She ordered, saying she feared her guest had stood her up. Hearing the ‘he’, the head waiter looked mournfully down on her. ‘Perhaps a drink, madam.’
‘Yes please,’ she replied tragically, ‘I’ll have the whole bottle.’
‘Yes, madam, of course.’ One way or another, she would have to make her lunch last. She could safely assume that no one leaving the club would recognize her.
At 1.35 p.m. Quine entered the restaurant. ‘Well done,’ he said, seeing her face light up in surprise and the bottle of Gavi sparkle in its ice bucket, ‘a glass of that would be very nice.’
The waiter brought over a menu and beamed delightedly at Isla. As he left, she said, ‘I told him I’d been stood up. You got here quicker than you thought.’
‘Sophie’s car is surprisingly quick. We mustn’t forget the congestion charge.’
They talked quietly about why she was here and he gave her the headlines of his conversation with Mikey Miller. Isla was facing towards the members’ club entrance, able to see and snatch faces as they appeared; Quine, resisting any temptation to turn, could only watch the backs of figures heading south on the pavement opposite. There was something familiar about the gait of one of them, but he couldn’t place it.
By 3.40 p.m., the waiting staff were becoming fidgety; it had been twenty minutes since the last guest left the club.
‘Time to go?’ asked Quine.
‘I guess,’ replied Isla reluctantly.
‘At least it can go on the big man’s expenses.’
‘Let’s hope it’s value for money. I’m back to the office. You?’
‘The flat. I need to confirm something. We may be on a roll.’
35
Isla re-entered the Treasury at 4.15 p.m. She responded to the inquiring eyes of her neighbour. ‘All fine, thanks. Just the waiting. You know.’ The colleague nodded in agreement.
The doors to both the Chancellor’s and Spads’ offices were closed.
Thomasina walked out coatless, presumably to the toilet. There was a second person in the office – Fowkes must have returned. Time dragged. The departmental head of the HMRC section had given her a research project that would familiarize her with tax avoidance and evasion schemes. They were nothing compared with the money-laundering iceberg they were drilling into at her MI5 desk. It was she who needed to educate them, not vice versa.
Fowkes was in the corridor, no jacket, heading quickly towards the stairs. Follow or wait? They were both a risk. She followed. It was 6.15 p.m., a time when the spacious lobby was crowded, mainly with leavers greeting evening companions. She was able to hang back within the inner precinct while keeping the security barriers within sight. Fowkes swished his pass to allow two men through; all she could tell was that one had dark, almost quiffed hair, early forties or so and wearing a grey suit; she caught sight only of the back of the other’s brown leather overcoat. He led them in the direction of the canteen. She itched to take a closer look, but there was no cover. There was only one way – take cover in plain sight.
She strode into the canteen, walked purposefully towards the tea and coffee counter, and ordered. As she waited for the cappuccino to be made, she did a 360-degree scan. No sight of them. There were three different exits from the canteen. If she waited, they might reappear from one of them. She took her coffee to a table and scrolled on her phone. Fowkes was returning to the canteen from the opposite direction to the one he had entered by. She did not dare look up immediately. After half a minute or so, she raised her eyes. No sign of him. Or the two men. She drained her cup, headed out and returned to her desk. Had he seen her sitting all alone with her coffee while most other staff were leaving for the day?
At 6.45 p.m., Fowkes emerged from his office, carrying his leather jacket and computer bag. He opened the Chancellor’s door and looked in. ‘Goodnight, M-C.’
‘Goodnight, Jed,’ came a distant voice. ‘We’ll put this damn thing to bed in the morning.’ Isla guessed Morland-Cross was expecting comfort from Thomasina.
She waited for Fowkes to disappear down the corridor. He didn’t. Instead she heard footsteps approaching. When they were too close not to ignore, she turned. ‘Oh, hi.’ She smiled, her stomach sinking.
‘Hi,’ he said, returning a pale imitation of a smile. ‘I seem to keep seeing you round the place.’
‘Hope that’s not a problem,’ she said.
