A Time to Lie

by Simon Berthon

  He should stop speculating. Only the truth could make him safe. Or convict him. Yes, Quine had to see Roisin.

  Carol peered over her glasses as he entered the bedroom. ‘M-C all sorted?’ As he looked at her, it was still Roisin he was thinking about. And her friend Andrea.

  All sorted? If only.

  Just after 11.30 p.m. Isla, laptop in hand, poked her head around the sitting-room door. ‘I’ve had feedback.’

  Quine, midway through converting the sofa to a bed, looked up, puzzled.

  ‘Two IDs on the photos from outside the Mayfair club. Put that sofa back and I’ll play it for you.’

  Two men in dark suits advanced millimetre by millimetre on the screen. They had just left the club and were walking along the street. The bonnet of a large grey saloon crept into the left of shot; Quine could just make out the two-winged crest of a Bentley. The face of the man on the left was obscured. The man on the right’s face was coming into focus. Isla hit pause, stopping the frame just before his face was covered.

  ‘That is a guy called Lyle Grainger.’

  ‘What!’ Quine gasped.

  ‘Wait.’ She ran the sequence until the car’s cabin just cleared the second face.

  ‘And this is Herr Dieter Schmidt.’

  ‘I never managed to find photos of either of them,’ said Quine. ‘It was as if they’d erased themselves from all records, physical and digital.’

  ‘There’s some further info,’ said Isla. ‘Once upon a time – late 1980s, early 90s – Grainger was based in London at the US embassy when it was in Grosvenor Square. Left the embassy end of ’92, stayed in the UK. Schmidt is an East German who stayed in London after the fall of the Berlin Wall.’

  ‘Deschevaux, Grainger, Schmidt. The three founding directors of International Personnel and Resource Management. Who all resigned as directors within a year of its operation in Freetown.’

  ‘There’s nothing to say they reduced their shareholdings,’ said Isla, ‘no doubt all hidden in shell companies here or off-shore.’

  ‘And all having lunch at the same Mayfair club on the day Jed Fowkes has an urgent need to go there.’ Quine paused. ‘I suppose you’ll now say that Fowkes might have been seeing someone completely different.’

  ‘No, but I’ll say this. Those years after Communism collapsed were messy. And London was a honeypot.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Quine. ‘A place where unholy alliances were the order of the day. We may just have fallen on one of the unholiest of all.’

  37

  Isla was at her desk by 8 a.m. The previous day’s encounters showed that Fowkes was now on the move and not acting alone. The identities of his contacts were physically unproven, but the circumstantial evidence was powerful. Early starts were a norm for most Treasury and HMRC staff, but there seemed no sign of activity in the Chancellor’s or Spads’ offices. Thomasina and Jed operated by their own schedules and Morland-Cross often didn’t appear before 9.15 a.m. She was in good time.

  Thomasina arrived at 8.50, parked her coat and bag, reappeared nervously in the corridor and knocked on the Chancellor’s office door. She waited for a moment, frowned, and retreated to the Spads’ office. At 9.15, the time of the Chancellor’s regular morning meeting with the private office, his principal private secretary emerged into the corridor. He approached the permanent secretary’s desk in the open-plan and leant down to murmur something in his ear. The two men returned to the Chancellor’s office door; a hesitant initial tap was followed by a loud, repeated knock. The PS turned the door handle and pushed. No movement. He whispered something to the PPS. Isla was just able to lip-read.

  ‘Do you have a key?’

  The PPS shook his head. He knocked on the door of the Spads’ office and entered. He emerged with Thomasina holding a key. She looked nervously around the open-plan; Isla sensed her wanting everyone to go away and hide. She turned back and tried to put the key in the lock. It would not enter smoothly. She tried to force it.

  The PPS touched her wrist. ‘Shall I have a go?’ he asked gently.

  She handed him the key and he inserted it easily, opened the door a couple of inches and allowed her to enter ahead of him.

  Isla, watching and feeling Thomasina’s tension, felt a bead of sweat on her forehead as she disappeared behind the door.

  A scream ripped through the corridor.

  ‘Oh my God,’ someone shouted.

