“Catherine!”
She scanned the crowds; who would be watching? But the people surrounding them were mainly foreign tourists posing for selfies.
“Jennifer,” Catherine gasped. She leaned towards her then pulled back, also looking around them. Sharp patches of red appeared on her cheeks.
“Catherine,” Jennifer repeated. She looked back towards Big Ben. “I need to be somewhere. See you around.”
Catherine gave an uncertain smile and stepped back. As Jennifer strode away, she could feel the other woman’s eyes boring into her back.
“Stop!”
She turned to see Catherine coming after her. A crowd of tourists passed between them, pausing to take a selfie. Catherine pushed through. She grabbed Jennifer’s arm and lowered her voice.
“We need to talk.”
“What about?” As if she needed to ask.
Catherine’s eyes scanned Jennifer’s face. Her forehead had a sheen of sweat and she looked more nervous than Jennifer had ever seen her. What had Trask said to her?
“It’s not what you think,” Catherine said. She was scanning the crowds again, her head dipped low.
Jennifer cocked her head and raised an eyebrow, saying nothing. She wondered if this was related to being ‘prone to betraying her party’.
“There’s something I need to tell you about.”
Jennifer straightened up. “What?”
Catherine looked around. “I can’t tell you here. But I have some information I think you’ll want to know about.”
“What information?”
An icy shudder ran down her spine. She glanced at her watch. She was nearly half an hour late for John.
“Catherine, what information?”
“I can’t tell you here. Meet me later. This afternoon, at one.”
“Where? Not the hotel.”
Catherine described a pub to her. A pub just off Leicester Square, away from Westminster. How did she know these places?
“OK. This had better be straight up.”
“Of course it is.” She blushed. “I’m sorry. About what I said, on the news. It was Leonard’s idea.”
Jennifer grunted. Leonard’s idea or not, it was Catherine who said it.
The party offices were quiet, with just a few voices echoing along the corridors. She listened to the sounds of the building, wondering who was watching her. What John’s staff already knew.
John wasn’t in yet – thank god – and she was ushered to a seat outside his office.
“I’ll be in the Ladies’, if he arrives,” she told his assistant. She needed to compose herself.
Once inside, she scanned the toilets for other occupants and then, on finding none, slumped against the sinks. Her face in the mirror was pale, her mousy blonde hair wispy and dishevelled and her shirt crumpled. She stood back to survey herself and straighten her clothes.
She didn’t want to be here. In truth, she wished she’d run after Catherine and not let her get away until she’d told her what the hell was going on. But the shock of the encounter had left her unable to think straight.
Information. What information was Catherine talking about? Was it about Trask? Was Catherine still working with her? Or was this a plot, a lie?
She leaned in to the mirror and dabbed at her eyes. An angry red blotch had appeared under one of them and her mascara had run. She licked her finger and dabbed at the skin around her eyes, only making it sting.
Finally she drew back and took a deep breath. Time to face John; Catherine would have to wait.
When she got back to his office, he still wasn’t there. She sighed; his lateness had made the intended point, couldn’t he just show up now? She lowered herself to the chair and pulled her phone out, anxious for distraction. Then she put it back in her pocket; she didn’t want to read about herself.
John’s assistant was shooting her glances from a neighbouring office. She tried to read what she could from the man’s expression but it gave nothing away.
At nine am John breezed into the corridor, an hour late. He ignored Jennifer, muttering to the assistant instead. The assistant pointed her out and he looked round.
She smiled at him. He nodded in return.
“Won’t keep you long, Jennifer,” he said, disappearing into his office.
After another twenty minutes the assistant’s phone buzzed and he waved Jennifer in.
Jennifer hadn’t been in here before; she always met John in his Commons office behind the Speaker’s chair. This was a medium sized, nondescript room, with modern office furniture and papers strewn across surfaces. John stood by the large, aluminium-framed window looking out on to the street. Behind him, the city was well into its morning; she could hear the buzz of traffic and occasional sound of a horn or a shout from someone passing by. Jennifer hesitated, feeling the flimsy door at her back, and smoothed her skirt.
After ignoring her for a moment he moved towards a seating area, motioning for her to sit down. She waited for him to pick a chair, then sat at right-angles to him, her back to the door. He sat back in the ugly chair and surveyed her in silence, his chin resting on his fingers. Jennifer waited for him to speak.
Instead, he leaned over the low table and rifled through a pile of anonymous brown files. He stopped at one and slapped it onto the glass surface without opening it.
“So,” he said.
Jennifer raised an eyebrow. “So.”
“What are you expecting from me?”
She stiffened. What was she expecting?
“You were in on this from the start. I know you can’t admit to that – I’m not stupid. But I think I can expect your support.”
“Do you?”
Stay calm, she told herself. “I do.”
“Hmm.”
She said nothing, waiting for more.
“Have you spoken to Yusuf?” he asked.
“Yusuf?”
He nodded.
“I don’t understand,” she said. “What’s Yusuf got to do with this?”