‘Of course not.’ He lingered. ‘You’re new, aren’t you?’
‘New here,’ she said. ‘I’m on attachment.’
‘Oh, right. Where from?’
‘DTI.’
‘Bad luck. What are you doing here?’
‘Good question. Actually they feel underpowered whenever they’re trying to argue for trade and industry concessions from HMRC. So they thought some expertise might help.’
‘At least they’re offering that to you.’
‘Yes,’ she said dubiously. ‘A limited picture, I suspect.’
‘What do you expect,’ he said, smile just intact, ‘this is Whitehall.’ She laughed politely. ‘I’m Jed Fowkes.’ He stretched out a hand.
‘I know,’ she beamed. ‘Spads are stars.’ She stood and shook the hand. ‘I’m Isla. Isla McDonald. Humble civil servant.’
‘At least you’ll be here when we’re long gone.’ He tried to match her beam. ‘Do you fancy a quick drink?’
‘Hey, that would have been lovely.’ She checked her watch. ‘Actually any other evening but my partner… she’s expecting me home kind of now-ish. We’ve got friends coming for dinner.’
‘Right. Cool,’ he said, his smile vanishing like a punctured soap bubble. ‘Your dinner’s not stopping you working late.’ His tone was sharper.
‘I had to make up time. I spent three hours in hospital earlier.’
‘Right. Maybe another time?’
‘Yeah, that’d be great,’ she said.
‘Cool,’ he repeated. Casting a short smile, he turned and stalked off. She felt her racing pulse and took a deep breath. Some kind of mangled come-on? An interrogation? Maybe the first had turned into the second.
The near empty open-plan offices seemed, for the first time, menacing. Who, and where, were Fowkes’s guests?
She closed her computer and gathered her belongings. Walking down the corridor towards the lobby, she imagined the lean figure of Fowkes waiting around every corner. The sun was setting over Buckingham Palace west of the park. Recalling Fowkes’s earlier manoeuvre, albeit subconsciously, she thought of feinting right into the park rather than turning left towards the tube. She told herself not to be paranoid. Was that hint of suppressed rage his factory setting? Or was it a forlornness, a deep-set disappointment in the course of a life which, however much he might deny it, had rendered him servant not master? Composing herself, she walked fast to St James’s Park tube, refusing to cast any glances behind.
By the time she emerged at West Kensington, it was dark. The streets were lit by shop and street lights, lamps and chandeliers inside Victorian mansion blocks. Though the air had hardly cooled, she shivered. The walk to the flat was only some four hundred yards but it seemed a marathon. Taking a quick look around, she entered a Co-op on North End Road. No sign of anyone following her from the tube. She wished she could shake off that feeling. She also wished she had wiped the photos from her phone. Careless. She could easily have downloaded them. Basic rule – before walking alone down a London street in the dark, de-incriminate yourself.
She should buy something. She held up a pack of chewing gum from a pile beside the cash till. Why that? She despised the habit. She emerged again. No more nonsense. She increased her stride, gathering pace as she walked. Turning the corner onto the two hundred yards of pavement that led to her block, she broke into a jog, then a sprint, arriving breathlessly at the main door. Hands shaking and sweating, she flashed a quick look behind and inserted the key into the lock. She entered, closed the door behind her and, taking a deep breath, walked slowly up the three flights o
f stairs to the flat’s front door. She slid in the key, turned it slowly and silently eased the door open.
The kitchen, bedroom and bathrooms showed no signs of life. The sitting-room door was closed, unusually, a weak shaft of light showing beneath it which could be coming from street lights or a corner lamp. She felt her heartbeat racing again, imagining Jed Fowkes or his two guests behind it, waiting.
The kitchen door, halfway down the corridor on the right, was open, its lights off. She crept down the passage, praying no floorboard would creak. Once on the kitchen’s tiled floor, she felt on safer ground, but knew she must keep it dark. She went to a wooden block and quietly extracted the eight-inch stainless steel knife that was kept specially sharp for chopping onions. She paused to collect herself, then tiptoed back into the passage and towards the sitting-room door. She moved one hand to an inch from the handle, the knife in the other. There was no sound coming from inside. In one swift movement, she flung the door a hundred and eighty degrees open in case anyone was behind it waiting to pounce, leapt inside, knife held high and scanned the room. It was dim, the curtains undrawn, an arc light hovering over a single figure in an armchair. It rose.
