Walking through the snow tipped greens and woodland to the back exit of the college I am uplifted by the sight of a snow bunting. All striking white plumage with streaks of subdued gold and black, freshly arrived from Scandinavia, as it serenely watches me now from a high branch above.
Stopping to commune with this visitor, I ponder that the classic ‘loosener’ to get people talking in any interview is not such a waste of time. After all I am confident the clever Professors, so busy carefully guarding their secrets, inadvertently confirmed what the Albion House gathering was all about. The best laid plans….
64
Intimidating, if dignified Palladian exterior, the mammoth building is all soaring vaulted grandeur of gilt within. I enter the lion’s den of the Foreign and Commonwealth Office, and silently follow a uniformed commissionaire who is waiting to accompany me to my appointment.
Whether the quickest route, or designed to impress and intimidate, I know not as we traverse up the empty wide stairs of a grand entrance hall, all barrel and vaulted ceilings with bright chandeliers far above, golden stars scattered and glittering from the heights onto the paintings and statues that inhabit every wall and nook. I glimpse the famous Locarno Suite, dubbed ‘the drawing room of the nation,’ and we skirt Durbar Court, all lapis and turquoise floor half the size of a glittering football pitch and stone arches at three floor levels up to the giant glass ceiling.
Architecture tells you much. The building is awesome, but it is also living on past glories. Built at the height of Imperial Britain when many swooned in this vast opulence as a physical display of our dominance over ‘lesser’ subjugated peoples throughout the world. Much of the gold, precious stone and materials on view here were paid for by the sweat and lives of those millions of ‘lesser mortals.’
The building is a monument to our elite’s willingness to trample on, exploit, oppress others while taking the Christian message to them and saving their immortal souls. Glorification of abuse writ large. A justification of the brutal domination of foreign cultures for our political and business elites’ gain. Built on notions of our own inherent supremacy and the pursuit of glory; nothing changes in that respect. Ironically two common a garden pigeons had landed with clapping wings to draw my eyes upwards to a giant statue of ‘Wisdom,’ a woman holding a book, standing proud on the roof as I walked towards the building.
Within it is awesome, historic and oddly sad, way past its sell by date, seeking to keep up grandeur without foundation in the wider world. Visit Shanghai, Hong Kong, New York or Rio, and you can see the modern great powers, as reflected in even grander, more mammoth, more opulent steel and glass buildings to reflect their newly found dominance and ruthlessness.
As we trudge down seemingly never ending polished wood floor corridors, portraits of long forgotten officials lining my path, I return to the job in hand. One key aspect of police work is that you get to enter and see other people’s worlds first hand from the inside. Cocooned spheres that run to their own rhythms and norms, often seemingly brooking no opposition, the world outside almost an irrelevance. Be it business, academia, schools, offices, family, the media, law, companies, couples, closed worlds seek to stay closed, secure in their own superiority.
Hence people protect their mini-universe, ‘they know best’ and what needs to be said. For their own ends, they lie, cheat, omit, conspire or blame others. All things that I suspect Odling, Creel, the Hakluyts, the Albion House diners, the two Professors will do, have done, are doing. For what reason? We do not fully know. Yet.
The police come calling and their pursuit of harsh reality ignores what is taken as read and the way of things in those people’s worlds, trampling over people’s attempts to hide what has really happened and why. Odling and Creel trying desperately to ‘solve’ Pippa Langstaffe’s death and push the event out of the public eye, the Hakluyts’ attempt to hide the Chinese presence until the very last, the Professors’ belief in pure thought yet blindsided by their own ambitions and conviction of superiority.
Coppers get to prick those bubbles of arrogance. Now I face perhaps the sternest of tests - civil servants and diplomats at the Foreign and Commonwealth Office, the pinnacle of obfuscation and ‘knowing what is best in the public interest.’
They have had centuries of practice.
