by Jay Gill
I was about to leave when I heard the prime minister call my name. “Please, would you stay behind for a few minutes, Detective Chief Inspector?”
Norton was about to leave but hovered at the door. “We’ll be fine, George,” said Prime Minister Lafferty.
“It’s probably best I stay,” suggested Norton.
“I’m sure you have more pressing matters to attend to. I just want to have a quiet word with the detective inspector. You carry on. And please, keep me informed of any new developments, big or small.”
Norton smiled faintly and left us alone.
Chapter Eight
“Please, take a seat, James. I won’t keep you long. Do you mind if I call you James? ‘Chief Inspector’ is fine for meetings, but when I’m one to one I find conversation flows easier with less formality.”
I watched as the prime minister began pouring us both tea. “I agree,” I told her. “Although, if you don’t mind, I would prefer to call you ‘Prime Minister.’ I’m old-fashioned that way, and my mother would never forgive me if I didn’t address you correctly.”
Lafferty smiled and handed me my tea. She looked tired; she’d aged a lot in the few short years she’d been governing the country. I recalled seeing before-and-after photos of past prime ministers and being shocked by how the strain of governance was evident in their faces. It was as if each year in office added five years to their appearance.
“I’m surprised,” began the prime minister as she sipped her tea. “And please excuse my directness: I’m not quite sure how else to word it. I’m surprised the shooter went to all the trouble he did to kill McPherson. It was all rather dramatic, don’t you think? I mean, why not just shoot him on his way home or when he was leaving his house in the morning?” She tilted her head to one side, encouraging me to participate in her speculative meanderings. “Why do you think he went to all that trouble, James?”
“At this point I honestly don’t know,” I admitted.
“What if you had to guess? Let’s imagine you’re the shooter. Ask yourself, what are the benefits of going to all the trouble of putting on a show the way he did? Was it ego, terrorism, a demonstration, or a display of power? And why did he contact you?”
I really didn’t want to share my thoughts at this stage, although of course I had similar questions bouncing around inside my head. I’d heard the prime minister was shrewd, and she hadn’t missed the fact the shooting had been more than just an assassination. As she’d pointed out, there were easier ways to kill someone, even when that person was the director of MI5. The whole thing had been a performance from beginning to end, but why?
“If I had to guess, Prime Minister, assuming the MI5 director was the intended target, and I do think he was, then today was meant to be a public display of power and an opportunity to garner as much publicity as possible. Both of which were achieved.
“Forcing the evacuation of one of the grandest hotels in London, then shooting the head of intelligence in broad daylight in front of the world’s media suggests we have a killer who wants to shock. Some killers want to shock themselves. Some want to shock the investigators, and some want to shock the public.
“This killer is the latter type: he wants the attention of the country, perhaps the world. It may be that he wants to send a message by killing such a high-profile individual. If that’s the case, then who is the message for?
“As for your last question, Prime Minister, I believe I was contacted because my high profile adds even more to the theatre of what took place.
“Whatever way you look at it, he achieved his goal. You, Prime Minister, convened a COBR meeting and the world’s press know that. The killer knows that and will be encouraged. He achieved his aim today, and he has indicated that he’s only just getting started. What that means I don’t know. What I do know is that the next target will also be high profile, and he will not stop until he has driven home his message. Something is driving this man, and we need to understand what it is.”
“You don’t believe we’re dealing with a terrorist group?”
“No. This is not terrorism in the sense you mean. Terrorism is about society as a whole. Scaring and shocking the people and horrifying a society. Those who should be scared right now are people in high places. Those with power and influence. The greater the power and the greater the influence, the more worried they should be. It’s too early to say for sure, but my gut tells me that today was about scaring those with influence. Those are the people the shooter will be targeting. Otherwise, why go to all the trouble he did with McPherson?”
“You don’t mince your words, James.”
“The shooter had one target in mind. McPherson. I don’t want to underestimate the deep sadness we all feel at McPherson’s death – after all, he was my friend. But if the shooter had wanted to cause real public outrage, he would have picked off any number of targets from the emergency services, or, more likely, civilians. After the hotel was emptied we were all sitting ducks. There could have been a very high body count. Instead, the shooter planned and executed his one target with discipline and precision. He’s a professional.”
“My God,” said Lafferty. She sighed heavily and tilted her head back in thought.
“I’m sorry, Prime Minister. You asked me to speculate, and of course that is all this is. It’s really nothing more than a theory.”
“Don’t apologise. I’m impressed. You speak your mind, and that’s something I appreciate. I was told your insight is razor sharp. You haven’t disappointed.” She smiled grimly. “I guess I had better start going out in armoured suits from now on. Can you recommend a good tailor?”
“You could try the Ministry of Defence. They might have something in Kevlar, I suppose.” The joke fell flat, and I instantly regretted making it. I liked the prime minister; underneath the political exterior was a woman, a mother – and someone who, in my opinion, was top of the list of targets. “I’m sorry, Prime Minister. That wasn’t funny. Your security team can advise you better than I can, but you should consider cutting back on public appearances. You might want to rearrange your schedule until we have this under control. For the time being at least.”