‘Christ, Isla, put that down,’ said Quine. ‘You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.’
36
Isla looked at the knife in her hand and placed it on a table. ‘Hello, Joe. You saving on the electricity or something?’
He was staring at her. ‘What’s wrong? Are you OK?’
‘It’s fine. Is Sophie home?’
‘Not back yet.’
‘Never mind.’
‘You’re shaking.’
‘It’s OK. Over now.’
She went to the triple window and drew the curtains, then peeped from behind them onto the street and square below. A man wearing a brown hat was walking along the other side of the road towards the mansion block entrance. He stopped and looked up. She ducked her face behind the curtain. After a few seconds, she peered out again. He was twenty yards away, retracing his steps.
Quine joined her. ‘I sensed someone following me,’ she said.
He had never seen her jittery before. ‘Or someone was lost and trying to find the flat where he’s been asked for dinner.’
She sighed. ‘Maybe.’ She told him about Fowkes’s unidentified guests and her later conversation with him.
‘I get that,’ said Quine. ‘It’s creepy. No wonder.’
‘No, I overreacted. I’m a bit out of practice at this.’
‘Enough’s happened to take precautions.’
‘Doesn’t stop me feeling foolish. I could have assumed there’d be no one but you. And I’ve followed people a lot less nice than Jed Fowkes and friends in my time.’
‘Don’t bet on the friends.’
‘Maybe not,’ she said wryly, feeling better.
‘How about I get us a drink, I’ll update you, then we look through those lunchtime photos. I presume Sophie’s working late.’
‘Being bored by one of her authors, no doubt.’ She thought of the lie she had told Fowkes. ‘Yes, we’ll have to make do for ourselves.’
‘Good, I fancy a Chinese.’
‘I’m still full from that lunch.’
‘No, you’re not. Just nerves. Food eases them. Give me your order, I’ll phone, you go and have a soak.’
She lay in the bath, getting out only at the ring of the doorbell twenty minutes later. She tried not to jump at it.
They ate. Quine was right – she might not have felt hungry but food was the best ingredient to wind her down.
Quine went over his meeting with Mikey Miller in detail. ‘I wondered at the end if he was hiding something, even if he was involved himself. I don’t discount either. Before the interview turned tricky, he told me he remembered one of those two girls. She was a secretary at the private bank where he had his first City job. Her name was Roisin. Has to be the same girl. He claimed not to remember the surname but thought she probably got married. He said she was smart. As far as he was aware, she’d stayed at the bank and done well.’
Quine put aside his plate, took his computer from a bag by his feet, placed it on the table and fired it up. ‘This private bank was – and still is – called Coulthard’s. Its headquarters is one of the last grand period mansions in Fleet Street.’ He flicked through photographs on the bank’s website home page and hit ‘Our People.’ Among the line of patrician-looking men, there were two women, one with curly greying hair and an unforced smile projecting a natural good humour. He double-clicked on her photograph.
‘Roisin Osborne,’ Isla read out loud. ‘Head of HR. Roisin Osborne is a Coulthard’s lifer. She joined out of college and was promoted to be the finance director’s secretary in 1992. Her gifts of common sense and high intelligence quickly marked her out…’
‘No other Roisins,’ said Quine with quiet satisfaction. ‘As Mikey Miller said, she was too good for young idiots who pissed about. I haven’t found out yet who Mr Osborne is—’
‘You don’t need to. It’s only the…’
‘…Hungarian girl. Yes.’
‘How do you know this Roisin will talk to you?’
‘My “informant” will sort that.’
‘Sure?’
‘I’ll email him, he’ll see it late tonight. He should phone her first thing tomorrow morning. Your turn now. The photos. Can we go into the sitting room? Congealing chow mein turns my stomach.’
