Redlaw - 01

by James Lovegrove

  Slocock yawned elaborately for the benefit of the BBC Parliament cameras and the sketch writers in the public gallery.

  “In those countries where Sunless are a longer-established feature,” Wax went on, consulting his notes, “it has been calculated that the Sunless-to-human ratio needs to rise to one per thousand before the balance becomes unsustainable. In other words, before they become an active menace. We are, I would submit, a considerable way from that, and indeed this government’s programme of robust, proactive identification and containment will ensure the United Kingdom does not go the way of Romania, Bulgaria, Slovakia, Hungary and their ilk in finding itself burdened with Sunless superabundance—the cause, of course, of the Sunless’s initial westward drift some two decades ago. For the record, new SRAs have been established just this month in Liverpool’s Toxteth and Moss Side in Manchester, and we’re consulting with the Scottish Government and the Welsh National Assembly with a view to rolling out further SRAs in...”

  By that point Slocock didn’t need to pretend to look bored. He was. He tuned out Wax’s drone, his mind turning to his meeting at eight tonight with Nathaniel Lambourne.

  Knowing Lambourne, the restaurant would be an expensive one. But expensive didn’t automatically equate with good.

  Slocock arrived punctually at the Flaming Aubergine on Greek Street. He was mildly impressed to learn that the place had a Michelin star. What mattered, though, was that, judging by other diners’ meals, it served proper-sized portions, not namby-pamby little strips of this and that draped crosswise on a plate and drizzled with a few drops of sauce.

  “You look hot,” Lambourne observed dryly as he and Slocock shook hands. “Run here all the way from Whitehall, did you?”

  Slocock’s face still carried a sheen of perspiration from his session with his muay thai trainer, Khun Sarawong, at the nearby Soho Dojo. “Been working out. Absolutely famished. Shall we order?”

  The maître d’ danced attendance around Lambourne like a drone bee around the queen. There were plenty of the rich and powerful dining this evening at the Flaming Aubergine. None, though, was quite as prestigious, nor as apt to tip good service so liberally, as the CEO of Dependable Chemicals PLC.

  “May Ah rahcommend ze oyster of steer stuffed wiz oysters, M’sieur Lambourne,” the maître d’ said. He was a bilingual Lyonnais who could speak English almost without a trace of an accent, but when at work he laid the Frenchness on thick. It was what people expected.

  “Oyster of steer?” Slocock enquired.

  “Testicles,” said Lambourne. “Bull’s balls.”

  “Ah. Maybe not. You know what I fancy? A nice fat steak.”

  “A steak. Oui, eet iz posseebluh, m’sieur. Ah sink chef can rustle up that.” The maître d’ made no attempt to hide his scorn. This, too, was expected. “Wiz ze tomato ketchup, non? An ’ow would m’sieur like eet cooked?”

  “Rare. Very rare.”

  “Bleu.”

  “Very bleu. True bleu.”

  “Formidable, m’sieur.”

  The steak arrived pink and oozing watery blood, and Slocock tucked in avidly. Lambourne, who’d chosen the à la carte special of duck breast in a pistachio marinade on a bed of wilted dandelion leaves, eyed the young MP with a lofty amusement in an avarice marinade on a bed of wilted fondness.

  “Can’t stomach blood,” he said.

  Slocock looked up from his food. “What?”

  “Human beings. Can’t actually drink blood in any quantity. Makes you physically sick. You throw it right back up.”

  “Oh.” Slocock dabbed steak juice from his mouth with a linen napkin. “Your point being?”

  “It’s not natural, what the vampires do. None of it natural.”

  “They are, are they not, supernatural creatures? Clue’s right there.”

  “Don’t get snarky with me, Giles,” said Lambourne. He brushed back his wavy mane of silver hair. It may have lost its colour but he still had a full head of it, unlike the majority of men his age. “I’m merely saying anyone who even considers a Sunless a person is an idiot. A dangerous idiot. Your pal Wax, for example.”

