The South Lawn Plot

by Ray O'Hanlon

  “How's his missus? And please call me Nick. Can I call you Samantha, or Sam?”

  “You can call me Detective Sergeant,” said Walsh. “But if you're going to ask me out on a date for God's sake get it over with. I haven't got all morning.”

  Bailey almost choked on his coffee and did burn the roof of his mouth.

  “Wherever did you get such an idea from?” he said. Despite the pain in his mouth he was smiling.

  “Interrogation technique. I can read minds, body language,” said Walsh.

  “What sort of body language can a bloke give off slumped in the back seat of a car and snoring?”

  “You weren't snoring. At least not much,” said Walsh.

  “You're too kind. How about Friday night?”

  “Sorry, working,” said Walsh. “I'm okay for next Tuesday.”

  Bailey's mind tried to imagine Tuesday. He was down for a late shift but could swop with someone for an earlier one. And, as luck would have it, he had Wednesday off.

  “Tuesday's good,” he said. “Fancy dinner?”

  Walsh nodded. “We'll work out the restaurant later but first up, I'm curious. What kind of story do you expect to come out of all this?”

  “I don't really know,” said Bailey. And he was speaking truthfully.

  “What do we have?” he said. “A couple of dead priests, maybe some more deaths linked to them, who knows? Now there's a dead archbishop, cardinal or whatever. Are they in any way linked? Is there a nutter out there who's knocking off men of the cloth? Honestly, I'm not sure where this thing is going, or if it's a thing at all. And why are you asking me? You lot have the inside track when it comes to getting to the bottom of this kind of thing. We feed off you, not the other way around.”

  “Yes,” said Walsh. “But we follow set procedures. It's you lot in the press who can leap ahead and speculate. And if you were speculating, Mr. Bailey, what would you be writing?”

  “Call me Nick,” said Bailey trying to match Walsh's slightly mocking tone. “Okay, if I was speculating I could easily join a few dots, find a few common threads and point to the mysterious deaths of these guys. But in the case of the archbishop, what's his name, Murray, as far as I know he popped off in his sleep after hearing the angels call.”

  “Yes, Nick,” said Walsh. “But if that was the case would you be sitting here in this car waiting for Henderson to call with a question that is obviously going to be based on the belief that the angels were a little surprised to make the acquaintance of Cardinal Murray at the religiously tender age of 58?”

  Bailey said nothing, took another bite of his croissant and a mouthful of coffee. He was staring out of the car window at a street sweeping truck on the far side of Whitehall.

  “I do believe you are on to something there, Detective Sergeant, ah, Samantha. We'll have a better idea in a few minutes when Henderson calls. Perhaps you should hang around. I might need a getaway car when I throw his whopper at the PM.”

  “I'll keep my engine running,” said Walsh.

  “I'm betting on it,” Bailey replied.

  19

  LEONARD SPENCER was paying attention to detail. And he was delaying the inevitable. He had pulled the zipper up on his rainproof coat but not so far as to obscure his old school tie. Behind him, several people were fussing with umbrellas. Spencer felt tired. It had been a long night, but if nothing else the rain would dampen the ardor of the braying pack of reporters outside the front door.

  Spencer looked behind him. Peter Golding was standing at the bottom of the grand staircase, beside the portrait of Walpole, the first occupant of the house and, in the eyes of not a few, one of the wisest as a result of his acerbic assessment of his fellow parliamentarians.

  “Peter, what was it again that Walpole said of other politicians?”

  Golding's face betrayed just a hint of annoyance, but it vanished when he matched the question with the questioner.

  “All those men have their price,” he replied.

  He had, of course, been asked the question before. Many times. It was a bit of a joke between two men who had little time for light humor.

