The Angel of Whitehall

by Lewis Hastings

  Both men nodded. Roberts took an unnecessary sip of the tea in front of him.

  “You’ve been listening to the wires then, Ma’am?” Cade asked, rhetorically.

  “You know better than to ask that, Jack.”

  “I’ll take that as an unofficial yes then. May I ask why you would have commenced such an op?”

  “You aware of the Thirty-Year Rule gentlemen?” asked Berry.

  “Vaguely sir, yes. It covers the rules surrounding declassification of sensitive information held by the government.”

  “Yes, it does. And I’m sure your maths teacher enabled you to work out that we are talking about 1986.”

  “And the relevance of that is what, sir?” asked Roberts, placing his cup back onto its saucer.

  “Well, other than thirty years prior it was also the year that a few military personnel retired – officially. And at the same time an up-and-coming journalist from the Telegraph began sniffing around – asking questions that he never got an answer to. He made it his life’s work, so put an entry into his diary each year and every year asked the same question and last year started asking pressing questions of no less than a senior minister.”

  “And are we correct in guessing that the minister was Angus McLeod?”

  “You are DCI Roberts.”

  “And the journalist? Who would he be…?” Cade was pushing his luck.

  “Jeremy Laporte? Yes. Ironic that his name means fortified place in French.”

  “Why is that, sir?”

  “Because he’s dead, Jack,” answered Lane.

  “Dead?”

  “Very. Car crash. Two days before the Thirty-Year embargo was due to be lifted. No family to follow up on his legacy.”

  “All seems a little…convenient, wouldn’t you say Prime Minister?”

  “Very. But no, before you ask, we were not responsible.”

  “Then who?”

  “Perhaps we could leave that to the detectives to work out DCI Roberts?” asked Berry, checking his watch. “PM, I have to dash.”

  “As do I. Gentlemen. I’ll have what we know released to you within hours. It stays on the high side. OK?”

  “Absolutely.”

  They left the building, got to the BMW and drove back through the gates. The whole meeting hadn’t even lasted twenty minutes.

  “So, what do you make of the new Police Minister Jack?” asked Roberts as he drove, favouring his wrist and sub-consciously looking for the Bentley.

  “He seemed OK, certainly far better than the last oily bastard. I have to say, in the confines of this car, I was glad what happened to him happened.”

  “Agreed. Anyway, the new minister. What a name!”

  “I did wonder if you picked up on it, Jas! His parents must have loved giving that to him. Do you think he was born around Christmas time?”

  “I know, Ollie Berry. Priceless. Fancy a coffee? My treat?”

  “Be rude not to, wouldn’t it. Then what?”

  “Me? Back to the ranch and get this new op under way. I guess you’ll be heading back to the hotel for some afternoon delights with the lovely Miss O’Shea…”

  “I doubt that, Detective Chief Inspector, very much.”

  “Oh come on Jack, just between mates, she’s got a cracking pair, you old dog you, I bet she bangs like a shithouse door in a gale…as my dear old man used to say.”

  “And what happened to your dear old man?” Cade’s look had changed.

  “My mother cut his balls off with a blunt carving knife. What I was going to say was I bet she loves nothing more than a nice cup of tea in the afternoon…”

  “Well, we’ll be there in ten, why don’t you ask her. And if you like, you can see what she thinks about your comments. If you don’t ask her I will.”

  “Now come on Jack…”

  “Drop me off at the hotel would you?” He smiled, looked away, trying not to laugh.

  “Bastard. I bloody well thought you meant that then. Christ, I’ve missed working with you. This is going to be good, very good.”

  “No, Jason. It’s going to be great.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  River Thames, London

  It would take two days before any of the teams came up with anything remotely tangible. Long hours, combined with many staff not yet fully engaged, but for the high-profile names that they had seen on the top of the list, meant that Roberts had to lead from the front. He pushed the squad, knowing that he had yet to gain full approval.

  The first old ship, tied up and rotting on the Thames was called the London Regalia, an old red-painted floating pub, up for sale and containing nothing of interest.

  South of the river at Woolwich and rusting away they had boarded and searched the MV Royal Iris, a former Mersey passenger ferry. All but forgotten now. All she contained was rats and rust and on the upper decks some squatters who were rudely woken by the men in black pyjamas pointing guns at them and shouting a lot.

  The team had mapped at least a dozen more. Ships that had been forgotten and were now just a part of the landscape. They climbed onto, broke into and searched all of them. Nothing.

  The last vessel showed more promise. A local fisherman heading out into the estuary told an overly long tale of a hulk of a freighter, lying offshore somewhere near the mouth of the River Medway.

  “There’s quite a few old wrecks along that coastline. Been there years. Not sure what you are looking for. I don’t know if this helps you or not?”

  “Very much so, mate, thank you. Have a safe day.”

  The two boats parted company.

  “Well? I’m happy if you are. Some foul weather coming in so you need to make a call now.” asked the skipper of the Metropolitan Police Maritime Unit boat the Nina Mackay II.