***
Sir Quentin Marmaduke, ‘Director General, Political,’ welcomes me into the deep leather armchairs of his wood-panelled, heavily carpeted sanctum, his giant desk and working area lurking through another door. The aroma of coffee is present and a fine tasting cup served as the ACC suddenly appears on a middle-sized screen set above the fireplace.
The man’s voice is low and pleasant in welcome as he enters, his handshake soft. He is heavy with short grey hair and gold-rimmed glasses. The dark grey suit elegantly cut, the waistline thickened in the way of middle aged men who once were athletes or perhaps in the military.
The square closely shaved face is full of intelligence, compassion even, while there is a watchful hardness about the eyes that is hard to miss. You do not get to this august position, strongly tipped for the top post shortly of Permanent Secretary according to the notes the ACC has sent through, without being clever and ruthless when needs be.
The voice is stereotypically plummy as we sit facing each other, “I want to thank you ACC Hamnet and Detective Chief Inspector Cade, for sparing the time to speak with me confidentially and so speedily. I realise that you are under no obligation so to do.”
It is mellifluous mendacious blurb but I pay sharper attention again as the man spreads his hands in apology and continues regretfully, “And on a fine winter Saturday afternoon too.”
His long fine-boned fingers and nails come into view, manicured but at present chipped and decidedly dirty with two fingers bearing squalid pieces of hastily applied orange sticking plaster.
His eyes follow mine, “Ahem, I was, am promised to build my granddaughter a tree house by the river this weekend, did two hours earlier, bit of a rush to get ready for the car to pick me up and be here …”
His voice trails off and he gives a slight apologetic smile as he clearly remembers my family’s situation.
Dedicated as I am to ‘rending the veil,’ in Arthur Miller’s words, of what this bureaucrat is really about, the story of his ordinary family labours and the state of his fingers make him human, almost.
***
His words return him to an upper-class stereotype, honeyed, their exact meaning, shape and weight sculpted with a fine tool.
He begins as a muted interrogator, “This would appear - to an outsider like myself - as hardly a Major Crime. Ergo one might wonder why so much heft of resources is being applied?”
No reply from myself or the ACC as he pauses, the delicate foray of a subtle fencer assayed next, “Of course, that is an operational matter, entirely within your purview and not mine, I assure you.”
He purrs on, “And a tragic event of course, our sympathies being with Ms Langstaffe’s family and friends at this time. Time presses however. I wonder if you might advise me of the events concerning her death and, in so far as you feel able to disclose them even to me, your findings to date.”
I tell the bare circumstances of the death, the Albion House dinner party and the likely involvement of the two Chinese bankers, Shi Yen and Bai Yen, in what appears to be a Hit and Run accident. I do not mention Pippa’s camera, the fact of the body being moved after death, the attempt to cover up the case, the burglaries linked to the death, nor the Hakluyts’ attempt to smother detail of the dinner party’s purpose and the Chinese being in attendance at all or even existing.
The man steeples his fingers in thought before addressing the ACC on screen, “And the Chinese women were definitely ‘involved’ somehow?”
The ACC barely nods.
He purrs on, softly quizzical, “There is evidence? After all, presumably at that hour there is no witness?”
The ACC’s voice has a slight echo and electroni
c distortion as she dismisses the point, “Clear irrefutable evidence that it was their car that struck the woman and that impact killed her, clear evidence one of the women was driving, subject to questioning them and the chauffeur.”
His voice is sharp, “Surely it would be the chauffeur?”
We do not yet know who was driving but I follow the ACC’s lead as I shake my head and say heavily, “Unlikely.”
Keen again, “But surely not a deliberate act?”
“That is what we are investigating, Sir,” the ACC’s tinny voice cuts through.
Sir Quentin comes directly to the point, “So why did you not interview the two women before they left the country - after all they have no diplomatic immunity, as far as I know, and have vociferously express every desire to assist and ….”
“You are sure, Sir?” I butt in. “You know them, have met them?”
