The skin on Catherine’s neck was raw. Her nostrils flared. “I don’t know what you’re trying to achieve by encouraging the Leader of the Opposition to slander me in the Chamber.”
John snorted. Jennifer heard muttering; MPs were jostling each other, trying to get closer again. They’d been joined by more journalists.
She ground her thumbnail into the palm of her hand and took a deep breath.
“It’s not slander and you know it. We have evidence.”
She thought of the safe at home. Suddenly it occurred to her that Catherine could send the police, or the security services, to seize it. Would she go that far?
“That pathetic note you’ve been bandying about. It’s nothing.”
John pulled his copy from his pocket. “I don’t think so.”
Catherine glared at him. “I think it’s best if you keep out of this.”
The muttering around them grew. “Show us!” somebody cried.
Jennifer looked at John then took the note from him. She turned to face the camera.
She held it up, with the text facing the camera.
“The Prime Minister sent me this note when she was a Home Office minister, in September 2021. A week before my son was arrested. She warned me that he was under suspicion, and encouraged me to go into hiding.”
Voices rose around them.
Catherine pushed in front of her, grabbing the note. Jennifer gasped and reached for it but Catherine had it in her pocket. John looked lost for words, a rare sight.
“This note means nothing,” Catherine said. She was addressing the crowd of MPs but her gaze kept flicking to the camera. “It has no names on it. Not mine, not hers. Not her son’s.”
“How do you know that?” asked John. “Have you seen it before?”
The blush spread to Catherine’s lower jaw. “She came to visit me. Right here, only an hour ago. She showed it to me and tried to blackmail me. So yes, I’ve seen it.”
A journalist turned to Jennifer. “Is that true?”
“Yes. I showed it to her. I wanted to warn her that it would be revealed today, in the Chamber.”
“Rubbish!” cried Catherine.
Jennifer stared at her. Was she going to do this again? Was she going to throw this back at her, turn it into an accusation of blackmail?
“Look, everyone,” said John. “Let’s just calm down.” He turned to an aide and took something from him. “I have another copy here. Be prepared, eh, Prime Minister?”
Catherine twisted her face into a frown that made her look ten years older.
John passed the copy to Jennifer. “This is yours, I believe,” he muttered.
The cameras advanced on her, pushing Catherine out of the way.
“Ms Sinclair, can you hold it up?”
Jennifer held it towards them. John’s aide started moving through the crowd, distributing something. More copies!
Bless you, John, she thought.
“You can all have your own copy,” she said. “The original is in a safe place. I will be handing it over to the police. Meanwhile, you have plenty of examples of the Prime Minister’s handwriting to compare this to. Call in your experts.”
She felt breath on the back of her neck. “I was trying to help you.” Catherine’s voice.
For a moment she felt her legs weaken; had she brought herself as low as her former friend, by betraying her like this?
No. This was for Samir, and Rita, and everyone else.
She felt a hand on her shoulder. She turned, ready to face Catherine. But it was the same woman who’d arrested her, right here, less than six months earlier.
She felt her heart skip a beat.
“We need to talk to you,” the woman said. “My name is Detective Inspector Johnson.”
“I know.”
She turned to see another officer, this one in uniform, guide Catherine away. The MPs surrounding them were shouting now, cries of liar, traitor, bitch. She didn’t know who they were aimed at. She didn’t care.
DI Johnson cocked her head. “I need you to come with me.”
“Yes,” she said. “Of course.”
Chapter Sixty-Nine
April 2022
The sun was appearing over the horizon, its light filtered by the tall fence next to Jennifer’s car.
Yusuf sat in the passenger seat, blowing on his hands.
“I wish this didn’t have to be at dawn,” he said. “It feels so unwelcoming.”
She shrugged. “More secrecy. Less Press.”
She’d spent the last three weeks dodging journalists, when she wasn’t hunkered down with the police going over her evidence. The case was complicated; she wasn’t only the main witness in the case against Catherine, but she was a convicted criminal and the mother of a convicted terrorist sympathiser.
Until, suddenly, she wasn’t. She had no idea whose doing it was, but two days earlier she received a letter from the Home Office saying that Samir’s conviction had been overturned. No explanation of when, or where, or why. But she wasn’t about to argue.
Which meant her conviction was now null too. You couldn’t harbour a suspected terrorist if they were officially no longer a suspected terrorist.
Yusuf had asked her if this meant she’d go back to Westminster, find herself another Parliamentary seat. She’d said no; she was too tired. Too worried about the boys. Not yet, anyway.
She heard the squeal of metal on metal and turned. Behind them, a gate was opening.
Yusuf put his hand on her arm. She’d stopped breathing.
Blinking away tears, she pushed her door open and looked at the gate. A prison guard stood inside it, his gaze on the building behind him.
Yusuf grabbed her hand. She squeezed back and approached the gate.
“No closer,” the guard said. They stopped.
She heard a clang as another door opened, unseen. A shadow emerged from around the corner of the building. Tall, thin. Gangly.
She gasped and put her hand to her mouth to keep from crying out. She stepped forwards.
The guard glared at her. She held her ground.