  A Targa 31 boat, built in Finland as a law enforcement vessel and named after the police constable who was tragically stabbed to death in 1997 whilst trying to arrest a male who suffered from paranoid schizophrenia, she was more than adequate for the job.

  “Seems a long way. We’ll get the air support team to go and have a look tomorrow. Quicker for them.”

  “This old girl is more than capable.”

  “No, you’re fine. We’ll get back. It’s been a long day. I’ll ring Air Support now and see if they’ll have a look in the morning.”

  The mortuary team had confirmed that the male in his late thirties had been simply murdered. There was no sign of rudimentary surgery. And he didn’t have a padlock marked into the gap between his shoulders.

  It didn’t take a genius to work out that it was females who played the lead role in Thomas Denby’s past. If only he could remember why.

  It would also take two days until the police had searched the river, sent divers down into the zero visibility, and then waited for the Thames to give up its dead.

  At low tide the greying body of Reddington (Red) was located, gripping onto the brickwork of the middle buttress. Like those before him that had been so desperate to end it all, he had literally held himself under water until he had breathed his last.

  His bloated body would lay in the mortuary. His obituary would be short and outline what he had done, rather than who he had been. His funeral would be delayed, whilst a post mortem was carried out and a Coroner found who was willing to write it all off as an accidental death.

  His medals were laid out, neatly pre-empting the whole situation, next to a signed and sealed letter, on the desk of a woman who worked at the Ministry of Defence.

  The ivory envelope was addressed to:

  Capt Susan Reddington,

  Defence Intelligence,

  International Engagement Desk Officer.

  Susan ‘Red’ Reddington was slightly above average height, with a look somewhere between alluring and dangerous and a genuine air of confidence. She had an equally goal-driven daughter that she shielded from the prying eyes of men. She allegedly had an ex-husband whom she still loved. But could no longer live with. It wasn’t entirely his fault.


  She had shoulder-length blonde hair; it was her second favourite body part, naturally wavy with a deep golden colour. She always had it cut long before it ever needed to be.

  She was, as usual, wearing a classically cut business suit and her favourite and rather expensive navy shoes. She dressed carefully each day in front of a full-length antique mirror. A simple necklace was first, then a sapphire ring that her grandmother had left her when she was younger.

  A white cotton blouse, ironed perfectly. It smelled of vanilla and felt nice on her skin – but never as nice as the Gerbe stockings. Sheer, they suited her skin tone and she knew they provided at least one of her male colleagues with some entertainment – he would wait each day, positioning himself just so, to catch a glimpse as she slowly sat down. She knew he knew and left her office door open deliberately.

  Dirty old Frankie Deighton. She’d play along and lure him into her web. A flash here, a lingering look there.

  He’d get what he deserved, sooner rather than later.

  ‘You can look Frankie, but never touch. Understand? Touch and I’ll cut the bloody thing off and hone it to a nicely shaped point in your much-loved desk-mounted sharpener.’

  Stockings always featured in her morning routine, bought, if she had time to visit, from her favourite shop Aubade of Paris. She never hurried. Stockings were made to be rolled on, provocatively. Now and then she would be late for work. It happened. To her it was natural. Sometimes she considered telling her boss the truth.

  “Why are you late, Red?”

  ‘Now wouldn’t you just love to know, sir?’

  She wore what she wore for her. Call it empowerment, call it what you like. No one else mattered.

  And every now and then she would forego underwear completely. She considered hers a boring job – may as well have an exciting mind. After all, who would know?

  They could police her all they liked, but no one could control her thoughts. And at times, walking the embankment, travelling on the tube, her thoughts were better kept to herself.

  As a captain in the British Army she was midstream, always looking upwards and praying that the team she had recently hired would get on with their work, leaving her to worry about the rest.

  Her favourite staff member had arrived into the office the previous month. French, she was a civilian but with a double degree in history and politics, a natural brunette with chocolatey eyes and a petite body. She liked to shop at Aubade too. In fact, she had introduced the boss to the company within weeks of first meeting. They got along so well. In fact, it was why she got the job.

  Reddington had what a trained investigator would call a clear and uninterrupted view of the bridge. Had she looked out a few days before, she would have seen her grandfather falling into the Thames.

  When she closed the door to her office and opened the letter, stood by the window, taking in that clear, uninterrupted view she knew why.

  There were no tears, only sadness.

  She had promised him something when they had last met. That she would right the wrongs. Little did he know she meant every word.

  She gazed at the faded black-and-white photograph of an older, bearded naval officer, a man she told her father she had never met, the man he considered responsible for many things. And all she needed to do was find him. She promised him she would.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Royal Horseguards Hotel, Whitehall

  Denby opened the door to his room. The plain-clothes officer was quick to respond.

  “Yes sir, what do you need?” They figured if they kept it all above board, respectful and honest, that he wouldn’t be inclined to wander off.

  “Well, that’s right nice of you. Where’s Jack and that lovely girl of his?”

  “Mr. Cade will be back shortly, sir. Now, how can I help you?” He considered calling it in, but a thirty-year-old police officer with a background in close protection had little to fear against a man in his nineties.

