by David Harley
Which meant that Matt, who had brought him into politics and taken him under his wing, was partly responsible for his death.
And that, in all probability, someone in Matt’s inner circle must have been passing information to Crouch.
After expertly breaking the lock, the crew – two medics and the driver - went straight inside. Left alone in the street, Matt’s mind and body slowly began to function again, second by painful second, even though the jarring questions still swirled round his head. He couldn’t shake off the image of Ahmed hanging in the window.
‘Apparently he’d been dead for a couple of hours,’ said the ambulance driver, as he stood in front of the entrance, barring access into the house while his colleagues examined the body inside.
‘Do you know the cause of death?’ asked Matt.
‘We’re not supposed to say anything at this stage - we’ll have to wait for the post-mortem. You saw the state he was in - didn’t seem much doubt to me.’
When the police arrived, they cordoned off the house and went inside. Half an hour later, an officer came out and asked Matt to give his account of what he had found when he arrived at the scene. When he had finished, the policeman stopped recording and put away his device. He thanked Matt for his time.
‘That’ll be all, sir. We’ll be in touch if we need you again.’
Matt didn’t want to leave. It would feel like he would be abandoning Ahmed, letting him down.
‘He was a good friend. Always so positive. I can’t believe he’d take his own life.’
‘Looks fairly open and shut to me, sir, but don’t worry, we’ll do a thorough investigation. Often in these cases you never find out what tipped them over the edge. You’d better be on your way – you’ve been very helpful.’
Reluctantly, Matt crossed the street and stood there motionless and frozen, leaning against a lamppost. As if in silent vigil, he stared at the house in front of him and the comings and goings of the police and medical staff. Life around him was a blur, the affirmation of normality a blow to the heart, as children skipped along the pavement enjoying their day off school, and people sauntered up and down the hill as if they hadn’t a care in the world. Matt had never felt more alone. Anxiety and hopelessness churned away inside him. He felt he was Ahmed’s last link with life, before he became a number in a morgue and a name on a death certificate. It was the least he could do: by remaining within sight of the building where Ahmed had spent his last hours, Matt was showing him the respect he deserved.
They finally brought out the body on a stretcher under a white sheet. As the ambulance drove off, Matt waved Ahmed goodbye, his heart in his throat, ripped apart by sadness, fear, and anger.
As he walked back down the hill, he got out his phone. First he phoned Sam and choked out the ineffably sad news. Then he texted Harish to say that unfortunately he and Ahmed wouldn’t be able to make it to the picnic. He would explain the reason later.
Back at the flat, Sam made them some tea and toast. Her face was drained of all colour. He sat at the table and she stood next to him, her hand on his shoulder. Matt could feel her looking down at him, worried about him, willing him not to crack up. She knew him so well now. He realised how lucky he was to have her there with him. He hoped he wouldn’t disappoint her.
‘Even if he was depressed – which I don’t believe - he’d have thought of the pain he’d cause others,’ said Matt. ‘His family first of all, who were so important to him, and he had so many friends. It doesn’t make sense. The Ahmed we knew would never have done that.’
‘We can’t be sure,’ said Sam. ‘But if you’re right … who did it?’
Matt looked straight ahead.
‘Crouch’s people did this because of me. If it wasn’t for me, he’d still be alive. They killed Ahmed to make me stand down.’
She leaned down and kissed the top of head, her hands gripping his shoulders.
‘Listen,’ she said. ‘It’s tough for you on a human level - of course I understand that. But politically you have to put your personal feelings on one side, and show that the fight goes on. Our people will be looking to you for a strong reaction, that gives them hope, despite the tragedy. We can’t afford the slightest hesitation or sign of weakness. We’re no longer in an old-fashioned political contest about values and policies – from now on this is the ultimate battle for power and survival. There can be only one winner. They’ll show no mercy. Ahmed is probably just the first of many victims. We can’t let him die in vain.’
Nodding in agreement, he stood up and they embraced.
