‘Hold her, Neil,’ I said, ‘gently. ‘I’ll be back.’
I headed for the door, stepping out into the corridor. ‘Where’s Mrs Dennis?’ I asked its Security Service guardian. He glowered up at me, unsmiling, uncooperative.
I took my new symbol of authority from my pocket and held it in his eyeline. ‘This is who I am,’ I snapped. ‘Now answer my question.’
‘Sorry, sir,’ he said, attitude adjusted. ‘The Director is in the Home Secretary’s office, with him and Dr Satchell.’ He nodded across the passage. I didn’t have to ask which door he meant. Another dark-suited man with a gold badge and a bulge in his jacket told me.
This one had a goatee beard and a reddish, receding, V-shaped hairline. I showed the badge again as I moved towards him; he nodded, rapped on the door, then opened it.
I felt the tension grab at my stomach as I stepped inside. The layout was similar to the office I’d just left, a little smaller, that’s all. Amanda was seated at a coffee table with two other people, a man and a woman, as the door guard had said. He was very familiar to me from hundreds of TV bulletins and media stories: the Right Honourable Roland Kramer, MP, Home Secretary and Deputy Prime Minister.
He had been Chancellor of the Exchequer in the administration of Emily Repton’s predecessor, Locheil, and her only serious rival for the top job, with each of them having the added benefit of not being an old Etonian. She had held him off in the final ballot thanks to her greater support among the membership at large; and then she had neutralised him, by moving him out of the Treasury and into the Home Office, the post that she knew from her own experience to be the most difficult in government.
Kramer was a social animal, no stranger to the celebrity magazines, and he had a reputation as something of a dandy. He lived up to it that morning, in a dark blue three-piece suit that might have graced the frame of a Premier League footballer turned TV pundit, with a gold watch chain hanging across the waistcoat.
Yes, I knew him well enough by sight, but Michaela Satchell rang no bells at all. She was a plain little person. She didn’t seem petite, as Amanda had described her, just very small in her big chair. She was still in shock, but so was I, and I wasn’t about to go easy on her. As the three of them looked around at my entrance, I glared at her.
‘What sort of a bloody doctor are you?’ I barked, then switched my gaze to Amanda.
‘Director,’ I continued . . . I don’t know why I addressed her formally, I never had before; I suppose I may have wanted to preserve her authority in the eyes of her boss, ‘you’ll need some real paramedics in that ambulance. You’ll also need a neurosurgeon wherever it is you’re taking her. The Prime Minister is still alive. Only just; there’s no detectable pulse, but one of her pupils is reactive to light when it’s shone into the other eye. It’s weird, but there’s definitely neural activity.’
‘And what sort of a bloody doctor are you . . . whoever you are?’ the wounded Mickey Satchell shouted.
‘I’m not,’ I replied, calming myself, ‘but my wife’s a professor of forensic pathology, and I know she wouldn’t be opening up the Prime Minister just yet.’
‘Home Secretary,’ Amanda said, quietly, looking at Kramer to maintain a degree of order.
He stood, extending a slim hand. ‘You’re Mr Skinner, the fortuitous police officer.’
‘No longer a police officer,’ I replied as we shook. ‘Now I’m just fortuitous.’
‘Nevertheless, I’m grateful to you for being here and agreeing to help . . . as it seems you’ve done already, very significantly.’ He glanced at Amanda. ‘DG, you’d better act on Mr Skinner’s findings, and get those people in place. You and I, Mr Skinner,’ he continued, turning back to me, ‘we have a briefing by the Cabinet Secretary, whose feathers you have ruffled well and truly.’ He winked. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve smoothed them . . . although I don’t suppose you’re the worrying type.’
‘What about me?’ Satchell asked, as Amanda left the room.
‘You go away,’ Kramer replied curtly, ‘with your lips buttoned tighter than they’ve ever been, difficult as that may be for you.’
A couple of minutes before I’d been barking at the woman, but the Home Secretary’s coldness had won her some of my sympathy.
‘Go to her, then go in the ambulance,’ I suggested. ‘She’s catatonic at the moment and clearly she has massive brain damage, but on the slim chance that she might say something coherent and relevant, we need someone to hear it.’
‘You’re suggesting that Emily’s a witness to her own murder?’ Kramer exclaimed; his sceptical grin shocked me.
‘All murder victims are, Home Secretary,’ I reminded him. ‘I’ve even known one or two who were able to give evidence.’
‘Written in their own blood?’ His smile widened. I couldn’t decide whether the man was as callous as any I’d ever met or whether under the urbanity he was just plain terrified. Then I took a closer look and realised that Roland Kramer hadn’t clambered up the greasy pole of politics by being afraid of anything.