  Instinctively Isla jumped up and ran to the open door. ‘I’m first-aid qualified,’ she said calmly, ‘is there a problem?’

  ‘Yes,’ began the PPS.

  ‘Who are you?’ interrupted the PS.

  ‘I’m on a three-week HMRC attachment for the DTI,’ she said.

  The PS inspected her. ‘All right, you’d better go in, we’ll come with you.’ In the corridor, Thomasina was making retching sounds.

  Isla entered. A naked male body was seated in the Chancellor’s desk chair, its feet resting on the desk itself. The head was covered by a white plastic bag. Some kind of flex or ligature, tied to both feet, led back towards the plastic bag, disappearing beneath it. She approached the body. She understood the scene must not be contaminated but, in the unlikely event of there still being life, she bent down low and lifted the bag. She looked up to see the flopped head of Henry Morland-Cross. A lemon was stuffed in his mouth. The other end of the ligature was wound tightly around his neck. Purple spread from neck to cheeks. She stood and held his limp wrist, then put an ear to his chest. She had a quick look at the desk. A fifty-pound note lay on it beside a razor. There were remnants of white powder.

  It was like a stage set. She already knew what had happened, and that it would never be proved.

  She emerged. ‘He’s been dead for several hours,’ she told the two civil servants. ‘That young woman needs looking after.’

  ‘We’ve called the emergency services,’ said the PPS. ‘A duty protection officer from Number 10 will be here soon.’

  ‘It will help if he can be reassured there’s been no disturbance to the scene,’ she said.

  ‘We’re aware of that,’ said the PS caustically, ‘Miss, er…’

  ‘Isla McDonald. I’ll get out of your way. I’m very sorry.’

  As she withdrew, the Number 10 protection officer, dressed in an ordinary civilian suit, arrived. She wondered how long she would be able to observe from the vantage point of her desk. Despite the chaos and confusion that would inevitably come, she needed him to follow correct protocol and ask all those present to stay in place while their details were taken.

  Within a few minutes, police and medics were on the scene. A stretch of corridor outside the Chancellor’s office was cordoned off. The only sounds were the shuffling of feet and the occasional murmur of voices. Thomasina, escorted by a policewoman holding her arm, was taken to her desk.

  Jed Fowkes arrived, his face creasing as he neared the cordoned stretch of corridor. A policeman intercepted him. It was a brief exchange, then Jed retreated into the Spads’ office.

  ‘What happened?’ he asked.

  A pause and a sniffle before Thomasina replied. ‘I don’t know. He’s dead.’

  ‘What! How?’

  She started sobbing. ‘Sounds like he’s been dead for hours.’

  ‘Thomasina,’ he said almost roughly, ‘weren’t you with him last night?’

  ‘No. I popped in to see him. We had a few minutes together. He told me to go the flat – his own flat, I mean – and he’d try to get there later. He was buried in paperwork and if it was too late, he’d stay at Number 11.’

  ‘Was that normal?’

  ‘I don’t know, I wasn’t with him long enough. I usually stayed with him at Number 11.’ A few seconds’ silence. ‘I wonder if he was meeting someone.’

  ‘Why? Who?’

  ‘It would explain it, that’s all.’ A further pause. ‘I don’t get it. He wasn’t like that. Never.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Christ, Jed.’ Her voice was raised.

>   ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean…’

  ‘You’d better go and have a look,’ she said.

  ‘I won’t be allowed. Too late.’

  ‘At least you’re spared that.’

  He hesitated. ‘Spared what?’

  ‘You’ll know soon enough. The whole world will know soon enough. Some kind of sex game. On his own.’ She shook her head. ‘It’s just not him. It’s not as if he ever needed anything like that. He wasn’t in a weird mood or anything. He was pleased. He told me the PM wanted him to stay on.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Fowkes. ‘He told me that too. When I saw him yesterday morning.’

  ‘You didn’t seem too happy after you saw him.’

  ‘I was certainly happy for him. We were joined at the hip. Whatever the occasional argument. It just makes no sense. I mean, he lived life full-on but not like this.’

  ‘I should have stayed with him.’

  ‘It’s OK. Don’t blame yourself.’ They fell silent.