  Golding's eyes returned to a sheet of paper, one of a thick wad he was holding so tightly that his knuckles were red. Spencer and Golding had been in the trenches together for some years. Golding, now a minister without portfolio in the Spencer cabinet, was the Prime Minister's must trusted confidante. The two men could just about read each other's mind or so it was being said by the more astute political columnists. Spencer sensed that Golding was not so much tense over the contents of the briefing papers as he was alert to the possibility of the wind, now blowing almost horizontally through Downing Street, spiriting his sheaf of confidential cabinet briefing papers into the snatching hands of the press. Spencer allowed himself a momentary smile.

  “Come along, Peter, for God's sake. The hyenas are hungry. Let's be done with it. My God, it was fine a few minutes ago and now look at it.

  Golding raised his head. “Yes, Prime Minister,” he replied with little apparent enthusiasm.

  “You know that they will be looking for even the slightest hint of divergence between ourselves and the Americans on this one.”

  “Yes, Peter, and do stop repeating yourself. You made that point five bloody minutes ago.”

  “Ah, yes, um, right.”

  Spencer nodded and a hand reached for the inside handle of the front door of Number 10. In contrast to the black-painted exterior, the inside panels were painted white. But coloring was only part of the story. The door's interior had been bomb-proofed following the IRA mortar attack on the residence in February 1991.The terrorists had managed to lob a mortar into the back garden. It tore a chunk out of the garden wall as the cabinet was meeting to discuss military action against Saddam Hussein. War had come a lot closer to Britain's leaders than the far off Persian Gulf that day, and the outrage had neither been ignored, nor forgotten. Not only had the front door been reinforced, but other parts of the building, too. The glass in the windows of the Cabinet Room was now three inches thick. “Outside this space,” a minister in a previous government had famously remarked, “nobody can hear you scream.”

  A blast of cool air invaded the hall as the door was pulled open. Spencer stood back as a couple of his police bodyguards moved out first followed by Golding and several other members of his personal staff. Drawing in a deep breath, Spencer stepped through the doorway into the gathering storms of a new day.

  The camera flashes were all the more intense in the gloom, and he looked to the ground as he walked to the podium, sheltered to a tolerable degree under competing umbrellas offered by eager acolytes.

  “The prime minister will take a few questions, but you will understand that we are on a very tight schedule today, so time, ladies and gentlemen, is somewhat limited,” Golding said.

  And thank God for that, Spencer thought as he flashed a wave and a smile in the direction of the journalists huddling behind a metal crash barrier. “Good morning, good morning. I expect you have a few questions, but first I just want to convey my own and my government's deepest sympathies to the family of Cardinal Murray and indeed the entire Roman Catholic community. I will issue a fuller statement later in the Commons. So, any questions?” He needn't have asked. “Prime Minister, how close are we to an armed confrontation with China?” “Prime Minister, have you talked to the Americans and what did President Packer say?”

  “Thank you again. I'll take them one at a time if you don't mind. Firstly, I don't believe there is any likelihood in the world of an armed confrontation, never mind a war, with China over Taiwan. All the parties concerned have been, as you will fully appreciate, working around the clock to ensure that this matter can be sorted out peacefully, amicably and in the best interests of people, both in the region and beyond.

  “As for the second question. Yes, I have been in constant touch with Washington. President Packer and I spoke last night. As you know, they are five hours behind us, so the White Hou
se is not as well advanced in its day as we are. The president assured me however that every effort was being made to, shall we say, lower the temperature, and I believe the United States is in a particularly good position to do just that.”

  “Prime Minister, Trevor Mitchell from The Guardian. What exactly are we saying to Beijing, and what have they been saying to us?'

  “Well, obviously, very obviously, we have been in contact with the Chinese authorities, both through our ambassador in Beijing, with their ambassador here in London and also at the United Nations in New York. We have sought to assure the Chinese leadership of our good offices and our intention to work strenuously towards a peaceful and satisfactory resolution.”

  “Prime Minister…’

  “And might I say, we fully appreciate the concern of the Chinese government in the matter. Of course, as you all know, we do have some experience in this area in the context of our negotiations over many years before the transfer of sovereign power in Hong Kong back in 1997.”