I frowned at him. ‘Or in other media,’ I replied, coldly. ‘Death isn’t always instantaneous.’
Sensing my hostility, he changed his manner, to match mine. ‘I take your point. Let’s see how it pans out in this case, but from what I’ve been told, if Emily does survive by some miracle, she won’t be the woman we know.’
He reached into his waistcoat with his left hand, took out a gold full hunter pocket watch, flipped open the case and peered at it impatiently. ‘Come on, Hamblin,’ he muttered. ‘We need you here, now.’
I nodded. ‘Yes, we do,’ I agreed. ‘As yet I haven’t seen any reason for keeping PaDP out of this, or anything to justify the massive deception that we’re engaged in. Amanda talked about national security, but government’s continuous. As deputy, you must surely be the acting Prime Minister as of now. She talked about special issues, but I haven’t seen any, just a woman with a blade rammed into her head and left for dead.’
‘Nonetheless,’ Kramer replied, ‘there are, as you will discover.’
‘When I do, I want my colleague in here.’
‘Absolutely not!’ the Home Secretary exclaimed, switching back into aggressive mode in an instant. ‘This has to be on a need-to-know basis.’
‘And Commander McIlhenney needs to know; he’s been seconded to work with me on this investigation. I can’t have knowledge that I’m unable to share with him. You must understand that.’
‘I do, but he’s Metropolitan Police, and when this is over he’ll go back there, free to tell his colleagues anything he chooses. Work your way round any difficulty. I’m sorry, but that’s the way it has to be.’
‘Then I’m sorry too, but I’m leaving.’ I started for the door.
‘You can’t,’ Kramer called out. ‘I can’t allow that.’
I stopped in mid-stride, turning to stare at him. ‘Would you be threatening me, by any chance?’ I looked him up and down. ‘Because I don’t think you’re up to stopping me.’
‘The man on the door is. He’s Security Service but he’s mine, and he does what I tell him. So is the one on the PM’s door.’
‘You’ll need more than him,’ I warned.
His thin lips formed a thin, smug smile. ‘Really? Are you armed?’
‘I will be by the time the second of those men comes for me.’
‘Then we’d better avoid that possibility. Richard!’ he shouted. In less than two seconds, half the time it would have taken me to reach it, the door opened and its keeper stepped into the room, pistol in hand, aimed at me.
‘His name is actually Daffyd,’ Kramer said mildly, pleased with his show of power. ‘Richard is a code word that means weapon drawn.’
I ignored him and looked at the minder, unblinking eye to unblinking eye. Yes, he would, I decided.
&n
bsp; I nodded in the general direction of his boss. ‘Okay,’ I murmured, ‘I’ll stay. But I am telling you now, Daffyd, that I am no threat to the Home Secretary, and I seriously do not like people pointing guns at me. You’ve done your job, now lower it, or you’ll have made it personal. In that case you’ll have to live with the possibility that one day, maybe even tomorrow, I’ll have the power to send you to the Security Service version of Siberia, in which event you can pack your thermals.’
Kramer may have nodded to him; I couldn’t tell because my back was to him. Whether he did or not, Daffyd reholstered his pistol.
‘That’ll be enough for now,’ the Home Secretary declared. ‘You can resume your station.’
‘That goes for you too, by the way,’ I advised him as the door closed. ‘I never forget a threat.’
‘You imagine you’d ever be able to harm me?’ he chuckled.
‘I have no idea,’ I conceded, ‘but you can’t say for certain that I won’t, so bear it in mind.’
In the silence that developed I began to think of what I might achieve as a cross-bencher in the Lords, or even as a Labour peer. In that moment the idea was attractive; then Sarah seemed to whisper in my ear, ‘Best thing you can do, Bob, is make sure our kids don’t grow up like him,’ and I knew she was right.
I kept looking at him, though, until he grew fidgety and turned away, to peer through the blast curtains that shrouded his window.
‘We’ve got off on the wrong foot,’ he exclaimed, changing his tone once more. ‘We’ve got to work together on this. Agreed?’
‘Agreed,’ I replied, ‘but only for as long as it takes.’
He turned back to face me. ‘If you do succeed, Mr Skinner, if you do find Emily’s attacker and keep the genie in the box, what’s your price?’
‘What makes you think I have one?’
‘Everybody does.’
‘Scottish independence,’ I ventured, half-seriously.
He laughed. ‘Not something I can grant, I’m afraid, much as I’d like to. How about a peerage? Join our team in the Lords. I’d make you security minister.’
I laughed in return, but he had no idea why; offers from both sides, and the one in the middle. ‘Not my style,’ I retorted.