  Half an hour later, names and contacts established, staff were given permission to leave their desks and the building. Immediately the all-clear was given, Fowkes was in the corridor, carrying his bag, coat on, striding in the direction of the exit. Isla knew that she couldn’t jump up after him, particularly in these circumstances. She went to the ladies, entered a cubicle, pulled out her phone and quickly dialled a number.

  38

  ‘Yes, Isla,’ said Quine.

  ‘I’ll be brief. Major incident at the Treasury. Morland-Cross has been discovered dead in the office. Looks like a sex game gone wrong. Our man left in a rush. Clearly to see someone.’

  ‘Without you behind?’

  ‘Yes. Impossible.’

  ‘Give me a second to think.’ She flushed the toilet to create covering noise and hugged the phone to her ear. ‘I’ll use your car and drive to Mayfair.’

  He gave her a street name, a different one from the private members’ club, and a number. ‘It’s got to be worth a try. The building’s in the middle of the west side. Get a cab. We’ll assume he’s walking. You might be there first. I’ll stop just short of the north end coming from the west and you jump in. I’ll be as quick as I can. Stay out of sight.’

  ‘I’ll know what to do.’ She cut the call.

  She walked calmly back to her desk and picked up her bag and coat. Staff not considered essential were drifting out; there was nothing unusual about joining them. She hailed a cab at the corner of Horse Guards Road and Birdcage Walk and told the driver to take her to the street running parallel to the one given by Quine. Though the chances of Fowkes spotting her inside the taxi were infinitesimal, she kept her head down. Fourteen minutes later – she tracked it on her watch – the cab dropped her off. Fowkes, walking fast, unhindered by traffic, might or might not have arrived. There was no way Quine, driving from West Kensington, could be there yet. Ignoring his advice she walked to the north end of the street. Unless Fowkes was taking a deliberately circuitous route, he would approach from the south side. She waited.

  Twenty minutes later, Quine drew up alongside. She opened the passenger door and jumped in. ‘I could see you,’ said Quine. ‘Doesn’t that mean he could have too?’

  ‘No. He either beat me here and he’s inside. Or your hunch is wrong.’

  ‘Any signs?’

  ‘That black Mercedes with tinted windows drew up and someone, a male, got out. The driver’s still inside. Waiting for his passenger to reappear, I’m assuming.’

  ‘Has he seen you?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The driver.’

  ‘No.’ She hesitated. ‘I don’t think so.’

  Her uncertainty alarmed him but he tried not to show it. ‘And the man who got out?’ he asked.

  ‘I didn’t see.’

  ‘But his arrival could be related to Fowkes leaving the Treasury.’

  ‘Clutching at straws. But the timing could work, assuming he’s coming from within Central London. By the way, you gave me the number, you didn’t actually tell me what the building is.’

  ‘I assumed you’d know.’

  ‘Sure, but I don’t see a sign or plaque.’

  ‘Quite. IPRM doesn’t advertise itself.’

  ‘I guessed that might be it.’

  ‘Right. Where do you want to be to get the photo? If Fowkes appears, I mean.’ Isla looked up and down the street. ‘Do a circuit so we turn into the south end. Then find a space opposite the building. That will give me a good enough angle and direct line of vision from the passenger seat.’

  ‘You’ll have no cover.’

  ‘It’s the only way.’

  ‘OK. How close?’

  ‘Fifty yards or so. I’ll judge it as we’re lining up.’

  ‘That camera can ID him at fifty yards?’

  ‘I didn’t buy it from Amazon.’

  He reversed out of the north end and followed her instructions.

  ‘There’s a gap there,’ she said.

  ‘It’s a double yellow.’

  ‘I’ve got a police ID.’

  Reversing into position, he realized that his manoeuvre might be visible to the black saloon car driver’s wing mirror. Too bad – if he was the chauffeur, he was probably listening to music on earphones or reading the paper.

  Thirty minutes passed. Quine kept an eye out for traffic wardens; it would be an interruption they could do without. Isla’s eyes were trained unflinchingly on the exit. Butterflies buzzed inside him. It felt utterly different from the political journalist’s standard stake-out.

