by David Laws
Harry fixed the other man with his most earnest look. “You can listen in, if you like, but let me make one call.” He pointed to the telephone on their side of the desk. “To prove I’m not talking rubbish. A phone call, that’s what the condemned man is allowed, isn’t it?”
Lucas was still grinning. “And who might this person be?”
“Someone in your organisation. Actually, an allied organisation. Only thing is, I can’t say who – until they decide to identify themselves, that is.”
Lucas and Erskine looked at each other. “Shall we indulge him?”
“Why not? Good for a laugh.”
Lucas plugged an earpiece into the base and picked up the receiver. “Number?”
Harry swallowed. He didn’t have much choice, so he repeated the number he had sworn never to reveal, then took the proffered receiver as the ringing tone began.
It rang and rang, and Harry tensed. If she didn’t answer he was sunk.
Then it was picked up. “Yes?”
“It’s me, Harry. I’m at Chequers and there’s big trouble here.”
There was a short pause before Patronella – he was sure it was her voice – said, “Who is this calling?”
“Pat, don’t play games, this is too serious, someone important could be in danger. It’s Erika, she’s got a gun and I think she’s trying to stalk a VIP at Chequers. Maybe at the ceremony tonight.” Even as he spoke the words he knew he sounded fantastical. Unlikely. Like the chancer they all believed him to be.
It was her voice all right, and he could have screamed when she said, “Who did you say you were?”
“For God’s sake, this is too serious to pretend you don’t...”His voice trailed off when he heard the dialling tone. He’d been cut off; by which end didn’t matter.
“That’s it,” said Lucas. “I knew it. You’re a fraud, a loon, a time-waster – we’re having no more of this.”
They locked him up then, to await the constabulary, they said, and he fretted alone. Was Erika, armed and dangerous, already in the building? Had she made it in past security? While they refused to take him seriously, she was an ever-present danger. He looked at the window – too high and too small for escape – and he knew it was useless to bang on the door. Disconsolately, he sat in his chair, head in hands, contemplating the disaster he felt sure was to come.
Chapter 51
8 hours to go
Her head was throbbing and her eyes felt so heavy it was too much effort to open them. Ursula Otterburn was vaguely aware of a light source. All was a state of confusion. Her mind registered that something had happened that was not right. Something out of the ordinary. Something that was amiss.
A little word entered her consciousness. It grew and grew until it became a worryingly large word. Work. Shouldn’t she be at work?
She forced open her eyes and threw up a hand to shield them. Sunlight streamed in from a window. But what window? It wasn’t a familiar window. She squinted at it and decided she had never seen it before. She wasn’t at home; she wasn’t at work – so where was she?
She looked down and around. She was lying on a strange bed in a strange room. She was still dressed – and that was when she realised: her cleaning overall was missing. So were her coat and hat.
She levered herself up and stood. On a side table was a glass of water, and some cutlery but no food. She walked over and took a sip, then did a circuit of her strange new surroundings. There was one access to another room, a bathroom, and that was all. Narrow cathedral-like windows were closed and the only other door was firmly locked. She walked close up to the sunshine window and stared out. No other buildings were in sight, just the top of a portico, a lawn and a hedge. It was impossible to tell if there was a road on the other side.
A prison, she realised, if a comfortable one. Calling to the neighbours – if there were any neighbours – seemed impossible. Her mobile! She looked around. No handbag and no mobile. There didn’t seem much option beyond hoping that the people who had provided the water would return to release her.
Through the fog of her confusion, one thought kept hammering away at her consciousness. Work. She should be working. Cleaning, mopping, washing and shining all the many artefacts in the big house. But where were her colleagues? What was she doing in this place?
Slowly she began the glimpse the truth. Slowly memory returned. She had been walking from the cottage toward the bus pickup, the suspicious car had driven ahead and the strange man with the gap tooth and the bobble hat had spoken to her. About modelling!
It had been a trick. They’d done something to her. She felt sure it was they – there had to be two of them. That movement from behind her and the object – a blanket, a towel or a hood – had blotted out her vision.
But why? It had to be something to do with her work – with Chequers. Then panic set in. Her boss, lazy old Islay, would miss her and decide she had not turned up for the day. She had to call to offer her excuses. And why would anyone waylay her? A dark thought began to form, and it frightened her: this was some devious act, perhaps containing a threat to the security of the big house and the people who worked there.
Her anxieties increased when she thought about her husband. He would be worried when he discovered she was missing. Time dragged by and she began to feel hungry. That made her angry. What right had these strange people to keep her here? And how long would she stay trapped, helpless and powerless? How long would she be stuck in this deserted house? Hours, days, perhaps weeks?
She was soon back at the window, ready to shake or break it to attract attention and call for help. The silence was complete. There was no clock in the room, yet she could sense the slow tick of the minute hand as time hung heavily upon her. After a frustrating eternity she spotted the top of a red van on the other side of the hedge, then a postman striding up the driveway to the front door, letters in hand.
She ran to the table, picked up the knife, and clattered the window with the blunt end.
At first he seemed not to hear, then at last he looked up.
She mouthed the word “Help” and made clutching signs at the window.
