by Ken McClure
Lost causes
( Steven Dunbar - 9 )
Ken Mcclure
Ken McClure
Lost causes
PROLOGUE
Melissa Carlisle, daughter of Lord and Lady Pennington and wife of John Carlisle MP, looked at her husband across the breakfast table as if she were examining something she’d just trodden on. When it came to expressing extreme distaste, the upper classes were a breed apart. Melissa had been born with the ability to look down her nose, as her husband — from more modest, middle-class roots — knew only too well.
‘Tell me it isn’t true,’ she said in a flat monotone, taking care to enunciate every syllable slowly and clearly.
‘What isn’t, dear?’ Carlisle brushed his thinning fair hair back from his brow in a nervous gesture that caused his wife to tighten her expression even more.
‘What isn’t,’ she mimicked. ‘The story in the Telegraph this morning… about your expenses claim for a mortgage that doesn’t exist on a second home you don’t have. That’s what.’
Carlisle moved uncomfortably in his seat, as if his trousers were filling with ants. ‘Well?’
‘It’s obviously some sort of misunderstanding, an administrative cock-up somewhere along the line.’
‘You mean this imaginary house belongs to someone else?’
‘Well, no, not exactly… You must remember I was thinking about getting a flat in London to be nearer the House…’
‘We live forty-five minutes from London and you’re never in the bloody House. Are you seriously saying that you claimed for a mortgage on a flat you were thinking of buying?’
‘A simple error of judgement. I must have looked into the costs involved, written it down somewhere on a bit of paper and somehow it got into my expenses claim. An oversight, plain and simple… easily done. My God, I’m only human.’
Melissa stared at her husband for a full ten seconds. ‘You disgust me.’
‘Look, Melissa, it was a genuine mistake. You must see that. I’m sure that they’ll see that too…’
‘God, Daddy was right. He warned me at the time that all the nonsense about you being a future leader of the party was bullshit. He said you were nothing more than a blond, handsome puppet set up to pull in the faithful in the shires while someone else was putting words in your mouth and pulling the strings all along. And here I am, seventeen years down the line, married to a greedy, vacuous slug whose career has gone downhill every step of the way… like his looks. You’re going to be flung out of the party over this, you cretin. What are you going to do then?’
‘Look, I understand you’re upset, old girl, but it was a genuine mistake,’ Carlisle insisted. ‘But if the worst came to the worst and the truth were to be swallowed up in some gutter press frenzy — they really are the bloody limit, you know, the press, scum the lot of them — maybe… Well, I was thinking… just maybe your father could bung a directorship or two my way? Just to tide us over?’
‘You couldn’t direct traffic in a one-way street.’
‘I was leadership material,’ said Carlisle, accepting that he wasn’t going to win Melissa round and starting to bristle under the verbal onslaught. ‘My time as health secretary was very successful. Everyone says so. I was stabbed in the back… but I know things, things I never mentioned at the time. They owe me.’
‘You weren’t stabbed in the back. You lost the bloody election because of what you and your venal pals were up to and you’ve been out of power for thirteen years over it. And now, just when people might have forgotten, you pop up with a mortgage that never was. Christ, the leader’s going to nail you to a tree over this… if the voters don’t get to you first.’
‘I was set up, I tell you… but I know things.’
Melissa got up. ‘I’m going away for a few days. The thought of having to play the dutiful wife at the garden gate when the hyenas arrive turns my stomach.’
She left the room, slamming the door and leaving Carlisle alone with his thoughts. They owed him: it was time to call in a few favours. Puppet, indeed. He’d see about that. He started reading the Telegraph article, the nervous mannerism of playing with what was left of his hair becoming more and more pronounced. ‘Bastards… utter bastards. This country’s at war and all these bastards can do is go on about a few measly quid and a genuine mistake.’
He finished reading and flung the paper across the room. He picked up the telephone and started dialling friends. Strangely, they were all unavailable.
Montrouge, Paris, 15 February 2010
The Englishman pushed a fifty-euro note into the taxi driver’s hand and got out. He remained oblivious of the smiles and mercis resulting from such a generous tip after only a five-minute ride from the Metro station at Orleans, and looked up at the street signs. Seeing Rue de Bagneux on one of them, he relaxed and took out a card from his overcoat pocket, memorising the numbers on it before getting his bearings from nearby doors. He walked on for twenty metres or so before crossing the street to punch four buttons on the entry panel of number twenty-seven. A prolonged buzz followed by a heavy double click heralded the appearance of a two-centimetre gap. So far so good.
He found flat four on the second floor, above the lawyer and the dentist who occupied the two apartments on the first. There was no name on the door but there was a bell so he rang it and put his briefcase down between his feet, loosening his fashionable cashmere scarf while he waited. The door was opened by another Englishman, more portly and a full head shorter than the newcomer, but about the same age, somewhere in his mid to late fifties. ‘So you found us then. Welcome.’
The new arrival was shown into a large, square, tastefully furnished room with four three-metre-high windows looking out to the north which, on a grey day in February, failed to let in much light. They got help from several elegant standard lamps placed at strategic intervals round the room.
