A Sentimental Traitor

by Michael Dobbs

  ‘As a result of that review, we have decided not to take your case any further, Mr Jones. We’re closing the investigation.’

  ‘Could you say that again? Very slowly?’

  ‘It’s closed down.’

  At last Harry found himself able to take a deep breath.

  ‘But why? Tell me why?’

  ‘The witness, Miss Keane, has withdrawn her allegations. So, until such time as any further evidence might come to light—’

  ‘It won’t. I’m innocent!’

  ‘—we will not be taking the matter any further.’

  ‘What you mean is that I needn’t have lost my seat.’

  ‘I will be informing Mr van Buren of this, too.’

  ‘And will you be prosecuting Emily Keane for making false charges and wasting police time?’

  The detective hesitated before replying, his voice a little less officious. ‘Take my advice, Mr Jones, forget all this. Put it behind you. Get on with your life.’

  ‘And how, Detective Sergeant Arkwright, do you expect me to do that?’ Harry spat.

  There was a brief silence, then the phone went dead.

  Harry sat staring at the phone, for how long he couldn’t afterwards tell. He was still sore from the thundering hooves. Yet, as indescribable as was his relief, the anger within him was unfathomable.

  Forget? Forget Emily Keane? He’d play roulette with the Devil before he’d do that.

  First Sloppy, then Emily. It made sense to Harry. Keep digging. But he had one significant problem. He had no idea where Emily was. And it was clear that she was hiding, and had gone to considerable lengths to cover her tracks. Her mobile number was no longer operational, she’d moved out of her apartment, and he didn’t need to call her old place of employment to know she’d left there, too. So he asked Jemma to do it. A woman’s voice was so much less threatening.

  ‘Hello, is it possible to speak with Emily Keane, please?’

  ‘Who’s calling?’

  ‘Oh, my name’s Sally. We met a couple of months ago, said we’d meet up for a girls’ night out. But I’ve been working up in Scotland, only just got back.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Emily no longer works here.’

  ‘Oh, that’s a pity. She said she liked her job.’

  ‘And we liked her, but she got headhunted. A very nice offer, so she said.’

  ‘Can you tell me where she’s gone?’

  ‘I’m sorry, we’re not allowed to give out those details. She had a little trouble, you know.’

  ‘Yes, wasn’t that just dreadful? I understand. I was just wondering if we could get together this evening, that’s all.’

  The receptionist laughed. ‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible. She’s gone abroad, you see.’

  ‘Abroad? You know, she mentioned she might do something like that. No, don’t tell me, I think I can guess where. It’s Brussels, isn’t it? Any chance you could, you know, let me have an address where I can write to her?’

  Emily Keane had been in Brussels since a fortnight after the attack. Move on, move away, protect her from trouble, that had been part of the deal. It had never been intended that she would go through with the charges against Harry, even if the CPS had believed they might stick. Distract him, disgrace him, then destroy him. There was no need to take matters further, so Patricia Vaine had said. They could forget about Harry Jones.

  It was a rare and catastrophic lapse of judgement.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Place du Luxembourg – or Luxemburgplein, as more than half the population in that bitterly divided nation would have it – is a modest square of pavement bars and eating places in the part of Brussels that is known as the European Quarter. The quarter is said to be the heart of Europe; locals jest that it has yet to find its head. Place du Luxembourg is of no particular architectural merit, indeed it is something of a stylistic mess with its mixture of ancient and modern. Its significance derives entirely from its position, for it squats on the doorstep of the European Parliament, which looms behind it like the spaceship of some alien life form that has landed from a distant world. At the centre of the square, protected by an expanse of grass, is the statue of John Cockerill, a hugely inventive Anglo-Belgian industrialist of the Victorian era. He was noted for his integrity and stands on a plinth engraved with his motto: ‘Work and Intelligence’. For some reason, he has his back turned towards the Parliament. But that may not be the case for long, for there are plans to wipe out Place du Luxembourg, to flatten it and use the space to construct a triumphal avenue or boulevard that will reach out from central Brussels to the place of the Parliament, yet in the meantime, while the planners plot and the construction companies sharpen their shovels, the good burghers get on with their lives, dodging between the Mercedes limousines that clog the cobbled square during rush hour, finding ways of making their own buck from the growing bureaucracy.

