by J B Holman
25
Real Barrow
News Flash: In Barrow today, a further assassination attempt on the Prime Minister was foiled by the bravery of our security forces, but has claimed the lives of two security officers. A lone gunman took position in a disused office block overlooking the Prime Minister’s party, but advance forces foiled the attempt. It is believed that explosives were used to enter the building and unconfirmed reports suggest that the gunman was shot dead at the scene, but as yet, this is unconfirmed.
The names of the two security officers who were killed in the line of duty have not yet been released.
‘Captain Maria de la Casa’s phone. Number One speaking.’
‘This is Commander Storrington. What the hell happened? And where’s Maria?’
‘He got the drop on us. Two dead, sir. The rest of us did the best we could, but he was clean away before we even got close.’
‘Where’s Ma . . . Where’s Captain de la Casa?’
‘The explosion messed her up, sir.’
‘Messed her up?’
‘Yes, sir. She’s with the medics right next to me, but her hearing hasn’t come back yet, not fully.’
‘Put her on.’
‘Hello, sir.’
‘What happened . . . I said: What happened?’
‘It was a colossal fuck up, sir. Cosmic cluster-fuck. I told them not to break formation and they did. Two was a maverick. I told him hold, but he thought he had a shot, leant out to take it and the shooter took his head off. Six entered the building, looking to be a hero. The doors on the second floor were booby-trapped - still picking up the pieces. By the time we got to the top floor, the shooter was gone: some kind of aerial glide, out of the back and away. But at least the PM’s safe.’
‘Are you OK Maria? Are you hurt?’
‘No sir. Not hurt and not OK. I’m more pissed off than ever. Ears ringing like St Paul’s. I want this son of a bitch and I want him dead.’
‘Captain,’ said Storrington reverting to Military, ‘you are a professional, you will get him, but no emotion - emotion clouds the mind, emotions get you killed. Get you and the team back to base. Deal with it.’
Tonight, police raided the house of Al Akbar J’zeer, a known terrorist, who is believed to be behind the recent failed assassination attempts. J’zeer was killed in the raid. His brother and three other men and a woman were arrested under the Anti-Terrorist Act. More news is expected later.
It was evening on Blackfriars Bridge. Lights glistened on the Thames. Julie Connor and Eduard Foxx sat on the parapet of the bridge, dangling their legs sixty feet above the cold, turbulent water.
‘D’you think they killed Blackheart?’ she asked.
‘Meh.’
‘That is annoying, y’know. You need to know that. Can you stretch your answer to at least two syllables?’
‘No . . . They would trumpet it for sure if they’d got Blackheart. Killing J’zeer was a publicity stunt; had to happen sooner or later. The public now think the PM is safe, but he’s not.’
They lost themselves in contemplation, staring at the dark slow River Thames far below them. Minds drifted. Foxx broke the silence,
‘If I was forced to be a bridge player and mix with bridge players and actually play bridge, this is the sort of bridge I would throw myself off!’ He looked at his partner and the gun she was holding. ‘Now you. Are you going to throw it?’
‘Nah. I thought I’d keep it.’
‘Keeping a double-barrelled murder weapon with your fingerprints and no doubt your DNA all over it is not a smart move. We came here to chuck it in the Thames. I want to see it hit the water.’
‘I killed him. I shot him. I shot them. I’m a mass murderer. I should feel remorse, or anguish or at least sick to the pit of my stomach. I don’t feel any of those things. And . . .’ she paused at the horror of herself, ‘I enjoyed it. I liked it. That’s why I am going to chuck it. It’s my evil and it has to go.’ She tossed it far out from the bridge. They watched it arc through the air and splash as it hit the water.
‘Well done,’ he said encouragingly.
‘Willy bugger shit fuck!’ she said. He looked at her confused. ‘Dick bastard flap wank!’
‘What are you doing?’
‘Swearing.’
‘I’m not sure that flap is actually a swear word.’
