Lost causes sd-9

by Ken McClure

  The rain had stopped and the sky was brightening. He’d lost his appetite for lunch but he’d walk over to the club anyway if only to smell the wet grass in the park. Apart from that, something Charlie had said was niggling away at him. He’d mentioned that the dead woman was Lady Antonia Freeman. Macmillan felt that the name should mean something to him, but for the moment he couldn’t think why.

  The meeting with Scott Jamieson and Adam Dewar was a relaxed affair, during which they narrowed down the list of potential candidates for Steven Dunbar’s replacement to three: two were medics, one a science graduate, all in their mid thirties. It was Macmillan’s practice never to recruit people who hadn’t yet proved themselves in other jobs, so new graduates were not considered. Both medics had served in Afghanistan with distinction. One was an A amp;E specialist, the other an orthopaedic surgeon. Both had been called into action through their association with the Territorial Army. Once derided as weekend soldiering, membership of the TA now meant almost certain active service overseas. The science graduate, with a first in biological sciences from Heriot-Watt University in Edinburgh, had seen service in Iraq with the Military Police, where he had shown himself to be a more than competent investigator in uncovering a medical supplies scam.

  ‘Are you sure Steven won’t be coming back?’ Scott Jamieson asked.

  ‘I think his mind is made up.’

  Dewar seemed almost embarrassed about saying what was on his mind. ‘You know, I’m not at all clear… why he left.’

  ‘Come to that, me neither,’ added Jamieson.

  ‘And I’m afraid I can’t tell you,’ said Macmillan. ‘Don’t take that personally. I would trust the pair of you with my life, but there are some things that the fewer people know about them the better, and Steven’s last assignment was most decidedly one of them.’

  ‘But as no court case was forthcoming at the end of it, we might guess that that was the reason?’ said Jamieson.

  ‘Let’s move on.’

  ‘Yes, boss.’ Jamieson smiled.

  ‘Check your diaries: let me know any dates that aren’t suitable and then I’ll ask Jean to send out invitations for interview. No hurry: sometime in the next few days.’

  ‘Still hoping?’ said Dewar.

  As Macmillan was clearing his desk at the end of the day, he suddenly remembered why the name Antonia Freeman should mean something to him. Her husband had been Sir Martin Freeman, an eminent surgeon in his day. It was a long time ago, back in the early nineties, but he had died in the middle of an operation. He’d been operating on a woman who’d had a bad facial deformity from birth, attempting to give her a new face using a revolutionary new technique, when he’d collapsed and died in theatre.

  There had been some other scandal surrounding the whole affair whose details he couldn’t remember, but what he did remember was thinking at the time that that was exactly the kind of situation that cried out for an organisation like Sci-Med. In the morning, he would ask Jean to see what she could come up with about the case. It might just be a trip down memory lane, but his widow had just got herself blown to bits in Paris. The niggle had gone; he felt a whole lot better.

  The Black Dahlia Restaurant, Chelsea, London

  A tall, elegant man sipped gin and tonic and thumbed through the wine list while he waited for the others to arrive. He’d chosen the restaurant because it had a small private dining room, ideal for the five of them. Officially they were the competitions committee of Redwood Park golf club, and he was the secretary, James Black. Unofficially, they weren’t, and he wasn’t.

  Toby Langton was first to arrive, a slightly stooped man with an unruly crop of light brown hair, and clothing that suggested an academic, which he was. When he spoke it was in a languid drawl but with an underlying confidence that tended to present opinion as fact. Constance Carradine was next, a woman in her mid thirties, ‘power-dressed’ as expected of a prominent figure in the City of London. She wore a well-cut navy blue suit over a white blouse, and a pale blue chiffon scarf at her throat. Her dark hair was cropped short and she wore fashionable small-framed spectacles that only served to amplify an already piercing stare. Finally, Rupert Coutts and Elliot Soames came in together, having met in the car park. Both wore dark Savile Row business suits, individualised, in their minds at least, by the ties they wore: regimental for Soames, an ex-Guards officer who now headed an asset management group; university for Coutts, a top-level career civil servant.

  ‘Good to see you all,’ said Black after they’d ordered drinks. When they arrived, the waiter, dressed in black but wearing a white apron and looking as if he’d stepped out of a nineteenth-century French painting, asked if they would like to see menus.

  ‘Give us thirty minutes,’ replied Black, and the man left.

  ‘I haven’t seen anything in the papers,’ said Coutts.

  ‘Nor I,’ said Langton.

  ‘There was a small piece in the Independent,’ said Constance Carradine. ‘Suspected gas explosion in Paris suburb kills five.’

  ‘Actually six, but it’ll take them a while to figure out who they all are,’ said Black. ‘After all, none of them were supposed to be there and wouldn’t have told anyone where they were going. As to what they were doing there… that will remain anyone’s guess.’

  ‘Please God,’ murmured Soames.

  ‘French was meticulous about security. We’re safe.’

  ‘It’s all a bit of a shame really,’ said Constance Carradine. ‘I mean, they were the ones who set the whole thing up all those years ago.’

