by Roger Keevil
“You might say that, Andy,” responded Sheila grimly. “That was the Deputy P.M. He’s growing increasingly impatient, and he’s worried that he won’t be able to keep the lid on this situation very much longer. Apparently there are already murmurs drifting around Whitehall, wondering where everybody is and why they can’t be contacted. I … we … you’ve been given a deadline.”
Constable raised his eyebrows. “And that is …?”
“Three-quarters of an hour. If I don’t get back in touch with Downing Street by the top of the hour, the Deputy P.M. says he’s going to have no choice but to go public.”
“With everything? Including the death of Mrs. Nye?”
Sheila closed her eyes in despair. “Please don’t remind me, Andy. He was incandescent, to say the least. I’ve had it pointed out to me in no uncertain terms that security means security, and in the absence of it, I should be feeling none too secure myself. I think I’m due for a very uncomfortable conversation when I get back to London.”
Constable looked at his watch. “Top of the hour? In that case, I think we ought to get on with it, don’t you? Your three-quarters of an hour has already turned into forty-four minutes.”
“What? You mean … you’ve got the answer?”
“I have an answer,” Constable corrected her gently. “I’m very much hoping it’s the right one. So, shall we?” He turned the handle of the door to the drawing room and led his colleagues inside. He advanced to the centre of the room, while the other officers ranged themselves along the wall by the door.
Unease was palpable throughout the group seated around the room. After a glance at her fellow ministers, none of whom seemed disposed to speak, Amanda Laye once again took the initiative and rose. “Inspector Constable, I have to insist that this situation is brought to an end.”
“Then I’m very happy to be able to fall in with your wishes, Foreign Secretary,” replied Constable smoothly. “That is precisely why I am here. Nothing will please me more than to be able to release you – most of you – so that you can resume your ministerial duties.” While you still have them, he thought to himself.
“You mean you’ve identified the person who killed the Prime Minister?” Amanda once again looked around those present. “Well,” she demanded, “who?”
Without answering, Constable moved to take up a position at the fireplace where he could survey everyone in the room. All eyes followed him.
“This entire case has revolved around the matter of secrets and revelations,” he began. “The first question which needed to be answered was, why did Mrs. Ronson call this particular group of her colleagues together and exclude others? The answer gradually emerged – it was because each person here was carrying uncomfortable truths from their past or present which, in one way or another, made them vulnerable in the office they hold.
“I should perhaps digress here, because not every one of you falls into that category. Mr. Knightly, I’m confident that you are in no way responsible for what has occurred in your hotel over the past day or so. But having said that, in a way, your presence, or absence, has been more critical than you know. But I will come on to that later.
“And then, of course, we have Mr. Daly. You also, I’m quite sure, can be absolved completely from any involvement in the death of Mrs. Ronson. Your alibi is as sound as it could possibly be. You were away from the premises, in the company of the P.M.‘s security officer. And because the murder of Deborah Nye is linked in with that of the late Prime Minister, I am content to rule you out there also. Of course, that’s not to say you don’t have secrets of your own. In fact, you would scarcely have been able to carry out your most recent assignment if you didn’t.”
“What are you talking about, secrets?” enquired Amanda sharply. “The man’s a waiter. What possible secrets could he have that would affect what’s gone on here?”
“His secret, Miss Laye,” replied Constable, “is that he was on a mission to discover yours.” Puzzled looks were exchanged around the room. “I have to tell you that the man you know as Jim Daly, a member of the catering staff at Number 10, whom you probably scarcely acknowledge in your routine activities, is in fact better known as Seamus Daly. He is an investigative reporter on a tabloid newspaper, and he had inveigled his way into the Number 10 staff in pursuit of a story about the inner machinations of government.”
A variety of expressions of horror was etched on the faces of all the ministers as they turned to gaze at the reporter.
