by A P Bateman
The man in the doorway started laughing. “Very good, Giorgi!”
The man named Giorgi caught hold of Caroline’s wrists and pinned them to the floor.
Amanda got up unsteadily. She was shaken, her lip bloodied and starting to swell. She looked at the scene on the floor and then at the man in the doorway. “Viktor, what are you going to do with her?” she asked. “They’ll know she was here.”
Viktor Bukov grinned. He was still watching the man on top of Caroline. Her legs had shifted during the struggle and the man was now lying between them. Caroline was struggling, but she wasn’t strong enough to get him off, or get out from underneath him. “Giorgi,” he chuckled. “Do you want us to leave for a few minutes while you have your way with her on the floor? Give you two love birds some privacy?”
Giorgi struggled a hand free, pinned her wrist with his other elbow, then smashed his fist down onto the side of Caroline’s jaw. She smarted for a moment, then her eyes lolled, and she passed out. He looked back at Bukov, breathless, his brow damp from sweat. “No, I’m okay now. Phew! That bitch put up a fight!” He rolled off her and got to his feet. He tucked in his shirt and adjusted his leather bomber jacket. He wiped his brow with the back of his heavily tattooed hand.
“I said, they’ll know she was here,” Amanda repeated. She dabbed her lip with a damp tea-towel. “You need to move her,” she said. “And I need to get someplace else to create an alibi.”
Viktor Bukov shook his head. “Forget it. Moving her out of here in daylight is going to take all three of us. We’ll need bedsheets or blankets, and a roll of duct tape. And we’ll have to hurry, somebody will miss her before long.”
“What about me?” Amanda asked. “I can’t leave yet, I need to see my report pushed through.”
“If she was here, your report is as good as worthless.”
“But…”
“Get packed!” said Bukov. “You were going to disappear after this. What’s a few days early?”
“It will look suspicious.”
“It’s too late for that,” Bukov said coldly. “Damage limitation is all we can hope for now.”
47
Sir Hugo Hollandrake had just met with the Prime Minister. He had the PM’s ear, and she had been easily swayed by him in the past. He had recommended that the search for the ringleaders behind Anarchy to Recreate Society, and the investigation into Sir Ian Snell’s death be handed over to Scotland Yard’s Special Branch. He expected the handover to be confirmed by the end of the day.
He sat back in the sumptuous leather of the Jaguar XJ. He would be Prime Minister soon. He was certain of it. He already had names he could call on, people indebted to him, or scared of what he knew of their past. They would back him without question. Politics was a house of cards, and he owned the entire bottom tier. Nobody at the top could stand without a foundation. Hugo Hollandrake had been told this as a fresh-faced civil servant thirty years ago, and he had never forgot it. He had spent his life coaxing and owning people. He hadn’t called in many favours over the years, but he soon would.
The Jaguar pulled in along the side of the pavement outside of Whitehall. His bodyguard was already out and moving, he approached the Home Secretary’s door from behind, opened it when the driver released the central locking in time with his movements. He used the door to protect the minister from one side, and his body to offer cover from the other. Hollandrake exited and the bodyguard followed two steps behind and a step to his right. They were good security drills. He saw the minister all the way up the steps, past the armed police officer on the door, and into the foyer. The bodyguard peeled away.
The offices were secure, security was a preventative, not restrictive operation. Hollandrake walked on, his bodyguard replaced by a PA, who talked animatedly as they walked. She handed him a file, nodded to his request of coffee and peeled off at the top of the staircase and Hollandrake walked to his office. The PA would normally occupy the front desk and Hollandrake walked on through and opened the fire door, which because of a security refit, was a self-closing, solid wooden door with tight seals.
The door had closed before the Home Secretary saw King seated behind his desk. He dropped the file and papers slid out across the floor. He did not look down at them, nor attempted to retrieve them, merely stared at King, mouth agape. He seemed to realise this, closed it suddenly.
“Do take a seat,” King said.
