Disorder (Sam Keddie thriller series Book 1)

by Paddy Magrane

  ‘He met someone?’

  ‘That’s my guess. It was my birthday and he took me out for dinner in London. I assumed he’d put on a good front for me, but this was different. He was almost unrecognisable. The only way I can describe it is exuberant.’

  ‘And this lasted till when?’

  ‘A week or so ago I saw him for the first time in ages. He’d been working incredibly hard on something at the Ministry. He came down for the weekend and seemed not just tired, but utterly spent, like the light had gone out. I tried to draw out what was up, but he was closed down.’

  ‘You think the relationship had gone badly wrong?’

  ‘That was my conclusion.’

  Sam paused. He was aware his next comment would seem selfish and insensitive, but he had to ask it. ‘But why would this Government employee be so anxious about me finding out?’

  Eleanor shrugged, seemingly unperturbed. ‘The fact that my dad may have been having an affair hardly seems of significance.’

  ‘No.’

  But then a thought crossed Sam’s mind, one which coloured the whole business. ‘I guess that depends on who the woman was.’

  Chapter 13

  Docklands, London

  As the journalist who’d broken the Scott suicide story, Tony McNess was feeling rather pleased with himself. He’d been called in by the editor that morning and congratulated. The paper’s sales had gone through the roof. They all knew that, when the headline was salacious enough, all those who’d normally turn their noses up at a paper like theirs happily bought a copy.

  The same people – the ones with good educations and jobs and nice houses – were also capable of acting in ways that did not reflect the respectability they loved to portray.

  Take the woman who’d called this morning when McNess had returned to his desk in the news room. She was clearly middle-class, but that hadn’t stopped her asking, up front, exactly how much she’d get paid for giving him information about Charles Scott. Now that the truth was out about his death, she clearly thought it was open season on the poor bastard.

  McNess mentioned the figure which, depending on the strength of her information, she could expect to be paid. Unsurprisingly, she then agreed to spill the beans. She went on to describe how, around two months back, she’d been in a restaurant in Suffolk with her husband, when she’d seen Scott at the table next to them. She said she could not forget the way he and his female companion had been acting.

  Scott’s fellow diner was, the source guessed, about ten to fifteen years younger than the Minister, a woman with long, mousey brown hair – elegantly dressed and nicely made up. She and Scott were clearly besotted with each other but were trying desperately not to show anyone else. This is what had made their behaviour so memorable. Their eyes rarely broke off contact all evening while their hands continually inched across the table towards each other, only to suddenly retreat when they realised what they’d been doing.

  As their meal neared its conclusion, they became less restrained. Scott’s foot began caressing the woman’s legs under the table, while the woman repeatedly and, in the source’s opinion, inappropriately, stroked her neckline as if anticipating the Minister’s hand doing the very same thing.

  ‘So they were definitely shagging?’ asked McNess.

  The woman paused, as if suddenly confronted by the grubbiness of what she was involved with, then confirmed: ‘I think they were definitely having – or about to have – a sexual relationship.’

  ‘And if I get together some images of women who might have known Scott and match your description, you’re happy to try and identify her?’

  The woman said she was.

  McNess confirmed he’d be in touch, then called off. He was, as he liked to put it, fucking cock-a-hoop. If he could confirm that Scott was having a little extra behind his dying wife’s back, that would add a whole extra dimension to the story. Had he been in love? Had that relationship collapsed, leaving Scott bereft and, ultimately, suicidal?

  McNess grinned. This story was going to run and run.

  Chapter 14

  Sussex

  Keen to avoid the hyenas assembled at the end of the track, Eleanor left the farmhouse by a narrow, seldom-used drive that led to another lane.

  As her Mini emerged on to the quiet road, neither she nor Sam noticed the car parked against a bank a few metres away. As they sped off, the figure inside the car grabbed his mobile.

  ‘Guess who’s just appeared with Eleanor Scott?’