  “Well, if it isn’t too much trouble, could you carry my chair into the bathroom? I’m going to have a wash. First time in days.”

  “Is it now, I should alert the media!”

  “No lad, I wouldn’t, you’ll upset your bosses if you do that.”

  “I was joking, sir. Now, this chair?”

  Denby nodded, opened the bathroom door and allowed the officer to place the wooden-framed, red-upholstered chair next to the sink. He even extended the mirror down to Denby’s level.

  “There you go, how’s that for service?”

  “Marvellous, I shall be sure to write something to that company that advertises on the television.”

  “Tripadvisor?”

  “That’s them. Anyway, don’t let me keep you.” He closed the door, waited for the footsteps to go then quietly locked it. He smiled at the chair. No point expending energy when there was a younger man to do the job.

  He heard the main door close.

  Then he opened his washing kit and removed a screwdriver. It was what every well-groomed sailor carried with him. He looked at his reflection.

  “You’ve come a long way, Able Seaman Denby.” He smiled. His eyes were still in their twenties, blue and gleaming. There was life in the old sea dog yet.

  He climbed onto the chair, then onto the sink, steadied himself and began to scrape away at the decades of white paint that had sealed the old loft hatch that looked like part of the decorative detail. When he had revealed the screws, he set to work on them, until after a while all four were out and in his pocket.

  He wrapped all the paint particles in paper and dropped them into the toilet, checked around, satisfied himself that it looked as good as normal, then climbed slowly back onto the chair and with one foot on the sink pushed himself up towards the hatch.

  He put his hands up and pushed. It was stuck fast. He pushed again and slowly the old paint seal broke away until he was able to free the door. He knew the next part would be a leap of faith so he stepped back down, checked the door, flushed the toilet and turned on the shower.

  Taking a deep breath, he took one last look in the mirror, winked and climbed up and into the loft hatch. Now or never. He threw the black wash bag into the hole above him and seconds later was up and into the opening, legs dangling down and praying he had enough strength.

  He’d survived the German U-boats and the ruthless Arctic storms of the war and he was certain a climb of three feet wasn’t going to defeat him.

  He pulled and prayed. Pulled and pushed and slowly dragged himself up and into the abandoned storeroom above. He was in. Taking a few moments, he laid on his back and drew air into his lungs. He was glad that unlike most of his peers, he’d never smoked. He started to laugh. It was an involuntary act, but it took another few minutes to recover. He looked down into the bathroom, scanned for obvious signs of activity, and then heard a voice.

  “Everything alright in there, sir?”

  “Absolutely. I’m going to hop in the shower. I’ll be awhile. I’ll call you if I need my back scrubbing.”

  The officer smiled and walked back to the main door and closed it behind him, saying quietly, ‘Life in the old dog yet.’

  Satisfied it was clear, Denby then slid the hatch back into place and waited a few seconds before standing in the storeroom.

  It all came back to him. The walls were pretty much the same; the windows needed a fresh coat of paint, but everything looked so familiar. He tiptoed to the window and looked out. The trees were taller, and the horizon had changed massively since the last time he was there. And there, in the corner of the room, was the old white porcelain sink with its over-large taps and a tainted mirror. Hot water was too much to ask for, so he ran some cold and got out his shaving kit.

  ‘Forty years since you’ve shaved Denby. You lazy old bugger.’ He grinned a schoolboy grin and began to remove the bristly white hairs from his face, slowly peeling back the years until a red-faced, younger man stared back at him.

  ‘Dear God, where have the
years gone?’

  His hair had always been navy regulation short but was as white as a snowstorm. He checked the bag and found the dye, which he decanted into the sink and began to add to his own white locks. The ammonia opened up the finer fibres of the hair and allowed it to absorb some of the colour. He chose brown rather than black. He thought if he chose black, he’d look like Freddie Mercury and he was a sailor, not a rockstar.

  ‘But I do intend to break free, Freddie,’ he said to the mirror as he took a moment to look at himself once again. He could pass for late fifties, early sixties now. He pulled the baseball cap out of his pocket and tried it on.

  ‘Not for me, but it’ll do.’ He thought about applying more of the dye, then rinsed it away and headed for the door. He calculated he’d have ten more minutes.

  He exited into the hallway, also used for storage, and made his way to the fire exit. Some things never changed. He gave the bar a shove, and it opened. It wasn’t alarmed back then, and with any luck it wouldn’t be now. Why take the lift and increase his chances of being seen?

  He walked confidently down the stairs and out into the back of the Royal Horseguards Hotel, crossed the courtyard and turned right into Whitehall Gardens without looking back. Five minutes later he was walking along the Embankment, tucked into the shade of the plane trees that had been there for one hundred and fifty years.

  As he crossed the road, he checked his watch.

  ‘Four minutes left of extra time, Tom.’

  He’d covered enough ground to take a moment and count his friends. He worried what Cade would say, but hoped he’d understand. If he didn’t it was too late. He lifted his coat sleeve back from his left wrist, his Omega De Ville a present to himself when he retired was still keeping excellent time. Two minutes. He leant on a bench, gazed across the Thames.