He sighed. She narrowed her eyes. What wasn’t he telling her?
She tried to laugh. “If you think he believes all this crap about me and Catherine having an affair—”
“No, that’s not it.”
She watched him, puzzled. Had he spoken to Yusuf? And why would he go behind her back like that? Why wouldn’t Yusuf tell her?
John stood up. He pushed at the skin of his forehead. He looked tired.
“Look,” he said. “There’s going to be more trouble, you’re going to be at the centre of it, and it won’t be good for the party.”
“John, this is going to blow over tomorrow. Well, it will if you let it. All I need is your support. Not publicly, of course. But if we all keep quiet about it, it will go away.”
“Oh Jennifer, I really hope so. For your sake.”
“John?” She hesitated. “This trouble you’re taking about, is it the Catherine thing? Or something else?”
He frowned but said nothing.
“Would— would this be Home Office related?”
His head shot up. “Who’ve you been talking to?”
She thought of Catherine, her body language when they had collided on Parliament Square. She had looked worried, scared even. “No one.”
“So why’re you—”
“Nothing, John. I’m talking nonsense.”
“I bloody hope so.”
She stood up to face him. “I need your support, John. Just tacit. I think we’ve been through enough together for me to deserve that.”
“Together? We’ve been enemies for a lot of the time.”
“John, please. That’s behind us.”
He grunted, then let out a long breath and rubbed his palms together. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I’ll keep quiet about this Catherine thing.”
“Thank you.”
He walked to the door and opened it. As she passed him, he put a hand on her shoulder.
“Take care, Jennifer.”
&n
bsp; She frowned. “Of course. And you.”
“No. I mean it. Watch yourself.”
She forced a smile and left, confused.
42
September 2021. London
The pub was quiet, just a young couple huddled in a corner, a man at one end of the bar and the barman absent-mindedly filling bowls with nuts.
Jennifer shuffled in, feeling conspicuous. She glanced at the man sitting at the bar; he was about her age, wearing a dark suit and a pale trench coat. Old fashioned. He didn’t look at her. She told herself to stop being paranoid.
She ordered a Coke then took it to the table furthest from the pub’s other customers, where she could see the door. This was a bad idea, she thought. Catherine arriving here to meet her would surely attract attention. Someone could recognise them. She considered ringing Catherine, telling her to switch to the hotel, then thought better of it.
She wrapped her fingers around her glass and thought about her conversation with John that morning. She’d never seen him behave so strangely. It added to her rising sense of panic; he’d always been solid, even when they were on opposite sides. If he was with her, that counted for something. But she had no idea if he was now, or not.
She drained her drink and reached into her bag for her phone. Catherine, where are you? She looked at her watch: 1.30. It seemed like today was her day to wait.
Finally she let impatience overcome her and hit the dial button.
“Hello, Catherine Moore.”
“Catherine, it’s Jennifer.”
“Jennifer?” A pause. “Oh, drat.”
Jennifer grit her teeth. Catherine couldn’t have dragged her all the way here and forgotten about her, surely?
“Where are you?”
“Oh, hell. I’m sorry, but I’m not going to make it. Something’s come up.”
Something? Not something to do with her, she hoped.
“When can you get here?”
“That’s just it. I can’t.”
Jennifer lowered her voice. The barman was closer now, wiping tables. “Then will you tell me what’s going on with Samir now please?”
There was silence.
“Catherine?”
“Hang on. I’ll find somewhere quiet.”
Jennifer gripped the phone while she waited.
“Right,” said Catherine finally.
“So?”
“So. So.” A pause. “I’m sorry. I can’t tell you this. Not on the phone.”
Jennifer let an angry shudder run through her. “Well, when can you tell me?”
“I don’t know.”
“Catherine, you can’t do this. I need to know what’s going on.”
“I know, I know. Look, go back to your office. Go back to the House and go to your office.”
“What?” This was ridiculous. “Are you going to meet me there?”
“No. I can’t. Just go there. Now.”
She stumbled into a taxi. Traffic was heavy and it was all she could manage not to shout at the driver to hurry up. She glared out of the window at the cars, vans and people outside; vehicles crawling past and people hurrying between them.
On Whitehall she gave up and threw some notes at the driver before jumping out and dashing between the cars to the pavement. She started to run towards the Houses of Parliament.
She ran across a side road without stopping to look and almost hit a cyclist.
“Look where you’re going, bitch!”
She threw a shouted sorry! behind her and carried on running. At last she was at the corner by Westminster tube station. She skidded into the turn, ducking between tourists and tour bus reps.
She reached the entrance to Portcullis House and slowed. She didn’t want to attract attention. She hurried through, returning the guards’ greetings breathlessly, and dashed to the tunnel that led to the Commons. She kept her head down and ignored the few people who turned to look at her. She sped through the covered walkway towards Westminster Hall then pushed her way inside, her footsteps loud on the stone floor. Tourists milled around in the echoing space; she sped through, keeping her head down. She darted up the steps at the far end and turned the corner towards St Stephens lobby…
…only to crash into a man coming the other way. She dropped her bag, fumbled for it then looked up. He was surrounded by a group of staff, smiling at her and licking his lips.
