by Holly Watt
52
From the front gate, the Kingsleys’ house looked idyllic. The path to the front door was lined with clouds of lavender, and the last of the roses drifted in the breeze.
Lucinda Kingsley hid behind the door as she opened it, the cameras clicking like castanets. She had been crying, they could see. In her brave red dress, she looked like a poppy, battered down by the rain.
‘I don’t know why he’s letting you, of all people,’ she spat, ‘into this house.’
Miranda and Archie blinked in the sudden gloom, peering around a large hall. Lucinda pointed towards a door, then disappeared towards the stairs.
‘I can’t even bear to look at him.’ Lucinda glanced back. Her eyes were full of contempt.
Two small children were peering over the banisters. The little boy was crying. All the curtains at the front of the cottage were closed, a house in mourning.
The drawing room led off the hall, and they found Kingsley sitting beside an unlit fire. It was a beautiful room, soft pastels and exquisite furniture. An oil painting of the Kingsleys, just married, at their most hopeful, hung near the door.
The French windows were open on to a ravishing garden, with a striped lawn running down to the weed-clogged river. Red rhododendrons sprawled along the riverbanks, the beeches curtsying down to the water in their summer ball gowns. Swallows dived to and fro, pouncing on flies.
‘The noble reporters from the Post.’ He waved a glass of brandy. ‘The heroes of the hour. Welcome.’
‘Alexander,’ said Archie, and Miranda could see the genuine sympathy in his face. ‘I hope you are . . . As well as can be.’
Kingsley stared at the pile of pine cones in the fireplace.
‘Been better, old boy.’ Kingsley was enunciating carefully. ‘Been better. I thought I’d talk to you, Archie. Of all of them. Because we’ve been friends, haven’t we? We’ve been friends. I didn’t want to speak to those vultures.’
‘Why?’ Archie’s voice caught in his throat. ‘Why did you do it?’
Kingsley wandered over to the windows, rubbed at a smear. One of the beeches by the river had died; it stood out skeletal against the summer sky.
‘You know, I’ve never been quite sure,’ Kingsley said almost wonderingly. ‘I suppose I’ve always thought about what it would feel like. But hasn’t everyone? Now and again? Wondered what it would be like . . . But I never thought I would have . . . the opportunity. And then when the opportunity arose . . .’ He paused. ‘You see, it’s all so perfect, all of this . . .’
He waved carelessly at a pale blue OKA armchair and a Rockingham china dog. The brandy slopped on to the Aubusson rug.
‘I’ve always known what I wanted,’ Kingsley went on. ‘Since before school, even. I knew, absolutely, that I wanted to be an MP. But it means you have to be so careful, all of the time. You’re always watching for cameras, right the way through. Always thinking about how it might look. And then only thinking about how it might look. And it gets worse all the time, all that.’
‘But it’s what you chose,’ said Archie. ‘It was what you wanted.’
‘I know,’ said Kingsley. ‘I chose everything. I wanted it and I got it. And then I married Lucinda. And I love her, you know. Really, I do . . . But it was all just so perfect.’
He spat out the last word, slamming the brandy glass back on the table.
‘You look around and it’s all so perfect that you just want to . . .’ he paused. ‘No, you have to . . . You have to break something. Smash it. Smash anything. Scream and shout and crush it all. I used to look at pictures of us. Me and Lucinda. Lucinda and the kids. And we were the perfect family. It all looked so idyllic. And inside, I just wanted to hurt someone . . . I wanted . . . I wanted to smash something.’
He stopped, as if almost shocked by his own words, then went on more quietly.
‘And so when it came up, I almost laughed at first. And then . . . then I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Some of my friends go to hookers, you know. They want something secret and selfish. Dirty, even. Dangerous. Something that’s all their own and nobody else’s. I never did that. But this, I just couldn’t get out of my head.’
‘How?’ Miranda broke in. ‘How did it come about?’
A small smile played across Kingsley’s face.
‘She’ll kill me, you know,’ he said almost conversationally. ‘I am quite sure she’ll kill me. When you warned me about that earlier, Archie, I thought, well, I don’t care any more. It’s all over. The bitch can do what she wants.’
