Heaven's Light

by Hurley, Graham

  ‘And Barnaby?’

  ‘Barnaby’s different. He’s a regular bloke. He’s reliable. He delivers. With Barnaby you get what you see. He cares about the city. He wants things to change. But there’s no secret agenda.’

  ‘Is that what his wife thinks?’

  ‘That’s cheap.’

  ‘Not to her, Mr Wilcox.’ Tully glowered at him, then stood up and reclaimed his cassette from the machine. He was half-way to the door before Wilcox called him back. He was still sprawled behind the desk but Tully could see the uncertainty on his face. People were right about him and Pompey First. He was wedded to the cause. But he was a newsman, too. And he couldn’t resist the scent of a really big story.

  He was fiddling with the cassette machine. ‘You say there are more tapes?’

  ‘Plenty.’

  ‘Can I listen to them?’

  ‘No,’ Tully lied. ‘I’ve passed them up the line.’

  ‘What line?’

  This, at last, was the question Tully had anticipated. He’d scrawled the number in his diary before he’d left the office. He read it out to Wilcox, suggesting he get in touch at once. Wilcox pretended he hadn’t heard and reached for the phone. He hated being told what to do.

  When the number answered, he introduced himself then mentioned Tully’s name. He’d been listening to a tape-recording. It had to do with an outfit called Pompey First. He pulled a pad towards him. When he’d put the phone down, he looked up.

  ‘So who the fuck’s Louise Carlton?’ he said. ‘And why’s she so keen on tea at the Imperial?’

  Barnaby’s council of war in the Pompey First press room had already turned into a victory celebration.

  Charlie Epple had spent most of the day in the editing suite, assembling all the campaign’s TV reports onto a single tape, and the fact that he could end the montage with a one-minute clip from Prime Minister’s Questions was the icing on the cake. Six months ago, Pompey First hadn’t existed. Yet here he was, viewing nearly an hour of campaign highlights, courtesy of various television networks.

  The early material, admittedly, was locally sourced, and he’d used clips from Kate’s performance on The South Decides as a kind of running gag, but the interest he’d attracted over the last seven days had come from the big national operations and it was this kind of heavy-duty coverage that had surely swung the votes to Pompey First. As well as Newsnight, Charlie had supplied interviewees to News at Ten, Sky Tonight, and a Channel Four political slot, Grass-roots.

  Word had even spread as far as BBC network radio. Call Nick Ross, that very morning, had devoted an entire hour to the subject of what they’d christened ‘stand-alone political parties’, and Charlie had been heartened by the stampede of disgruntled callers that news of Pompey First’s success had released. All over the country, it seemed, people had tumbled the myth of parliamentary sovereignty. The government had been ignoring the people for well over a decade, and after its contemptuous dismissal of the Scott Report ordinary voters had finally had enough.

  Charlie raised the remains of his bottle of champagne as the Prime Minister sat down. At a nearby desk, Barnaby was trying to collate his notes. All the candidates were due at the hotel by half past three. Most had to be away within the hour. This would be his last chance to confirm arrangements and set the mood for the campaign’s final push.

  Charlie had retrieved the video-cassette from the player. He showed it to Barnaby. ‘I’ll get another two duped as back-ups,’ he said, ‘plus fifty more for press giveaways.’

  ‘Fifty enough?’

  ‘A hundred, then. We’ll be running the master on small monitors at the Guildhall tomorrow night.’

  Barnaby nodded, scribbling a note to himself about the Guildhall. From the start of the campaign, he and Charlie had always planned to end with a modest eve-of-poll rally at which all the Pompey First candidates would be present. Anyone who fancied it could attend, and candidates were pledged to answer any question that came their way. On the basis of early indications, Charlie had hired a church hall in Fratton but the events of the past week had tempted them into the Guildhall, Pompey’s pride and joy, a big 2,000-seater auditorium with a stage and a proscenium arch, a full lighting rig and a professional sound system. The decision hadn’t been cheap, and hundreds of empty seats could still make them look silly, but Charlie had taken the precaution of halving the prices in the Guildhall bars and word had gone round that Pompey First was on a roll. With luck, given the torrent of press coverage, Charlie was predicting a turnout of around nine hundred. With the upstairs seating closed off, it would look like a full house.