The shadow stepped into a pool of light. Samir was blinking, rubbing his eyes. He looked tired. Thin. Five years younger than his now seventeen years.
“Samir!” she cried.
He turned to her, his eyes widening. They were stark, ringed by dark circles. She hoped he hadn’t been hurt in there.
Yusuf cleared his throat. “It’s so good to see you.”
Samir approached them. He stopped as he reached the guard and gave him a questioning look. The guard waved him through.
Samir stepped through the gate and looked up at the sky. He laughed, a high-pitched cackle that spoke of despair as much as joy.
Jennifer stepped forwards, her hands outstretched. He hadn’t let her hold him in years.
She waited.
He all but fell forwards, into her arms. She felt herself breathe again.
“Welcome back, love. Welcome back.”
Yusuf wrapped his arms around them both.
“Where’s Hassan?” Samir asked. His voice was strained.
“At home,” said Yusuf. “With Grandma.”
Samir pulled back to look at each of them in turn. His eyes were as wet as Jennifer knew hers were.
“I’m sorry, Mum. Dad,” he said.
Jennifer pulled him in again. “Don’t be. Don’t be.”
Chapter Seventy
May 2022
Mark watched Yonda. She was packing books into a brown cardboard box. Her jacket – dark blue today – hung over the back of her chair.
“You betrayed me,” she said, not meeting his eye.
He said nothing.
She looked up. Her eyes were rimmed with purple and her cheeks were blotchy. “Not going to explain yourself?”
“You don’t need me to tell you why I did it.”
“Hmm. Look at where you got us.”
“I don’t think that was me.”
She
threw the second of the porcelain dogs into the box. Mark widened his eyes, waiting for a crash.
She slumped into her huge chair. “I suppose this’ll be yours now.”
“What d’you mean?”
“Come on, Mark. You don’t have to be coy with me. They’ll have offered you the job.”
“They might have.”
She stood up and grabbed her jacket. She slung it over her shoulders. She muttered to herself as her hand caught in the sleeve.
She moved to the side of the desk and gestured at the chair. Behind her, beyond the window, two vans made their way up the driveway. Delivering supplies for the new psychiatric unit that was to be housed here. NHS, not Home Office. Or Forval.
“I said no,” he told her.
“No? What d’you do a stupid thing like that for?”
He shook his head. “I’m going to Canada.”
“Canada? Why the hell are you doing that? Stay here, you’ll be like a pig in shit.”
He laughed. Suddenly Yonda looked ridiculous, and not scary. Now that she’d had her power stripped from her. Strictly speaking, it wasn’t fair that she’d lost her job. She was only following orders, after all. But they needed their scapegoats.
“My wife – ex-wife – and son are out there.”
“Oh. I’d forgotten about them.”
She looked at the box as if waiting for him to pick it up. After a moment’s silence, she heaved it up herself.
“So you’re not going to track Meena down then?”
“I think Meena’s got her own fish to fry.”
“Ah.” She put the box back on the desk and wiped her hand on her skirt. She held it out.
“Good luck, Mark.”
“Thanks. And you.”
When she’d left, he crossed to the window and watched the workmen unloading the vans. He wondered who’d be working here in a few days’ time. Who the patients would be.
His phone rang.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” he replied, feeling his pulse pick up. “How’s things?”
“OK. He’s nervous.”
“I know. It’s been almost three years.”
“He’s not the baby he was. You’ll need to get to know him again. Take things at his pace.”
“And us?”
“What about us?”
“You know what I mean, Vee. What pace should I take us at?”
“Let’s work that one out when you get here, huh?”
Chapter Seventy-One
October 2022
“Can you get that, love? I’m just icing the cake.”
“Yeah.”
Jennifer looked up and watched her son stroll towards the front door. He was showing signs of being a teenager, despite everything he’d been through.
“You’ve spelt my name wrong, Mum.”
“What?” She looked down at the icing, her spirits falling. “No I haven’t.”
“It should be Hass.”
She flicked his arm. “No, silly. That’s just what your brother calls you.”
She pushed the cake away and surveyed her handiwork. She wasn’t the world’s best baker, was probably the world’s worst cake decorator, but it was the thought that counted. Hassan’s name, wrapped around the best drawing of his new kitten that she could manage. The kitten was growing, but still liked to climb curtains then leap off them onto the tops of cupboards.
Samir called from the front door.
“Mum?”
She frowned. “What is it?”
She stepped into the hall. He looked worried.
“Who is it?” she asked.
“Er, she says she knows you. He doesn’t.”
Jennifer gave him her most reassuring smile. She shouldn’t have asked him to answer the door, he was still scared of the police knocking. Yusuf was in the living room, blowing up balloons. Balloons Hassan had objected to – but Dad, I’m thirteen – but would love once they were ready, she knew.
She wiped her hands on her jeans and opened the door further.
“Jennifer!”
She stepped forwards and wrapped their visitor in a hug. Next to her, a young Asian man hopped from foot to foot. He was tall and slim, with a deep dimple in his chin. He reminded her of a young Yusuf.
“This must be Ash?” she said.