Jim gave a candid grin and held up his hands in mock surrender. “Guilty as charged, I’m afraid, everyone. Living proof of the old adage that you’ve all got two ears and one mouth for a reason, and that you should always listen twice as much as you speak. Not that I’m not grateful to you all for the loose talk – the amount I’ve learnt ever since I joined the staff has given me enough material for a very nice little book deal when all this is over.”
“But … surely he’ll have signed something when he was taken on,” spluttered Lew Stalker in indignation, appealing to the room. “Official Secrets Act or something. Wouldn’t he be breaking the law?”
“I’m afraid I’m not in a position to answer that, Mr. Stalker,” said Constable. “And since the lady who might have been able to provide an opinion is no longer with us, we shall have to leave the question of Mr. Daly’s legal situation to one side. But as you raise it, let’s consider the question of official secrets for a moment. In some cases, revealing them is a crime. People go to prison. But in other cases, information which the government would rather keep under wraps can slip out as a result of simple irresponsibility. People have been photographed carrying confidential official papers in plain view as they walk up Downing Street. A person might be overheard while chatting to a colleague in a bar. Or someone might, perhaps almost in a display of showing-off, reveal details of government policy during an unguarded conversation. For example, in a television interview. And consider the likely consequences if a prime minister discovered that one of her team had done just that.”
Lew squirmed. “I can’t see that this has anything to do with me.”
“You may as well not trouble to deny the facts, Mr. Stalker,” said Constable. “Because among the Prime Minister’s possessions, we found a computer stick with a recording on it. It was labelled ‘That interview’, which was already starting to sound a little ominous. I’ve played the recording, and it is indeed an interview. You, on a late-night television political show on one of the more obscure channels, talking about some perfectly anodyne story relating to your own department. But at the end, in response to a completely throw-away remark by the interviewer, you launched into a discussion of some plans which you had evidently heard about, regarding cuts in the British defence forces. Gold to the interviewer – you could tell from the expression on her face that she couldn’t believe her luck, and she teased out more information from you than she could ever have hoped for. And, of course, the story reached the Prime Ministerial ear. Quite how she came by the recording we don’t know – maybe it passed into her possession from some helpful but anonymous source – a senior ministerial colleague, perhaps. Suffice to say that it’s clear that Mrs. Ronson took an extremely dim view of the matter – ‘indefensible’ was the word she was heard to use - and that your career was in the gravest jeopardy.”
“If I’d ever found out who gave her that story …,” muttered Lew.
“Perhaps you did,” said Constable. “Perhaps you discovered that it was Deborah Nye who had made you her target. And perhaps you took your revenge on her for what she had done to you.” Lew simply gawped at the inspector, his mouth moving but no words emerging. “There’s another candidate, of course, for letting your indiscretions be known. I just wondered if you might, in your movements among the media, have crossed paths with Seamus Daly. Maybe not closely, but perhaps he rang a bell with you. Did you half-recognise him? Did you pick up a hint that he knew what you had done? A simple look during the dinner at the Inn might have be
en enough. Perhaps you thought he might have put you in danger, and so you took steps to undermine his credibility.”
“And how would I do that, inspector?” bluffed Lew.
“By the simple expedient of writing Mrs. Ronson an anonymous note,” retorted Constable calmly. “Warning her that someone was not what they seemed. And therefore that what they might have provided to her was not to be relied upon. We’ve seen that note – the handwriting is yours, although there’s been a feeble attempt to disguise it. It’s not obvious what the note relates to. A distraction technique – spreading uncertainty. But the evidence of the recording was, unfortunately for you, irrefutable. As you yourself said to me, you were always told that your mouth would get you into trouble.”
“Where is all this leading, inspector?” intervened Amanda Laye. “Are you telling us that Lewis had been responsible for these two murders?”
“By no means, Miss Laye,” said Constable. “I’m merely pointing out that his motive is as good as that of many others. Yours, for instance.”
“What?” Amanda sounded outraged. “Do you mean to say that you have concocted some fanciful notion that I could be responsible for what’s gone on here?”