‘What happened to my old life? I was miserable, but I was happy being miserable; a quiet, self-deprecating, man-hating, semi-reclusive civil servant. Now look. I drink whisky for breakfast, ride motorbikes, run from the police, get wrapped up in a terrorist conspiracy, get my flat blown up, have random casual sex with you, break into houses, get shot at and kill a man without remorse. I might as well take up swearing as well. It’s tragic. This is not my life, y’know. When this is all over, assuming we’re not dead or in jail, I want my old life back. I want to be me again, not some homicidal Lara Croft megalomaniac. It’s so like heroin or cocaine: tempting, seductive, but will kill you. I don’t want it. I want to run and hide and leave it all behind me. All of it.’
‘All of it? Even me?’ asked Foxx, sounding not as casual as he meant to.
‘Well, I’m not asking you back to my place – look what happened last time I did that!’
‘OK, you can come to mine.’
‘Really? As I recall, you needed a new cleaner and I ended up in Narnia. I don’t know, Eduard. You’re very appealing . . . but you’re a man and you are trouble. I’m not sure I need either of those things.’ She paused, then moved the conversation on. ‘Have you got the broadcasts from the Hoy household?’ He tuned into the cloud.
They sat and listened.
They learned.
The Hoys had affection for each other, though only one of them wore the trousers. They were religious and prayed together, but there was agitation in the household. They had made a pact in Iran – a pact with each other - and he needed to act on it. She was angry with him. He was not living up to his sacred promise. Iran, she said over and over. Iran, don’t forget Iran. Storrington was the problem; Storrington and the Prime Minister’s assassination.
‘Oh my god! It’s him,’ Julie said to Foxx. ‘He’s in with Islamist extremists, in with J’zeer. That’s what he means about the pact in Iran.’
They listened for five more minutes.
Mrs Hoy, his wife, was pregnant. Mrs Hoy senior, his mother, had died a few months before. He had been away for most of her illness, so had taken four months off work to care for her in her final months. He was the diligent, caring, Christian son. He’d taken her to places she dreamed of visiting: Bethlehem, Lourdes, China and Iran. In Iran, Mr and Mrs Hoy had decided to start a family and she had made him promise that he would work less, be home and make time for them. That was the pact: the sacred promise in Iran.
Since he’d been back at work, the hours had started to mount up. Then came the assassination attempt on the PM. Hoy went back to working until midnight. He loved his wife. She understood the pressures of his work, but he had promised her that he would ask Commander Storrington for a month off, as paternity leave. He hadn’t asked. He said he couldn’t find the right moment. She was annoyed.
There was no hint of terrorism or anarchy. It was domestic. He had to man-up and that was all there was to it. They left the broadcast with their Alexa equivalent playing romantic music and the kitchen table being romantically mis-used.
Foxx turned it off and Julie spoke first.
‘I didn’t think he did it,’ she said, changing her stance faster than a U-turning politician.
‘Agreed. It’s not him. I wasn’t so sure, but I am now,’ said Foxx. ‘So you know what that means?’
‘Yes,’ said Julie, ‘we’re down to one. But did he do it?’ She took out her phone.
‘Who are you calling?’
‘Neil, one of our IT guys - fancies me. My pet geek - everyone should have one. I’m asking him if that email came from Tenby’s computer at home.’
‘Duh, if
he can tell you that, why didn’t we ask him right at the outset?’
‘I told you. He can’t trace the email back blindly to see where it came from. It can’t be done and it would raise alarms, but if I tell him a specific computer, with a specific email address at a specific time, he can trace it from the IP without going through official channels.’
He picked up.
She asked.
He refused.
She asked again. They debated, negotiated, bartered, bribed. A deal was done. Nudity and saliva were both involved. She hung up.
‘Add prostitution to the list.’
Seconds later the phone rang. ‘Neil?’ She listened and nodded.
‘And can you check the satnav in his car? Was he home? Great. And his phone?’ She waited. ‘Wow, that’s perfect. You’re a star. Yes. Yes I will - a promise is a promise. No, no photography! Now go away.’ She hung up.
‘Well?’ asked Foxx after a long silence. ‘Was it him?’