  ‘And they did a good job in their day,’ said Black. ‘But their day was over. They had their chance before the New Labour nightmare began and they blew it. One prying journalist got nosy and they had to shut the whole thing down before the party twigged what was going on. They had no option but to lie low until the dust had settled, and by that time scandal had destroyed the party and an election was lost. So were the subsequent two. They wanted to go down that same old route again. Can you believe it? They turned our plan down. We’ve spent ten years putting it together and getting everything in place and they turned it down. They had to go.’

  ‘So here we are,’ said Langton. ‘The new executive of the Schiller Group, the guardians of all we hold precious.’

  ‘I take it we all saw the Telegraph this morning, and the Carlisle story?’ said Coutts.

  ‘What an arse,’ said Soames.

  ‘He is a worry,’ said Black. ‘It was never very clear how much he actually knew at the time. He was such a posturing idiot that no one told him anything if they could avoid it.’

  ‘But he was such a pretty boy,’ said Constance. ‘Shame he had the intellect of a cabbage. Now he’s starting to look like one.’

  ‘Well, he served his purpose as the charming front man of his day. I sometimes wonder what would have happened if French and co. had taken him all the way to the top.’

  ‘Doesn’t bear thinking about.’

  ‘There’s a story going around that he’s been trying to telephone people high up in the party,’ said Black. ‘No one’s talking to him, of course. He’s about as popular as bubonic plague, but he seems to think he has something to bargain with… something to stop the leader pulling the rug out from under him. We’re by no means past the post in this election. We don’t need strange stories doing the rounds, even if they come from a discredited clown like Carlisle. We could be back in the wilderness.’

  ‘He’s a loose cannon,’ said Langton. The others turned to face him. ‘If he did know more than we think he did, he might well see this as the time to use it.’

  ‘Blackmail, you mean?’

  ‘It was more a revelation to the press I was thinking of. If the leader shows him the door, what’s he got to lose?’

  ‘Maybe we should… help matters along?’ suggested Coutts.

  There was a long silence in the room until Constance Carradine said, ‘I think that might be a very good idea. There will be lots of very angry consti
tuents out there; no telling what they might do. It would also give me the chance to test out the new chain of command.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Black. ‘It’s agreed, unless anyone has objections?’ Thinking there were none, he was about to continue when Langton spoke again.

  ‘I really don’t think it a good idea to go down the angry constituents route,’ he drawled. ‘It would only amplify the nature of the crime in the eyes of the public — he made them so angry they felt they had to take matters into their own hands, et cetera — that would do the party no good at all.’

  ‘Good point,’ said Black.

  ‘What would you suggest?’ asked Constance, irked at having her idea shot down.

  ‘Something that would elicit public sympathy for Carlisle would be preferable.’

  ‘Like?’

  ‘I’ll leave that in your capable hands, Connie,’ said Langton with a smile.

  Black decided to move things along. ‘Connie’s already mentioned putting the new regime to the test,’ he said. ‘How about the rest of you? Have you used the information from the disks? Elliot, what’s happening with our finances?’

  ‘Absolutely no problems there,’ replied Soames. ‘I used the contact number and gave the password. I told them I had taken over as trustee of the Wellington Foundation from Lady Antonia Freeman. It was accepted without question. I requested statements and they arrived the following day. Things are looking good, very good indeed.’

  ‘Excellent. Always nice to have money in the bank.’

  The others reported similar success in touching base with people designated as operational contacts.

  ‘We have to hand it to Charles French,’ said Black. ‘He did an outstanding job in setting up the network. But the old guard has gone. We are now the only people who know just how many members we have, how many people there are out there who share our views and care enough to change things, organised as cells within cells within cells… people all prepared to do their bit for their country.’

  There was a knock on the door and the waiter entered.

  ‘So we’re all agreed about the changes to the fourteenth hole and the ladies’ tee on the fifteenth?’ said Black.

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Would you like some menus now, Mr Black?’ asked the waiter.

  ‘You know, I think we would.’

  THREE

  Melissa Carlisle arrived back at Markham House, the wedding present from her father where she and John had lived all the years of their marriage, the last ten of them in complete misery as far as Melissa was concerned. She watched the taxi crunch off down the gravel drive to be let out by the two policemen on the gates — there to keep the small posse of cold, miserable press photographers at bay. If they were expecting tea, they could swivel.

  She felt very low. She had spent the last few days being lectured by her father, who insisted that women like her did not leave their husbands at times like this. It mattered not one jot that John was a useless waste of space. She hadn’t taken his advice at the time, and now it was far too late. It was her duty to stand beside her husband in his hour of need. That’s what people of her sort did. Argument had proved useless. Times might have changed but core values hadn’t, her father had pronounced before packing her off back home as if she were a rebellious teenager not wanting to return to school after the holidays. Her mother had kept quiet throughout.

  Melissa unlocked the front door, thought about announcing that she was back, then changed her mind and flung her keys down on the hall table. The noise echoed upwards. She walked through to the kitchen where she switched on the kettle and stood looking out of the window at the grounds while she waited for the expected Is that you? to come. It didn’t.