  Emily was sitting at one of the restaurants that line the broad pavements of the square, drinking an afternoon coffee. She had plenty of time to finish it, because she had found little pressure on her since arriving in Brussels. The job that had been arranged by Patricia Vaine had a fine title and pleasingly substantial salary, along with all the usual perks, but as yet it had few duties. She rather thought that the job had been created by Patricia in something of a hurry, with the details to be worked out at leisure after the long summer. So Emily sat in the afternoon sun, content with her new life, browsing through a lifestyle brochure. She needed new furniture – the rents here were so accommodating compared with London that she had far more space to fill than in Clapham, and she was wondering whether a new sleigh bed might fit in with the rest of her bedroom pieces when she glanced up and found instant terror. There, no more than a handful of yards in front of her, map in hand, gazing around him like any innocent tourist, was Harry.

  She wanted to cry out, to flee, but did neither. She sat frozen in fear and bewilderment, praying that he wouldn’t turn, look her way, recognize her. And when, after what seemed like the passing of several lifetimes, he moved slowly on, disappearing in the direction of the train station, she found herself trembling, still holding her cup of coffee, which had spilled over the tablecloth and was spreading into a dark and embarrassing stain. The waiter was quick to see her predicament and provide consolation in the form of a new tablecloth and fresh coffee, while Emily reached for her phone.

  The call was hurried, whispered. As soon as it was finished she jumped up from her table, leaving her fresh coffee untouched, and ran towards the taxi stand at the side of the square. She was agitated, didn’t see another woman approaching on a path that would intercept her, and almost beat her to the door of the taxi.

  ‘Oh, pardon,’ the other woman said as they both bent for the driver’s ear.

  Emily was flustered, and evidently in a hurry. ‘I’m sorry,’ she panted, ‘but I think I was—’

  ‘Mais pas de probleme,’ the other woman said. ‘There are many others,’ she added in accented English. ‘S’il vous plaît, après vous.’

  Emily nodded in thanks. ‘The Avenue de Cortenbergh. You know it?’

  ‘But of course, mademoiselle,’ the driver said as Emily jumped into the back seat. She didn’t look up as they drove away across the cobbles, her eyes fixed in concentration.

  As she watched Emily disappear into the distance, Jemma took off the sunglasses and hat that she had been wearing, and looked forward to wiping off the heavy make-up that was caked across her face. During the election she’d been upset about being able to spend so little time in the constituency, jealous of all the others who had a slice of Harry, but now she gave thanks. It meant that a distracted Emily had little chance of recognizing her, and none at all in her disguise. What was more, she’d discovered where Emily was heading. Harry’s plan had worked well.

  He had decided not to confront her, try to rip the truth from her. He knew he was unlikely to succeed where the Metropolitan Police had spectacularly failed, and even trying might le
ave him stuck in even more accusatory mud. Instead he had been more subtle. Had scared her. Encouraged her to reach out for reassurance to someone who would understand, someone who knew – someone who had conspired with her. It was a fair assumption that she was headed for that person right now. Someone in the Avenue de Cortenbergh.

  They were getting closer. And they got closer still when, later that evening, he and Jemma took a stroll down the avenue. It was a broad street that led from one of Brussels’ main railway stations to the Schuman roundabout at the very heart of the European Quarter. It was lined with a clutter of commercial offices and several embassies, along with a very strong presence of EU Commission buildings. One of them was the headquarters of EATA. Discreet, nondescript, modest. But with very tight security.

  ‘This is it,’ he whispered to Jemma, almost in awe.

  ‘But why?’ she asked.

  He took her arm and hurried her on in case the CCTV picked them up dawdling and took a closer look, knowing that their every step was taking them further away from the answer.

  Patricia Vaine knew she had underestimated Harry. It was a weakness she would never indulge again.

