You Think You Know Someone

by J B Holman

  ‘OK. This is bad. This is very bad. You see, I can’t access my emails from anywhere other than my work station in the office - not officially.’ She closed her eyes in disbelief of what she was about to admit. ‘So every week, I copy over my emails and keep them here in the flat on my laptop. I could go to prison for this.’

  ‘Why do you do that?’

  ‘Prudence, anxiety, insecurity. I don’t know . . . in case this happens, I guess. Have you got the dates when I supposedly emailed you?’ He handed her a piece of paper. She scrolled through her illegal email stash. ‘Yes, yes, it’s here. I did. I sent you the request. Oh my god!’

  She read the email. ‘You were asked what it would take to assassinate the PM, and you answered a million pounds and a bit of imagination . . . and . . . yes, here it is: you were asked to conduct a full risk assessment and to find holes in current security arrangements. Yes. But it wasn’t from me. I was just forwarding it from someone else.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Wait, wait, I’m checking.

  Yes, here it is. I’ve found it.’

  ‘Who was it?’ asked Foxx with a mix of urgency and impatience.

  ‘Dominion1431’

  ‘And who is that?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘What do you mean, no idea?’

  ‘I look after six top people and only six top people. They all have code names, chosen at random. I never get to know who any of them are. That’s the point of it: credible anonymity and total deniability. I’ve no idea who Dominion1431 is. And it can’t even be traced by the IT department, even if they would, which they wouldn’t. I would need to know who it was first, which terminal they sent it from and exactly when, before they could verify it. I really have no way of knowing who Dominion1431 is.’

  ‘But you know it was one of the six?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And do you know who the six are?’

  ‘Yes. I shouldn’t, but I do.’

  ‘You just don’t know which one is which?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘OK, well that narrows the field. Who are the six?’ She looked at him as if to say, I can’t tell you. Then the reality of her plight, the danger she was in, the danger he would cause her family and the vulnerability of her nudity came flooding back to her. He read her face. He stood up, grabbed some sweat pants and a tee shirt from the back of a chair and threw them to her. She dressed. They looked at each other in silence. They were odd bedfellows, reluctant accomplices and an unwilling team, but the reality was they had to work together to get the answer. Words were superfluous. His eyes allowed her out of the room and onto the sofa in the lounge. She was in his eye line as he made coffee and grabbed the cake tin, two plates, two forks and the Lindt chocolates. He placed them on the coffee table and in a moment of recollection turned to his coat and took her purse out of his pocket.

  ‘Sorry I had to take it in the supermarket, but I needed to know it was you for sure. And leave you with no money.’ She didn’t even acknowledge him. She was intent on her laptop. ‘So, who are these six?’

  ‘The first is the Prime Minister.’ He showed genuine surprise for a split second that she was so closely connected to someone so senior. ‘But I don’t think it was him who ordered his own assassination.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Foxx, in a light-hearted digression, ‘with the way Brexit is going, suicide seems like a good option.’

  ‘The second one is Richard Buchanan, Deputy Prime Minister,’ she continued.

  ‘Well, he stands in line to run the country if the Prime Minister does get shot, but it’s bit out of fashion; we stopped doing that sort of thing in this country about 500 years ago.’

  ‘But it is a motive.’

  Yes, but unlikely. He doesn’t have a military background, has only been in politics a few years and most of that in a party with almost no seats. He’s only been leader of the Libs for a year or so and DPM for even less. It would be hard to get the contacts, to know his way around the system. And look at him. I just don’t see it.’

  ‘But a possible.’

  ‘Yes, a possible. Who’s next?’

  ‘The Leadership Team of PM-SSS, so that’s Storrington, the boss; Sir Morgan-Tenby who I guess is your boss and Head of Planning, Strategy and Tactics; Brekkenfield who runs Operations and someone who is Head of Investigations. He’s a new guy; I don’t know his name.’

  ‘Can we make a guess at who it is based on their code name?’