“What the hell are you doing?” he asked incredulously. “Get the bloody hell out!”
King shrugged. “That’s not happening anytime soon,” he said. He leaned back in the leather chair, swivelled it slightly from side to side.
“How did you get in here?”
“Practically in my sleep.”
“What do you want? I thought I told Amherst you were done. Is that it? You’re here to get even with me?” he asked, incredulously. “Pathetic. You’ll do time for this. Threatening a member of the cabinet? The Home Secretary? Your career finished this morning. Your liberty was finished the moment you walked in here.”
King smiled. “Are you sure about that?”
“My assistant will be here in a moment. I will tell her to call security.”
“And the police,” King said. “And the Inland Revenue, or whatever they’re called this month. HMRC, I think. And the Prime Minister, I should imagine.” King eased back the chair further, rested his right foot on the desk. “And the newspapers, TV news. Hell, get her to call everybody.”
The door opened, and Hollandrake’s PA froze. She had stopped so suddenly in her tracks that the coffee splashed over the lip and onto the floor, catching the file and papers with a wash of cappuccino.
She looked at King, then turned to her boss. “Sir?”
“Alex King, I’m with MI5. I believe the Home Secretary wants you to make some calls on his behalf,” he paused, looked at Hollandrake. “Security first, wasn’t it Hugo? And then I suggested the police…”
“It’s alright, Dawn,” Hollandrake said quietly. “Mister King will be leaving soon. Of his own accord. You can break for lunch early, if you like?”
The woman nodded. She handed the Home Secretary his half-cup of coffee.
“Dawn?” King smiled. “If you don’t mind, I’d love a cup of tea. White and one, thank you.” He was pleasant, unassuming with her. She nodded, and King watched her leave. “So, caught with your fingers in the cookie jar, Home Secretary.”
“What?” Hollandrake said incredulously. “You’re a mad man. What sort of allegation is that?”
“Goliath. GeoSpec. Investments in shell companies owned by the late Sir Ian Snell, your wife’s name as company secretary to multiple shell companies,” King paused. “Does she know about any of that?”
Hollandrake made it to the chair reserved for his guests before he crumpled. He took out his handkerchief and mopped his brow, before looking back at King.
“No,” he said quietly.
“From what I’ve been informed, you’ve defrauded the tax man enough to get double digits in prison. Your wife also.”
“She’s not involved!”
“So you say,” King said. “But these things are so difficult to prove. It’s a complex old web you’ve weaved. And I understand why. The more complexity in a scheme, then the harder it is to follow to the source. But conversely, when you get tangled up in the threads, it’s difficult to get away from. Your wife, for instance. I haven’t done much research, to be fair. But I imagine she’s twin-set and pearls. Rides horses, enjoys the hunt ball, sips the odd Pimm’s at a regatta or two in the season,” he smiled. “Not the sort cut-out to bunk up with a tattooed fourteen-stone lesbian with an eye on a new bitch.”
“I said she’s not involved!”
“But you are?” snapped King. He looked past Hollandrake as the door opened and his PA walked in with a cup in her hand. King took his foot off the desk and smiled. “Thanks for that,” he said. He stood up and accepted the cup. “I think that will be all until after lunch, t
hanks.” He glanced at Hollandrake. “Is that right, Home Secretary?”
Hollandrake nodded, but he did not catch the woman’s eye. “Yes, thank you, Dawn.”
King waited for the door to close behind her. He took a sip of his tea. “Not a bad cuppa,” he said. “A pleasant young woman.”
“Indeed,” Hollandrake commented absently.
“Are you sleeping with her?”
“No!”
“But you are sleeping with Amanda Cunningham?”
“No!”
“But you were,” King said. “We’ve seen the letters. The handwriting has been confirmed by a specialist,” King lied. He was taking a chance now, reaching out on a limb, but he felt sure it was true and the handwriting expert would look at them soon. Caroline had forwarded them to him, and in turn he had sent them on to Neil Ramsay. Amherst had confirmed that Sir Hugo had often signed off on internal documents, he was certain enough and had forwarded them on to the documentation department where they were trying to contact a graphologist.