He stopped, puzzled, uncertain what to do. Perhaps he thought she was a mad person locked in for her own good. She made frantic dialling signs, followed by what she hoped would look like the action of a revolving roof siren.
His mouth dropped open, still uncertain.
More frantic signals. A desperate game of charades played out for real.
At last he nodded and took out a mobile.
Her heart rate declined in relief as she saw him make the call, then nod at her, returning the gesture of the revolving siren. Help was surely on its way.
Chapter 52
7 hours to go
Time dragged, nothing happened, and Harry began to doubt himself. Had he acted precipitately? Should he simply have warned Patronella and left it at that?
He ground his teeth at the thought of her. Patronella – she’d warned him he was deniable, but her disavowal on the phone was unforgivable. Was official protocol more important than the possible saving of life?
He was aware of sounds on the outside: footsteps, the closing of doors, telephones ringing and snatches of conversations. At any moment a key might rattle in the door, followed by the beckoning finger of a local bobby. He considered his prospects, when that happened, of making a break for it.
In the event, it wasn’t necessary. The door opened and Patronella entered, standing and refusing a chair. He noticed she was wearing a smart black suit and had bright-red lips. Not her usual style.
“You took your time,” he said.
“And you’ve given us a bad headache. We didn’t want to move this soon. Giving the other side an early warning – not a good idea.”
“Can we just get on and find her?” he demanded. “Erika could already be here. I keep telling t
hem this!”
“Not so fast. I’m here only on the basis of being liaison. I have no clout. I’m – we are simply hinting at some foreign involvement.”
Harry snorted in frustration, then asked, “Is he here? Tresham?”
She sighed. “You’ve rather brought matters to a head before we’re ready for them. You’ve forced my hand, Harry, and we haven’t enough evidence to confront him. He could still wriggle free.”
Harry sighed and looked at the door. “What’s going on out there?” He shook his head in frustration. “Stuck in here, knowing nothing, it’s driving me crazy. I can hear all sorts. Doors banging, footsteps, people scurrying about, sounds like something’s happening.”
There was a certain set to her lips, as if imparting any more information was suddenly an alien activity; a look of exasperation. “Preparations for the formal signing,” she said. “The big media thing – you should know all about that.”
“Of course.” He grimaced. In his state of panic and tension Harry had forgotten about the formalities of the occasion, which was still some hours away. The signing by the Prime Minister was due at eleven in the evening; a formal declaration of British independence, a gesture to set the final seal on the EU Withdrawal Bill. However, right now he felt overwhelmed by the immediate threat posed by Erika.
“They’re all fussing about in the big conference room,” Patronella said. “Laying the table, a big signing book, passes for your friends.”
“How many?”
“Ten from the major media outlets, photographers, TV crews. The civil service wanted it at four o’clock, of course, they don’t like to do business outside office hours. And the politicians wanted it when Big Ben struck midnight—”
Harry broke in. “Telling, don’t you think? That the EU can insist on their midnight, so it has to be eleven here.”
“Telling,” agreed Patronella. “Shows who really wields the power.”
In Harry’s mind there was another urgent question needing answers: the nature of the contents of his precious Crab. He was on tenterhooks over his great prize, brought back with such care from Germany, but Patronella’s response, when it came, was a disappointment. She was by the door, checking her briefcase, anxious to end the conversation. When the container was prised open, its secrets were inconclusive, she said. It didn’t incriminate Tresham directly, merely confirmed details of the Stasi’s modus operandi. “Already well known,” she said, turning away.
Harry slumped back in his chair as the door closed behind her.
Chapter 53
6 hours to go
“He’s a right nutter,” Erskine said into the telephone, “we want him off our hands. Away from here. He’s a disruptive distraction. We’d like you to come and collect…”
There was a long pause in this conversation with Thames Valley Constabulary. Then Erskine said, “I see, hang on.”
He cupped the phone so his words would not be heard at the other end. “Strange thing from Mr Plod.”
“Oh?” queried Lucas.
“Apparently they’ve just rescued a woman who’s been locked in a house somewhere in these parts. Case of kidnapping.”
“Why should we be interested? Tell them to get on with it.”
“The woman says she’s one of our cleaners.”
A long silence before Lucas repeated, “One of our cleaners has been kidnapped?”
“So they think.”
“But they’re all here, aren’t they? Nobody said anything about anyone going missing.”
“Believe so.”
“Where’s that foreman chap? He should check his roster.”
“Long gone. He only delivers them, comes back later for the pickup.”
“Sloppy blighter! We’ll have to shake him up a bit. He’s supposed to be checking them in and out, isn’t he?”
“Been doing it for years, that’s his trouble.”
“But we’ve followed all our procedures… haven’t we?”
“Definitely.”
Lucas didn’t look reassured. “So, what’s her name, this missing cleaner?”
Erskine looked down at his scribble on a scrap of paper. “A Mrs Otterburn.”
“Best go and ask one of the women.”
Erskine pointed to the room where they had locked up Harry. “Do you suppose he could be right after all?”
An even longer pause. “Possibly.”
Lucas and Erskine were back, this time grudgingly acquiescing to Harry’s demand that they begin a search. Clearly they had new orders.