‘She?’ Miranda asked. ‘She?’
‘Emerald,’ said Kingsley. ‘Emerald.’
‘Emerald?’ Archie prompted.
‘Where did you meet her?’ Miranda sharpened in.
‘She saw me first,’ said Kingsley. ‘I was at that members’ bar, you know, the one in South Ken. I looked up, and she was staring at me. Just staring. I get that a bit, you know’ – and even now, Kingsley couldn’t resist running a hand through his hair, straightening up just slightly. ‘But with Emerald, it was different. She thought I was someone else, can’t remember who. We laughed about that, and then we chatted, for a while. She was so funny, so quick and perceptive. She laughed all the time. And then quite suddenly she said she had to go. I asked . . . I asked if I could see her again. And she just smiled and said she was sure we would bump into each other again.’
‘And you did,’ said Miranda.
‘We did,’ said Kingsley. ‘We did. I was walking along the river, my route home from the House of Commons, and suddenly there she was, sitting on a bench, watching the river. We talked again, laughed. She stopped everything feeling so perfect, while making it even better. I don’t know . . .’
‘How often did you meet up with her?’
‘Lots of times,’ said Kingsley. ‘I couldn’t count.’
‘And were you sleeping with her?’
‘I . . .’ So they knew that he had.
‘And how did the whole idea come about?’
‘It just came up.’ Kingsley screwed up his face in concentration. ‘I can’t remember how it started . . .’
Emerald had brought it up, thought Miranda. Every time he wasn’t sure, it was Emerald.
‘Anyway,’ Kingsley went on, ‘the whole idea turned into something we talked about. And one day she said, almost casually, that she could make it happen. And I remember being shocked. I do, really. I would never have . . . Before I could say anything, she was talking about something else. But you know, I kept thinking about it.’
‘The seed planted,’ nodded Archie.
‘Exactly,’ said Kingsley. ‘Exactly. And gradually – I’m not even quite sure how – it became something I was going to do. Something I was excited about. Something I was looking forward to. We went up to the Highlands together, for a weekend. She taught me to shoot, up on the moors, miles from anywhere.’
‘She taught you to shoot?’ Miranda asked.
‘She’s a brilliant shot, you know. I had to practise a lot too,’ said Kingsley. ‘Here and there. I’d never even held a gun before all this, oddly.’
‘It must have taken a long time,’ said Miranda.
‘It became a hobby,’ said Kingsley. ‘Lucinda used to laugh and say it got me out of the house, at least. When I got a new gun, she got a new handbag. You know what I mean. And this hobby was more interesting than golf. The comms people for the party didn’t like it, they didn’t want a photograph of me out there, holding a gun. Lucky’ – he almost laughed – ‘that they insisted on that now.’
‘So you went out to Libya?’ asked Miranda.
‘The parliamentary trip came up,’ said Kingsley. ‘And it seemed like the perfect timing. I was watching the other MPs, as we went round the factories and the souks and the God-knows-what-else in Tunisia. It was so dull. So bloody boring. And I had this glorious secret, which no one would ever guess.’
‘And you travelled up to Euzma?’ Miranda thought about him making that journey, the dusty
long road.
‘I thought Euzma was magical,’ said Kingsley. ‘That white marble palace. We went up to the camp, and I felt like a god, looking down on all those people. And afterwards I felt alive, completely and utterly alive.’
‘And you didn’t go back?’ Miranda asked.
‘Never,’ said Kingsley. ‘It was always going to be a one-off. I promised myself that much. I can see, you know, how people get hooked on it. Addicted even. Serial killers, I suppose. But it was always going to be just once, for me. So that when I was sitting there in one of those endless bloody meetings or stuck in a traffic jam or something, it would be this precious little memory I could bring out and polish. And then tuck away again. I won.’
‘And how did she know them, the men in the desert?’
‘I think Charlton had been her bodyguard somewhere. On a trip. Something like that anyway.’
‘And where’ – Miranda disguised her repulsion – ‘where is Emerald right now?’
‘I have no idea,’ said Kingsley. ‘She could be anywhere. I never knew where she was, even when . . .’
‘Do you know where she lived? Anything?’