Side by side on the sofa, she scrolled slowly, one by one, through the photographs on her phone. ‘They’re being analysed by the office. But let’s see if you recognize anyone. They can be enlarged but that may not bring clarity, just increased pixellation.’
‘You’ve got Fowkes anyway,’ said Quine, looking at the first group.
‘Have I caught him close enough to the club?’
‘Yes.’ He peered at each succeeding photograph for several seconds as the lunchers dribbled out in ones and twos.
‘My God,’ said Quine. He peered ever closer. ‘Yes, I’m sure it is.’ They moved closer to the screen. ‘Yes. Quentin Deschevaux MP. Even from the back view I thought there was something familiar about one of them.’
Isla frowned. She looked at Quine for a long moment before continuing. ‘He’s probably just a member. No reason to think Fowkes was seeing him.’
‘They’re both on the right of the party so that could be a reason. But yes, you’re right, no evidence.’
‘That sort of club is where rich men go to show other rich men they’re richer.’
Quine chuckled. ‘That certainly fits Deschevaux.’ She continued the display. ‘What did Fowkes’s mystery visitors look like?’
‘I only saw one of them, early to mid-forties, wearing a grey suit and with a quiff in his hair.’
‘What, sort of bouffant?’
‘Yes, you could call it that.’
‘Exactly the description of the man Mrs Trelight said came sniffing around, pretending to be from my publisher.’
‘We’ve got to do better than hairstyle.’
Quine grinned. ‘Why did I think you might say that?’
Isla grinned back. ‘Are you setting me up, Joe?’
‘Wouldn’t dream of it.’ He was pleased her sense of humour was returning.
‘Ha! Right. We need tangible evidence of a suspicious Fowkes link. That’s my job. Then we need Roisin Osborne to tell us about a red-haired Hungarian girl called Andrea. Your job.’
‘I get the soft ones,’ said Quine.
‘If I try to tail Fowkes again, this could unravel. My luck won’t hold for ever.’
‘You could bring in someone to replace you.’
Isla’s nostrils flared, the scares of the evening now oddly invigorating. ‘Not a chance. With all this to play for?’
‘Have you got these photos backed up somewhere?’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Sophie told me you ask silly questions sometimes.’
A few minutes later, Quine emailed the Prime Minister.
/>
JONATHAN MOORE
To: [email protected]
Re: latest
Hi Paul
Urgently need to speak to R person in attached link. I understand she’ll remember you fondly. If possible, please phone her to give blessing first thing in the morning.
Need face-to-face catch-up with you after that.
Cheers
Jonathan
Sandford, reading it an hour later, was reminded of the importance of checking the email link at the end of each day. One consequence was the need to spend every night at Salisbury Square and face the daily catch-ups Carol always wanted. He had never felt so alone. He had never had to hide such an enormous secret from her. There were moments he felt he should never have confided in Quine and, instead, just hoped it would blow away and fade like a bad dream. That, for sure, was not going to happen.
The email led him to think more about Roisin. He could not recall the surname but, looking at the middle-aged woman on Coulthard’s website, it all came back. A lilting Irish accent, curly dark hair, funny. It was not surprising she had done well.
He remembered his desire to see her again – which must have been after the weekend of Jed’s story. Why had that wish been so strong? Just because he found her good company? Or did he have an inkling of something that had happened and a need to find out if she knew anything? Had Roisin discovered something about him?
Was there anything to fear from Quine seeing Roisin Osborne? Might she be able to put flesh on the bones of a Hungarian girl called Andrea? What a metaphor to be running through his head. But the prospect of Roisin being able to give her an identity presented a threat, however many years later. The thought of the torso with the chopped-off hand becoming recognizable as a once living, innocent young girl with red hair and her life before her was now constantly with him. Roisin had peeled off that night – but imagine if someone, as yet unknown, stepped out of the shadows of three decades and was able to give a lucid, accurate account of the company Andrea ended up in the night she disappeared.
A Time to Lie Page 20