‘Meh,’ she said.
He stared at her. The silence was long and golden.
She cracked.
‘Yes, it’s him. Tenby is Dominion1431.’
26
Two into One
His anger was like a fireball hurtling down the corridor. The closer it got, the more ferocious it felt. Morgan-Tenby stormed past Lesley’s desk, into his office and slammed the door. She took a deep breath; stood, picked up her notepad, straightened her skirt, knocked on the heavy wooden door and entered.
He turned and stared.
She said nothing. His face was red as he spat out words like venom.
‘Barrow was a debacle. Storrington completely fucked it. We had a plan and he put his no-good, not secret, ninja team in and bollocksed it all up. Cock-fucker! We had it right – all planned - until Storrington screwed it up for us.’
‘But we can use it to our advantage.’
‘Two dead soldiers? You bet we fucking can. We can get him out. I’m going to have that sanctimonious bastard once and for all. He’s finished. History.’
‘Can I help with that?’ she asked, notebook poised.
‘No. I’ll deal with it.’ She was snubbed.
‘What about Charlie? Have you dealt with that?’ she asked in not so subtle counter-snub.
‘Don’t push,’ he growled. ‘I said I would and I will.’ She pressed home her point.
‘I think you should. She has a very loose mouth and . . .’
‘Enough! Charlie will be dealt with. Now leave.’ She reached the door. ‘Get me Hoy.’
The large oak door of her boss’s office was firmly shut, but she could hear the lambasting from within. She smiled. Poor Mr Hoy, she thought to herself with no sympathy at all.
‘What are you? An amateur? This is the top league now. If you’re not good enough, just say so. How could you not know that the sniper was going to make another attempt? You personally put the PM’s life in danger, you should have . . .’
‘With respect,’ interrupted Hoy - but he never had the chance to speak.
‘Listen, you snivelling little schoolboy, you never interrupt me.’ Tenby pulled himself up to his full height and geared up to full force. ‘I‘m Second-in-Command and you’re nothing.’ Hoy felt himself shrink into his own shoes. ‘It’s not even a real job, it’s just a secondment. We’ve borrowed you, like a cup of sugar, and we can throw you back any time we please. Don’t you ever interrupt me again and don’t ever disagree with me, ever - especially in a meeting. Your job is to say yes. Got it?’
‘No,’ said Hoy, feeling shorter than he’d ever felt before. ‘Counterviews stimulate discussion which helps Storrington formulate the right answer. It’s my job to argue.’
‘Not with me, it isn’t. Not if it’s a job you want to keep. And you need to be careful whose shirt tails you hang on to. Don’t back the wrong horse. Screw up here and your fast-track opportunities are finished. No-one will care what you did at the FBI or Anti-Terrorist. Screw up here and you’ll find yourself as a plod on the beat. D’you understand me?’
‘Yes, sir,’ mumbled Hoy, stunned by the ferocity and realising this was not a battle he was going to win. This was a side of Tenby he’d never seen before.
‘We’re changing the PM’s flight to Marseille,’ continued Morgan-Tenby. ‘We’re not flying from Northolt. We’ll fly from Biggin Hill - just me, the PM and two security guards. I’m taking his security into my own hands. Arrange a decoy Range Rover convoy and outriders to go from Number 10 to Northolt, then find me an old low-key car and a couple of plain clothes officers. Keep this quiet. Tell only those who need to know . . . which is nobody.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And we’re leaving a day early.’
‘On Friday?’
‘Yes, tomorrow. So we need to be ready.’
Hoy knew Northolt well. It was a secure RAF base in West London where Royalty and Prime Ministers always flew. Biggin Hill was a little local airstrip in Kent used by day-trippers and enthusiastic amateurs. Hoy stood and thought about the security implications.
‘That’s all. You’re dismissed.’
The schoolboy left the room.
Lesley buzzed through. ‘The Air Chief Marshall is here to see you.’