  Melissa wondered whether he was out but his car was there, a grey Range Rover sitting in front of the garage. She made her tea and took it through to the drawing room where she picked up the morning paper and sat down to read it. She found she couldn’t concentrate: she certainly didn’t want to but she kept wondering where he was. In the end she threw down the paper and walked out into the hall. ‘John,’ she called, trying to make it sound as flat and uncaring as possible. God, it was awful what so much loathing did to you, she thought. ‘John?’ There was no reply.

  She went upstairs and checked his study before knocking on the door of his bedroom — they’d had separate rooms since the business involving his secretary some years before. There was no response but she looked in anyway, considering he might have climbed into the bottle and passed out as he often did when problems came to call. The room was empty. The bed was made… but it was made properly, the way Mrs Allan, their cleaner, did it. But this wasn’t her day… and neither was yesterday.

  Melissa walked slowly up to it and smoothed the top cover unnecessarily. The bed hadn’t been slept in for the past two nights. Just what the hell was he up to? What parliamentary ‘researcher’ was he pouring his heart out to this time, before pulling her pants down? But his car was there. Where the hell was he?

  Melissa cursed as she opened the back door and saw it had started to rain heavily. She pushed it to while she put on wellington boots and a Barbour jacket before stepping outside and hurrying over to the garage and stable block. ‘John, are you there?’

  She found John in the stables. He was hanging from a roof beam.

  Melissa felt her heart miss a beat as she stood there transfixed by the sight of his face. It was blotchy purple and white, and his swollen tongue was lolling out of the side of his mouth, making him look like some hideous gargoyle on the wall of a medieval cathedral. His body was turning slowly in response to the draught coming in from the open door. Above him the rain battered mercilessly on a small skylight.

  ‘Oh, Christ,’ she murmured as she moved in closer to remove the envelope pinned to a rail. It was addressed to her. In it, John apologised for all the pain and distress he had caused, not only to her but to his constituents as well. He understood their anger but hoped that in time they would come to see that it had been a genuine error of judgement.

  Melissa looked up at the body, her eyes showing a mixture of frustration and anger. ‘A suicide note…’ she murmured, ‘and you bloody typed it.’

  Steven was sitting with his feet up, reading the paper, when Tally got home at six thirty. ‘Here as promised,’ she announced. She was slightly flushed from hurrying.

  ‘Well done,’ said Steven. He got up and gave her a hug. ‘A whole evening to ourselves. What takes your fancy, dinner or a movie?’

  ‘Why don’t you choose? I’ve been the one working late all the time.’

  ‘Dinner,’ said Steven. ‘We haven’t had the chance to sit down and talk for ages.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll shower and make myself smell nice while you decide where we’re going.’

  Steven’s suggestion of Italian was warmly received by Tally. ‘Any particular reason?’ she asked.

  ‘I thought we might go to Bar Firenze. We enjoyed it last time: noisy, cheerful, chaotic, and Italians make great sweets.’

  ‘And I can flirt with the waiters.’

  ‘While I have a second sweet.’

  ‘As if I would,’ said Tally, sidling over and putting her hands on Steven’s shoulders, ‘when I’ve already got the best.’

  ‘Madam is too kind,’ said Steven, kissing her lightly on the lips. ‘Come on, hurry up. Time and pasta wait for no man.’

  ‘So how was your day?’ he asked as they sipped an aperitif. He thought he saw a questioning look appear briefly in Tally’s eyes. ‘Isn’t that what people like us say?’

  ‘Yes,’ she conceded, disappointed at the implication that he might be playing a part. ‘I suppose it is. My day was hectic, stressful, frustrating and thoroughly unsatisfying as they all are these days in a health service that’s falling to bits. I spend half my time dealing with management demands that I tick boxes and meet targets stipulated by politicians who don’t actually give a damn about anyone but themselves but are determined to creat
e the impression that they do. It’s all about image. Substance doesn’t matter as long as things look right on the surface.’

  ‘I wish I hadn’t asked. But if that’s the case, it does leave a rather obvious question begging to be asked, doctor…’

  Tally looked thoughtful for a moment, as if considering a slap-down, but then decided that the question did merit an answer. ‘Because… there comes a time, through all the shit and management crap, when it’s just me and a sick kid and I’m the one who can make the difference… and when I’ve made it and the kid walks off the ward, trailing his little Thomas the Tank Engine suitcase behind him and Mum and Dad have that look in their eyes — that special look — there’s just no feeling like it.’

  Steven swallowed and nodded. ‘Fair enough.’

  ‘How was your day, doctor?’

  Steven gave an apologetic shrug, trying to avoid giving an answer after what had gone before, but Tally’s expression made it plain she was waiting for one. ‘I attended a management meeting this morning. The company knew about the agreement over vaccine production we heard about this morning on the radio. It’s considering a big change in emphasis.’

  ‘You mean it’s going to tender for the manufacturing contract?’ asked Tally.

  Steven nodded.

  ‘You’re right; that is a big change in emphasis. I hope they’ve thought it through.’

  ‘Although it’s not a party political thing, they seem to think that the fact it was a Conservative initiative might well help the party’s cause in the election. They see that as a good thing.’