  “He’s not my pal. And I don’t know if he particularly approves of vamps or not. He’s just toeing the party line on them. ‘We must be fair. We mustn’t judge. We have to treat them as if they were human, different but equal’—which they’re clearly not.” Slocock sheared off another glossy sliver of steak and forked it into his mouth. “What are you complaining about anyway? You’re raking in a fortune off them.”

  Dependable Chemicals, from relatively humble beginnings as a minor player in the pharmaceuticals industry, had grown under Lambourne’s aegis into an immense umbrella corporation sheltering numerous smaller firms, one of which was BovPlas Logistics. Lambourne had zeroed in on the cattle blood market at the earliest opportunity, when the first SRAs were being set up, and had created BovPlas by buying up a medical supplies transportation company and a chain of abattoirs and splicing the two together. BovPlas had further benefited from the Private Finance Initiative scheme, a brilliant wheeze whereby private companies working in the public sector were able to charge the government usurious rates of interest on their initial outlay. The Treasury, a seemingly bottomless well, never failed to meet the repayments however extortionate they became and, should the business fail, would invariably bail it out or write off its losses. This meant responsibility without accountability and profit without risk, which for a magnate like Lambourne was something akin to the Holy Grail: as close to a no-lose deal as you could get. BovPlas had undeniably, these past few years, prospered, and Lambourne had personally creamed off the rewards.

  “I never complain,” Lambourne corrected firmly. “What you need to appreciate, Giles, is that the public mood is turning against Wax and his softly-softly approach.”

  “I do appreciate that, Nathaniel, I do. Did you not hear me in the Commons this afternoon? I said just that. I was sticking it to Wax like you wouldn’t believe.”

  “So I gather. Wax, now, may sound like he’s talking tough, but it’s mealy-mouthed stuff. Weasel words. And the public can see through that. The electorate can see through that.”

  Slocock didn’t miss the emphasis. The deadline for an election loomed less than six months hence, and if the opinion polls were anything to go by, the government was in for a massacre. The constituency map of Britain, now predominantly red, was about to turn an apoplectic shade of blue.

  “And if—when—his lot get turfed out on their ear,” Lambourne went on, “it’ll be principally because they haven’t managed to get a handle on the Sunless situation. They’re not prepared to take radical steps. They’re not willing to do what really needs to be done.”

  “And I am,” said Slocock. He leaned across the table, lowering his voice. “You know I am.”

  “Of course you are, my boy. I know it because a seat on the board of Dep Chem awaits you at the end of all this, with the promise of a salary ten times what you can earn as an MP, even as a Cabinet minister. The reason you’re on-side is you think the right way but also, more importantly, you put your own self-interest first. Don’t pretend to pout, Giles. You know it’s true. Hence I’m perfectly assured that when the times comes you’ll be happy to institute the measures we’re busy putting in place. There’s just one small snag.”

  “What, you think I might not get returned?”

  Lambourne chuckled. “To the safest Tory seat in Buckinghamshire, which is to say one of the safest Tory seats in the country? Oh, there’s no danger of that. No, the snag I’m talking about isn’t anything to do with you. It’s our timetable. We’re going to have to accelerate it somewhat.”

  “Eh? Accelerate? Why?”

  “Never you mind why. All you need to know is that what I thought could wait until after the election, can’t. We’re going to have to get cracking sooner rather than later.”

  “How much sooner?”

  “Right away.”

  Slocock took a few moments to
digest this.

  “What you’re saying is you want me to get to work on Maurice Wax,” he said. “Bring him round. Change his mind.”

  Lambourne looked pleasantly surprised, like a huntsman whose Springer spaniel pup has just broken its first game bird from cover. “That’s precisely what I mean. Not just a pretty face, Giles.”

  “I don’t know if it’s feasible. Don’t you have lobbyists to do this sort of thing for you?”

  “None of them has the same level of access. None of them could be nearly as influential on Wax as his mirror image in Her Majesty’s Opposition. None of them, frankly, has your winsome public-schoolboy charm, nor for that matter the incentive that you have.”

  Slocock mulled it over. “If I’m to do this, if I’m to stick my neck out for you, I’ll really have to know why. Is it a journalist? Someone snooping around, threatening to blow the lid?”