‘Good to see you again,’ he said, recognising the five people sitting on sofas facing each other on either side of a marble fireplace with a coal fire burning in it. Four were men in their fifties, three of them big names in UK business, the fourth a high-level British civil servant. The fifth person was a silver-haired woman in her late sixties whose complexion proclaimed the downside of a lifelong love affair with the sun.
‘Good trip?’
‘As such things go these days.’
‘Remind me: how did you come?’
‘Air France. Birmingham to Charles de Gaulle.’
‘Good. Antonia came up from her holiday place in La Motte near Saint-Raphael. Nigel and Neil were already in Paris on business and Christopher came via Zurich. Giles drove over from Bruges after catching the overnight ferry from Scotland.’
‘The short straw,’ said the driver.
‘It says something when we can’t even risk meeting in our own country,’ said the newcomer.
The host gave an apologetic shrug. ‘I’m probably being overcautious, but my feeling is that we can’t be too careful after what happened back in the early nineties. We were damned lucky to walk away from that particular debacle although we did lose Paul in the process.’
Sherry was poured into seven crystal schooners and handed round before he continued, ‘I’d like to welcome you all to the first full meeting in many years of the executive committee of the Schiller Group. It’s good to be back — albeit in some bizarre surroundings.’ He turned to the newcomer. ‘We are also very pleased to welcome our new member to the executive committee. We have all, of course, followed his progress through the ranks of our organisation as well as watching him achieve success in his own career.’
The man nodded his appreciation.
‘Executive membership of our group comes, of course, with responsibilities. You will now be on
e of only seven people with comprehensive knowledge of our organisation and its structure, one of only seven people carrying the hopes and dreams of our ordinary members for a better nation.’ He handed him a computer disk. ‘This must never fall into the wrong hands.’
‘Once again, I’m deeply honoured.’
‘And so to business. An election looms at home and we must be ready to do our bit for our country. Thirteen long years in the New Labour wilderness has seen it descend into chaos and become a broken wreck of what it once was. Fortunately, change is on the cards.’
‘It’s not going to be easy,’ said one of the group. ‘They’ve turned the place into a land fit for the weak, the ignorant and the deviant, and, as if that wasn’t bad enough, we’re keeping open house for the sweepings of the streets of Europe and beyond. Everybody’s welcome in dear old Blighty and bring your bloody family with you.’
‘More than a decade wasted in the celebration of image over substance.’
‘Which all the polls suggest is about to end,’ interjected the newcomer. ‘And presumably why we’re here?’
‘We’re not home and dry yet,’ the host cautioned. ‘The electorate may be totally disillusioned with Brown and his cronies but they’re still deeply suspicious of the alternatives. We should be all right if we maintain a steady course with no rising to the bait and no silly distractions in the next few months, but there’s little margin for error. On the other hand, the criminal aspect of the expenses scandal seems to be hitting Labour worse than anyone else, and if those in question should get away with a defence of parliamentary privilege… well, they’ll have to dig Brown out with a shovel.’
‘One of ours is involved.’
‘From the other house. Not quite the same as the brown paper bags that did for us last time.’
‘I almost feel sorry for Brown,’ said the woman. ‘Blair left him an impossible mess to clear up and he’s not exactly been helping himself. King Midas in reverse if ever I saw it.’
‘Everything he touches…’ agreed the host. There was a slight lull in the proceedings before he went on, ‘It’s clear that none of us underestimates the magnitude of our task but, as Confucius said, “A journey of ten thousand miles begins with but a single step.” And so to specifics. All of us have now had a chance to study our new colleague’s proposal and I for one would like to express my admiration for the amount of time and ingenuity that has clearly gone into the design of such a project.’
The hear hears from the others were muted.
‘But it’s too risky,’ said one.
‘There was nothing wrong with the original scheme,’ said the woman. ‘It was working perfectly well. It was just bad luck that that damned journalist popped up at the wrong time and ruined everything. We’ll just have to be more careful this time.’
A long and at times heated argument ensued, at the end of which the host said, ‘It’s now decision time, ladies and gentlemen. Do we adopt our new colleague’s bold project or do we make another attempt at going down the road we started on back in the early nineties?’
The newcomer sighed in frustration as the vote went unanimously against him.
‘I’m sorry,’ said the host. ‘Tried and trusted it is.’
‘Democracy in action,’ replied the newcomer with a wry grin.
The host broke open two bottles of Krug champagne and they drank a toast to ‘a better future for our country’.
The last to arrive was the first to leave. He shook the hands of each in turn and kissed the silver-haired woman on both cheeks. He stopped his host from getting up. ‘Really, Charles, I’ll see myself out.’
‘Good chap,’ said one as he heard the outer door close. ‘Took it well, I thought.’
‘Bright too.’
‘Bit forgetful though,’ said the host, suddenly noticing something beside the chair the newcomer had been sitting on. ‘He’s left his briefcase.’
‘Maybe we should be having second thoughts,’ someone joked.
