Secret Service

by Tom Bradby

  She didn’t get a response to that either.

  It was a balmy night and Kate decided to walk. The route took her past her mother’s place and she looked up at her window to see if the light was on. It wasn’t. She tried to push away the dark cloud that seemed to wrap itself around her. The worst of it was that she understood why her mother was the woman she was. Abandoned as a baby in Galway, she had spent the first four years of her life in a convent before being adopted by an austere Catholic family in Limerick. It was hardly surprising that she had little understanding of how to give or receive affection.

  Kate ended up so lost in thought that she wandered past Imogen’s house, despite the very obvious presence of two photographers and three journalists outside it, and had to double back. They didn’t pay her much attention as she rang the bell and was ushered in without question or introduction by a young woman she’d never met.

  Kate offered her hand. ‘I’m Stuart’s wife.’

  Her greeting was left hanging in the hallway with the discarded coats as the girl’s hurriedly retreating back screamed, I’m busy with very important stuff, which reminded Kate of how much she detested the breed of apparatchik that managed to attach itself to politicians on the rise.

  The sitting room was full of people, perhaps twenty in all. Most were on their smartphones. Kate recognized quite a few ministers and MPs. Stuart sat on the sofa, next to Imogen, poring over a vital strategic document. The intensity of his concentration suggested that he might have forgotten that the two of them weren’t in the process of discovering a cure for cancer.

  Kate waited, suddenly awkward and unsure. Eventually Imogen’s young special adviser materialized and greeted her. He was called Ben, or possibly Steve. They had come and gone with bewildering speed over the years. ‘Stuart!’ he shouted, pointing at Kate.

  Stuart raised a hand, hauled himself to his feet, came over and treated her to a perfunctory kiss. His eyes were wide with excitement. ‘We have sixty guaranteed names, with twenty more actively leaning in our direction.’

  ‘Active leaning. That’s my favourite kind.’

  ‘We don’t think James Ryan has any more – and we have a hunch the new intake of younger MPs is coming our way.’

  ‘Has anyone else declared?’

  ‘No – and the smart money says they aren’t going to. Support for Imogen and James is sufficiently strong and evenly split for any other contender to seem like an also-ran from the start. They’re all trying to bolster their future careers by hitching their wagons to one or the other – and an awful lot of them are still playing hard to get, to maximize their price.’

  ‘But Imogen won’t win when it goes to party members, will she?’

  ‘Conventional wisdom says no, but I’m not so sure. Her message on education is striking a chord and I think people are tired of talking about our place in the world and the great free-trade opportunities that seem mostly a mirage. They want someone to focus on everyday issues. Plus she has bags more charisma.’

  Either his tone or the look of pure joy on his face meant Kate couldn’t stop herself asking, ‘Do you think you should be here?’

  The air momentarily left his balloon. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You’re a civil servant.’

  ‘I’m helping out as a friend.’

  ‘All the same … there are a lot of politicians here.’

  ‘There are indeed. And they’re all on the team.’ He leant closer. ‘Honestly, you can be a bit of a killjoy sometimes.’ He gave her a peck on the forehead. ‘Go home, if you want to keep your distance. I’ll be back in a bit.’

  He returned to his seat beside Imogen, who looked up, caught sight of Kate, waved and pulled a face – Oh, God, what have I got myself into? – then returned to the sheet of paper in front of her. Stuart did not glance up again.

  Kate waited a few moments more, ill at ease, then walked home. She felt a bit stupid in a way she couldn’t quite articulate, or perhaps didn’t want to.

  Gus was appealingly meek when she kissed him goodnight, and he hugged her tight when she said that she was sure his father was right: he was very good and would win through in the end. He even listened when she delivered a short speech about adversity making one stronger. She quoted Jonny Wilkinson as an example of someone who’d had setbacks but gone on to conquer the world. It was no more than guesswork, but she rather liked the sound of it – and so, apparently, did he.

  Even Fiona was in a more malleable mood. ‘I’m sorry I shouted at you,’ she said, ‘but it is my life.’

