‘That’s not going to happen,’ I said.
‘How can you possibly say that? When you met Thorn at Holyrood Park the other day, do you know who that was with him? Oleg Pasportnikov, ex-KGB or FSB as they call it now. There are scores of them over here. After nine/eleven the West turned all its attention to Islamist extremists. It’s been open season for Russian spies ever since.’
‘Cherry, the man is head of security at a nothing airport in the middle of nowhere. They have three helicopters, a couple of light aircraft, a few microlights and a handful of staff. Until the crash, the most exciting thing that ever happened was when celebrities were helicoptered back and forward to play golf and Oleg had to hold back the autograph-hunters.’
‘And if it became a spaceport? Nice for the Russians to have someone undercover right from the start.’
‘Then why would he kill the very person whose idea it was to create a spaceport at St Edzell Bay?’
‘He wouldn’t. Aren’t you listening? Ex-army Billy Paris, working for the Government, killed Jeremy Thorn. It’s obvious. The Government then had him killed and now they’ve killed Philip Thorn too. They can’t kill Pasportnikov because the Russians will know they’re onto him. They’ll track him instead. See what they can learn. It’s all wheels within wheels.’
But it wasn’t. Not even Russian dolls within Russian dolls. ‘Listen to me, Cherry. You think you know what’s going on, and I can understand why. If you look at things in a blinkered way, make certain presumptions—’
‘What other way is there to look at them? This is the British Government sanctioning the execution of UK citizens to further political aims. The pieces all fit, you’ve got to agree.’
That the pieces now all fitted together, I did agree, except in doing so they’d formed a completely different picture to Cherry’s image. I stood up when we were joined by Tina who was wondering what had happened to breakfast. She opened the fridge door and on tiptoe lifted out a box of eggs.
‘Come on,’ Cherry said. ‘One quick interview. We’ll have it all wrapped up in no time at all. Just look shocked and surprised. You can do that, can’t you?’
‘Okay,’ I said, ‘I will.’ I took the box of eggs from Tina before she scrambled the contents on the kitchen floor. ‘But not here and it’s going to take a lot longer than ten minutes.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘I know. If you did…’ I held up the box of eggs. ‘You’d realise that what you have is an unfertilised hen’s ovum and from it you’re trying to hatch a chick. Trust me. There’s no government conspiracy going on here.’
‘Yeah? What then?’
‘Just one very serious cock-up.’
58
There would have been quite a crowd trying to cram itself into my office that Christmas Eve morning if I hadn’t phoned ahead to tell DI Christchurch that his team of expert searchers needn’t come. What he was looking for, my daughter had already found and was safe in the back pocket of my jeans. I was ready to let the Ministry of Defence policeman have it, subject to certain conditions. First of which was:
‘You want me to bring the Secretary of State to your office? This morning? What happened to your other condition that, if we found the evidence, I had to guarantee you six hours’ radio silence?’
‘It no longer applies. Tell him not to worry, though, I’ve thought of some other conditions especially for him,’ I said, hanging up.
Later, a bacon roll to the better, Cherry and I left Sandy’s for my office and waited in reception while a camera crew set up in my room pending the imminent arrival of Kirkton Perch.
‘I must say, this is really good of you, Robbie,’ Cherry said, sitting on the reception desk, legs crossed. It was a short skirt to be wearing in such cold weather.
‘Not at all. You being here helps me as much as it helps you.’
She lowered herself to the floor and came over to where I was standing, leaned close and picked a speck of fluff from my shirt. Tina was right. Cherry did smell nice, although, I had to agree, not as nice as Joanna.
‘Can’t you tell me what’s happening now?’ she asked. ‘Or are you really going to make me wait until—’
‘Until when?’ Joanna didn’t only smell nice, she sounded great. If a little angry.
‘Hi Joanna. How did you know I was here?’ I asked.
‘Your dad.’ She threw my car keys on the desk and held out her hand. ‘Key, please.’
Make that very angry.