“So, you think I am at risk?” She tried to say it lightly, as though she wasn’t concerned one way or another.
“I do.” I wasn’t convinced by her act and could see she was scared. She had to know the truth.
“Thank you for your honesty, James. I want us to stay in contact while we establish what we’re up against. I will make arrangements for you to have a direct line to me, and I want us to have regular communication.”
“Yes, Prime Minister. And I hope I’m wrong.”
“Me too.”
Chapter Nine
We were at one of my favourite restaurants, a family-owned Italian place called Nona Rosa. Their carbonara spaghetti and garlic dough balls were always a hit with Alice and Faith.
The evening wasn’t to celebrate a birthday or anniversary; it was simply a Hardy family get-together. A time for us to enjoy each other’s company, get out of the house and escape the routine of day-to-day life. It was often at fleeting moments like these that I was able to catch my breath and take stock.
To everyone’s surprise, Dad got to his feet and raised his glass.
“Here’s to you all. The people I love most in this whole world.”
We all smiled and Mum squeezed his hand lovingly. Dad wasn’t big on sentimentality. Maybe retirement, and having two rambunctious young granddaughters who thought nothing of painting his fingernails, applying lipstick and putting a princess tiara on his head while he dozed, was finally bringing out his softer side. Then again, maybe it was simply the wine or maybe the magic of the moment. Whatever it was, it didn’t matter. That evening we were all giddy on being together and part of a happy, loving family.
Dad looked around at us and continued. “I want each of you to know how proud of you I am. I couldn’t be a prouder father and grandfather. You mean the world to me
– to us.” He looked at Mum, his eyes twinkling. “Here’s to a brighter future together. I know for sure it’ll be happy and we’ll have many more times like this evening.”
We all raised our glasses in a toast.
As I looked around, Dad’s words still in my ears, I realised he was right. Things had changed. I’d changed. Everyone I loved most in this world was right here at the table with me. Funny how you could be told something over and over but it wasn’t until you saw it for yourself that you understood it to be true.
I looked at Monica in a way I’d never been able to before, in a way I hoped she understood. I watched her laughing and I smiled. She smiled back. I held her gaze a little longer than usual; I wanted to look into her eyes, to really look. For the first time, my head and my heart were in tune with each other. What I was feeling suddenly felt completely right. I could feel my pulse racing. My mind was spinning with a million questions. My heart was telling me it was ready to connect. That was the moment I knew. Just like that, in a split second, looking at Monica, I felt my whole world change.
The only question now was, was I brave enough to take the next step?
Chapter Ten
We’d said goodbye to my parents at the restaurant, and after a quick journey home I parked in our driveway. Alice and Faith were asleep in the back. I turned off the engine, and Monica and I looked back at them and then at each other. We had talked all the way home about the meal, about Mum and Dad, and a lot about Alice and Faith.
“I enjoyed that,” said Monica softly, not wanting to wake the girls. “It’s good to talk. We’re so busy, it’s easy to forget how good it is to simply talk. I hope we get a chance to do it again soon.”
“You’re easy to talk to. We should definitely do it again, soon,” I agreed. I could feel my heart beating hard. “How about next time it’s just you and me? How about we go on a date?” Saying it felt like a relief. The whole drive home I had been building up to asking her, and I’d done it. I felt like a teenager again – how crazy was that? I was nervous – sweaty palms, dry mouth, the whole package. I was so worried she might turn me down.
Monica didn’t say anything. Instead, she leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. “I’d like that, James. I’d like that a lot.”
“Is Tuesday okay?” I said, trying to keep the grin from cracking my face in half. I didn’t want to wait any longer than I had to. In a way it all seemed so bizarre. We lived in the same house and Monica was helping raise my children. We’d been through so much together since Helena’s murder. Yet, I still sensed that this new aspect of our relationship needed to go at the right pace for it to blossom. No matter how keen I felt, I was sure we’d be stronger if we allowed things to develop naturally.
“I’ll need to check my diary and let you know, but I’m sure it’ll be okay,” teased Monica. “Shall we get these two sleeping beauties inside? It’s getting late.”
Monica helped me unbuckle the girls from their seats, and I carried Alice and Faith inside with a smile fixed to my face that must have made me look like the Cheshire cat.
Chapter Eleven
Deputy Prime Minister Duncan Brannon always felt frustrated after radio interviews, and this one was no exception. He glared at the phone as though it were full of hornets. As deputy prime minister, he was expected to justify government decision-making and policy. Attending TV and radio interviews, like the one that afternoon, was now a part of his weekly ritual.
Quite some time ago it had occurred to him that journalists these days had no respect for politicians and were intent on making ministers jump through hoops in an effort to increase audience ratings. Clearly this radio station considered their audience to be nothing more than a baying mob, ready and waiting to hear a minister hang themselves.
These days every interview left him feeling as though he’d spent the whole time avoiding a barrage of questions coming at him like jabbing spears. At any moment one of those spears could mortally wound his credibility or even end his political career. It was a hateful way to live, and a long way from the political life he’d hoped for back in his early days.