  The voice on the other end uttered a single word.

  ‘In one,’ confirmed the man on the mobile. ‘Shall I follow?’

  ‘Yeah. And don’t bloody lose them.’

  Chapter 15

  Bloomsbury, London

  McNess had, with the help of the paper’s picture editor, assembled a large file of images for his source. He’d limited the search to the previous three months but there was still a mountain of photographs to sift through. With the brief description he’d been given, he began looking for an elegant woman in her fifties, with long, mousey-coloured hair.

  Although a bit vague, that description soon helped narrow the search down. Staring at a screen as he went through endless images of Scott, he soon dismissed over a hundred images in which the woman near to the Minister was black, Asian, fat, in a hijab, elderly, ugly, short-haired, in a wheelchair or, for that matter, a combination of the above. After a couple of hours, he had whittled his search down to about thirty images. Among them, there were about five contenders. It was now a case of lining them up like the usual suspects.

  He met his source in a bar. She was, he was delighted to discover, not bad looking herself. Possibly in her early forties, a redhead with green eyes. He wouldn’t have minded giving her one but he could soon tell that she wasn’t even a remote possibility. She was obviously determined to give the impression that she was revolted by him. It was, he knew, her way of coping with the revulsion she felt about her own grubby behaviour. How else could she come to terms with the fact that she was doing a deal with a gutter-based tabloid hack?

  They sat in a booth. The bar was in the basement of a hotel, a neutral place frequented by tourists rather than Londoners – the perfect place to meet contacts.

  After going through almost all of the prints the picture editor had made for them, the woman stopped and began studying a photo intently. The image lay on the table across from McNess and he cocked his head to get a better look. It showed Scott leaving a building – some faceless corporate headquarters with big glass doors – with a small group of others. Bar one, they were all men in suits. The exception was a woman wearing a fitted skirt and matching jacket, her hair tied back in a pony tail.

  ‘That’s her,’ said the woman.

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Positive.’

  ‘Nice one.’

  McNess pulled the images back into a pile and placed them in a manila folder. The woman across from him began to look shifty. He loved this bit. He was going to make her squirm.

  ‘Right,’ said McNess. ‘You’ve been a diamond.’ He stood, pulling on his jacket.

  She was on her feet too, looking more uncomfortable. McNess turned to leave when she eventually spoke, her voice barely above a whisper.

  ‘Aren’t you going to pay me?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said McNess, feigning deafness.

  ‘You owe me money,’ the woman hissed.

  ‘Of course,’ laughed McNess. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a bulging brown envelope. ‘Here you go, darling.’

  Finally confronted with the nature of the deal she’d struck, the woman seemed to hesitate, as if her prim, middle-class core found it all repellent. But then a hand darted out and snatched the envelope – and she was gone.

  As McNess stood outside waiting to catch a cab, he tingled with the prospect of pushing this story to the next stage. He’d go back to the picture editor tonight, confirm the identity of the people in the image and where it had been
taken. And then he’d track the woman down and confront her.

  He could already foresee some unfortunate outcomes. Scott’s family becoming even more upset. Him possibly unjustly branding this woman as the reason why the Minister committed suicide. But frankly, they weren’t his concerns. His job was to keep the story alive, and if that involved pouring a little petrol on the fire, then so be it.

  Chapter 16

  Fulham, London

  The lead had taken them to a tree-lined avenue of houses off Fulham Road.

  On the way from Sussex, Eleanor had called the person they were visiting to warn her of their arrival. She was pretty sure the woman in question would be in. After all, she’d just lost her job.

  Diana Tennant, Charles Scott’s former secretary, opened the door with tears in her eyes, immediately wrapping Eleanor in a tight hug. It was as if the sight of the woman’s tears gave Eleanor permission to cry. She began sobbing, her shoulders heaving as she clung to the older woman like a life raft. A moment later, she peeled away, a look of slight embarrassment on her face, and Diana Tennant ushered them indoors and up to the top floor flat.