“Not fanciful, Miss Laye,” said Constable. “I believe I can advance a perfectly plausible case for why you should have felt yourself to be in a dangerous position. Would you like me to do so?” A light of alarm flared in Amanda’s eyes, and she resumed her seat, hands clasped tightly together in her lap. “Once again, I have to touch on the matter of defence,” continued the inspector. “Oh, not of this country, but of one of our allies.”
“Can I remind you, inspector, that I am not responsible for defence matters,” pointed out Amanda coldly. “Foreign affairs are my concern. As witness the visit overseas from which I have just returned.”
“Ah. Foreign affairs. Of course. But it’s not your most recent trip which I think was of most concern to Mrs. Ronson. I have a suspicion, bolstered by some information which I’ve received during my conversations today, that it’s foreign affairs of a more historic nature which were worrying the Prime Minister. Affairs of the heart. Because I understand that, in your youth, you became … let’s say extremely friendly with another student, who came from the Gulf area. Nothing wrong with that, of course – didn’t someone once say that love is the prerogative of the young? But when, in the fullness of time, the young woman becomes an extremely important cabinet minister, and her lover becomes the ruler of a highly strategic ally, eyebrows might be raised over the nature of any continuing relationship. Certainly Mrs. Ronson was heard to comment – somebody thought they caught a remark about being ‘up in arms’. But what if they’d misheard? I have to confess to a huge leap of guesswork here, but isn’t it possible that the subject referred to was, in fact, ‘supplying arms’? That part of the world is highly volatile. There are no doubt stringent regulations regarding the supply of weaponry. But what if someone were attempting to trade on old relationships in order to circumvent those strictures? That would be a very serious matter – quite possibly illegal. Might not a Prime Minister seek an opinion on that from her highest legal authority? And so you can see, Miss Laye, how a case could perfectly well be constructed as to why you might have found yourself in a threatened position, and why you might have pursued a violent solution.”
“You’re completely mad,” said Amanda defiantly. “If you are seriously suggesting that I might have … words fail me.” She glared at the inspector.
“I am merely drawing a potential conclusion from the facts in my possession, Miss Laye,” replied Constable.
“Well, then, I suppose you’re going to do the same for all of us and lay everything bare,” said Erica Mayall. The others in the room turned to regard her, surprised at the intervention. “Since you’ve been snooping into everyone’s private life.”
“Not snooping, I hope, Ms Mayall,” said Constable. “Investigating, certainly. But in the course of that process, it’s inevitable that certain facts will emerge which some people would prefer remained confidential.”
Erica drew herself up. “Say what you must, inspector. I’m not afraid.”
Constable gave a half-smile. “My compliments on your resolve, Ms. Mayall. Whatever emerges. Let me begin with what I’m sure many people here will have been aware of, since they were witnesses to some of the remarks passed by Mrs. Ronson over dinner. We kept hearing mention of shoes. An innocuous enough topic, but it turned into a critique of possible extravagance. There were hints of misuse of public funds, overseas trips which might have been seen as an excuse for self-indulgence under the guise of ministerial activity. Could such charges really be serious enough to warrant your dismissal? Quite possibly, it appeared, if they were backed up by a damning report by a parliamentary watchdog. As, we discover, they were. Because the Prime Minister had, among her papers, a copy of a report which provided evidence that such abuse of office had taken place. My colleague Sergeant Copper, having read some of that report, tells me that it sounds as if your career could not have been saved. Despite whatever Mrs. Ronson may have wished privately.”
“Why ‘privately’, Mr. Constable?” queried Amanda. “If you’re amassing all these theories regarding our supposed failings which would have set the Prime Minister against us, what would private wishes have had to do with anything? I thought you were saying that her duty would have been to dismiss us, and that’s why we would have killed her. Preposterous though that sounds.”
“There were other considerations in this instance,” responded Constable, unruffled by Amanda’s hostility. “And it sounds as if, close colleagues though all of you might have been, you may not have been particularly observant. It probably took an outsider – someone like Mr. Daly, for instance – to see the full picture.”