He’d studied politics at university and, like so many before him, had fallen in love with the idea of making a real impact on the lives of millions of British families. An avid, idealistic political student, he had been full of big ideas and even bigger dreams. His enthusiasm was infectious, and even in those early days it had been clear he could captivate an audience. It was also during those wonderful days at university that he’d met the love of his life, Rowena Flynn.
He remembered standing on stage and seeing her walk in late to a lively “drinking and debating” evening. She was with her boyfriend of the time, a self-centred chap called Matty Hawkins, who was more interested in every other woman in the room and what he might be missing out on than the girl at his side.
Brannon could still remember the feeling of speaking to that audience on autopilot as his eyes followed Rowena around the room. Eventually, she had glanced up at him, and as she caught his gaze she’d flashed him a shy smile and self-consciously adjusted her clothes a little. In that moment, his life had changed forever. He’d felt something he’d never felt before; he wasn’t sure what it was, but he knew he had to know her. The possibility of talking to her had both scared him and excited him in equal measure. Until that moment he’d felt shy and awkward around women, but suddenly he felt unstoppable. He knew with absolute certainty that nobody, certainly not Matty Hawkins, would stop him from pursuing this beautiful young woman and convincing her he could make her happy for the rest of her life. He was right. Within eighteen months they were married.
Forty-five years later, they were still together and more in love than ever. Their youthful ideals may have changed as the practicalities of a career in politics, a mortgage and children had taken over, but Duncan wouldn’t change the good years they’d had together for the world.
Rowena had graduated with a first-class science degree and gone on to work in research for a pharmaceutical giant in west London. Duncan had managed a 2:1 in History and Politics and, after a shaky start, had eventually risen to the second-highest ministerial post in the land. Some day he still might reach the top job, if he really wanted it.
But four years ago, Rowena had begun showing signs of memory loss, and after a battery of tests and consultations, the diagnosis had come back: early-onset Alzheimer’s disease. And now, with the illness gaining a tighter grip on her each day, it wouldn’t be long until she’d need him full-time. He was fine with that. Nothing mattered more to him than his darling Rowena.
Life could be cruel; he knew that. He’d seen cruelty manifest itself in many ways over the years. He’d held terminally ill children on hospital wards and seen the aftermath of atrocities by brutal dictators in godforsaken countries around the world. But in his opinion, nothing came close to the heartache of seeing the one you hold most dear slipping away from you in front of your eyes. Why did it have to be her? She’d dedicated her whole life to the pursuit of helping others.
She had been part of small research team that had developed a vaccine for a strain of river blindness. It had changed the lives of millions, and instead of receiving a Nobel Prize she was handed Alzheimer’s. Where was the fairness in that? She was still so young and vibrant and full of life, just like the girl he first met.
As her memory loss worsened, he constantly worried she might not return to him. The disease was like a slowly gathering storm: it never stopped moving; imperceptible at first but gradually growing and gathering force. Worry kept him awake most nights. He feared the day might come when his beautiful Rowena no longer remembered their love and the life they’d built and shared together.
“Sir, are you okay? The car is ready.” Eric Parker, the security officer, was standing in front of his desk. Parker was from SO1 Specialist Protection, part of the Metropolitan Police’s Protection Command. He smiled reassuringly at Brannon. “If you’re ready, sir? We’ve made provision for you to exit thro
ugh the back. With the current threat level the way it is, it will be safer.”
“Good. Yes, thank you, Parker. That will be great. I’m sorry – I was miles away. Let me gather my notes and we’ll make a start. I’m keen to get back as soon as possible.”
“We’ll have you back home in no time, sir. A couple of hours at the most. We’ll use the blue lights if we need to. That’ll clear the road.” Parker smiled as if using the blue flashing lights still gave him a thrill, then turned and nodded to the officer at the end of the corridor to indicate they were on the move.
He radioed to officers stationed outside the building to let them know he was on his way out with the deputy prime minister. He reminded them, not that they needed reminding, that they were to be ready for anything.
Preparations complete, Parker took a deep breath and led Deputy Prime Minister Brannon to the waiting car.
Chapter Twelve
Parker sat in the passenger seat beside Stanton, who was driving, and Brannon sat in the back. Parker was satisfied. They’d made it safely to the car and were driving at speed to Deputy Prime Minister Brannon’s constituency of Wycombe. He checked his watch again and glanced over his shoulder. “Are you okay, sir? You look anxious.”
“Yes, thank you, Parker. I’ll be glad to get home. Rowena hasn’t been herself for the last couple of days, so I’m keen to get back and check on her. I could have done without all this, but duty calls.” Brannon smiled weakly.
“Sorry to hear that, sir. Please pass on my regards to Mrs Brannon. If there is anything I can do, you only need to ask. Oh, and Georgina sends her best wishes. She wanted me to let you know she is praying for you both and that she hopes to visit again soon. That is, when Mrs Brannon is feeling up to it.” He and his wife, Georgina, had recently spent a pleasant afternoon at the Brannons’ home, and his wife was keen to return.