He nods, irritated at being caught in a mistake as he goes on, “Yes, I spent time with both of them over the past fortnight, honed my Mandarin I can tell you. Wonderful women. They would be crestfallen to think they caused a death.”
Cynicism wants to say that bankers cause global mayhem and distress daily with their actions.
The ACC is quick for us to stay on the offensive, “Others did not feel that way, Sir.
People were obstructive of our attempts to find out who was at the dinner party and the very fact that the Chinese were attending at all on the night in question. All seemingly to enable the women to depart before we knew of their involvement. While their chauffeur was shuffled abroad for the week also.”
Bluntly bitter, “And of course the FCO enabled them to flee the country before we could interview them.”
The hands steeple in thought again, a means of avoiding the final point, as he dismisses it, “A regrettable judgement by our masters perhaps.”
It is not agreed with the ACC but long in my mind so I say it, “Highly obstructive all round, Sir, to the point where the Hakluyts and the other great and the good diners could be charged with ‘conspiracy to obstruct the course of justice’ and ‘obstructing the police’ if it comes to it. In my opinion.”
His hands are down; he refills our coffee cups in the silence.
“Might you facilitate an interview with the two women, Sir Marmaduke?” the ACC asks. “After all, if they are ‘wonderful’ and would be ‘crestfallen’, they possibly did not even know an accident occurred if they were not driving. Or even if they were, we could clear things up and get on with other matters.”
***
I see the change in his eyes; the thought ‘Enough. The Foreign Office mandarin manifests himself then, in charge, holding all the cards, about to bring out what he takes to be the ultimate factor that he alone is privy to: the national interest.
“Understood. We may certainly ask.”
A pause, a sonorous voice proclaiming truth from on high now, “You will appreciate that after Brexit, President Trump’s election, the rise of nationalism, racism, misogyny, change everywhere, it would be remiss of the British Government not to be especially concerned about relations with key trading partners past, present and future. In our national interest.”
The voice losing itself in its own righteousness now, “Especially China. The D'Eynscourte Bank, although nominally a private global corporation is a key part of their state’s investment policy and strategy and oddly has two Brits - trusted by the Chinese - involved at the very top. Hence our concern at anything - even such a tragic event as Ms Langstaffe’s sad demise - that may affect our relations. With the bank. With China.”
The ACC and I sit quietly, listening, studying him.
Persuasive now, “I can certainly tell you that the dinner party was not relevant to your inquiries, it was discussing possible major projects in our country involving the bank and the Chinese government. Indeed, I was invited myself but could not attend.”
He laughs, looking at the plasters on his hands.
I do not ask the obvious: how he can possibly know about relevance. Pippa was not there for nothing.
He rises abruptly, “My sincere thanks for your time, patience and information, DCI Cade, ACC Hamnet, I know you are busy people.”
I can see in his eyes that he knows we have rejected his final salvo, and have not been entirely honest ourselves.
His sigh reinforces the conclusion, “I would simply ask that you advise me if there are any major new developments that you think might impinge on our wider concerns so I can apprise our masters. My thanks, ACC Hamnet.”
Despite the sweet charm, the lackeys are abruptly dismissed. The screen goes blank.
The minion reappears as if by magic in the outer doorway and Marmaduke ushers me there.
He shakes hands and says, “I know you will appreciate Euripides’ wise words, DCI Cade, ‘When a good man is hurt, all who would be called good must suffer with him.’ I admired Pippa Langstaffe’s work, no matter the Foreign and Commonwealth Office was often the target.”
A suspicious death needs more than solace and soothing words, it needs deeds.
“Perhaps Euripides is not entirely appropriate, Sir Marmaduke. Martin Luther King more so here, ‘All that needs to happen for evil to prevail is for good men to do nothing.’ I hope to hear from you shortly about interviewing the two women.”