  ‘No. As I said, it’s totally random. They don’t choose them for that very reason. But frequency of use is a clue, maybe. Three of them are high volume, one is low volume, one almost never and one absolutely never. My guess is that the DPM is the never and the PM is almost never. Head of Investigations maybe the low volume, leaving Storrington, Morgan-Tenby and Head of Ops as the higher volume users. I don’t know that, it’s just a guess. It’s impossible to tell who is who.’

  ‘Is there anything in the style of writing?’

  ‘I’ve not really looked but nothing jumps out. It’s all very terse and to the point.’

  ‘And the request that you got, was it from a high volume account or a low volume account?’

  ‘High volume, definitely high volume.’

  ‘So we have three prime suspects, and we’re guessing they are Storrington, Tenby, he’s not a sir by the way, and Brekkenfield, Head of Operations. All long term military guys and vetted to the hilt to get the job.’

  ‘So who do you think it is? Pick one. Guess.’ He was clearly reluctant. ‘Play a wild card. Who?’

  ‘Storrington. Tenby isn’t smart enough and though Brekkenfield is well placed to find an assassin, he has dozens working for him, and logic points to him, I know him and I’d find it hard to believe. I say Storrington. What about you?’

  ‘I don’t know these guys, not really, but I say . . . errm,’ she thought carefully, screwing up her eyebrows, ‘I say Tenby.’

  ‘Tenby? Why him?’

  ‘He’s an ambitious, self-centred, pole-climber by all accounts. I’m sure he spread rumours in the lower ranks that he’d been knighted. If he removed the PM, then there would be a new PM. Each new PM choses a new head of PM-SSS, or usually they do, so it would be his chance to get the top job.’

  ‘To kill a world leader, just to get a hike in your pension contribution? A bit extreme.’

  ‘OK, so why did you say Storrington?’

  ‘He’s a military man through and through and I think the hit was politically motivated. The PM is not popular with the Defence Community because they feel his Brexit strategy is weakening the nation. It would be tragic to kill a PM, especially one you’ve been hired to protect, but better that than leave the defence of your whole country exposed. I’d say it’s more likely to be Storrington, than Tenby. I would put saving the nation above gaining a pay rise.’ He looked at Julie ‘Serafina’ Connor for an agreement. He didn’t get one.

  ‘But thinking about it, it’s even more likely to be the Head of Ops, despite the fact that you think Brekkenfield is a jolly good chap. He has the means and the motives. He would fight to protect the Defence capabilities of the country and has 100 hit men working for him. It’s the simplest solution.’

  ‘Or the Head of Investigations: neither of us know anything about him,’ added Foxx.

  ‘And the Prime Minister’s popularity has rocketed since the shooting,’ said Serafina.

  ‘OK,’ said Foxx. ‘It’s make-your-mind-up time. Who do you think it is? Write down who you think we need to go after and I will do the same.’ He tore a sheet of paper in two and handed her half of it. She scribbled on the paper, hiding what she was writing with the other hand. He sat back, paper out of her sight lines and jotted down his answer.

  He held the paper, like a trump card about to be played.

  ‘OK, who should we go after? One – two - three’ and on three they both played their hand, placing their papers face up on the table.

  ‘Snap!’ she exclaimed.
‘At least we agree on something.’

  They slowly high-fived. As their palms meet at the top, their fingers latched and they held hands. They were a team.

  He looked at her and didn’t believe she was innocent. She looked at him and doubted everything he’d said.

  ‘We’re a team,’ she confirmed.

  ‘Yes, we are,’ he acknowledged. ‘And at least we know who to go after.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘All of them.’

  9

  The Five o’Clock

  ‘We’ve nailed him! Forensics don’t lie. It was definitely Foxx,’ said Hoy down the phone, while reading the analysis report on the blood and saliva traces collected from Raper’s Hide.

  ‘And what about the other guy: the bulldozer? Did we get him too?’ asked Storrington.

  ‘Sam Stone. Lives in Hove. Gathering details now. The Astra should check out to be his. Find the car, find the man. We’ll get him.’

  Storrington clicked off the line. Adrenalin of anticipation was running through his veins. He was a hunting dog straining at the leash at the smell of his prey. His blood was up. He faced Captain de la Casa and her team.