Leonard Trask.
“Jennifer Sinclair, well, well. In a hurry?”
She stared at him. His eyes were dancing. How much did he know?
“Excuse me,” she said, and tried to find a path around his gaggle of aides. He pulled back with a flourish.
“Why of course. Mustn’t keep you from whatever it is you’re plotting.”
She clenched her teeth – ignore him – and carried on, clattering her way to the lift and throwing herself inside.
The corridor outside Jennifer’s office was empty, the only sound the occasional muffled voice or trill of a phone behind a door.
She forced herself to slow down, anxious that no-one should hear her. The last thing she needed was to stop for small talk.
At her door she paused and put her ear to the wood. Was Catherine inside, waiting for her? Don’t be stupid. How would she get in?
She pulled her keys out of her bag and opened the door gently, ready to face whatever – or whoever – was inside.
All was quiet, but on the floor, immediately behind the door, was a piece of paper.
She lunged at it, peering out to check the corridor before closing the door and dropping her bag. She slumped to the floor and unfolded the paper. It had no names on – not hers, not Catherine’s.
Your son’s on a list. Suspected of associating with members of a proscribed organisation. Don’t know any more.
And then, on its own line:
Destroy this.
43
September 2021. Birmingham
It was gone midnight when she got home, and the house was quiet. She crept up to the bedroom, relieved to find Yusuf awake. He was startled, not expecting her on a Monday night. She put her finger on his lips and told him about her encounter with Catherine, the note.
“Say that again,” he said, his voice taut.
“You heard it. I don’t want to say it again.” She lowered her voice, nodding towards the closed door. “They might hear.”
“Where’s the note?”
“Here.” She’d taken it from her bag before coming upstairs and tucked it in her palm. She unfurled it and handed it to him.
“Why didn’t you call me?”
“It didn’t feel safe.” Was she overreacting? “Sorry.”
“Bloody hell,” he breathed. “They can’t have any evidence, anything concrete, surely?”
Jennifer looked at him. “What do you mean? Our son isn’t a terrorist.”
“We both know that, of course we do. But do we know about his friends? You know what they’re like about associations now. You have to be careful who you spend time with.”
“Yusuf, is there something you’re not telling me? Is it those kids he played truant with?”
He said nothing.
“Yusuf? Has it happened again?”
Yusuf, as the one at home on weekdays, would know if Samir hadn’t been at school. He would know when Samir was getting home, and if he was keeping to the curfew they’d imposed. But he’d have told her, if anything was wrong. He shook his head.
“No. He’s stuck to the rules. But he has made some new friends lately, not from school. Just boys he met when he was out with me. Just boys— like him. A couple of girls, their sisters I think.”
“How well do you know them, love?”
“I know their parents.” He paused. “Most of them, anyway.” He looked at her. “I didn’t think anything of it. They’re just local Muslim kids. What harm could he come to?”
He slumped down on the bed. Jennifer sat next to him, their thighs touching.
“We need to think about what we sho
uld do,” she said. “What we say to him.”
“Do?” He turned to her. “All he’s done is make some friends. And bloody Catherine Moore thinks he’s a terrorist.”
He hugged himself, shaking.
Jennifer put a hand on his back. “We need to talk to him. Make sure he knows to be careful. And maybe we need to keep tighter checks on who he spends time with—”
He turned, his eyes swollen.
“Jennifer, does it not occur to you that the problem here isn’t who our son makes friends with?”
“I know, I just—”
He shook his head. “No. You don’t get it. The problem is this bloody government, turning us all into criminals. Segregating us. Maybe that’s what you should be focusing on. Maybe you should be taking the fight to them. Or have you given up?”
She closed her eyes. “Not this again. Look, that isn’t the issue. I’m already doing what I can to fight Trask, and you know it. But Samir’s got to stay out of trouble. He’s just sixteen, he might not understand what his new friends are like. I can’t face work tomorrow. I’ll stay home, have a chat with him.”
Yusuf sighed and blew his nose into a tissue. “If you have to. But he won’t like it.”
Jennifer woke early the next morning. She’d slept fitfully, her dreams full of Samir.
She checked her alarm clock and groaned. It was five thirty. She needed more sleep but knew it wasn’t going to come. She looked at Yusuf, still asleep, and eased out of bed, glancing at the boys’ doors as she passed them. All was quiet.
She made herself a coffee and fired up her laptop, ploughing through emails. Her brain felt foggy. Finally she gave up and closed the screen with a sigh, checking the kitchen clock. Six am. Samir would be getting up for school in half an hour. Should she wake him, give them more time for this conversation?
This would need more than the spare five minutes he would allow her in the midst of his morning routine. She checked the clock again and decided to give it fifteen more minutes. She leaned back in her chair and rubbed her eyes. A headache was brewing behind her temples.
The Division Bell Trilogy Page 20