I walked over to her. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘Nothing.’
‘It’s just that you seem a little upset,’ I said.
‘She’s not upset, she’s jealous,’ Cherry said.
‘Of what?’
‘Not of what. Of who.’
‘What are you on about? Who’s Joanna jealous of?’
‘Me,’ Cherry said.
‘Why? What have you got that Joanna hasn’t?’ Both myself and my daughter would testify as to who smelt better.
‘You,’ Cherry said. ‘She thinks I’m making a move.’
Why would Joanna think that? She knew I wasn’t Cherry’s type. She’d told me that herself. I thought it best to clarify just in case. ‘You’re not, are you? Making a move?’
Cherry let rip a loud snort.
I turned to Joanna. ‘See?’ She still didn’t look happy. I’d no time to wonder why. Kaye Mitchell burst into reception. A deal was a deal.
‘The Secretary of State’s on his way,’ she said, leading the way to my room where a row of lights blazed bright atop a tall tripod and a man in a Christmas jumper balanced a TV camera on one shoulder.
The Bulldog was the first of the government personnel to arrive. Without acknowledging any of those present, he scouted round all the rooms before going to the top of the stairs and shouting an all clear.
From my window I looked down to where a black limousine and a black van were parked on the double yellows directly outside the office. A couple of uniformed officers with firearms stood on the pavement, one looking east along the High Street, the other west.
The Bulldog entered again and took up position by the door. Next was Kirkton Perch looking a tad bleary-eyed and behind him Detective Inspector Christchurch.
Christmas Jumper swung his camera at them.
‘Not yet,’ I told him.
‘What is this?’ Raising a hand to shield his eyes from the light, Perch turned to Christchurch. ‘Nothing was said about television.’
The DI glowered, beard pointing at me accusingly.
‘Don’t worry,’ I said, ‘there will be no filming until I’ve shown everyone what DI Christchurch has been trying to have me disclose to him for the last month. Mr Perch, I know the pressure you’ve been under recently due to certain…’ I glanced over my shoulder at Cherry who was busy being wired for sound, ‘unfounded allegations. And I also know that you are completely innocent of them. Who better to interview you and let you clear your name than the reporter who made those accusations in the first place?’
Cherry, who was clipping a battery-pack to the waist of her skirt, stopped and stared across at me like a vampire who’d just been told blood was off the menu. ‘Innocent?’
I took the USB card from my back pocket, went over to my desk and swivelled the computer monitor around to face outwards. Christmas Jumper came forward to sit in my chair. He’d assured me that if there was a video file on the USB and an internet connection available, he’d find a way of getting it to play. I bent down, pushed it into a slot in the PC case and turned to Perch. ‘I’m about to save you and your government’s reputation. You’ve already said you won’t pay for my service to Queen and country; nonetheless, while we’re waiting for the show, there are a couple of matters I’d like to draw to your attention, and as regards which I am sure you will be able to bring your influence to bear.’
59
Christmas Eve.
Tina hung her stocking out after tea, ate the last advent calendar chocolate
and placed a carrot for Rudolph alongside a glass of whisky on the hearth. Though Scotland’s strict drink-driving laws probably meant the real Santa should have been left a glass of milk, and not a single-malt, there was another man with a set of white whiskers who’d argued otherwise.
If on any other night I’d wanted to send my daughter to bed early and without supper, I’d have had to have trumped up some pretty serious charges. Not tonight. Tonight, of her own volition, Tina had gone to bed earlier than she ever had before. The logic gene she’d inherited from her dad had told her the sooner she fell asleep, the sooner Christmas Day would arrive. If only life did operate logically. Unfortunately, like a lot of plans based on logical thinking it was good in theory, not so effective in practice. Unable to sleep, she’d come tottering through to the living room on several occasions, her wee face pinched white with the terrible excitement of it all. This in turn had led to a few hurried replenishments of the whisky glass, lest Tina notice and think Santa had been, knocked back a quick straightener and shot off on his sleigh again, forgetting to leave any presents behind. At least that was my dad’s very own application of logic.