  Kate got in a bit of a speech there, too, about the value of people who love you and have your back. Much to her surprise, Fiona said, ‘You never had that, did you?’

  She pulled the duvet up to her daughter’s neck and kissed her forehead, as she had done so often when Fiona was a little girl. ‘Granny has many strengths,’ she said, as outrageous a lie as she’d told all day, ‘but thank you for thinking of me.’

  She retreated to the bathroom to remove her make-up and brush her teeth, then read for a while, although she was still finding it strangely difficult to concentrate. She turned out the bedside light, but couldn’t sleep. She tossed and turned. She picked up her book again, but without much success.

  It was one in the morning before Stuart crept in, as quiet as a herd of elephants. ‘Good God, are you still awake?’

  ‘Just … reading.’

  ‘Why didn’t you go to sleep?’

  ‘I don’t know. I suppose I was waiting for you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘God knows.’ She attempted a grin. ‘Sometimes it’s nice to chat. How’s it going?’

  ‘Much as I said earlier.’

  ‘You really think she’s going to win?’

  ‘I do, which will be fucking amazing. There’s every chance I’ll be right there at the heart of it.’

  ‘That would be … great.’

  ‘You didn’t sound like you thought so earlier.’ Stuart was naked except for his boxers and socks. He almost fell over as he tried to take off the socks. He was more pissed than she’d thought.

  ‘Put it down to the spy in me. I always feel uncomfortable in a roomful of politicians.’

  Stuart made his way uncertainly into the bathroom and noisily brushed his teeth. Sometimes she thought a separate bathroom was the key to lasting happiness.

  He tumbled onto the bed, fiddled with the light switch and stifled a belch.

  ‘Aren’t you going to kiss me goodnight?’

  He did, then immediately turned his back on her.

  ‘Have you spoken to your father recently?’ Kate asked.

  ‘No. Why?’

  ‘Just wondered. Is he still with Suzy?’

  ‘Of course.’ Stuart faced her again. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘You said they were arguing a lot, that’s all. And he has a habit of moving on.’

  ‘He’s been with Suzy for twenty years. Your point being?’

  ‘I don’t have a point. We haven’t seen them for a bit.’

  ‘You always have a point.’ Stuart sat up. ‘So come on, what is it?’

  Kate felt cornered, which she hadn’t anticipated. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know what I’m saying, really. I sometimes feel stupid. Out there in the real world, people spend their lives shitting on their nearest and dearest …’

  ‘What on earth are you talking about?’

  ‘You say I’m not my mother. But why am I so obsessed with what she did? I mean, my father forgave her – and is anyone faithful for a lifetime anyway? Why do I—’

  ‘Stop it, Kate. And to answer your questions: (a) yes, they are. And (b) it wasn’t only your father your mother hurt, but you. Yes, people do behave badly to their nearest and dearest and, yes, I know, it’s your job to be up to your neck in it – and sometimes well beyond. I understand why you stand guard over our family with such ferocity. I know you want something in this world of shit to be true and honest. But we’re all well aware of that, believe it or
not, and we’re good for it. So do us all a favour and leave your work where it belongs. Home is another country. We care for each other here. It’s a place to relax. Now get some sodding rest. You’ll be a lot less likely to start at the wrong shadows.’ He turned over once more and was asleep in seconds.

  Which was more than could be said for his wife. Kate lay there, staring up at the ceiling, long into the night. When she finally drifted off, it was not for long. She woke up bathed in sweat, despite the chill in the room. The image that had loomed at her from her dreams was Lena drowning in an unusually murky and turbulent stretch of the otherwise clear blue waters of the Mediterranean Sea. She went to the window and peered out as the first harbingers of dawn crept through the deserted streets.

  11

  Kate decided not to catch the train to the West Country. She had no desire to share their findings, or even their gossip, with a carriage full of eavesdroppers on the return journey. She got up, took Nelson out and left a note telling Stuart she’d taken the car.