‘Don’t let Ahmed’s death deflect you from the cause, however heartless that might sound,’ said Sam. ‘He would want you to stay firm and keep fighting.’
‘I’ll do my best.’
Half an hour later, Matt emerged from the bathroom, showered and changed. He was wearing a dark suit and tie.
He took out the whisky bottle from the kitchen cupboard and poured himself a generous shot, which he downed in one.
‘You’re right, I’ve got no choice,’ he said. ‘First of all, I’m going to see Ahmed’s family. Then I’m going to find Penfold. I’ll do whatever it takes to make him tell me the truth. He won’t enjoy the experience.’
Although he had known that seeing Ahmed’s parents would not be easy, he was not prepared for the blast of utter devastation that hit him as he entered their living room. A single candle burned in the corner, next to the television. The air was heavy with tears. This must be the rawest, hardest kind of grief, to lose a child in such a way.
Ahmed’s mother sobbed on the sofa, incapable of speech. His father, who wore a long white robe, tried unsuccessfully to hide his sorrow behind a veneer of excessive outward politeness mixed with cold fury.
‘Please come in, take a seat. You are welcome in our house. If it wasn’t for Ahmed’s younger brother Mohammed, we would have no reason to go on living. Ahmed was our eldest son, we worshipped him. Our world has collapsed, it will never return.’
Matt bowed. He knew in advance how inadequate his words would sound, but he had to say them anyway.
‘I can’t begin to understand your pain at this terrible time. All I can say is that your son was a wonderful young man, much loved by everyone he met. He had so much to contribute – his death is a tragedy.’
Despite the tears, Matt could see the contempt on the father’s face.
‘He changed since he started working for you. If he hadn’t got involved in all this politics, he’d still be alive today.’
Matt closed his eyes briefly and said nothing. The mother’s continuous wailing reached a new pitch.
‘Are you proud, Mr Barker?’ the father went on. ‘Are you pleased with yourself, for recruiting all these young people to your pointless cause? Don’t you feel any shame that you’re giving them false hopes and poisoning their lives with your fancy ideas of democracy and equality? My son would never take his own life – it’s against everything we believe in.’
Matt bit his lip, searching in vain for a form of words that would partially absolve him without contradicting the father.
‘I’ll do everything possible to find out who was responsible. That’s my solemn promise to you.’
‘Leave us. Get out of this house,’ said the father. ‘I don’t believe a word you say.’
Matt tracked Giles Penfold down to an address he still had for him in Kennington, within walking distance of the Houses of Parliament. The flat was on the fourth floor of a nondescript building, next to a massage parlour. He rang the bell and when Penfold opened the door, Matt pushed him aside and forced his way in.
Unflustered, as if he had been expecting him, Penfold walked over to the window, beckoning Matt to follow him. He took out a packet of wipes from his trouser pocket and started cleaning his glasses. He had on the same grey woollen cardigan he had worn at the beach.
‘I thought you might try and find me, so we kept you in our sights,’ said Penfold. He spoke softly, without looking at Mat
t, staring out of the window. ‘How are the Khans? Come and look at the view.’
Matt stood behind Penfold, arms hanging by his side, fists clenched, waiting for the right moment to throttle him.
‘Do you remember Logan?’ Penfold went on. ‘He’s in the kitchen. If you lay a hand on me, you won’t come out of here alive. Can you see the top of Big Ben through those trees, and the bend in the river towards Vauxhall Bridge?’
He turned to Matt with a disarmingly boyish smile. For a second, there was something about the gleaming dome of Penfold’s bald head and the tortoise-shell glasses made him look quite harmless and unthreatening. The moment passed when Matt caught a glimpse of the icy, unblinking eyes that bore into him from behind the lens.
‘Uplifting, isn’t it?’ said Penfold, gesturing for Matt to come and stand beside him. ‘This view of London always moves me, even after all these years. Don’t you feel the same?’
Matt clasped Penfold’s shoulder and spun him round to face him.