When I’d poked my head into Tina’s room at ten o’clock I’d found her sound asleep. At last I could settle down, watch TV and wait. Some people were waiting for Mr Claus, I was waiting on a phone call.
My dad, dozing in his armchair by the coal fire, fired off a volley of snores. I poured myself a dram, sprawled out on the couch and trawled through the various revolving twenty-four-hour news channels.
The story surrounding the death of Philip Thorn had gone out early evening. It had been a nice Christmas present from me to Cherry Lovell. Her production company had sold the news item around the world. It hadn’t been too bad a gift for Kirkton Perch either. The pressure the Night News’ documentary had placed him under had been growing by the day. Now the same investigative journalist who’d led the campaign of persecution was vindicating him and his government completely.
It didn’t take many flicks of the remote to find a station where Thorn’s story had come around again on the news carousel.
‘...it all started here on St Andrews Day and finished on Christmas Eve when the body of Sir Philip Thorn, one of Britain’s best known music executives and entertainment managers, was washed ashore.’
Cut to Cherry Lovell wrapped in a big white coat, scarf and furry hat, standing, microphone in hand, on the runway at St Edzell Bay Airport to where, ironically, she’d been helicoptered earlier that day.
‘According to police sources there are no suspicious circumstances.’
According to the police. But not according to me. No, for me the jury was very much still out.
His body was found by this man, Oleg Pasportnikov, head of security at Thorn Aviation Services.
Three seconds of footage showed a man in a dark suit walking along a deserted shoreline. Not long, but long enough for me to remember his words: ‘Tell me who killed Jerry and I kill them myself.’
There then followed a brief montage of Thorn and the various artists he’d brought to fame. The sound of music woke my dad. With a loud splutter and a noisy clearing of his throat he sat up from his slouch. He looked across at me and then at the TV. The camera panned the offices of R.A. Munro & Co., where a bunch of tinsel brought some festive cheer to my umbrella plant, and I sat in my chair looking pretty pleased with myself as I held up a small, thin rectangle of black plastic.
‘Do you never weary of watching yourself?’ my dad asked.
It was true. I had watched the clip a fair few times, but I had to make the most of it. There wouldn’t be too many more opportunities. I’d already noticed that my cameo was being edited shorter with every broadcast. One or two stations now omitted my moment of fame altogether, as other breaking news stories vied for screen time.
‘Quiet, we’re getting to the good part,’ I said, as Cherry’s voice cut in again.
‘Why would someone who had it all, take their own life? One man held the answer.’
That one man was me.
He might have been a violent, binge-drinker, but Billy Paris had not served seventeen years in the Royal Electrical and Mechanical Engineers without learning how to fix a loose wire, especially a simple sleeve connector.
Oleg had been right, Jeremy Thorn was unlucky, but the head of security had also been wrong. There had been nothing the matter with the new CCTV system. The only time it malfunctioned was when Jerry wanted to go for a late night or early morning spin and didn’t want the fact recorded. On those occasions Homer would unclip the connection, cut the signal, and away Jerry would go. Next day Homer would reconnect the cable and normal service would resume. Only he and Jerry knew about the arrangement. When Homer had reported the ‘fault’ to Oleg, the Russian had passed on to Philip Thorn the news that the expensive new surveillance system had packed in yet again. The lack of CCTV cover provided someone with an opportunity. That someone hadn’t taken into account the technical skills of recently hired handyman, Billy Paris, who’d been pressed into security duty when a colleague called in sick.
The picture on the TV screen went blank and there followed a period of static, clearing to reveal the face of Billy Paris, even more misshapen than normal by the wide-angled lens, staring right out at me. His hands came into view, made a few adjustments to the camera and then, satisfied, he moved out of shot.