  They were now seated in the secretary’s small living room. In between polite prints of English landscapes, there were countless photos of the Scott family. As Eleanor had explained, Diana had been her father’s secretary for over twenty years. Remaining unmarried, she’d devoted the best part of her adult life to Scott, and the Minister had responded by making her virtually a member of the family. Diana Tennant had been at almost every family gathering Eleanor could remember.

  But Sam could see that there might be limitations to her loyalty. While she was clearly fond of Eleanor, her allegiance would always be to Scott. It was this they were about to test.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Eleanor,’ said Diana.

  She was, Sam guessed, in her late sixties, with a bun of grey hair and a gently wrinkled face.

  ‘Your father was my dearest friend.’

  ‘Thank you, Diana.’

  If the Minister’s former secretary had any theories about Scott’s death, she was far too sensitive to reveal them now. Eleanor, by contrast, seemed more determined to get to the nub. Having given into her grief outside, she now sat on the edge of the sofa, her back straight, face full of resolve. This was, Sam realised, a distraction from Eleanor’s pain and sadness, and she was seizing it with both hands.

  ‘I can’t explain why, Diana, but Sam and I desperately need to find out why Dad committed suicide.’

  Eleanor had explained Sam’s presence simply by saying that he was a ‘friend’. It was way more simple than telling her that he was Scott’s psychotherapist. He’d already seen the effect that had on people close to Charles Scott.

  Diana Tennant looked blankly at Eleanor, as if the sudden change in tone had caught her off-guard.

  Eleanor pressed on. ‘I think Dad was having an affair.’

  Diana Tennant blushed. ‘I’m sure you’re wrong, Eleanor,’ she said.

  Eleanor, who was sitting next to Diana on the sofa, placed a hand over one of the secretary’s. ‘It’s OK. You don’t need to protect him now.’

  At this, the tears suddenly began flowing freely. ‘Oh God, Eleanor,’ Diana said. ‘I so desperately wanted to shield you and your mother from this.’

  ‘I wouldn’t ever have wanted to deny him some happiness. Please tell me what you know.’

  Diana looked at Eleanor, as if weighing up the implications of what she was about to say. Then she sighed. ‘While I was privy to much of his correspondence, there were still matters, understandably given his position in the Government, to which I had no access. But one thing I was sure of, was an increasing number of calls from a certain woman. When this woman telephoned at the beginning, her voice had a distinctly formal tone to it – but later it began to change. It was as if she were trying desperately to sound business-like but couldn’t manage it.’

  Sam wasn’t sure where this was heading. It was hardly proof of anything. If Scott could shield his secretary from matters of State, an affair would hardly prove a challenge.

  ‘But then, one day,’ continued the secretary, ‘I met her.’

  Diana shifted on the sofa. ‘I was arranging a small conference on your father’s behalf at the Houses of Parliament, and I noticed her name on the attendees list. Charles asked me to be in the room at the beginning, to ensure all those attending had what they needed. That’s when I saw her take a seat by the place name I had put on the table.’

  ‘Forgive me, Diana,’ said Eleanor. ‘I don’t doubt your female intuition, but so far you’ve only suggested that this woman had crossed a line from business to something more personal.’

  Diana Tennant looked utterly stricken. If this had been a therapy session, Sam would never have pressed his client in the way Eleanor had Diana. Awkward, painful information – which was, Sam was sure, what Diana was about to reveal – needed to come out when the client felt safe and ready. But he recognised that they had no such luxury.

  ‘That was all I suspected,’ said Diana. ‘Until the end of the day. I was heading back to the room an hour or so after the meeting had finished to clear up. But when I got there, I found it locked. I had a key and tried the door, but realised it was locked from the inside. It was then that I heard the key turn and the door opened.’

  She stopped, clearly too embarrassed to continue.

  ‘Please go on, Diana,’ urged Eleanor. ‘I need to know.’