  “Prime Minister, what are we saying to the Taiwanese? After all, they seem to have started the whole thing up with their pledge to declare themselves independent a year from now.”

  “Well, I am not quite sure it was a pledge in the generally accepted meaning of the term. As I recall, the Taiwanese president ordered a plan to be set in train for a referendum on the matter of independence next year, and, yes, early polls seem to indicate a strong public current in favor of independence from the Chinese mainland. But I should remind you that nothing is set in stone yet.”

  “But the Chinese seem to be seeing stone.”

  “Is that a statement or a question? Of course there are varying interpretations of what was said, or meant, but let's leave it to the diplomats to work that one out, shall we?”

  “Ladies and gentlemen.”

  It was Golding, now sidling in front of Spencer and making noises as if he was trying to clear his throat.

  “As I said, the prime minister is pressed for time, and, as you know, we are meeting with Her Majesty a day earlier than is customary because of the cabinet meeting that has been moved up to tomorrow. So, if that will be all…”

  “Just one more question, Prime Minister. Nick Bailey of the Post. Are the authorities satisfied that Cardinal Murray died of natural causes?”

  Only the most careful of observers would have seen it. And one would have had to be standing just a few feet from Leonard Spencer's face. A barely perceptible narrowing of the eyes, a slight, almost invisible sucking in of the cheeks as Spencer took in a breath.

  “I'm sorry, ladies and gentlemen, but the prime minister has to go.” Golding was doing his best impersonation of a clucking mother hen.

  “No, Peter, we shouldn't leave something like that hanging in the air. Not that it would hang for long in this wind.”

  One or two reporters let out awkward laughs. Spencer paused for a moment. He knew the kind of question. It was open-ended, and if the questioner had additional knowledge, his brevity did not reveal his hand.

  “As you all know, Cardinal Murray, a most beloved figure in the eyes of every Briton regardless of religious affiliation, died of a heart attack.”

  “Stroke, sir.” “Thank you, Peter. Sorry, a stroke. I was in contact with Westminster Cathedral as soon as I heard the news. I only know what I was told, and I have no reason to doubt the veracity of the Catholic Church authorities, and I am sure neither do you, Mister, ah, Bailey. I can say no more at this time. I understand funeral arrangements are well in train, and I will, of course, attend. Anyway, if that will be all, thank you all again for coming today, in the rain.”

  Another concentrated barrage of camera flashes erupted as Spencer covered the handful of strides to his waiting car. He almost charged through the open door, Golding following right behind. The driver gunned the engine, and the car made for the open security gates at the end of the street. From there it turned into Whitehall for the short drive to Buckingham Palace.

  “Jesus Christ, Peter, where did that come from?” said Spencer.

  “I don't know, Prime Minister.”

  “Check it out later. We have other things to worry about right now such as how to get through this meeting for starters. Her Majesty has been cranky lately. I'm not sure she particularly likes me.”

  Back on Downing Street the press crowd was breaking up. One or two reporters had quizzed Bailey over his question, but, as instructed, he informed his colleagues that he had been merely fishing. After all, there were all those questions about the first Pope John Paul and his untimely demise. “Besides,” he said with a half smile, “I am from the Post.

  “We are fishers of weird and wonderful stories.”

  His pun was lost on the throng, now scattering fast as the rain had turned into a drencher.

  Bailey punched in numbers in the cell phone he had borrowed from Walsh. Must remember to add mine to her list, he thought. His vision of Samantha Walsh evaporated when the voice came on the other end.

  “You were right,” said Bailey. “I think the PM knows more than he was letting on. Bloody hell, we may be on to something.”

  20

  “I’M SURE SHE DOESN’T LET HER PERSONAL FEELINGS get in the way,” said Golding. He was rapidly pressing buttons on his personal organizer as he spoke.

  It was a measure of how close the two men had grown over the years. Formality could be dispensed in private moments.

  “I mean it's not exactly a case of off with the prime minister's head.”

