Exit Day: Brexit; An Assassin Stalks the Prime Minister

by David Laws

  “Better check underneath,” Lucas said. “If you want to make a proper job of it.”

  There was a slightly mocking intonation to this last remark, as if he were simply indulging a fool’s errand, but Harry ignored him and tilted the bucket to one side, careful not to spill the dark liquid swilling about on the inside. He thought he saw something, a strange shape, but the light wasn’t good and he pushed the contraption closer to the window. Yes, there was definitely something there, fixed to the bottom. He stared at it. It was metal – dull metal.

  Then recognition. A gun. A large one.

  He began to rise, to exclaim, to challenge, to shout a question, but he didn’t make it past the crouching position. He looked up and froze.

  The woman was close by, her arm rigid and pointing down at him. In her hand was another gun – this time, so small it was only just visible.

  Then a harsh bark: “Stay still!”

  So much for the woman’s deafness! But her voice still seemed unfamiliar.

  Lucas, momentarily stricken by surprise, came to life. “Hey! You! Put that down!”

  She turned on him, demonstrating a dexterity and suppleness that belied her apparent years. No one over sixty moved that fast.

  “Get over there and face the wall!”

  This time there was no mistaking the voice.

  “Erika,” Harry shouted, “it’s you…”

  “Shut up and face that wall. Feet apart, hands spread wide. Any movement and I’ll plug you straight off!”

  “It is you!”

  “Be quiet!”

  “But why? Why all this?”

  He could feel something hard, small and metallic pressed against the nape of his neck. “Any movement by either of you and you die. Instantly!”

  “I can’t understand what you’re about,” Harry protested.

  “Eyes to the wall!”

  He could feel hands gliding expertly over his body, removing his mobile, dropping his keys to the floor. Then Lucas. Harry noted the clang of a big keyring hitting the tiles. That was the one containing the master keys of the household. They were swiftly gathered up.

  Next sound was the slamming of the door and the rattle of the key in the lock.

  “Jesus Christ!” Lucas exclaimed. “What have you got us into?”

  Harry’s sense of shock was short-lived. He’d half expected to find Erika – yet that face! How could she have changed so? Lucas was banging on the door and shouting obscenities, but Harry was checking the mop bucket. Gone! She’d taken the big pistol with her.

  Harry tried to think through the situation. He felt vindicated but helpless. They were locked in and she was free. He began to try to see the world through her eyes – her twisted, distorted vision of the world which obviously included using guns. She clearly had a target, and he wondered why she had stayed quietly in the bedroom for so long without making a move. Then reason dawned. Too many people in the house. The bedroom window gave on to the patio at the entrance to the house. From this position she could observe the arrival and departure of VIPs. There had even been, just shortly before, a photocall on the front doorstep for some friendly group. Probably staff. What had she been waiting for? Most probably lunchtime when people would be in the dining hall and the corridors would be clear.

  And now, he realised, Lucas and he had freed her to act. She would expect to have only a brief period of calm before they succeeded in raising the alarm, so she would be in great haste to accomplish whatever dark deed she had planned.

  He tried pushing at the bathroom door. It was stout with an old-fashioned lock accessible from both sides. Together they barged at it – once, twice, thrice before the lock burst. Now they were in the bedroom but this too was locked from the outside.

  “The window!” Harry was decisive and commanding, exuding the renewed confidence of vindication.

  “Jammed shut. Won’t move. Hasn’t been opened for years.”

  “Then break it and shout for a ladder.”

  Chapter 54

  4 hours to go

  The man’s problem was his job. He wasn’t a professional waiter and the role of silently efficient fetcher and carrier did not come naturally. At times he almost panicked, in and out of the kitchens, making and serving teas and coffees, so it was almost impossible to keep a grip on the location of the main man at any one time. That was his real purpose, but it was easy to lose track of the little fellow; there were so many ministers, secretaries, politicos. Worst still, there were so many rooms. He couldn’t loiter, observing, in one place too long. These official people, they didn’t stay together for five minutes. They were constantly moving from room to room; one minute meeting in the Great Hall or the meeting room, then spinning off into little discussion groups of twos and threes.

  His role was to stay calm and stay undercover. He was the woman’s eyes and ears. Her secret inside man – spotter, information provider and assistant. Instructions: Stay calm, play the part. The operation was predicated on the anonymity of the servant. Nobody actually looked at a flunky. He was a moving piece of the furniture – “So don’t break cover,” they had told him, “just act normally, keep the politicos comfortable and vulnerable.”

  The woman – now there was a true professional. Calm, detached, grim, but her cover didn’t allow her to wander freely about the place, so they communicated by mobile. Presently she was staying out of sight, blacking a fire grate in Room 8B, waiting for her opportunity. Maybe this would come at lunchtime when most of the crowd were in the dining room. The worry was: how long could she hang out in 8B?

  The other problem was Harry Topp. It had been a shock when he arrived. The team had not expected him to be an active participant. No one had allowed for that. Would he start a witch-hunt, set off some kind of security alarm? It was all getting dangerously tense.