“A long time ago,” Hollandrake admitted. “She got back in contact. She’s in financial trouble, needed a door or two opened for her. It wasn’t something I wanted brought out into the open. I was on her university select committee as an adviser and donor. A patron. She was so vibrant, so beautiful…”
“Does your wife know?”
“No.”
“I believe your daughter is at university now.”
“So?”
“Important time for her,” King said. “Wouldn’t be easy for her with a huge story like this unravelling.”
“Are you bribing me?” Hollandrake smirked. “Is that it? Money?”
“Your DNA was in Amanda’s flat,” King lied again. He was on a roll. “The bathroom. All sorts in there. Toothbrush, razor, the taps, towels. You rekindled the affair.”
“How much do you want?”
“You don’t deny being there recently?”
Hollandrake shrugged. “What’s the point?”
King relaxed. His bluff had paid off. He looked at Hollandrake as he sipped some more tea. He put the cup down on the blotter in front of him. “We’ll kick off with the affair,” King said. “Leak what we have. A sordid affair with a student in an institution where you were patron. Rekindled all these years later. Or perhaps it was ongoing? Anyway, right now the DNA is the clincher. A lost report that will turn up on the desk of a major newspaper. Let the press have some fun with it. And then the tax fraud. Both in the minimal and fraudulent amount of tax paid and the over-inflated figure of VAT claimed. We’ll let the tax man get the ball rolling on that one.”
“How much do you want?”
“What are you offering?”
“Who else knows?”
King smiled. “Just me.” He took out the Glock pistol, rested it on the desk, the muzzle covering Hollandrake’s chest. “Sorry, force of habit. You ask who else knows, I say just me, you take out a gun and shoot me, claiming I broke in and tried to kill you…”
“But I don’t have a gun,” Hollandrake said.
King smiled. “I know. There are metal detectors down stairs. Your CP officer filed off before he reached them. You walked straight through.”
“How do you know that?”
“I know things. I see things. I have other people seeing things for me.”
“Are you wired?”
King laughed. “No, I’m not wired. But I have a phone.”
“How did you get your gun through?”
King shrugged. “I know how to do things. I know how to appear and disappear.”
“Five-hundred thousand. Today. To make it all go away.”
King shook his head. “That’s not a bad figure,” he said. “But you sanctioned the killings. You knew Ian Snell was going to die, and you knew at least four other people would die to cover up the motive for his death. And then there’s the collateral damage. The bodyguards, the chauffeurs, the men out in the South African bush, the innocent family down in Cornwall. And then there’s the South African intelligence agent, the prisoner he was escorting with Caroline.”
“One million.”
“And my fiancé. Two attempts on her life,” King paused. He put the pistol down on the desk, took his phone out of his pocket. “Damn. I appear to have been recording this entire meeting.”
“Five,” Hollandrake said. “Five million and I keep the phone. Agree to this right now, I can get the money before the end of the day.”
“My fiancé,” King said. “The first contract killers were going to rape her and cut her throat.” He took an envelope out of his inside jacket pocket and placed it on the desk. “The second attempt almost had her burn alive in the wreckage of a car. The poor South African intelligence agent wasn’t so lucky. The prisoner, Vigus Badenhorst didn’t deserve to die. And certainly not like that.”
“I can get you five today. I can arrange another three by the end of the week,” Hollandrake said. “That’s eight-million for your phone and your silence. Think about it. Nobody even wins that much on the lottery anymore.”
“Who’s your contact in the South African Secret Service?”
Hollandrake shook his head. “You have to give me something back.”
“I don’t have to give you anything.”
Hollandrake held up his hands. “Look. I’ll write down his name for you. I just need your guarantee that you won’t release what evidence you have. That you won’t go after my wife. That all of this will go away.”