  ‘We will have him by tonight. I need you all on your toes. When we go, we go hard and we go fast.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ barked the hunting pack in unison.

  ‘We have a lead on his accomplice. Get him and we get Foxx.’ A helicopter landed. ‘That’s all. At ease.’ Seven highly trained operatives relaxed their stance as the Commander left to board the chopper that was bound for the heliport four floors above his office and three floors above his five o’clock meeting.

  Captain Maria de la Casa walked with him. If he’d had a favourite, it would have been her. She had served him well in the past, and was the closest thing he had to a daughter. He was proud of her, feared for her loss, but told himself it could never happen. She was too smart for that. And so far he’d been right.

  ‘This one’s important to you, isn’t it, sir?’ asked Captain Maria. There was a pause.

  ‘They’re all important, but make sure nothing screws this one up. In - extraction – out; and no mistakes.’

  ‘Yes, sir. You have my word.’ He looked her in the eye.

  ‘You’re right. This one matters. Do it for me.’ He boarded the chopper and was away.

  Lesley had been his secretary for nearly five years and knew Morgan-Tenby better than anyone, including his wife; or so she told herself.

  She prided herself on being one step ahead, anticipating his every need. Her predecessor had taken quite the wrong approach. She had treated him as if he worked for her; Lesley was very clear about who was the boss. He was.

  She was in her forties, elegant in a traditional style, and enormously capable. She was submissive to him, and actively superior to everyone else. She had perfected passive-aggression. Her desk was bigger than she needed, she sat in control right outside his office and had a team of minions to run around doing her bidding. She was the PA to the second most powerful man in the Service and she loved it. She would love it even more when he was Number One.

  It was ten to five on Saturday afternoon. She’d just sent her boss to the Five o’Clock. Two of her almost-equals from the secretarial community hurried mischievously up to her desk.

  ‘Is she coming, the Trophy Wife?’

  ‘Yes, any minute now. Put it there,’ she replied, with all the malice she could muster. ‘On that table, she always sits there. I bet you she picks it up and reads it.’ Her co-conspirator placed the comic on the table. It was a light weight, lightly glossy, pink covered publication aimed at girls of ten to fourteen.

  ‘Though it might be a bit advanced for her!’ They chuckled at her mental ineptitude and predictability.

  ‘Why is she coming in at five, when she knows he’s in a meeting until six?’

  ‘Too much time on her hands.’

  ‘I thought she had her own business to run?’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ said Lesley. ‘I don’t know for sure, but rumour has it that it’s a modelling agency. She said she used to do a lot of modelling for money, of course for money, slutty or what? And now, with someone else’s money, she has her own agency. I once asked her how many girls she has working for her. Guess. Guess how many?’

  ‘I don’t know – ten, twenty, more?’

  ‘Four.’ They laughed in a manner that aptly defined scoffing. ‘Four! That’s not an agency, that’s a knitting circle! I bet all she does is get the girls around a table and gossip about which celebrity did what to whom? But the best bit is the name she gave it. Someone told her that to be at the front of directories you need to start your company name with an A or better still AAA. So she did that, but wait for it . . . she called it . . . Triple A Portfolio, starting with a T, not an A. Dumb or what?’

  At that point the topic of their conversation walked in.

  ‘Hello, Lesley,’ she said breezily with a big smile. ‘How are you today? Is Nicki ready?’

  ‘Mr Morgan-Tenby is still engaged in a meeting, but please feel free to sit and wait.’

  The three girls watched with care as Mrs Charlie Tenby gracefully and sweetly sat in her usual chair, put down her expensive designer bag, ensured her silk was hanging right and instinctively picked up the teenage magazine that was next to her on the low table. Lesley and her accomplices were all old enough to know better, but they made a deliberately poor job of concealing their sniggering.

  Charlie was instantly aware of the cause of their mirth, but undeterred read on. What choice did she have?

  The two conspirators departed. Charlie read silently as Lesley clicked through screens on her computer.

  ‘You might like this, Mrs Morgan-Tenby,’ said Lesley, feigning kindness as she looked at an image she had summoned up from the internet. ‘Come and see.’ Charlie walked over, tight silk concealing nothing of her perfectly toned form. Her movements were graceful, her voice was soft and delicate.