  Suddenly the woman was in front of him, the genuflecting manner of the professional servant gone. Instead, an urgency of deep breathing. Her eyes, however, stayed blank.

  “Where is he?” she hissed.

  “Sorry, lost track.”

  No reaction, just marching off in the direction of the stairs, still carrying her cleaning kit.

  Momentarily stunned, he regained his wits and returned to the cover role, stepping toward the hall, ready to take orders for more refreshments. Hardly had he reached the door when he felt a tug to the collar.

  Before he could turn, the voice whispered, “Watch my back.”

  It was his next role – to guard the door to prevent her from being taken from behind. He had a full-face view of her then, as she entered, marvelling at her calm, the dead-eyed look of the invisible staff member still in place. He, by contrast, could hardly suppress his fear. The tension was almost too much. If those people, all sitting, unknowing, around that big table, did but realise what she had concealed beneath her apron…

  Several loud and urgent shouts of alarm from Lucas failed to produce any response. The driveway was deserted, all attention focused indoors.

  Perhaps Erika was already running amok. Harry hoped she was having trouble, had hit some problem to delay her. He cursed again that both his and Lucas’ mobiles had been confiscated.

  “We need to get down there ASAP to raise the protection squad,” Lucas said.

  Harry, still hanging out of the window, demanded, “So where are they?”

  “Slumbering at the Bull Hotel. “

  “But that’s in Wendover. Five miles away!”

  The explanation was not encouraging. The political set who ruled over Chequers didn’t like to see heavies around the house. The idea of a visible security net was anathema to the concept of a relaxed retreat well away from the capital. The protection team, a mixed bunch from Thames Valley and the Met, were consigned to the Bull to be on call if and when required. This was, after all, the Prime Minister’s country house and, the think
ing went, should be regarded as such. Harry remembered guiltily his foray with Erika on their fun run around and across the perimeter fence at the back of the house. He fretted too, fearing his second escape of the day would happen too late, that by the time they attracted someone’s attention Erika would have done her worst, whatever that might be.

  He pulled one window wide open and climbed up on the sill, gripping the top bar and swinging himself half out. That gave him a view of the roof area. This revealed itself to be a jumble of different slopes, gullies and towers, doubtless added to over the years to no set pattern.

  “I’m going out,” he shouted, and levered his body out and up, facing inwards toward the room, so he did not have to look down. He could concentrate all on finding handholds. His feet were on the sill and he grabbed the dormer roof for support while stepping in the gutter and edging his way on to the bottom of a gently sloping roof.

  “It’s a damned long drop!” Lucas called discouragingly.

  “You stay put then!” Harry shouted, edging along the slope on all fours. He could see a brick wall thirty yards ahead with an inviting drainpipe. That should take him somewhere.

  He resisted the impulse to look down or back, but could hear the tiles scraping and crunching behind him. Lucas had conquered his fears.

  Harry was moving on hands and knees but had one foot in the gutter to steady himself. The fixings had to be years old. Perhaps centuries. He prayed for good workmanship and pleaded silently for no sudden gust of wind. Thirty yards turned out to be nearer forty, and the rough surface of the roof tiles was tearing at his trousers and punishing his knees.

  Would he make it? Would Lucas?

  He quelled his doubts. Doing nothing was not an option, and his determination found its reward. The drainpipe, when he reached it, had been renewed recently and felt strong and secure. Harry remembered boyish pranks back home and hoped he could still do it, hands reaching up on the pipe, toes digging into the deep ridges of the old mortar between the courses of bricks. At any other time he might have hesitated, caution kicking in, but fear of what Erika was about to do drove him upwards, grunting, banging his already sore knees, sharp intakes of breath punctuating each painful heave upwards. He could hear flakes of mortar dislodged with every move.

  “But it’s going up. You’re going even higher!” He could hear Lucas’ objection from down below. “We want to get down!”

  Harry paused for a moment to get his breath, then shouted, “Flat roof up there, maybe a skylight.”

  “You hope!”

  Harry pressed on, the energy of desperation forcing his tortured limbs to drive him higher. Finally, he had his hands on the gutter, then a tile, and was grunting over the top. He straightened up in a kind of exhausted triumph, turning and urging Lucas to follow suit.

  “Sorry, I’m stuck, old man, you go on!” came the defeated voice from below.

  Harry turned and loped across the flat roof, desperate to find a skylight or some other means of descent. Nothing. He did a tour of the edges, looking over in fast-fading hope until finally, on the third straight, he let out a yell of relief.

  A fire escape!

  A thick hide, developed early in life at public school, had served Jake Pinckney well throughout his political career. It blunted all the barbs he received on a daily basis. None would penetrate. He’d quickly learnt the more you put yourself about, or the higher you climbed the tree, the more the rest of the jealous crew wanted to pull you down. Never let the blighters get you down – his motto from Day One. That’s why he was his usual avuncular self this afternoon, delighting in baiting Tresham’s latest complaint on the subject of a transition period.