Harry was still under tight control. It was not a frogmarch exactly. More a close escort. “You stay with us at all times, no wandering off, and you keep your mouth shut!”
Out in the corridor Harry became aware of an atmosphere of nervous energy. The tiny phalanx of Harry, Lucas and Erskine walked in tight formation past an open door where the jingle of phones, low conversation and the tippy-tap of busy fingers on keys could be heard. He peered in but was quickly ushered on. Secretaries, waitresses, cleaners and cooks appeared infected by the drama of the day.
Then past the kitchens, all gleaming aluminium and antiseptic-clean, where a woman with a cut-glass accent was upbraiding a man in chef’s whites on the shortcomings of that day’s turkey menu.
To Harry the place seemed a warren of rooms: thick carpets, pictures on the wall and heavy furniture. His eyes were everywhere, looking for alcoves and possible hiding places. He wanted to examine each woman closely, confront them if need be, but his escorts were intent on conducting what they called a security sweep with maximum discretion. No panic, no sense of disturbance, no interruption to the work of the ministers and staff.
“We’ll start in here,” said Lucas, opening the door to a long, narrow cloakroom peopled by three women behind a polished wood counter.
“Ask them their names,” Harry urged. “Am I allowed to do that?”
Lucas sighed. “Security check, ladies, just routine. This gentleman would like you to state your names.”
“Liz Smith.”
“And how did you arrive for work?” Harry asked.
Lucas glowered, but the woman responded, “Came in a Roller, didn’t I? My own personal chauffeur.”
The other two cackled with laughter.
Harry’s gaze silenced them.
“Gloria Summerhayes,” said the second.
“Walk far this morning?”
“Only to the meeting point.”
The third was not so obliging. “Do we have to go through this rigmarole? Why d’you wanna know? What’s it to you?”
Lucas took over the questioning. “Anyone missing from your roster today?”
The three women looked at each other, then shook their heads. “Don’t think so.”
“A Mrs Otterburn?”
“Never heard of her,” said Liz Smith.
Gloria Summerhayes looked momentarily reflective. “Could she be that mousy one who never talks much?”
“Yeah,” said Liz Smith, “but she’s here.”
“Where?” Lucas’ question was a little too urgent, a little too loud.
“Why,” said Smith, “what’s your problem?”
“Where is Mrs Otterburn?” This time the demand brooked no prevarication.”
“Well, we’re not sure, but if she is the one we think… upstairs somewhere, doing the bedrooms.”
The three of them marched up the stairs, Harry resisting the temptation to say, “Told you so.” Instead, he said, “She might be in disguise, but if it’s Erika I’ll recognise the voice. She won’t be able to disguise that.”
On the first floor there were several bedrooms used by VIP guests for overnight stays. Lucas had the master key, but the first two rooms entered, although occupied with a disordered scatter of clothing, were empty of people. Even so, Harry check
ed every closet, opened every door. Before they had completed the search, however, Erskine was called back to the office to take a call.
On approaching the third bedroom Lucas and Harry found the door ajar. They glanced inside. All was quiet. Lucas pushed the door wide open and walked into the main room where he came upon a uniformed female figure with her back to him. She was on her knees and appeared to be looking at the fireplace.
Harry arrived just as she turned. A strange, unquestioning stare. And not a sound. No questions, no exclamations, nothing.
“Security check,” Lucas announced. “What are you doing?”
She pointed to a tin with the lid off.
“She’s blacking the fire grate.”
“Didn’t know they still did that,” Harry said, staring at the ancient hearth. How long did such a task take? He had no idea, never having seen it done in real life. The ways of the Victorian household and its domestic chores were a mystery to him, so he transferred his attention to the woman. She was much older than Erika, with lifeless, mousy brown hair. He noted the blue uniform, the white apron, the frilly cuffs and the cleaning contractor’s name in discreet lettering on the lapel. What fixed his attention, however, was her frozen, unblinking expression. It had the static, dead-eyed look of a stroke victim.
“When did you come on duty?” Lucas asked at a prompt from Harry.
She said nothing. Instead, she turned side on and made a waving gesture towards her right ear.
“Ah!” said Lucas. “She’s deaf. You won’t get a peep out of her.”
“One moment,” Harry said, still staring at her face. It had an unreal quality. So stiff, so unmoving. And then there was a mobile on the table. Next to it was a large iPad, open and lit, as if it had been in recent use. What deaf person had such expensive kit? Far more than was necessary for a text message or a photo. And what cleaning woman could afford the payments? “Let’s do a check on her stuff,” he said. “Did I see a bag and a bucket back there in the bathroom?”
The woman rose to follow and her gaze was unwavering as Harry quickly fingered through the contents of the large bag. Brushes, cleaning rags, an aerosol spray can, a bottle of bathroom liquid. Undeterred, he discarded the bag, picked up her mop and set it to one side, then bent to examine the large yellow contractor’s mop bucket. It ran on casters, had a rotating wringer and was heavy with water. He read off the details from a small panel: capacity 24 litres. He tried running his hand beneath and felt something metallic attached to the plastic bottom, but there wasn’t enough space to investigate.