  Isla shifted, her phone camera whirring. He looked across. Yes. Clearly Jed Fowkes stepping out with another man. Not Deschevaux. Could be Lyle Grainger or Dieter Schmidt – they were of similar age – late fifties, dark hair, broad-chested. From this distance, neither was recognizable as one of the men in the old photos.

  ‘Have you got the guy with him?’ he asked.

  ‘Trying.’ She wound her window further down, shifting position again. Fowkes looked up in her direction.

  ‘Shit,’ she said. ‘I think he’s seen us.’

  ‘Recognize you?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Quine, now failing to hide his alarm, started the engine. ‘Time to go.’

  He accelerated. As they passed the black Mercedes, Fowkes and the other man were jumping in, gesturing to the driver, pointing. The saloon pulled out behind him.

  ‘Jesus,’ said Quine.

  ‘Whatever else,’ said Isla, ‘they’ll now have my number plate.’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘Head into Park Lane. We’re safest in traffic. Then circle Hyde Park Corner.’

  She dialled a number, turning away from him. He could make out some of what she said. ‘AIT, cat 8. Hyde Park Corner.’ She gave the number plate of the chasing car. ‘Hostile black Mercedes. Heading for 125 SW.’

  He reached the lights at the end of Park Lane. The Mercedes, at this point tailing rather than making any attempt to catch up, had fallen a few cars behind. Isla crouched beside the passenger seat. If he crashed, she had no protection. His hands felt sweaty on the steering wheel. He gripped tighter.

  The lights at the junction with Constitution Hill were red. How long would this go on? How long could it go on? Were they just tailing, wanting to see where they were going? Or, if they saw an opportunity, would they try to intercept? With Jed Fowkes in that car, surely they wouldn’t try anything stupid. Would they? He must stop asking himself questions, just concentrate on the road and the mirror. No more crashes. Don’t screw this up.

  ‘How far behind are they?’ she asked.

  He glanced in the mirror. ‘About six cars.’ He hesitated, looked again. Was it definitely the same car? Stop asking yourself questions, just get it right. His heart felt like a grandfather clock speeding up and out of control.

  ‘OK,’ she said. ‘Do a full circle. There’s no need to hurry. In fact, do the opposite. They can’t try anything here. When we’re back at these lights, update me on their
position. I want to avoid looking round if I can.’

  Negotiating the four sides of the square seemed to go on for ever. He was deliberately driving like an old lady, they were making no effort to catch up. What was their ultimate intention? Perhaps they did not know themselves and were just reacting. Quine started to see a funny side to it. The slowest chase in the long history of the motor car. Eventually, they arrived back at the Constitution Hill lights.

  ‘I make it they’re still six cars behind.’ He calmed, feeling more in control.

  ‘OK,’ she said. ‘We have a plan. Listen carefully. Approach the next lights slowly. Take a middle lane as if you’re not certain whether you’re turning left or right. Ultimately you’re turning left but don’t show it till the last moment. Don’t leave room for a car to come up on your inside. Don’t worry about people hooting. When you’re near the lights, slow right down if they’re green. If still green when you’re there, stop. If they’re red, also stop.’

  They moved off. ‘Fifty yards or so,’ he said. ‘They’re green.’ He looked in the mirror. They were closer, four cars behind. ‘Twenty yards. Still green. The road’s almost clear in front.’

  ‘Good. Approach slowly.’

  ‘They’re going amber.’

  ‘Go! Foot down. Turn left. Headlights on, hand on horn as much as you can.’

  He did as she said. She raised her head and looked around. The car behind had stopped at the lights. The black Mercedes was blocked, two cars back.

  ‘Brilliant. Now be bold. Take second right. Just cut across the traffic.’ She felt the car swing right. ‘Well done. Hand off horn. Lights off. Take first left.’ He checked the rear-view mirror, no sign of the black Mercedes. He took the left. She sat up on the passenger seat. ‘OK, left again at the bottom. Twenty yards on the right into the mews, a garage door is open. Drive into it.’

  He did. As soon as they were inside, the door came down and lights on. They were alone. ‘Jesus,’ he said, ‘I almost hit a bus taking that right from Park Lane.’