The heavy door swishes closed without reply. I am taken down concrete back stairs to a side door, no tour of the sights this time. Our masters are cloaking their real purpose in the guise of compassionate wisdom like the statue three stories above me on the portico by the roof perhaps? I look up once outside. The pigeons are gone, perhaps perished at the claws of hawks kept in Whitehall precisely to manage that particular problem.
65
They come upon me without warning as I stroll through Green Park, enjoying the crisp sunshine sparkling through the fountains’ waters, the bright sky, colour everywhere, grey bleakness banished, couples happily walking, even a few families playing, unseen birds singing.
One on each side, big tough men in everyday suits and thick overcoats with sturdy shoes made for long hours on city streets.
The soft request is rapid as I begin to react: would I join a colleague for lunch, nothing fancy, a chat, on a park bench nearby?
I will. After all, they are showing their warrant cards but no need. There are people nearby so they do not want a rumpus or public incident. I trust my instinct that they have the sheen of British officialdom even though a needle in my arm Russian style could be the end of me if I am wrong.
He wears a trilby that puts the top half of his face in darkness. As far as I can see my host is in his early forties, medium height and looks, dark haired, warmed by thick grey jumper and matching scarf carelessly thrown around his shoulders, dark boots, trousers and heavy camel coat. The sunlight is behind him as I am shown to a bench half circled by trees, almost hidden from public view, across a large patch of grass where a family are playing.
The voice carries a flat Manchester accent as he offers me a latte ‘with your preferred extra shot,’ and a Harrods sandwich.
He is visibly enjoying himself as I essentially see only a mouth talking, “Their special Christmas Lunch - free-range Ancaster County turkey breast on malted bread with a dollop of cranberry and port sauce, all served with herb stuffing. Bag of crisps too. Wonderful. We know how to live.”
I study a proffered warrant card with his darkened photograph and name, Neville. S.I.S., the Secret Intelligence Service, better known as MI6 which supplies the British government with foreign intelligence. Is he really called Neville?
He takes a huge bite of his sandwich, chewing with relish as he begins, “Of course, memory lane for you today DCI Cade, you nearly joined us, we could have been colleagues, and the Foreign Office lost you too.”
I nod. I did apply and was amazingly accepted for both after University.
We each munch and drink in happy silence, enjoying the flight of a Frisbee as it soars from mother to father to teenage
daughter and then four-year-old son who inevitably fails to catch it but insists on dribbling it on a whole five yards.
We both watch a raven fly over, all croaking basso profundo. Caught in the moment, the man softly tells me its wingspan is four feet, and that the bird always gives him a chill with its Gothic shadow. I nod.
As his minders strategically disperse, a jay screams at us from within the woodland. We say Chaucer’s words in unison, “Jangles like a jay.”
Neville laughs as he gathers up our ornate packaging, rises and puts it in a nearby litter bin.
***
Back beside me in his split circle of half-light and half-shade, the one eye I can see searches my face as he begins, “Sir Marmaduke will have dealt with the diplomatic stuff no doubt - the untimely death of Ms Langstaffe for the national interest, question of not upsetting China etc. etc.”
Scorn edges his voice, “We give foreign companies and states control of our gas, electric, water, nuclear power stations, our physical and IT infrastructure. After all, it is a global world, all friends together now, whoopee …”
His mini-rant trails off and sombre reflection takes over, “Until we are not. Friends that is. Anymore.”
I enjoy his passionate performance, whether real or pretend as he goes on, “And they throw the switch that cuts off our utilities, stymie our food supply, bugger up our transport and communication infrastructure, set off our nuclear reactors or shut down our defence or the government itself or whatever else we have granted them the keys to. Or just threaten to until we agree to what they want.”
Eerily soft, “My job is to help prepare for those eventualities, to avoid them if at all possible.”
I shrug, “Surely you are a little young to be so cynical, spying on our friends?”
“Keep your friends close, your enemies closer, The Godfather,” he replies.
Bitter Pastoral_A DCI Caleb Cade Crime Thriller of rural Ancaster County. Page 40