Rita pulled back and grabbed the man’s arm. “Jennifer, meet Ash. Ash – Jennifer.”
“Pleased to meet you,” he said, offering his hand. Jennifer took it, then leaned in and put her arms around him. Today felt like a day for hugs.
“Where are the candles?” Hassan was next to her now, his voice straining. It had started breaking, his vocal register veering from bass to falsetto within each sentence.
“Sorry, sweetheart.”
Hassan screwed up his face at her.
“I mean, I’m sorry Hass.”
He nodded. That was better.
“They’re in the drawer in the kitchen, next to the cooker.”
She turned back to Rita and Ash. “Come in. Take off your coats.”
They followed her in and she closed the door. It was chilly today, none of the sunshine there’d been on Hassan’s tenth birthday.
Yusuf appeared from the living room. He looked out of breath. “Hey, Rita.”
“Hey.”
“And this must be Ash?” He held out his hand, gripping Ash’s arm as they shook. “Good to meet you at last.”
Ash smiled nervously. Next to Yusuf he looked young and awkward. Rita leaned into him, twirling her finger into his sleeve.
“Dad, where are— Oh.”
“And this is Samir.”
Rita’s face lit up. “Samir. It’s an honour.”
Samir lowered his head. He frowned at Yusuf.
“Don’t worry,” said Yusuf.
There was movement behind him, in the living room.
“Meena!” Rita cried.
Meena eased around Samir, smiling. “Hi Rita. Good to see you.”
Rita leaned forward, a question in her eyes. Meena laughed and hugged her. She drew back to Samir, who snaked his arm around her waist.
Rita clapped her hands together. Her cheeks were pink and her eyes bright. “Oh, it’s so good to see you two together.”
Samir blushed. He bent to mutter in Meena’s ear and they retreated into the living room.
“Have you got a present?” Hassan asked.
Jennifer laughed. “Oh, some things never change!”
“Yes,” said Rita, pulling a parcel out of a bag. “Of course.”
“Hang on,” said Jennifer. “My phone’s buzzing. It might be another guest.”
She darted into the kitchen and grabbed her phone from next to the cake. “Hello?”
“Jennifer.”
“John?”
“You sound surprised.”
“I thought you’d be too busy to remember Hassan’s birthday.”
“Hassan’s what? Oh hell, I’ve forgotten again, haven’t I?”
“It’s OK. You can make it up to him another time.”
“Well, it’s you I want to make it up to.”
She looked into the hall. Hassan had told a joke and Rita was laughing at him, her eyes dancing. An engagement ring flashed on her finger.
“I have to go, John. Can we talk another time?”
“Don’t you want to hear what I’ve got to say?”
“What? It’s not the best time. Can you—”
“I want you to be my Home Secretary.”
She laughed. “Nice joke, John.”
“I’m serious, dammit. I want you back in the government. Deborah’s resigning. Illness. There’s a vacancy.”
Deborah, the former shadow education secretary in the same shadow cabinet Jennifer had served in, had been Home Secretary for six months now.
“I know,” said Jennifer. “She called me, last week. It’s rough.”
“Yes,” said John, after an awkward pause. “But anyway, the job.”
“Are you sure
that’s a good idea? Everywhere I go, governments seem to topple.”
“Well, I can thank you for this last one.”
“Fair enough. But no, I don’t think it would be a good idea.”
“You did this to me once before, remember. When I offered you Shadow Home Secretary.”
“That was different.”
“Home Secretary. You’re not even tempted?”
“Oh John, I’m very tempted. Very tempted indeed.”
“So why not join us? You don’t have to worry about that bitch Catherine Moore anymore, she’ll be behind bars for a while. The party loves you for what you did.”
“Well, I appreciate that. But I’m not even an MP.”
“That’s what the Lords is for.”
“No, it’s not. And besides, I’ve accepted another job.”
“Oh?”
“The new body, to regulate the prisons service. I’ll be heading it up.”
“You’re going to be spying on me?”
“No, John. I’m going to be making sure you and your government don’t let things get out of hand. That you don’t keep secrets.”
“Fair enough.”
Hassan ran in, brandishing his present. A LEGO model of Big Ben. Jennifer had been puzzled when he’d asked for it. She could only hope he didn’t harbour political ambitions.
She gave him a playful punch on the arm. He swatted at it and laughed.
“Sorry, John. I’ve got to go. Party.”
“Party?”
“The other kind of party. Birthday party.” Silence. “For Hassan, remember?”
“Oh. Yes. Tell him Happy Birthday from the Prime Minister.”
“He’ll like that. Especially as it’s you this time.”
“Thanks. I guess I’ll be seeing you on the other side of a Parliamentary inquiry at some point.”
“No time soon I hope. I need to help Samir recover from what he went through in the detention centre. I need to watch over Hassan better than I did his brother.”
“Makes sense.”
“See you around, John. Be the best Prime Minister we ever had, eh?”
“I’ll try, Jennifer. I really will.”
Did you enjoy the Division Bell trilogy? You can read the companion stories for free and find out more about the author at the Rachel McLean book club.
The Division Bell Trilogy Page 74
