africans tore after a worn and shredded football.
“Did Jim send you?” she asked.
“Don’t be daft. You know I always enjoy my days politicking with you. Anyway why would he?”
“The little matter of the 1900 Committee?”
“Well I’m sure Jim would appreciate any support you can give him.”
“What if there’s a challenge?”
“That would be regrettable. Jim might find it hard to forgive.”
“Is that a threat?”
“Treat it as a piece of friendly advice. Listen. Jim knows the game’s up. He’s weary and more than ready to go.”
“Then why doesn’t he?”
Carlton gripped her arm. “Isn’t it obvious? He wants you to take over. Eventually.”
Bruce looked down at the hand holding her tightly. “Go on.”
Carlton’s hand relaxed. “Jim thinks you offer something for everyone. You’re the perfect consensus candidate. But we need to get the policy and direction of the party right first.”
“Not before time.”
“After all, it’s what Jim was mandated to do. And he can do it, but he needs you on board selling the vision to the movement as a whole.”
“Maybe I could do that more effectively as leader.”
“A challenge now would throw the party into turmoil, at a time when folk are struggling. They’d frown on that. Better to aim for a smooth transition, say in a year or two’s time. What do you say, lass?”
Caroline Bruce merely smiled and moved to rejoin the group, where she began to talk to the head of the centre. Carlton watched, his face hardening as his thoughts darkened.
*
Anyone returning to London after an absence of ten or more years would have been staggered by the transformation of the Thames waterside, particularly the South Bank. Gone were the myriad of alleyways connecting the warehouses and wharfs of the old docks. In their place luxury flats, built with vast tranches of foreign money, spread along huge lengths of the waterfront.
Tom Catchpole’s apartment was situated just east of the Globe Theatre, in an area regarded as fashionable with its vibrant club and restaurant scene. It occupied the fifth floor of a block directly overlooking the river, affording views across to St. Pauls Cathedral and down to the towers of Canary Wharf, and was high enough to offer some relief from the hustle and bustle of the busy road below. Some relief also, he thought, from the snake pit that was forever Westminster with the continuing fall out and recriminations from Dominic Wilson’s untimely death. His hands and conscience were clean of any responsibility for that tragic episode and, for that matter, from involvement in any of the political skulduggery which seemed to be plaguing the party.
Catchpole pulled the curtains together, cocooning himself and Trisha in their own contented bubble, soothed by the strains of Don Giovanni emanating from speakers lodged high on the otherwise minimalist walls. Trisha was curled up on the sofa. He noticed a small photograph had fallen from her handbag and lay unseen on the rug below. He bent to pick it up.
“You still carry a picture of him then?”
“Force of habit, nothing more,” Trisha replied, looking embarrassed.
“Good looking man, this Joe of yours.”
“He’s not my Joe. The relationship’s dead, buried, forgotten.”
“You’re sure about that?”
“Positive.”
The words were attempts to banish the pain, the bitterness and she had to admit, some guilt linked to the events of the past. He had told her it was Lord Bailey he was stalking. She could have done more. She could have warned Joe what might happen. But, in her defence, this time he had overstepped the mark and perhaps her saying nothing was ultimately for the best. He’d begun to believe his own publicity. Perhaps he needed a jolt, a set back, something to rein him in. She told herself that, but as hard as she tried, she didn’t really believe it.
Normally she kept the photograph tucked deep inside her purse but she’d taken it out on the taxi ride over here and carelessly put it back in her haste to pay the fare. She had looked long and hard at the image. It was her way of asking him if she was doing the right thing, preparing to move on, to become involved romantically again. She wanted his approval but the eyes merely stared back at her fondly, with a smile full of the warmth and desire of a man in love. She would have to make that decision all by herself. Her soul mate and mentor were gone.
“Your break up. Tell me about it,” Catchpole said.
“What’s there to say? Work became too important. Perhaps more than the feelings we had for each other. We were t
wo very ambitious people determined to make our mark.”
“Or maybe the relationship had just run its course.”
“Maybe. It took the Bailey scandal to make us face the truth. It left me with a stark choice. Him or London?”
“Any regrets?”
“None whatsoever.” She plucked the photograph from his hand. “Anyway, enough about me. Let’s hear about you. And don’t give me the usual political spin. I’m worth more than that.”
Catchpole laughed. Bourbon trickled into her empty glass as he eased onto the sofa beside her. “What do you want to know?”
“Where you came from? Where you’re heading? What you want to do?”
“Ah, the old ‘what makes me tick’ question?”
“If you like.”
“Well, for a start, I didn’t share your privileged upbringing.” His fingers gently stroked her hair.
“Don’t tell me. Poor, dirty and shoeless.” She was about to laugh but suppressed it as she felt his hand drop away.
Catchpole’s expression became sad and reflective, his voice suddenly serious. His eyes looked down, focussing intently on the glass in his hand. “Poor certainly. I was brought up by a single parent, an only child on a sink estate. I know what it’s like to go without. Luckily Mum wanted the best for me.”
“She must be some woman.”
“She was. She died shortly after I arrived in America.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“I just wished she’d lived long enough to see me now.”
“She’d have been proud of what you’ve achieved.”
“You see, she raised me to have a sense of duty, to fight for what is right, to help people better themselves.”
“And so to politics.”
“Where else?” He looked up and smiled.
“A man of your abilities. Surely some global corporation came knocking?”
He laughed and stretched to dim the lights. “Now that would be power without principle and therefore morally wrong.” He pulled her towards him.