  ‘Please call me Charlie,’ she said, as she did every time she met Lesley. The screen had an image of a kitten in a handbag, with bows in its hair and large diamonds round its neck.

  ‘Oh how cute it is,’ said Charlie, disregarding the caption that read: I am just a pussy, but the diamonds say I’m not so dumb.

  ‘Thought you might relate to it,’ added Lesley, in case her point had been missed.

  ‘Thank you. You’re too kind. It’s very cute. But I can’t have a cat, I’m allergic. I get catatonic, I think that’s what it’s called. Oh by the way, I’ve got something for you.’ She dug in her handbag and pulled out a vellum envelope. ‘D’you remember a few weeks ago we talked about music and you listed your favourite musicians?’

  ‘Yes, and you hadn’t heard of any of them. I remember.’

  ‘Well one of them was a saxophone player called David Sanborn. You said he was the best saxophonist alive today.’ She looked for confirmation from Lesley.

  ‘Yes. You said jazz had too many notes in it for your liking.’

  ‘Well he’s doing an intimate concert in a very exclusive nightclub. There’s dinner to go with it, by a Michelin star chef, and I got you tickets; two tickets right at the front. Then I phoned and asked if you could get a back stage pass to meet him afterwards and, after a bit of chit-chat, they said yes. That’s in here too. I hope you like it.’ She handed her the vellum envelope.

  ‘You don’t want to go then? Not to your taste?’

  ‘No. I got them for you.’

  ‘OK, I’ll take them then. If you don’t want them.’ The room went quiet. Charlie looked at her watch. Only 56 minutes before her husband was due to return.

  ‘We’ve got it!’ The young detective couldn’t hide his excitement as he rushed into his boss’s office. Hoy was picking up his files to leave for the Five o’Clock. ‘We’ve got it: the registration plate of the Astra. It does belong to Sam Stone.’

  ‘Great! Put out a BOLO on him.’

  ‘A what?’ The detective, unlike Hoy, had not spent a year
in America with the FBI.

  ‘A BOLO: Be On The Look Out.’

  ‘That’s a BOTLO.’

  Hoy had no time to argue semantics. ‘Get a message out to all police to be on the lookout for this car. Make it top priority. We need to find it fast.’ The detective just stood there. ‘Go on man, get on it.’

  ‘I have, sir. I’ve already done that. I made it double top priority and added a crate of beer for good measure.’

  ‘Really. You can do that now?’ Realising it was just a turn of phrase, he added, ‘What else do we know about Stone?’

  ‘Lots. Ex-forces, highly trained, accomplished record, three years’ SAS, chucked out for thumping a senior officer. Since then, off the radar a bit: a couple of drunk and disorderlies and right now has a warrant out for his arrest for whacking a traffic warden in Brighton over some stupid argument about . . . well, it’s all in the file.’ He handed over a thin cardboard fold file. ‘I thought you might need it for your Five o’clock with the Chief.’

  ‘Does Stone have any connection to Foxx?’

  ‘None that we can see, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t.’

  Hoy gathered himself to leave. The detective’s phone buzzed. He read the message.

  ‘Hold on, sir.’ The detective carried on reading, then looked up at his boss. ‘Have you ever heard of a place called Upper Slaughter? It’s in the Cotswolds. Well, some old bloke reported a suspicious car parked up overnight last night - the Astra. The registration matches. A local panda car went to check it out but by the time he got there it had gone. I’ll get the locals to check the CCTV of all the petrol stations in the area. We’re closing in.’

  Storrington opened the Five o’Clock meeting.

  ‘There are only two points on the agenda today. One: Foxx and his termination. Two: the Bodleian and keeping the PM alive tomorrow. OK. Item One: Foxx. Hoy, tell them what you’ve got.’

  Hoy detailed his progress in the investigations and modestly rejected all praise like it didn’t matter. Internally he absorbed it like it was oxygen to him. He looked at Storrington for a smile of approval. That was a step too far. He detailed the dossier on Stone, sticking closely to the evidence and avoiding speculation.