  When Emily turned up in a state of panic, burbling about having seen him, they came to a rapid conclusion. Coincidence. It could be nothing more. Nothing surprising in such a thing, for Brussels was getting to be like the streets of Westminster. They even suspected that Harry might be searching for a job, pastures new, in a place where his reputation hadn’t yet been ruined. It was a supposition that would be confirmed in their minds when Patricia later ascertained that Harry had arrived, and left, on a cheap day ticket on Eurostar booked with an offer in the Daily Telegraph. It was precisely what Harry had hoped they would think.

  Yet Patricia didn’t have the luxury of dealing with a world of certainties, there were always doubts, suspicions, and she wasn’t a woman to take things for granted. Harry Jones had been stupid enough to stumble onto her turf. Her vengeance was swift and utterly remorseless.

  Less than a week after Harry’s return from Brussels, his accountant asked him to visit her offices in Holborn. He took the bus. She was waiting for him at the reception area and took him straight through to a conference room, where she closed the door and sat him down. She seemed distracted, no offer of tea or coffee.

  ‘There’s no easy way of telling you this, Harry,’ she said, two crimson discs of distress standing high on her cheeks. ‘You know we’d been hopeful of coming to an understanding with your creditors – an Individual Voluntary Arrangement, in the language of the debt business.’

  He nodded.

  ‘I’m sorry, but that’s not going to happen. If it’s to work, we need most of your creditors to agree – and one of them seems to have changed his mind. It was all on track, making progress, but suddenly he’s pulled out. One rotten apple that’s turned the rest of the barrel sour. So frustrating, I’m sorry, particularly as he’s one of the smaller creditors. Just a few thousand.’

  He found it difficult to find words, his mouth run dry. ‘Who is it, Jilly?’

  ‘The printers you use, Maundy’s. Says he won’t accept pence when he’s owed pounds.’ She looked at him sharply. ‘Suddenly changed his mind. Yet you told me you’d been doing business with them for years.’

  ‘I have.’

  ‘It’s such a surprise, out of the blue.’

  ‘Nothing surprises me much any more.’

  ‘We can’t move forward without him, and he simply won’t budge.’

  ‘So what do we do now, Jilly?’

  The red spots on her cheek flared still more brightly. ‘There’s nothing we can do. He says he’s going to bring a bankruptcy petition against you.’

  ‘I see.’ His voice sounded dull, as if it came from a distance, from another mouth. ‘If I’m declared bankrupt I seem to remember that the court will take almost everything – my house, pension, piano. Even the plasma telly.’

  ‘You can keep the tools of your trade.’

  ‘But I don’t have a trade any longer, Jilly. Perhaps they will let me keep the back copies of Hansard.’

  ‘I’m so very sorry, Harry.’

  ‘I assume this will be a very public spectacle.’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  Harry’s humiliation was about to be complete.

  The premises of George Maundy & Sons, Designers & Printers, was located in the Hertfordshire countryside at the end of a long gravel drive, which wound through laurel bushes and at its end was guarded by a five-bar gate. On the other side of the gate was an elegant Georgian farmhouse surrounded by a substantial swathe of carefully mown lawn, while Maundy’s business was housed in a converted red-brick dairy. A new BMW with alloy wheels and a personalized number plate was parked at the side. This was Home Counties commercialism at its most elegant. As Harry walked up the drive, his shoes crunching on the gravel, a small terrier darted out from the door of the small office and scurried around before disappearing back inside, but Harry didn’t follow. He knew from his previous visits that the office would be manned by the elder Maundy’s daughter-in-law, while the father and son would be busy in the back, from where Harry could hear the humming of machinery. He found the son bent over a drawing board, studying the proof of his latest commission. The printer looked up, startled to see Harry at his elbow.

  ‘Mr Jones, I wasn’t expecting you.’

  ‘I hope you don’t mind, George.’

  ‘You should have called.’

  ‘Is your father around?’