The explosion cut short the laughter.
From the corner of the street, the newcomer watched a sheet of yellow flame erupt through the space where the windows had been as glass showered down on the Rue de Bagneux. He took out his mobile phone and made the call. ‘It’s out with the old,’ he said.
‘And in with the new,’ came the reply.
ONE
Dr Steven Dunbar opened one eye and took in the time on the bedside alarm clock. It was twenty to seven, five minutes before the radio alarm would trigger and the Today programme on Radio Four would start the day.
‘Another day of work and play,’ he sighed, looking up at the ceiling and remembering with something less than enthusiasm that it was Monday.
‘What time is it?’ asked Tally sleepily.
‘Two minutes to lift-off in yet another action-packed day in the life of Steven Dunbar, security consultant extraordinaire.’
‘You go first,’ said Tally. ‘I don’t have to be at the hospital until ten. I was there till eleven last night.’
‘I noticed.’
Tally opened her eyes. ‘What’s up with you this morning?’ she asked. ‘You’re even more ratty than usual.’
‘It’s a gift.’
John Humphrys joined them: he was laying into some hapless politician who seemed determined to avoid his question. ‘Go get him, John boy,’ muttered Steven, swinging his legs over the side and sitting upright. ‘Crooks, the lot of them.’
Tally reached up and put a hand on his bare shoulder. ‘Hey, what’s the matter?’
‘Oh… nothing. You know I’m always grumpy in the morning.’ He turned, leaned back and planted a kiss on her forehead, then paused on the edge of the bed as he heard John Humphrys say, ‘And now a good news story. The BBC has learned that negotiations between a cross-party group of politicians led by Conservative health spokesman Norman Travis and the heads of several international pharmaceutical companies have led to an agreement over vaccine production in the UK. Regardless of which party emerges as winner of the upcoming election, the companies will permit mass production of their products in facilities approved and licensed by the government of the day, leading to greater availability and ease of distribution in time of need. This will effectively put an end to continual squabbling between government and the pharmaceutical industry at a time when the threat of bioterrorist activity is constantly with us. Mr Travis was keen to stress that party politics had played no part in the negotiations and that what had been achieved had been done for the good of the entire nation.’
‘So what are the companies going to get in return?’ murmured Steven.
‘What’s in it for the companies, Mr Travis?’ asked Humphrys.
‘By not having to concentrate on production schedules, they hope to expand their research facilities and to operate in a more… amenable climate. We have to put an end to constant bickering over testing and licensing regulations. The pharmaceutical industry is not the enemy; the terrorists are. We are all in this together and a spirit of compromise should prevail.’
Humphrys turned his attention to a Labour health spokesman. ‘The Tories have been doing your job for you, haven’t they?’
‘I think Norman is quite right: we shouldn’t bring party politics into this. It’s much too serious and, as he’s already said, the new scheme will take effect regardless of who wins the upcoming election. It’s the terrorist threat that should occupy our thinking. To that end we are inviting production tenders before the election so that we get vaccines on stream as soon as possible.’
‘Does that mean you’ve given in to the companies’ demands too?’
‘We’ve looked at their requests in the light of what’s just been said.’
‘Well, what a day,’ cooed Humphrys. ‘Conservatives and Labour all lovey-dovey with an election coming up. Who’d have thought it? I’d like to explore more but we’ve run out of time. Over to the weather centre…’
Steven switched off the radio and said, ‘About tim
e too. The vaccine situation’s been crazy for years.’
‘People want a hundred per cent safe vaccines,’ said Tally. ‘They see it as their right.’
‘You and I know that isn’t possible,’ said Steven. ‘My fear is that it’s going to take a terrorist attack before the message gets home. If there’s a vaccine available, get it. God, look at the time. No gold star for me at the end of the month.’ He got up and padded through to the bathroom.
Tally — Dr Natalie Simmons — watched him disappear, admitting to herself that she’d been expecting something like the undercurrent of frustration Steven was showing. He loved her — she had no doubts about that — but he’d also given up a job he’d loved in order to come and set up home with her in Leicester, and she still wasn’t sure that he believed he’d made the right decision. She wanted to think it had been a considered commitment, made after a great deal of thought, but she knew differently. Steven had been angry and disillusioned at the time of his resignation: it had been a spur-of-the-moment thing, although, to be fair, disillusionment had been threatening for some time before that. On the other hand and on the bright side, he had already rebuffed several requests from London urging him to reconsider and come back.
Since leaving the army, where he’d served with the Parachute Regiment and Special Forces, Steven had been employed as a medical investigator with the Sci-Med Inspectorate, a small unit attached to the Home Office which investigated possible crime and wrongdoing in the high-tech world of science and medicine — areas where the police lacked expertise. It was a job he’d been extremely good at but it had taken him into a number of dangerous situations where on more than one occasion his life had been in danger. Tally had met him during one such investigation so she had first-hand experience of the risks. She had been terrified and had no wish to ever find herself in that position again… or even try to form any serious relationship with someone who might be.