‘I just don’t know, I’m afraid. We always met in hotels.’
‘So you stopped seeing her,’ suggested Miranda. ‘After you’d been out to Libya?’
‘She drifted away from me.’ Kingsley’s face sagged. ‘I was hypnotised by her, in an odd sort of way. I haven’t seen her for a long time now.’
‘Do you have her number?’ Miranda asked, thinking, I’ll hack that phone. I don’t give a shit. I’ll hack that phone in a second.
‘It went dead ages ago,’ said Kingsley. ‘Must have been a burner. And she just chucked it . . .’
There was almost self-pity in his voice.
‘Look at my face.’ Miranda had covered up most of the black eye with concealer, but the bruise still showed through. ‘She’s lethal, and she can’t be allowed to carry on. Are you sure you have no idea where she is?’
Kingsley’s eyes met hers almost gently.
‘None whatsoever,’ he answered, and Miranda didn’t know if he was lying or not.
They talked on, until Miranda couldn’t bear it any more.
‘We’ve got to go,’ she said. ‘Archie will call you if we have any more questions, Mr Kingsley.’
She bustled Archie towards the door, but he pulled away for a second.
‘Alexander . . .’ Even now Archie was hopeful. ‘Don’t you . . . Don’t you have anything to say?’
‘What?’ Alexander looked up. ‘Oh. Yes. Of course. I am very sorry for it all. I apologise unreservedly.’
Even Archie could see he didn’t mean it. Miranda didn’t bother to say goodbye. She opened the door into the hallway.
Lucinda was slumped against the wall, next to the door. Miranda wondered how long she had been listening there.
‘I thought I loved him,’ Lucinda whispered. ‘But I never knew him, did I? I never knew him at all.’
53
Casey was pacing up and down the office. Past Business and Pictures and Sport, spin, and back again. Back and forth, back and forth; bored tiger at the zoo.
‘Do stop.’ Janet waved some biscuits at her. ‘You’re exhausting me.’
Casey prowled into the conference room. They had pinned up photographs now: Milo smiling, Selby stern.
‘Some cultures believe that a camera steals a piece of your soul,’ commented Peregrine. ‘With every photograph.’
‘Maybe’ – Casey turned away – ‘it’s the person taking the photograph, instead.’
Her phone went, and she fell on it.
‘Is that Cassandra Benedict?’ It was a Scottish voice.
‘Yes,’ she grumbled.
‘I’m calling from St Thomas’,’ said the woman. ‘Ed Fitzgerald is awake, and he’s asking for you.’
‘He’s asking for me?’ Delight flooded Casey. ‘I’ll be there as soon as possible.’
She bounded over to Dash.
‘I’ve got to go, Dash.’
‘Wait a second,’ said Dash. He was marking up a proof, red pen flying. ‘We haven’t got a driver at the moment. Or a car for that matter.’
Vadim’s hold on life was still precarious, but the doctors were starting to look more hopeful.
‘I can take a taxi.’ Casey felt her temper rise. ‘I feel like I’m being held to ransom. It’s Ed. I’ve got to go to him . . .’
‘Casey,’ Dash growled. ‘We’re just trying to keep you alive.’
‘Dash,’ Ross shouted. ‘The PM’s going to make his first statement since Kingsley, any sec.’
Distracted, Dash walked towards the news desk. The grey face filled all the television screens. Robert was transcribing in neat shorthand. Casey hovered for a minute, then slipped towards the door. Without looking back, she hurried out of the entrance and paused in the fresh air, enjoying the sudden sunlight after the office air-conditioning. The hospital was just over the bridge from Parliament; she could be there in minutes.
There was a movement on Casey’s left and she jumped like a startled deer.
It was Lady Newbury. She looked even older now, frail, and leaning on a stick. Casey knew somehow that Lady Newbury had been waiting for a long time, outside the Post’s offices.
‘Lady Newbury,’ said Casey, and then couldn’t say anything more.
‘You came to my house,’ said Lady Newbury. ‘And asked to see his passport.’
‘Yes,’ said Casey hopelessly.
‘And that photograph, of Milo in the desert. You took that from the flat. And you put it on your front page.’