  ‘Your father had opened the door just wide enough for me to see beyond him and that was when I saw her again. She had her back to me, but I recognised her hair and outfit. And what she was doing.’

  Diana paused again, every word now excruciating for her. ‘She was buttoning up her blouse.’

  With that, Charles Scott’s former secretary broke down again. Eleanor squeezed the hand she still held.

  ‘Diana,’ she said, her voice soft but firm. ‘Who was she?’

  *

  As soon as Eleanor was back in the car, she began furiously tapping and stroking the screen of her phone. They had the woman’s name – and where she worked.

  ‘Ah,’ Eleanor said, a note of triumph in her voice. ‘Future Systems is a renewables firm, a big one by the looks of things. HQ near Reading. They work for multi-nationals. Governments too. There’s a case study of a wind farm they helped set up in Uzbekistan.’

  She began tapping again. ‘Where are you?’ she muttered under her breath.

  There was a pause: ‘Gotcha. Jane Vyner, Senior Vice President, Communications. And a picture.’

  Sam leaned across the car to look at the image. It was a corporate head-and-shoulders shot of a woman in a white blouse and dark jacket, face immaculately made-up, mousey coloured hair drawn back. Eleanor was staring hard, as if hoping the image would cough up some clue as to why her father had been pitched into such a rollercoaster of emotions.

  She looked up, eyes moving as she thought. ‘Sod it. Can you have a look in the glove compartment? There should be a pen and something to write on in there.’

  Sam rooted through it, producing a biro and an old envelope, which he handed to Eleanor. She jotted down a number, breathed in deeply, exhaled, then dialled.

  ‘It’s getting late,’ cautioned Sam. ‘She’s probably gone home.’

  Eleanor shot him a brief look, then snapped back as her call was answered. ‘Hello, could I speak to Jane Vyner, please?’

  Sam heard the indistinct sound of another voice.

  ‘Eleanor Scott,’ said Eleanor.

  There was a pause, the faint strains of on-hold musak, then another voice. One that seemed faster, though just as indistinct. Then the call ended.

  Eleanor turned to Sam, her face flushed. ‘She’s calling back,’ she said. ‘She sounded terrified.’

  About ten minutes later, as the avenue around them began to darken and the streetlights flickered on, her phone rang again. Eleanor put the mobile on speaker, breathed in, then answered.

  ‘I’m so
rry,’ Jane Vyner said, her voice calmer. ‘I wanted to talk more easily, so I had to get out of the office.’

  ‘We need to meet,’ said Eleanor.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  ‘I can’t do tomorrow.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Eleanor, her voice barely containing the anger, ‘but what could be more important than this?’

  There was a pause at the other end.

  ‘You’re right. How about lunch?’

  Vyner gave them directions to a pub in a village south of Reading and said she’d be there tomorrow at 1pm.

  Chapter 17

  Green Park, London

  To Aidan Stirling, the architecture of central London was suffocating. The grand gentlemen’s clubs and Whitehall buildings, the regimented Georgian squares and terraces, not least his own home in Downing Street. It all screamed compliance and conformity, which was of course something he struggled with enormously.

  But there was a spot on Queen’s Walk in Green Park, roughly midway between the Mall and Piccadilly, where he’d found something he did like looking at. At that point there was a very noticeable break in architectural tone. Next to fussy Spencer House was a block of flats designed by one of Aidan’s architectural heroes, Denys Lasdun. He was better known for the National Theatre, a Brutalist building defined by chunks of bare concrete, hard angles and walkways. Aidan admired the theatre’s otherness, the sense that the architect had been trying exceptionally hard to produce something simple and pure, a true combination of form and function.

  In a sense, the block of flats before him was not a fraction as innovative, but in the midst of all the formality of this part of town, it allowed Aidan to escape.

  Of course simply getting to this place in the park was an escape, slipping not just his minders, but also the grip of the Olanzapine he’d been prescribed.