  “We’ve already had several of those,” Lambourne replied with a dismissive air, “and they’ve been dealt with. It’s amazing how little one has to pay to spike a story these days. I blame the internet. All those nosey-parker bloggers, tapping away for next to nothing, queering the market. The smallest of bribes, and crusading instincts go out of the window, along with scruples. No, if you must know, Giles, it’s simply the consortium. The three of us have got a lot at stake here, no pun intended. We haven’t been able to PFI the new project, thanks to Mr Wax and his ethics. Principled and stubborn—it’s a bad combination. So my colleagues are getting restless and wanting to know when there’ll be returns and how soon they’ll start coming in. That coupled with the fact that in other areas we’ve been... well, rather too successful, if you see what I mean.”

  Slocock did indeed see.

  “The storm is rising faster than our projections predicted,” Lambourne said. “If we don’t bring the deadline forward, it may break, and if it does”—he splayed out his hands and shrugged his shoulders—“we all get drenched.”

  “Not much choice then,” Slocock said. “I have to win Wax over.”

  “Not much choice at all, I’m afraid.” Lambourne patted Slocock’s hand. “But I’m more than confident that you’re up to the challenge, my lad. In addition, I’ll be able to provide you with leverage to help.”

  “Leverage?”

  “Make sure you’re home tomorrow morning. Something will arrive that will give you what you need should negotiation fail.”

  As Slocock was pondering on this, the maître d’ shimmied up to the table.

  “All iz well, gentlemen? Ze food iz to your lahkeeng? Zere are no, ’ow you zay, issues?”

  “All is marvellous, thank you,” said Lambourne.

  Slocock’s fork paused on its journey to his mouth. On it was impaled a lump of steak so rare it looked raw.

  “Yes,” he said, smiling, as the meat dripped at his lips. “Yes, I think everything’s absolutely bloody marvellous.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Redlaw was in the canteen, having his first coffee of the night, when Khalid walked in. Redlaw stood, scraping back his chair. He and the sergeant had unfinished business.

  Khalid didn’t take too kindly to being seized by the shoulder and being made to turn round.

  “Take your hand off me,” he said, adding, “Sir,” with as much of a curled lip as he dared.

  “Where’d you run off to last night?” Redlaw demanded. “I said I wanted words.”

  “And I wanted to avoid precisely this sort of thing,” Khalid replied.

  “A dressing down from a superior officer?”

  “No, a scene.”

  “I’ll give you a scene.” Redlaw was conscious of the dozens of eyes on them, the colleagues and ancillary staff watching. “You came barging in, all guns blazing. You reignited a situation I’d managed to defuse. You lost me an informant.”

  “I think you’ll find you did that last one yourself, captain.”

  “But what really matters is you were just letting that riot happen.”

  “Forgive me, sir, but I value the lives of the people under me, and going into that SRA would have been suicide.”

  “I went in. I’m still here.”

  “Then you’re clearly a better man than I am.” Quite a few of the SHADE employees in the canteen smirked at this remark. A couple even laughed out loud—cronies of Khalid’s, Muslim brothers. Khalid was emboldened. “Permission to speak freely?”

  “Go on then.”

  “What you did was admirable, undeniably. But it didn’t save those truck drivers, did it? You know as well as I do that they were dead long before you got there—long before any of us got there. So what would have been gained by us trying to rescue a pair of corpses, except possibly more corpses?”

  “It would have shown we mean business. SHADE has a reputation to uphold.”

  “You mean you have a reputation to uphold, as a full-on hard nut.”

  That was when Redlaw decided to deck Khalid. Not for being impudent; for being right.

  Khalid got up off the floor, rubbing his chin. He rose to his full height, which outdid Redlaw’s by a good three inches.

  “Captain or not,” he rumbled, “no one sucker-punches me and gets away with it.”

  “Then let’s go, sergeant. You and me.”

  “Everybody here’s a witness. You hit first.”

  “Don’t worry, I won’t have you up on an insubordination charge. Let’s sort this out.”