‘Careful,’ said Penfold, brushing his cardigan where Matt had touched him.
‘It was you, wasn’t it? You or your people killed Ahmed Khan and made it look like suicide. You can’t deny it.’
Penfold inhaled deeply.
‘This is going to be hard for you to believe, but it’s the truth. I won’t deny that we were involved. We never meant Khan to die. He was under interrogation as a security risk – we’d received evidence that he’d been radicalising fellow students.’
‘Bollocks. That evidence must have been fabricated.’
‘You appreciate that we have take such allegations extremely seriously.
The service wanted to teach him a lesson and extract some information, but tragically things got out of hand. It was a terrible mistake. I can’t tell you how sorry I am. That being said, what’s done is done. You should take this incident as an opportunity to reconsider your position. Otherwise you might be responsible for other deaths, including people close to you – surely you wouldn’t want that?’
His anger mounting, Matt swung a punch at Penfold’s nose. With unexpected agility, Penfold ducked, easily avoiding the blow. A clattering noise came from the kitchen, as if someone was emptying the dishwasher or stacking plates.
‘You’re obviously out of practice. If you want, I can give you the address of a very good gym,’ Penfold said, a little breathlessly. ‘Don’t underestimate me, Matthew. I’ve been observing you for years, remember. I know better than anyone else what makes you tick. I understand perfectly well why you’re doing this and what motivates you. In other circumstances I might have even sympathised with your politics. So don’t dismiss me as someone on the other side. When it comes down to it, we’re all basically on the same side. Or if you prefer it, we’re all on different sides. Whichever you like … it makes no fucking difference, if you’ll pardon the expression. It’s just a question of choosing the right moment to show our true colours.’
‘But you murdered one of my closest friends and supporters … ’
‘That’s nonsense. I deny the charge – and anyway you can never prove it. Another thing, Matthew, I’m surprised you haven’t mentioned it.’
‘What’s that?’
‘I haven’t told the PM yet about your history of psychological problems and depression. I assume you wouldn’t wish this to come out in the election campaign.’
‘What are you talking about? You’re making this up - I don’t have a history of depression.’
‘Well you do now. We have the files from the therapist you saw after the tragic death of your sister – ’
‘Don’t you dare mention my sister –’
Matt couldn’t bear to hear someone like Penfold talking about Sarah, sullying her name and her memory, dragging her in the dirt.
‘I know it’s difficult for you, but try and calm down. Logan’s watching us on the camera in the kitchen. One false move and you’ll regret it. Now hear me out. Quite understandably, you were in a bad way for months after Sarah jumped – ’
‘Don’t call her Sarah … we don’t know if she jumped … we never found any remains …’
‘That’s neither here nor there. Look, I know this is difficult, but you need to face up to reality. Your psychological profile is hardly appropriate for someone who wants the responsibility of pressing the nuclear button. We can easily spread the word that you’ve only gone into politics because you’re clinically deranged and suffer from delusions. Not great qualities for someone aspiring to lead the country in turbulent and dangerous times. Once we release the information, with documents to back up the allegations, you won’t last twenty-four hours. You’ll have betrayed all your supporters and your reputation will never recover.’
Matt felt stifled and gasped for air. As Penfold slowly turned the screws, he became desperate to leave the room. He made one last effort to hide his discomfort and save his dignity. As he heard himself speak, his voice sounded tinny and weak.
‘So what’s the deal? If you’re still expecting me to withdraw, it’s not going to work.’
‘It’s too late for that now. Technically, you’ll still be in the frame, but in practice we’ll expect you to gradually wind down. You can fight on. Just don’t fight too hard. No more personal attacks against Mr Crouch. Stop virtually all media activities. Support the prime minister’s call for national unity. Express admiration for certain aspects of his record. You can go on bleating occasionally from the sidelines, but no more talk of insurrection please. And finally, we’d like you to manufacture a row with the unions and end your association with them and with Rob Griffiths.’
‘And if I refuse?’