  In her eagerness to leave the kitchen, she knocked his iPad off the work surface. She cursed silently as she knelt and plucked it off the stone floor. And more loudly when she saw the crack in the top right-hand corner of the screen. Her husband was very particular about his possessions, especially those of an electronic persuasion. She toyed with the idea of leaving an apologetic Post-it note, but decided it would be better to confess later, face to face.

  She parked in front of Rav’s house and tapped out a WhatsApp message. Am outside. No hurry.

  He was with her in less than five minutes.

  ‘Wow. That was quick.’

  ‘Not sleeping much.’

  ‘Me neither.’

  Kate pulled away and started winding through the west London traffic.

  ‘Music?’ Rav asked.

  ‘Why don’t you dazzle me with your conversation?’

  ‘It’s too early for dazzling. How was your evening?’

  ‘I spent a lot of time channelling that book you gave me on how to deal with extremely awkward teenagers. And that was just when I was with Stuart.’

  ‘Did it work?’

  ‘It stopped me committing murder, so in that sense, yes, it did. He was at Imogen’s, planning their takeover of the world.’

  ‘Is that wise of him?’

  ‘I’m not sure it is. But I got an earful when I suggested he might want to think about it. How about you?’

  ‘Zac’s still with his parents, so I was just meandering about.’

  ‘When’s he back?’

  ‘He didn’t say.’

  ‘How are his parents?’

  ‘You mean physically, mentally, spiritually – or with me?’

  ‘I guess mostly the latter.’

  ‘I haven’t seen them since we went up there for Easter. I’ve spoken on the phone to his father a few times. I find him a lot easier than the mother. But, well, it is what it is. It’s one thing your son leaving his wife and three children, but it’s a bit of a twist in the tail when it turns out he’s gay as well. I think they want to come to terms with it, but I’m not sure they ever will.’ Rav turned to her. ‘Did you get anything on Imogen yesterday?’

  For a moment, Kate toyed with the idea of keeping the information to herself. But she withheld nothing professionally from Rav, and not much personally either. ‘The MP I saw was very measured, sensible and credible. She obviously doesn’t like Imogen much. She said they didn’t see a lot of her on the Russia trip because she appeared to be quite wrapped up with one of her male advisers.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘She wasn’t sure. I think it was a young guy who was her special adviser at the time, but I’m going to have to check that out.’

  ‘Have you talked to Stuart about it?’

  ‘No. He was on the trip, so if it comes to it, I will. But it’ll be hard to do it without giving some hint of what I’m after, so I’m going to hold off for now.’ She glanced at him. ‘How about you? By the look of you, I’d say you’d been up half the night. And it’s becoming a habit.’

  ‘Lots of interesting circumstantial stuff. You won’t be surprised to hear that our man in King Charles Street was the liaison officer with the Russians in Kosovo. He had a young Montenegrin interpreter whose Like button he’d have wanted to press, judging by her social-media profile, even if she had the good sense to resist him. I’m trying to locate someone who served with him there. And I’m still circling the money and the security business he set up after he left the army.’

  They chatted a little more, then drifted into silence. Rav slept. He’d always been good at napping. She was hungry and needed coffee, so pulled off the dual carriageway to stop at a Little Chef. In the event, she dragged him in for breakfast, possibly because it summoned appealing memories of the trips she had made with her father and sometimes her aunt Rose to see their parents in Fowey. Her mother rarely accompanied them. She’d had little affection for her parents-in-law, and they’d made no attempt to hide the fact that the feeling was mutual.

  It was almost lunchtime before they reached Sherborne. They lost their way a few times around the abbey and ended up having to park by the station, then retraced their route past an attractive public garden, still bursting with colour in the autumn sunshine, to the bottom of the high street. Rupert Grant’s estate agency was three shops in from the corner.

  Grant stooped slightly, perhaps from a lifetime of apology for being so tall – six feet three or more. He was greying at the temples, and had the laconic, charming smile of a man now at ease with himself. He greeted them as if this was the most exciting thing to have happened to him for a while, and took them upstairs to his office.