  “You should know the score by now, Tresh.” He swirled his big blond mop around and grinned. “Agreed Government policy. Brexit is Brexit and Exit is Exit, whatever minor bells and whistles we might wish to tag on after March 29th.”

  The Home Secretary stubbed an angry pencil on the polished mahogany. “Nobody with any intelligence…” he began, then broke off his response when the door rattled open and a woman dressed in the blue smock of the cleaning contractor strode swiftly to the table. Her demeanour was not that of the usual polite, not to say subservient, staff member.

  “We’re all done with teas and coffee, thank you,” said Jake, “though I wouldn’t mind a toasted teacake if you’ve got any clotted cream…”

  The woman’s gaze travelled round the room, then came to rest on the two men. “Where is the Prime Minister?” Her voice was staccato-sharp.

  Both men were taken aback. They looked at one another in confusion. “Who is this strident skivvy?” Jake murmured.

  She seemed not to have heard. “The ugly one with the moustache and the bald head.” Her tone, still loud, had become scathing. “Where is he?”

  “Ugly?” Jake mused. “Very much a matter for debate, I think.”

  “Where?”

  Tresham stared. Jake shrugged. “Not here.”

  “I can see that.” A gun had appeared in her right hand, held upright. There was a loud click and then the barrel came down, levelling across the table. “Tell me now.”

  “When I say not here,” Jake began, coughing slightly, “what I mean is, not in this room. Perhaps we can help. What is it you wish to discuss?”

  There was a loud snort. “His legacy. His place in history.”

  “So soon?”

  “But now, it seems, you will have to do.”

  “He’s around somewhere…”

  “Where? Speak now.”

  “I believe he’s walking in the garden.”

  The man heard raised voices, then suddenly the woman shot like a whiplash from the room. Without stopping she grabbed his shoulder, almost hauling him off his feet. No pretence here, no subtlety, no covert action.

  “Follow me,” she shouted. “I need you.”

  “But my cover…!”

  “Bugger your cover.”

  He had to run to keep up. She was bounding along and he didn’t get the chance to ask why, but it was obvious. The action was close at hand.

  They sprinted out of the back door and into the rose garden. She slowed to look around, but there was no sign of anyone. She waved an arm in the direction of the arboretum, like a cavalry captain ordering a charge. They trampled through the hedge and across some flower beds, crunching plants and goodness knew what else into the ground in a frantic dash.

  “There he is!” She was shouting at someone in the distance. The figure startled at the approach, then began a slow lope through a yard.

  “Come on!”

  Clearly the woman was a physical fitness freak. Not him. He was puffing and his chest hurt. She waved another urgent arm and they careered blindly through a brick archway, past stacks of builders’ stuff – scaffolding poles, buckets, ladders and the like – gaining fast on the retreating figure ahead. He almost felt sorry for the man, not moving at the same pace, not knowing what was headed his way.

  Then suddenly, unexpectedly, full stop. They were hard up against the old folly, a two-storey red-brick tower that looked like some Victorian’s half-finished toy. There was a big timber door with a latch and the woman was tearing at it with both hands.

  “What’s up?”

  “He’s locked himself inside.”

  And with that she brought out the gun from under her apron and began blasting off at the lock.

  Harry, his trousers in tatters at the knees, was running painfully down the corridor towards the security room. He had to alert Erskine. He’d already lost at least ten, maybe fifteen, precious minutes. His charge down the main corridor came to an abrupt halt with an interception, in the form of a raised arm, by an imperious figure in blue pinstripes and rimless spectacles. Harry was to discover only later that this was Swales, Cabinet undersecretary, well on his way up the civil service ladder. The kind of ladder that end
ed in a knighthood.

  “Not so fast. The Cabinet’s in session. Can we have some decorum here?”

  “Gunman on the loose,” Harry shouted. “In the house.”

  Swales looked taken aback, then disbelieving.

  “Gunwoman, actually,” corrected Harry. “Someone’s for it. Maybe several; maybe she’s going to shoot the whole darned Cabinet, destroy the Government in one go, do a Guy Fawkes.”

  “Oh God!” At last Swales reacted. “A massacre at the highest level of Government. A national disaster…”

  Just then the hall door burst open and two figures emerged, breathing heavily as if they’d just been engaged in a fierce argument. Harry recognised Jake, then froze at the sight of the other figure: could it be…? Christopher Tresham?

  “Don’t just stand there!” Jake bellowed at Swales. “Do something! That damned woman’s gone after the PM. She’s armed. She threatened…” He stopped in mid rant and his gaze fell on Harry.

  “I know this woman,” Harry said. “Which way was she headed?”

  “To the garden and the old folly.”

  Tresham came close. His gaze settled questioningly on Harry. Without a doubt, this was the Home Secretary. Harry was positive, recognising Tresham from that day at Timothy Hall, pictures in the papers, but most recently from a TV interview. “Do I know you from somewhere?”

  “I expect you do. Harry Topp.”

  “Heard the name.”

  “Of course you have. Your spooks have been hounding me for days.”