“How is Daly involved?” asked Amanda, perplexed. She turned to the reporter. “Well?”
Jim gazed at the Foreign Secretary for a moment, and seemed to come to a conclusion. “I think,” he said, “under the circumstances, this is one story I’m not going to break. I believe Erica has the right to tell it for herself.” He shrugged. “If it’s even a story these days.”
Constable regarded the journalist with eyes in which could be seen a growing respect. “Mr. Daly, I confess you surprise me. I think you’re right.” He turned back to Erica. “Well, Ms Mayall, I don’t know how much you wish to volunteer?”
“Doris and I loved each other,” said Erica calmly. The ensuing silence lasted several long seconds, while all present studiously avoided any reaction. “And before anyone draws any conclusions from that,” she continued, “it simply means that we had the dearest, closest, … sweetest friendship anyone could ever have wished for. We cared for each other deeply and … that’s it. Nothing beyond that, in case some of you are making assumptions. We talked a lot, sometimes late into the night. She felt that she could tell me things that she couldn’t share with anyone else. I’ve never known a relationship like it. And I don’t suppose I ever will.”
“And I believe you may even have had private names for one another, didn’t you?” intervened Constable quietly.
Erica looked surprised. “Yes. Silly, I know. It was just our little whimsy. But … how did you know?”
“We found a note,” explained the inspector. “Rather personal in tone. It was signed ‘Heather’. Which puzzled us for a while and sent us off on a wrong tangent, until my colleague Sergeant Copper, inspired by Mr. Daly’s mother, did a little research. Sergeant?”
Copper stepped forward as everyone’s attention became focussed on him. “It was nothing really. It’s just that Mr. Daly had mentioned his mother’s fondness for gardening, so I took a look in one of the reference books in the library, all about plants. And the official Latin name for heather is Erica.”
“We could leave notes on one another’s desks when we shared an office and nobody would know who had sent them,” said Erica. She sighed. “I know. It makes us sound like a pair of silly schoolgirls w
ith a crush.”
“Although I’m still not sure about the way the note was addressed, sir …” resumed Copper.
Erica coloured slightly. “It’s a reference from Greek mythology, sergeant,” she broke in. “The character of Doris was one of the sea-nymphs.”
“Ah,” said Constable, “then I think we can leave it there.” He signalled to his junior to resume his place.
“So there you are, inspector,” said Erica. “Now you know everything.”
“Not quite everything, Ms. Mayall,” countered Constable. “I don’t think you’ve told me quite all. You mentioned talking things over with Mrs. Ronson, late into the night. I think that’s what may have happened here yesterday evening. There was a hint from one of your colleagues that the Prime Minister may have been waiting for someone after all the interviews in the library were finished. Someone with whom she could perhaps unburden some of the difficult decisions she was going to have to make. Someone who, perhaps, came bringing comfort in the form of a plate of sandwiches, and who shared a drink with her. Well … am I right?”
Erica regarded him with amazement. “But … how do you know all this?”
“Nothing particularly complicated, Ms. Mayall,” smiled Constable. “Fingerprints on the glasses … fingerprints on the sandwich plate … it didn’t take a miracle of detection.”
“We talked,” sighed Erica. “Well, she talked, and I listened. I offered to help her think things through, but she said her head was buzzing too much, so I left her alone. I went back up to my room. And that was the last time I saw her.” She gazed around defiantly at her ministerial colleagues. “So if anyone is thinking that I might have taken the chance to harm her …” Erica broke off and bit her lip in an effort to control her emotion. “Then you couldn’t be more wrong.”
“I agree,” said Constable. “I think the fact that you made no efforts to remove the traces of your presence is a clear indication that you had nothing to conceal. You may not have told the full truth, but I don’t put a sinister interpretation on that.” He paused for a moment. “Of course, you weren’t the only person not to have been completely candid about their movements.” He suddenly directed his attention towards the Health Secretary. “Was she, Dr. Neal?”