  ‘Retired. Not before time. I reckon it’s me you want to see.’ He stood up to face Harry in a manner that suggested he expected something of a confrontation. He was in his late thirties, receding hair, straining belt – a considerable way up his own arse, Harry reckoned, judging by the flash machine outside.

  ‘Very well, George. You must know what difficulties you’ve put me in. I was hoping I could appeal to you, man to man.’

  ‘These things are always awkward, Mr Jones,’ the printer said, folding his arms across his stomach. He didn’t suggest they move elsewhere, somewhere quieter. He didn’t seem as if he expected the conversation to last long.

  ‘I’ve been a good customer of you and your father’s over the years. You know me. Now I’m in a spot of trouble.’

  ‘Not our problem. Not our fault, either.’

  Harry’s lips were working, trying to find the right words to get past the man’s mulishness. ‘I owe you less than eight thousand pounds. I can’t understand why you want to force me into bankruptcy rather than accept a deal.’

  ‘Company policy.’

  ‘Not your father’s policy.’

  ‘He’s not here.’

  Harry gazed around the workshop, with its machines whirring away, the boxes of product piling up, the eight men and women who made up the workforce all busily occupied. It was clearly a thriving concern. ‘The eight thousand will ruin me, George, but it seems like it wouldn’t get in your way very much at all.’

  The printer ran his tongue around his mouth as if he were searching for lost breakfast. ‘It’s a matter of ethics, Mr Jones. The sort of thing you liked to preach when you were in Parliament. Promises made, promises kept. That’s how this country runs, or used to.’

  ‘And a bit of give and take, too, George.’

  ‘Sure, until you politicians opened the floodgates and left us hard-working folk doing the giving while every Tom, Dick and Sanjay did all the taking.’

  Ah, one of those. Closed mind, clenched fist.

  ‘If you make me bankrupt you’ll probably end up getting less than by coming to a voluntary agreement.’

  ‘As I said, a matter of ethics. You come here accusing me of putting you in difficulties. Well, I didn’t. You made your mess, not me. Up to you to clear it up. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m busy.’

  Harry was wasting his time, the printer pointing towards the door. A large white van had drawn up outside and two of Maundy’s workmen were loading pallets of finished p
roduct into it. A second van was hovering in the background, waiting its turn. As Maundy escorted Harry out, making sure he left, they passed a cliff face of the boxes waiting to be loaded. Samples of the content were stuck to the outside. Harry stopped, ran his finger across a carton. They contained promotional leaflets for the European Union. The man had been bought. He stared at Maundy. ‘Ethics?’ he said softly.

  The printer’s eyes betrayed only a flicker of shame before he threw Harry out.

  Harry walked away from the printers, down the hill towards the bus stop that would ferry him to the local train station, now aware that they were intent on destroying him completely. Soon he wouldn’t even be able to afford the price of his bus ticket. It had always been the likely outcome, but still he hesitated before making his next phone call. He didn’t even know who ‘they’ were, only that they wouldn’t stop. But he was Harry Jones, the idiot who didn’t know when to stop, either.

  ‘Hi, Jem.’

  ‘How did it go, Harry?’

  ‘It didn’t. They wouldn’t budge. They’ve bought the bastard off with a shedload of printing orders.’

  A sharp intake of breath. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Yeah. Me, too.’

  ‘So . . .’

  ‘We do what we discussed.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ She sounded reluctant.

  ‘I need you on this one, Jem,’ he said firmly. ‘This crap is coming straight out of EATA in Brussels. Now I’ve got some press cuttings and other bits about it – pretty meagre stuff, they don’t give interviews or hand out press releases. Like trying to spot a rat in a sewer when someone’s switched off all the lights. But I need your help in going through it all. You up for that?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ she replied hesitantly.

  ‘Good, can we meet up tonight?’

  ‘No, I’m busy.’

  ‘Tomorrow then. Saturday. Got to get going with this. Five o’clock in the pub OK?’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘Thanks, Jem, I’ll see you then.’

  He cut the connection. He gazed at his cloned iPhone, almost as though it were a loaded weapon, before he put it back in his pocket.