‘Then when you leave this building, you’ll be entirely on your own and they’ll destroy you. Very slowly and unpleasantly. Don’t expect me to lift a finger this time. I’ve done all I can, more than you’ll ever realise. If I tell them you’ve rejected this offer, they’ll want to dispose of you, and I won’t stand in their way. Now get out.’
Logan came out of the kitchen, holding a heavy pistol. He clubbed Matt twice round the head and then dragged him across the floor and out of the flat, before kicking him down the stairs. As Matt struggled to stay conscious, grimacing at the pain ringing in his head and his ribs, the door at the top of the stairs slammed shut. In the darkness at the bottom of the stairwell, gingerly, painfully, Matt managed to stand up and dusted himself down.
As he staggered towards St Thomas’s hospital, with every painful step he felt his once indomitable energy and strength seeping out of him. He tried to get a grip of himself, to dig down deep to stiffen his morale, but his mind and body failed to respond. He couldn’t take much more of this constant aggravation. He wasn’t going to give up completely, and he wouldn’t tell Sam, but for the first time he wondered if the objective of wresting power from the nationalists was worth all the trouble. Perhaps, after all, to spare other friends from suffering the same fate as Ahmed, he should seek an acceptable compromise with Penfold. It was the realistic and responsible thing to do.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
He wondered whether Sam had detected his weakening resolve. After dressing his cuts and bruises, she brought out the malt and two glasses. He told her what had happened, without mentioning Penfold’s offer of a deal and his own arguments for accepting a compromise.
‘Go on, drink yourself into a stupor if you want to,’ she said. ‘Have a good cry, bang your head against the wall – although in your condition I wouldn’t recommend it – and let out all your frustration. Then put it behind you and come out fighting. There’s no other way.’
When she told him what they should do, he grimaced and clutched the side of his chest as she managed to raise a smile out of him. The plan was ingenious and he didn’t have the strength to resist. He would go on fighting for at least another day, and then review his options. They clinked glasses, downed the last drops, and went to bed, where she kissed and licked away his pain, and slowly, tenderly brought him back to life.
&nbs
p; They had chosen Bloomberg’s plush and futuristic premises between the Bank of England and St Paul’s as the venue for Matt’s announcement. In the side room where they waited for the event to begin, blue-tinted fish-tanks full of vividly coloured tropical fish competed for wall space with dozens of TV monitors, which announced minute-by-minute fluctuations in share prices and exchange rates from the four corners of the globe. Matt found this bombardment of unwanted information an irritating distraction. He was keen to get started. Noticing his impatience, Sam made one last check that the microphone was fixed to Matt’s lapel.
‘All ready?’ she asked. ‘You remember what we said – no half measures or messing about. Don’t hold back.’
‘I know what I’ve got to do,’ he replied.
When Matt pushed open the door and walked up to the podium to start the press conference, there was a collective gasp of incredulity from the assembled hacks at his bloodied appearance. Furious jostling and shoving broke out between the photographers and the TV cameramen in the front rows as they competed for the best pictures and camera angles.
It wasn’t every day that the man who might be England’s next prime minister appeared in public with two black eyes and purple bruises all over his face.
‘Good morning. First of all, apologies for my unusual appearance. Please don’t take it as a mark of disrespect for the fourth estate.’
The cries came from all around the room, some out of genuine concern, others taking the piss: ‘ … how did it happen? … who was she? …did you report the incident to the police? … must have had one too many … probably fell over the cat …’
The voices stilled as Matt began to speak.
‘Yesterday at around three o’clock in the afternoon, I was assaulted in the street by two men who were unknown to me. I can only presume they were acting on behalf of the English Nationalist Party, or possibly the security services. They told me that if I didn’t withdraw from the election, they would attack me again and – this is a direct quote – ‘destroy my family’. I was examined by a doctor at St Thomas’s immediately after the attack, and fortunately have nothing worse than mild concussion and a few cuts and bruises. The doctor told me to rest for a few days, but I felt it was my duty to come and give you this information in person.’