Some later editing deleted the ensuing two hours or so that had then elapsed between Billy’s minor repair job and the time, shortly before midnight, according to the digits in the top right corner, when a dark figure entered the helicopter hangar. It was difficult to see who it was at first under the dim illumination of the security lighting. Then the camera zoomed in and there was no mistaking Philip Thorn. He had some kind of canister in his hand.
Had Billy known what was happening? Had he known who Philip Thorn was? Or, so far as he was concerned, was the person on screen just one of the maintenance crew carrying out routine servicing to a helicopter? A helicopter that next morning, piloted by Tony Glass, would fly the Glazed Over boys further down the coast to a St Andrew’s Day celebrity golf tournament. Whatever, Billy had certainly realised the relevance of that late-night visit when the chopper never returned, and he’d intended to cash in, just as soon as he could work out who’d pay the most for the information and how best to put on the squeeze. Billy had known he’d come under scrutiny. Being of no fixed abode he had to leave the evidence somewhere safe. The cardboard box he’d left with me was an excellent decoy.
I hadn’t given my old client the credit he’d deserved when he’d attended the interview at Stewart Street police station. He’d mentioned a number of ways to bring down a helicopter, but not the one that was actually used: expanding foam in the fuel tank. When Jerry had taken his fiancée for an early morning flight, the fuel gauge had registered full. In reality there’d been scarcely a litre or two in the system. Just enough to take the pair of them far out into the North Sea.
Earlier reports had questioned why a father would want to kill his son. Those had now disappeared. Everyone knew the real targets. CNN played a 2013 interview with John Branca, co-executor of the Michael Jackson estate, when he’d admitted to journalist Robin Leach that the entertainer had made more money in the four years since his death than he’d made during his lifetime. The week after David Bowie’s death in January 2016, his albums accounted for a quarter of the Top 40.
To the man who held the biggest share of the rights to Glazed Over’s portfolio, the Glass brothers were an asset worth a lot more dead than alive.
I’d severed the piece of string tying my dad’s cordless phone to the table in the hall. The handset rested on the arm of my dad’s chair so that when it rang he could grab it before it woke Tina, which he did, impressively so. ‘Hullo?’
I could have answered it myself, but it wouldn’t have been the same.
‘Who shall I say is calling?’ My dad put his hand over the phone. ‘She says you bloody well kn
ow who is calling.’
‘Tell her I won’t be a moment.’
I took a small sip of whisky, held the glass up to the flames in the fireplace, and tilted the tumbler so that it caught the soft flickering light from the fire, bringing to life the amber tones of a fine Islay malt.
‘Yes?’ I enquired, having gracefully accepted the receiver that my dad had chucked across the room at me. ‘Is that Miss—’
‘Yes, it’s me. You know it’s me. I’m at a carol service and I’ve been dragged away by a policeman—’
‘Short, squat, would look at home in a kennel?’
‘To tell you,’ she of the red-lacquered fingernails continued, ‘that you are no longer suspended and may resume the provision of criminal legal assistance under the legal aid scheme.’
‘I see. Anything else?’
There was a clearing of the throat followed by a quiet, ‘We don’t feel there is going to be any need to compliance-review your case files in the near future.’
‘Thank you. Anything else?’ There wasn’t. She hung up.
I waited. It wouldn’t take the Bulldog long to remind her. The phone rang again less than a minute later. ‘Merry Christmas,’ she said.
‘And a Happy New Year to you and the Karate Kid when it comes,’ I replied too late. She was gone, replaced by the Bulldog with some less happy news. There were certain things Her Britannic Majesty’s Government could not achieve with less than twenty-four hours’ notice, not even with a Ministry of Defence police officer delegated to the task. Finding a Pyxie Girl action figure was one of them.
‘You’re a bigger wean than Tina,’ my dad said, when, having reattached the handset to the leg of the telephone table, I was back in the living room, lying along the couch and waiting for my cameo to come around again.
He was right and I didn’t care. Christmas brought out the child in us all and if, having saved its reputation, the best the United Kingdom Government could do for me, was give me back my livelihood, I might as well get some fun out of it.
Present Tense Page 27