King picked up a pen and tossed it over to him. “Go on then,” he said. “A little test of faith.”
Hollandrake picked up a sheet from the file, folded it over and scribbled down the name. He got unsteadily out of his chair and passed it down to King. He glanced at the pistol on the desk, started to hesitate.
King smiled. “You won’t make it,” he said. He snatched the paper off him and Hollandrake flinched. King folded it and slipped it into his pocket. Hollandrake ignored the pistol and returned to his chair.
“We have a deal?”
“What?” King asked.
“You’ll help this to all go away,” Hollandrake said. He coughed, clearing his throat. “The affair, the tax, everything else…”
King shook his head. “You know that won’t happen, right?”
“What?”
“That’s not how this is going to play out,” King said. “You are the Home Secretary. You are odds-on favourite to be the next Prime Minister. Everyone knows the PM is not going to make her full term. You advocated multiple murders…”
“I have been responsible for millions going to charities and worthy causes! To people in dire need!” Hollandrake snapped. “Anarchy to Recreate Society showed people what the rich really were.”
“The rich?” King asked. “Cheats, liars, megalomaniacs. Like yourself, for instance? People who don’t pay enough tax, falsify their figures.” King picked up the envelope, turned it over. “You’re going to answer for your involvement in, or awareness of Anarchy to Recreate Society and the murders they carried out. You’re going to answer for South Africa. You are going to be investigated by HMRC as well as the Monopolies and Mergers Commission. Your efforts to corrupt an investigation by paying off the lead pathologist to falsify her findings in the forensic investigation of a man’s murder will be handed over to the police. And your wife will answer to her involvement in shell companies owned by both you and the late Sir Ian Snell. The Goliath ICBM contract will be quashed. Your involvement in securing a contract in which you have a conflict of interest will be laid out for debate. I imagine the government will fall like a house of cards.”
Hollandrake had turned pale. Ashen. King thought he looked about ready to have a heart attack. Which was apt. considering what King was about to do next.
King picked up the envelope and tossed it across to the Home Secretary.
“What’s this?” he asked, but his expression had not changed.
“It’s a way out.”
“What?”
“Go home. Kiss your wife, phone your daughter for a chat and pour yourself a Scotch, and then take the pill.”
Hollandrake opened the envelope, peered inside. The pill was a capsule. It was red at one end and green at the other.
“It will bring on a heart attack,” King said. “You won’t know what is happening after a few minutes. You’ll be mourned. Your obituary will be clean. You’ll be page one in the papers and opening feature on the tv news. And Mrs Hollandrake gets to keep her twin-set and pearls, ride her horses, attend the hunt ball and sip a Pimm’s at the regatta.”
48
He applied the tape first around her wrists, her hands in front of her. Then, he pulled her up into a sitting position, wound the tape around her elbow and worked it around her back until he pushed it through the crook of her other elbow. He doubled the table back and repeated. He pushed her back down and her head struck the floor. She winced, but was still unconscious. It was a sign she would be regaining consciousness soon.
Giorgi looked down at Caroline, reached out and cupped her left breast. He smoothed his hand over the soft mound, gently squeezed, then worked his way slowly to her right. He smiled, a thin, predatory smile. His eyes were set hard and he watched her face as he fondled and then, lowered his touch.
Caroline opened her eyes, exploded into action, kicking and shuffling to get him off her. She couldn’t work her arms, struggled to comprehend what was happening, reason why she could not fight this beast off her. When she realised she was bound with tape, she panicked further.
Giorgi looked shocked, but he smiled again as he pushed her back down onto the floor and slapped her hard across the cheek. She recoiled, seeing the blow coming towards her, but unable to block or avoid it. She could see the next blow, and this time, his fist was bunched. She clenched her teeth, and dipped her head, but gasped as the punch glanced off the side of her head, stunning her. He followed up with another punch, this time catching her jaw.