Morgan-Tenby, portly and sociable opened his door and welcomed the visitor with a big beaming convivial smile. ‘Air Chief Marshall, what a joy and a pleasure.’ He gave the reluctant visitor a two-handed hand shake. ‘I’m so pleased you were able to come over. Come in, come in. May I offer you some tea or coffee? We have five varieties of tea and three of coffee, and some particularly fine Scotch, if it’s not too early for you?’
His smarm hung in the air like a heavy evening perfume as he slid back into his office like a slug on a slime-trail of his own oiliness. The door closed. Lesley fetched a sparkling water for the visitor, which she poured into a cut crystal glass and took in on a small silver tray.
‘Yes, Air Chief Marshall. The Prime Minister’s safety is our prime concern. As you know, he’s flying from Northolt. I need you to make sure Northolt doubles the guards, that the PM’s plane is checked today and then have it closely guarded until we fly. When he’s in the air, he is under your jurisdiction. We need to keep him safe.’
‘Yes, we both do.’
‘And Air Chief Marshall, it would reflect very badly on you if anything happened to him when he was airborne.’
‘It won’t. But I can see you’re clearly governed by self-interest, as you’ll be on board as well.’
‘I will, I have a date with a very pretty woman. I wouldn’t want to be late or arrive in anything other than one piece.’ Lesley winced.
The men, who clearly didn’t like each other, shook hands and pretended, at that moment, that they did. The Air Chief Marshall could not wait to leave, get outside and breathe the clean, fresh god-given air.
Lesley looked at Morgan-Tenby, scathingly. He looked at her with oblivious irritation.
‘We have to get this done,’ he said. ‘It’s taking too long. We need to make the world a better place.’
‘Foxx!’
He grunted.
‘Foxx!’ said Julie. ‘Wake up and listen to this.’ He half-opened one eye, the buckshot in his back reminded him why he wanted to be unconscious. ‘Guess where Bettie Slaker lives.’
He didn’t.
He didn’t even try.
‘Get up. We’re going for a drive.’
‘Where?’
‘You’ll see.’
Foxx drove. The car, though his, was registered in a false name. Julie sat with her feet on the dashboard, much to his evident disapproval. But today, Julie was definitely Serafina. She had the bit between her teeth and he had buckshot in his back.
‘Where are we going?’ he asked again.
‘Farringdon Churney.’
‘Really? That’s a hell of a coincidence. That’s the same village as . . .’
‘No,’ she said stopping him, ‘Not just the same village - the same house! S
he house-shares with . . .’
‘Mrs Elizabeth Tenby.’
‘Exactement! The very same. They know each other.’
‘Are you sure?’
Julie sent a text to the Assistant Private Secretary of the DPM.
What does Bettie Slaker look like? The reply was almost instant.
Miss Marple in a wheelchair.
‘Correction. She doesn’t know her, nor even house-share with her. She is her! Bettie Slaker is Mrs Elizabeth Tenby. She’s two people. How is that possible?’
They arrived at the house in Farringdon Churney. They parked discreetly behind the hedge. Four minutes later they were driving away.
‘That was a waste of time,’ said Julie.
They had knocked. She had answered. They were not invited in. She held her panic button in her hand.
‘Good morning. May we come in?’
‘No. What do you want?’ Her voice was curt. She pulled up the phone. It was lightly chained to the armrest of her wheel chair, like a pair of spectacles round the neck of a geriatric.
‘Mrs Tenby, are you also Bettie Slaker?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why do you have two names?’
‘That’s rich, coming from you two. Bettie is what people have called me since I was a child if Elizabeth is too formal, and Slaker is my maiden name. Not that it’s any of your business, Mr Foxx, or whatever your real name is.’
‘Why didn’t you tell us who you were and that you work for the Deputy Prime Minister?’ Her face alone said it was a stupid question.
‘Why should I? You didn’t ask. You came here to tell me how pretty the fields were and to snoop around trying to find some dirt on my husband. The conversation was not about me or my job. Why would I suddenly say: I am a political speech writer? And if we’re on the topic of career choices; why are you an assassin?’
Foxx ignored the question.