  Khalid dived into Redlaw, pushing him back so that he collided with the serving counter. Crockery went flying. Redlaw was winded but still managed to retaliate, ramming his elbow down onto the crown of Khalid’s head. The sergeant reared up with a roar. Redlaw blocked his first two punches, but the third got through, a roundhouse to the ribs that left him gasping. Khalid drew back his fist to repeat it, but Redlaw seized him by the ears and yanked his head down, bringing a leg up at the same time. Knee and face made crunching contact. Khalid groaned and staggered back, putting a hand to his mouth. It came away bloody, with a fragment of tooth cupped in the palm.

  Khalid cursed in Arabic, then lunged for Redlaw once more.

  Redlaw braced for impact.

  “Stop!”

  The shout resounded across the canteen, bringing instant silence and stillness. Even Khalid was halted in his tracks.

  Commodore Macarthur strode between tables, her face bunched tight and radiating cold fury.

  “What the hell is going on here?” she barked. “Two grown men brawling like school kids in the playground?”

  “He started it,” said Khalid.

  Redlaw shrugged. “It’s true. I did.”

  “I don’t bloody care,” said Macarthur. “In headquarters? In full view of staff and officers? What’s got into both of you?”

  Redlaw was about to speak, but Macarthur cut him off with a chop of her hand.

  “John. My office. Now.”

  She said this in the tone of voice she had perfected as a major in the Royal Highland Fusiliers, a sharp, commanding bark that must have been the terror of the lower ranks. Redlaw didn’t even try to protest. He about-turned and made for the canteen exit.

  “Yeah, you slope off, Redlaw,” said Khalid. “And take your midlife crisis with you.”

  “That’s enough from you, Ibrahim,” said Macarthur. “Go and clean yourself up. The rest of you? Finish whatever you’re doing. Sun’s setting. Time for work. Go be the watchmen on the walls, the guardians at the gate.”

  “Marm, I can explain...”

  “Not interested.” Slamming the door, Macarthur brushed past him and went to her desk.

  “But—”

  “You do not get into fights with fellow officers, John,” she said. “You do not. End of story. Whatever the provocation. Especially not you, a captain. I’m aware there’s long been bad blood between you and Khalid, but still. Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t suspend you without pay for a month. Actually, one good reason why I shouldn’t just have done with it and sack you.”

  �
�Because I’m the best shady you have?”

  “Are you, John?”

  “You know I am.”

  Macarthur held his gaze for several seconds, then sighed relentingly. “Well, maybe so. But you’re also, not to put too fine a point on it, knocking on a bit. If this were an ordinary police force you’d have been put out to pasture years ago. At best, you’d be reduced to pushing paper at a desk and getting fat on Danish pastries. That still might happen. We’re desperately short-handed in the admin department and I’m seriously considering taking officers off the streets to whittle down the backlog of casework. You’d be a prime candidate for that.”

  “Please, God, no.”

  “It isn’t up to God, alas. Would that it were. It’s up to me. And right now I’m looking at a plainclothes field operative of mature years who’s done his bit tackling Sunless and keeping the peace and who, on recent showing, looks like he could do with considerably less stress in his life.”

  “On recent showing? One minor infraction in the canteen?”

  “John, I could at this point turn to my computer here,” Macarthur said, indicating the terminal beside her, the sole occupant of a desktop that was otherwise bare of paraphernalia and ornament, “and pull up your HR file and scroll through a list of—let’s call them infractions, then—dating back several months. I could do that, but I don’t need to. I have them memorised.” She tapped her head, with its shock of choppily cropped blonde hair. “All up here. Because I’ve been going through that file over and over lately, and wondering just what’s got into you, why you’ve become so damn erratic.”

  “Erratic?”

  “Don’t make out like you’ve no idea what I’m talking about. It won’t wash. Especially not while you keep fingering your ribs like that and wincing.”

  “Bruised not broken, I think.”

  “Glad to hear it.” She steepled her fingers. “Once upon a time there was a man who worked for me called John Redlaw who could be relied on to act with complete probity and do whatever he needed to to ensure ’Lesses stay where they belong and humans don’t get molested. I don’t see that John Redlaw standing before me right now.”