  Candidates were arriving at the hotel now, and Barnaby glimpsed Zhu outside in the corridor, shaking each one gravely by the hand. Normally impenetrable, the excitements of the past few days had made a visible impression on him. Barnaby wasn’t entirely sure, but he sensed that Zhu viewed Pompey First as the child he’d never had: boisterous, noisy, occasionally wayward, but full of promise. The stream of camera vehicles arriving every morning for the regular press conferences had at first amused him. Like so many others, he seemed surprised that these people should come so far for so little. Yet only this morning, overhearing Charlie and Barnaby discussing the fee for the hire of the Guildhall, he’d stolen quietly away, returning minutes later with yet another four-figure contribution to campaign funds. He’d always believed, he said, in enterprise and commitment. Pompey First, in his view, embodied both.

  Kate Frankham was the last to arrive. Breathless and excited, she’d just done a stand-up interview with a visiting American TV crew on the pavement outside the hotel. They’d been tracking the Republican campaign in the US election and they’d told her what a pleasure it was to have found some real people at last. She’d responded to their flattery with a scorching denunciation of big-money politics, and at the end of the piece, the interviewer had kissed her hand.

  Charlie’s eyes revolved. ‘Americans’ll do anything for a shag,’ he said. ‘You should have asked for money.’

  Finally, later than he’d intended, Barnaby called the gathering to order. Candidates settled on chairs or sat around the edges of the room, their backs against the wall, while Barnaby asked Charlie Epple to outline the programme for the last forty-eight hours of the campaign. Tomorrow, Wednesday, candidates and a swelling army of supporters would be blitzing their respective wards. Charlie had done a deal on 74,000 felt-tips, one for each of the city’s households. The pens carried the Pompey First logo and each would be posted through a letter-box with a single sheet of sea-green paper listing the ten deadly ways the big national parties had sinned against the local community. At noon, weather permitting, an airship would appear over the city, flying slow figures-of-eight for most of the afternoon. Suspended beneath it, a giant flag carrying the star and the crescent moon, the city’s emblem, plus the invitation to REACH FOR THE SKY – VOTE POMPEY FIRST!.

  Charlie’s battle order unfolded still further. Throughout the day, local commercial radio stations would be offering information about Thursday’s polling arrangements, and Charlie’s careful courtship of a handful of the key DJs would ensure sympathetic mention of Pompey First. Normally, media coverage of elections was restricted by rules about political endorsement, but Pompey First had become a news item in its own right and Charlie seemed confident that the party could only benefit. The Newsnight poll certainly suggested it, and their predicted Pompey First vote – 73 per cent – would form a giant backdrop to the eve-of-poll rally at the Guildhall. Once again, the media would be there in force. To date, the press centre had processed sixteen requests for facilities.

  Barnaby moved the meeting on to arrangements for polling day, and Charlie handed round an armful of sea-green folders with a ward-by-ward analysis of exactly how he planned to maximize the Pompey First vote. Yet another deal had given him access to a fleet of minibuses, and these would be offering free trips to local supermarkets via designated polling stations. Computer printouts listed the names and addr
esses of confirmed Pompey First supporters, and these trusties would be offered separate lifts in private cars. A final round-up of electoral waifs and strays was planned for 8 p.m., an hour before the polls closed, and with luck Charlie anticipated a turnout of pledged votes that might be as high as 90 per cent. The operation had, he said ruefully, given him renewed respect for the guys who’d masterminded D-Day.

  There was laughter around the room, and a round of applause for his efforts. Then Barnaby got to his feet again, applauding his troops in return. Collectively, these people had become friends, allies in an extraordinary war that he and Charlie had declared against the sprawl of vested interests in London. They shared his impatience, his disgust, and they shared as well his conviction that men and women of goodwill could make an infinitely better job of governance than the faceless mandarins and tired politicians in the metropolis.