  “Are you saying then, Peter, that Her Majesty indeed doesn't like me and is merely content to spare me?”

  “Not at all, Leonard. I'm merely reminding you that business is business and that you sometimes take things wrong if people are not falling all over you and licking your arse.”

  “If anybody else said that to me I would throw him out on the street.”

  Golding pushed himself deeper into the welcoming embrace of the leather seat and stared out the car window. It afforded a clear view from inside but was smoked on the outside for security reasons.

  “This rain might be down for the day,” he said, as much to himself as Spencer.

  “There might be more than rain falling from the sky if we don't rein in the bloody Chinese, the whole bloody lot of them,” Spencer said.

  “That would be one point three billion, give or take. Should we send one gunboat or two?” taunted Golding.

  “Don't be so bloody smart. God, I need another breakfast. Let's be quick about this.

  Golding nodded. “Step on it,” he said to the driver, who was following close behind the lead police escort car.

  Golding, too, was feeling the need to give orders. And that, he thought, was the way it should be whenever disorder threatened. Just give the necessary orders and all would be well again.

  He glanced over at the man beside him, Leonard Gregory Spencer, Prime Minister of Great Britain, Northern Ireland and the few scattered islands around the globe that were the final remains of a once boundless empire. Spencer had closed his eyes, seemed to be far away. Probably winning Wimbledon, Golding thought, yet again.

  Golding's gaze returned to the passing city. They were on Horse Guards Road, cleared of traffic by the Metropolitan Police. There were only a couple of logical routes to Buckingham Palace from Downing Street, but in these troubled times the actual route taken on any given visit to the queen by her prime minister was always varied, thus sometimes making the drive longer. It was either one of the straight and obvious ones, or one of several alternatives, but rather more circuitous routes. It all depended on the security considerations of the day. On this one, time being of particular essence, the convoy was taking a fast track along Horse Guards and Birdcage Walk.

  “Salus Populi Suprema Lex.”

  “The safety of the state is paramount.”

  “Excellent, Peter. Up on your Latin, I see.”

  Golding kept his counsel. It was he who had first uttered the phrase in the context of, well,
he could not quite recall.

  “Are we going to have a problem with the Chinese?”

  Spencer straightened himself and made the face he liked to direct at television cameras when it was time to act tough. It was, as he liked to call it, his Battle of Britain look.

  “Honestly, Peter, I couldn't say. You know how hard it is to read Beijing's mind on things. And that's really the problem, isn't it? So many bloody minds in the place. A bunch of bloody warlords. Christ, but I would love to give them a bloody nose. A bit of payback for Hong Kong would be just what the doctor ordered. A new bloody opium war and the whole lot of them staggering around their Peking compound high as bloody kites.”

  “It could get very messy,” said Golding.

  Spencer nodded in agreement. “The world is a messy place, Peter. Quite frankly it all ran itself a bit better when we had our empire.”

  “Ah yes, the empire. Your trouble is that you're the right man for the wrong time. You really envy Walpole.”

  “And a few more besides. But Walpole, yes, lucky man. It was all ahead of him, wasn't it? But I'm not quite sure about this being entirely the wrong time. We may have lost our empire, but we still have our united kingdom, our realm, despite all the devolution drivel. And if any jackass thinks he can take that away from us he had better watch his back.”

  Golding was studying his boss. Another look had come over the prime minister's face. Golding had seen that look only a handful of times in the past. And it had rather unnerved him because it never seemed put on.

  He glanced at his watch and out of the car window again. In a few moments they would be in the presence of Her Majesty. The aging queen, Golding thought, was perhaps the only soul in the kingdom who was truly safe from Leonard Spencer with his rear end up.

  The queen, at least, Golding thought, would be spared any impending outburst.

  “Slow down a little please.” Golding was taken aback. Spencer did not usually dispense instructions about the car. He preferred to be driven at quite high speed, and moments before he had been very much a man in a hurry.