We only know snapshots.
‘I did.’
‘I said to you,’ Lady Newbury went on, almost dreamily, ‘that the worst thing was not knowing. Not knowing what happened to him.’
‘I remember,’ said Casey quietly.
‘It’s not the worst thing, it would seem,’ said Lady Newbury. ‘There are always worse things, it turns out. Far, far worse. I asked you to tell me if you found out what happened to my son, I remember. I suppose you did that much.’
‘I am sorry,’ said Casey. ‘I am so sorry for everything.’
‘I trusted you,’ she said, and the rage bubbled up. ‘I let you into my house. My home. My husband . . . Conrad can barely speak. I have never seen a man so despairing. Milo was already dead, for heaven’s sake. Couldn’t you let him rest in peace?’
‘I am terribly sorry for your family,’ said Casey. ‘It must be awful.’
The words sounded so trivial.
‘You have ruined my family to sell a few newspapers,’ said Lady Newbury. ‘You have destroyed all our memories, and we can never make new ones. It was all we had left, the memories.’
‘It wasn’t to . . .’ But Casey couldn’t explain; there was too much to explain. ‘Milo did—’
‘But he is still my son.’ Lady Newbury raised her head. ‘And I will never stop loving him. I wanted you to know that. There is nothing that any of you can do to make me stop loving him.’
She turned stiffly towards a navy blue Mercedes. Bella Monroe was sitting in the driving seat. She stepped out to help Lady Newbury into the car.
Bella was wearing old jeans, her hair scraped back.
‘We all loved him, you know.’ Bella looked older, as if she had grown-up in the last few days. ‘I know you think I’m a fool, and I have been silly. But I loved him, you know. He used to be different. Before. We never knew what had happened to make him change so much.’
‘I know,’ said Casey.
Bella closed the car door on Lady Newbury.
‘At least now I understand some of what happened.’ Bella looked straight at Casey. ‘They will never forgive you, but I think that maybe I would rather know. No more false dreams now.’
Casey watched as the blue Mercedes pulled away. Her phone snapped her back.
Miranda. She would get in a taxi towards St Thomas’, then call her back.
Casey hailed
a taxi, jumped in.
‘It’s a woman,’ said Miranda. ‘She’s called Emerald.’ She talked through the rest of the interview with Kingsley. ‘Where are you right now, Casey?’
‘In the office.’ Easy came the lie. ‘But they called from the hospital. I want to go and see Ed.’
‘Casey.’ Miranda sounded impatient. ‘You mustn’t leave the office. It isn’t safe right now.’
‘Ed’s woken up!’ said Casey. ‘He wants to see me. And I feel like a caged animal.’
‘For fuck’s sake, Casey, this is not a game. Dash is trying to keep you alive.’
‘I’ll speak to you later,’ snapped Casey. She was tired of being told what to do.
She shut the phone off, and thought of Milo. Milo, the man she would only ever know from the photographs. The photographs and the paintings, and the memories of people who never really knew him at all. She thought of Lady Newbury, back in the flat, as the memories and curtains faded.
The traffic was immobilised on Victoria Street. Sitting next to the red-and-white candy stripes of the cathedral, Casey shivered.
Vadim smiling. The windscreen shattering. A scream as the traffic broke like a wave.
She should get out. It wasn’t far to Parliament, especially through the back streets, and then she was nearly at St Thomas’.
The taxi driver’s radio babbled.
‘There’s something about a bomb scare over at Lambeth Bridge,’ said the taxi driver. ‘Happening all the time, they are now. Bloody nuisance.’
Casey paid him off, and started hurrying through Westminster. She always enjoyed Parliament Square. Big Ben, Westminster Abbey, a wave at Winston Churchill. She ducked through the tourists and thought about seeing Ed, with that quick smile on his face.
She bounded on to the bridge, smiling at the Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe lamp posts. Casey loved the Thames, that salty ribbon reaching right into the heart of London. There was County Hall, which Casey loved, because anywhere else in the world, it would be the building, and in London it’s just a coffee shop. There was the London Eye, turning as slow as time.
Casey ran her hand along the parapet, the green of the benches in the House of Commons, and smiled.