  Coffee poured, biscuits distributed and niceties exchanged, Rav cleared his throat for the business at hand. ‘Mr Grant, I hope you’ll excuse me for saying this, given that we’ve so rudely imposed ourselves on you, but it is imperative that you do not disclose our conversation to anyone. Is that all right?’

  ‘A matter of national security?’

  ‘I’m sorry if that sounds overly dramatic, but in essence, yes.’

  ‘I find it difficult to imagine what I could possibly reveal in this charming rural backwater that might shake the establishment to its core, unless it stems from my time in Hong Kong, but go ahead. You certainly have my word that what is said in this room will stay in it.’

  ‘What did you do in Hong Kong?’ Kate asked.

  ‘I was based there for fifteen years. Commercial property. This is the family business. We only came back when my father died.’

  ‘Our questions relate to two of your former school friends,’ Rav said.

  ‘So are you MI5 or MI6?’

  ‘The Secret Intelligence Service, MI6.’

  ‘Sir Alan is your direct superior?’

  ‘He is,’ Kate said.

  ‘And my old sparring partner, the Right Honourable James Ryan, also has a degree of influence over your destiny …’

  She nodded. ‘Two reasons why this whole situation is potentially extremely awkward. But we should stress that the focus of our enquiries is not our boss.’

  ‘Well, that’s certainly livened up my day. Carry on, do.’

  ‘I’m afraid we can’t tell you precisely what we’re investigating,’ Rav said, ‘but rest assured that it’s entirely routine in the context of modern intelligence operations, and no accusation or suspicion is implied or intended.’

  ‘We’re just trying to build up a picture of the kind of man the foreign secretary is,’ Kate added. ‘From those who have known him best.’

  ‘I haven’t seen him for more than three decades.’

  ‘But you spent five years in very close proximity when you were at school. I imagine you got a pretty good handle on him.’

  Rupert Grant thought about this. He sipped his coffee and appeared to lose himself for a moment in another world. ‘I’m not so sure, to be honest. It was a very long time ago. A different life. And I wouldn’t say it b
rought out the best in any of us.’

  Rav was about to jump in but Kate raised her hand. They waited. If she had learnt one thing from Sir Alan, it was the value of silence.

  ‘I can tell you what I remember, but I’m really not sure how it could be of the remotest use.’

  ‘We’d be grateful.’

  He picked up a shortbread biscuit, tapped it on his plate, then put it down again. ‘First, it was a pretty rough environment. We were hunkered down just along the road there, almost overlooking the games pitches. A rather forbidding pebble-dashed building, no longer a boarding-house. It would have benefited from modernization, as the particulars might have put it.

  ‘The housemaster was a good man, but remote, and the place was run almost entirely by the boys, which, if you have any knowledge of the public-school system, is another way of saying it was more Lord of the Flies than Goodbye, Mr Chips. In retrospect, it seems to me rather like prison. Except that there wasn’t much homosexuality, as is commonly supposed. In fact, the atmosphere was pretty homophobic. The few chaps who were probably gay had a very rough time indeed.

  ‘Sherborne was a rugby-playing school, so much of its life was conducted as if it were an extension of the games field.’

  Rupert sipped his coffee again, perhaps because he couldn’t quite bring himself to look them in the eye. ‘There were several baptisms of fire. When we arrived, there was a boy in the year above whose favourite trick was to lurk in the changing room, on top of the lockers, and urinate on our heads as we threw on our kit.’

  ‘Charming,’ Rav said.

  ‘Not our future foreign secretary, I should probably add. But, as I said, it was a bit of a zoo at times, and I don’t think it brought out the best in any of us. Frankly, I found the whole thing terrifying. In fact, I barely spoke for that first year. But over time, I found my voice, and my place, and I ended up really enjoying it – loving it, even – because the camaraderie was akin to what I imagine you might experience in war or any extreme environment where men are pushed together.’