  He paused for breath, looking round the crowded room, then ended his impromptu speech with a reminder that even victory wouldn’t bring the battle to an end. Back in the sixties, a Labour politician, T. Dan Smith, had attempted something similar. He’d mustered support in the north-east and led local voters towards a vision of semi-independence. He’d talked of ‘vertical structures’, local decision-making, the beginnings of a kind of autonomy. The threat to the centre was obvious and London had destroyed him with a ruthless mix of rumour, innuendo, and finally prosecution and arrest. His political career had ended in the law courts, answering charges of corruption, and for a generation the dream of a thriving local democracy had gone away. Now, thanks to the efforts of Pompey First, the return of power to the people was back on the agenda, but they’d taken the battle deep into enemy territory and the last thing they could afford now was complacency.

  Barnaby was suddenly sombre. The enemy, he said, was everywhere. But with luck, and a great deal of effort, they’d battle through. It was what the people wanted. And the people, on Thursday, would have their shout.

  Kate Frankham was standing beside the top table. Barnaby reached out to her, inviting her up, holding her hand high. Charlie did the same with her other hand and there was more clapping, and then whooping and war cries, and finally a great roar of applause. Barnaby looked down at Kate, squeezing her hand, but she was gazing up at Charlie, her head back, a huge grin on her face.

  Wilcox was standing in the hotel lobby when he heard the commotion down the corridor. He raised an eyebrow at the smiling faces behind the reception desk but when the duty manager explained about Hayden Barnaby’s council of war he resisted the temptation to stroll down and take a look for himself. This afternoon’s meeting with Tully, and now the prospect of more revelations, had sounded an alarm bell deep in his head and he wondered again whether he shouldn’t suggest afternoon tea at some other venue.

  When she arrived minutes later, Louise Carlton wouldn’t hear of it. She peered round, unbuttoning her coat and carefully folding the Paisley silk scarf into a pocket. Tea was always served in the Nelson lounge, an ample, beautifully restored room on the south side of the hotel, and she tucked her hand through Wilcox’s arm, insisting he walk her through. To Wilcox’s surprise, Zhu was occupying an armchair at the far end. Beside him, deep in conversation, was a squat, harassed-looking businessman, whom Wilcox recognized at once. As leader of the city’s Tory councillors, he was fighting for his political life.

  Louise ordered tea, scones and a plateful of cakes, waving away Wilcox’s protests that he’d eaten already. From her bag, she produced a long brown envelope, leaving it on the table between them. Wilcox examined his name on the label, looking for clues to this strange woman with her granny bun and huge glasses. Who was she? And what gave her the right to take command like this?

  Louise was asking him whether he’d like to make notes. The envelope contained material he’d doubtless find interesting but there was nothing to beat an aide-mémoire.

  Wilcox glanced across at Zhu. Unusually, he was laughing.

  ‘I don’t want to sound rude,’ he said, looking at Louise again, ‘but who are you?’

  Louise tut-tutted to herself and plunged a hand into the bag by her side. From a leather wallet, she produced a slim ID.

  Wilcox took it. ‘Security Service?’ he said blankly. ‘Thames House?’

  ‘I’m with MI5. I’m sorry. I should have explained.’

  Wilcox was looking at the envelope again, thinking about Tully. Was he MI5 as well? Was this an official operation? Intelligence-driven?

  Louise’s hand was back in the bag. She offered a ring binder pad to Wilcox, plain white cover, brand new.

  ‘Just in case you’d forgotten your own.’ She beamed at him, a plump, middle-aged woman, enjoying her afternoon by the sea. ‘Shall we begin?’

  Wilcox uncapped his pen while Louise outlined the operation she’d been running these last six months. From the day he’d flown into Heathrow, Raymond Zhu had been awarded VCIP status. As a Very Commercially Important Person, he’d been given priority access to the higher reaches of the DTI. They’d smoothed his path to certain manufacturers and he’d duly placed a modest order for equipment of what Louise termed a ‘paramilitary nature’. At the same time, he’d begun to invest heavily in Portsmouth, a decision that no one at the DTI could satisfactorily explain.

  The comment stung Wilcox. This was exactly the kind of Whitehall dismissiveness that had led to the birth of Pompey First. Barnaby and Charlie Epple were right. The bastards really did think we still lived in caves.

  Wilcox’s gaze had returned to Zhu. ‘What’s so crazy about investing in Portsmouth?’ he enquired. ‘It’s a free world, isn’t it?’

  Louise patted his knee.

  ‘Of course it is,’ she said. ‘But it was the amount he was investing that concerned us. In our trade, Mr Wilcox, we look for anomalies, bumps in the usual graph line. Mr Zhu represented a very big bump indeed. We simply wanted to know why.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘We started making enquiries. As you might expect.’

  Her hands returned to her lap. Wilcox noted the absence of rings on her fingers and found himself speculating on her seniority within MI5. She didn’t somehow fit his image of a sharp-end agent. She was too old, too comfortable, too self-confident. But did that mean she occupied a perch in the upper echelons? And, if so, what might that say about the importance of this mission of hers?

  Louise was talking about the dockyard now. The Sentinel’s intervention in the negotiations had, to be frank, been extremely premature. The details fuelling Sunday’s exclusive had plainly come from Zhu, and that in itself rather confirmed one of the preliminary conclusions she’d reached about the man.

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Well,’ she lowered her voice, ‘he plainly sees no divide between business and politics. He briefed you on the dockyard in the sure knowledge that you’d use it. That, in turn, rather made Mr Barnaby’s point.’ She smiled. ‘Didn’t it?’

  ‘You know Barnaby?’

  ‘I know of him.’

  ‘And you’re saying he and Zhu are close?’

  ‘Obviously.’

  ‘And you’re saying that’s deliberate? On Zhu’s part?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And that’s a problem?’

  ‘Yes.’ She nodded. ‘I think it might be.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because politics and business don’t mix. Or shouldn’t.’

  Wilcox permitted himself a short, mirthless snort of laughter. ‘Are you kidding? Where have you been these last sixteen years?’

  Louise pursed her lips. ‘Domestic politics are different. Domestically, we assume a common interest.’

  ‘Do we?’

  ‘Yes. Mr Zhu, I’m afraid, doesn’t offer the same guarantee.’

  ‘Is that why we’re selling him the dockyard?’

  ‘That’s a matter of interpretation. Mr Zhu’s, to be precise.’

  ‘You’re saying he hasn’t bought it?’

  ‘I’m saying negotiations are still in progress
. But that’s not the point. The issue is rather longer-term. We need to understand where Mr Zhu is heading. And, to do that, we need to take rather a good look at where he’s been.’ Louise reached forward, touching the envelope. ‘I think you’ll find the evidence pretty conclusive.’

  ‘What evidence?’

  Wilcox picked up the envelope, weighing it in his hand. For the first time, it occurred to him that Zhu might have some connection with the drugs exposé the young reporter on the crime desk was investigating. So far, she hadn’t got much further than showing him the photos that had arrived anonymously on the Sentinel’s front desk. The prints had tracked the German boy to Amsterdam. One had featured Liz Barnaby leaving a Southsea travel agency. According to the carefully typed notes that came with the photos, the link between Liz and Haagen was pretty firm. Her cheque had funded the ticket to Amsterdam with plenty in reserve for the twenty grams of heroin and somewhat larger consignment of cannabis that Haagen had allegedly bought. Might Zhu be involved in narcotics? Turning Portsmouth into some kind of bridgehead for hard drugs? Was there a Triad dimension here?

  Wilcox wondered how much of this to share with Louise. He badly wanted to regain the initiative. He opened the envelope.

  ‘We’ve had a tip-off about a drugs story,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, really?’

  Wilcox told her briefly what had happened. There was no suggestion that Barnaby had been involved but they were still talking to his estranged wife.

  ‘And what does she say?’

  ‘She claims she was trying to buy the boy off. He was a junkie. He shared a flat with Barnaby’s daughter, who was crazy about him.’

  ‘How much money was involved?’

  ‘Three thousand pounds.’

  ‘She gave him that to clear off?’

  ‘That’s what she’s saying.’

  ‘Without telling her husband?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And this lad spent it on drugs?’

  ‘So it seems,’ Wilcox confirmed. ‘He was certainly back in the city because I saw him that weekend. The day this place opened.’