‘Then how about Mrs Dennis’s job? Your record speaks for itself; yes, I do know all about you. Emily told me that you and she had, sorry, have, history. Amanda is very good, but I am not quite convinced that she’s completely on message.’
‘Amanda’s better than that,’ I countered quietly. ‘She’s the best person in the land to be holding her job. She’s also a very close friend, and if you think I’d ever agree to supplant her, then you certainly do not know all about me. In fact you know fuck all about me. In the last five minutes you’ve offered me threats, then flattery, and now inducements. You should have had Neil McIlhenney in here; he’d have stopped you after the first of those.’
Kramer shook his head. ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘I can’t help misjudging situations this morning. Not that I care too much,’ he added, casually.
‘Then let me mark your card about another one. It isn’t Amanda’s role to be “on message”, not yours or anyone else’s. She has to be independent of people like you and she has to work with a free hand. If I was in her chair, I’d be your worst fucking nightmare based on what I’ve learned about you since I walked in here. So would she be if I told her everything that’s happened.’
I let that sink in, then continued. ‘I will work with you on this, Kramer, because I know Emily Repton, and though I didn’t like her when we met, I like what’s happened to her even less. But once it’s done, whatever the outcome, you’ll be my next project. If there’s a way to stop you succeeding her . . . yes, she’s probably going to die, maybe before the ambulance reaches hospital . . . then I’ll find . . .’
I broke off, as the door opened again, and an angry man flowed into the room. That’s the best way I can describe it; he had a liquid way of moving that made me think of mercury. Angry? That’s how he seemed from the glare in his brown eyes and the way that his sandy hair bristled, as though he’d just been on the end of a low-voltage shock.
‘Mr Hamblin,’ Kramer exclaimed, his expression telling me that he was grateful for the intervention. ‘You made it, finally. I’m sorry we couldn’t answer your summons to the Cabinet Office, but Mr Skinner here was quite right in his insistence that this secret should be contained within this building, for now.’
He nodded in my direction. ‘You don’t know Mr Skinner, do you? A chief constable in recess, was how Mrs Dennis described him to me, the man best suited to investigating the attack on the Prime Minister with the discretion that the situation demands. Mr Skinner, this is Mr Norman Hamblin, the Cabinet Secretary.’
The angry eyes blazed at me briefly, then switched back to Kramer. ‘Home Secretary,’ he murmured in a soft voice that was at odds with his fierce appearance. ‘Surely the situation changes with the Prime Minister’s death. The decision that was taken: with her gone, should it not be reviewed, and at the very least endorsed by her successor? This afternoon’s statement . . .’
‘. . . must be postponed,’ Kramer concluded for him. ‘Yes, that’s obvious. That will be announced as soon as the Prime Minister has left the building. She’s not dead, by the way. Mickey Satchell’s clinical skills seem to have been eroded by three years in the House. Damn near it, though. Still, she’s alive and that means she’s still PM. Even if she wasn’t, why should the decision be reviewed?’
‘The dynamic changes, even with her incapacity, Home Secretary,’ Hamblin said. ‘The core group . . .’
‘That will not be changed in any meaningful way.’ Kramer raised an eyebrow. ‘Are you suggesting that if there’s a new leadership election I might not win it?’
‘We can’t assume that you will, Home . . .’
‘For Christ’s sake stop being so bloody formal, Norman,’ he exclaimed. ‘We’re three men in a room. Best case for the PM is that she survives, but I’ve seen her, Mr Skinner here has seen her, and neither of us would count on that. Whether she stays in limbo, or whether she dies, I’m acting PM. If there has to be a contest to choose a new leader, I know how the numbers stack up, I know who’ll oppose me and I know he hasn’t a chance. So, Norman, if you’re trying to reverse a decision to which I know you are personally opposed, forget it. Now please, put an end to Mr Skinner’s ignorance of what the fuck we are talking about! Brief him. Come on, let’s all sit.’
The Cabinet Secretary was shaking with indignation; Mr Angry had become Mr Furious. I’ve known a few top-level civil servants in Scotland; all of them were used to being obeyed without question and none of them was pleasant if they were crossed. He glared at me as we sat; his eyebrows were a continuous russet line.
‘Have you signed the Official Secrets Act?’ he demanded. Next to me, Kramer sighed.
I made myself smile at him. ‘Several times more than was necessary,’ I replied, ‘for once is enough. But I’m happy to sign it again,’ I added, then grinned, ‘in your blood if you like.’
His lip curled at my humour; I wondered if he was having trouble suppressing a snarl, or if there was a human being imprisoned in there.
‘Then be warned,’ he murmured, ‘it has never meant as much as it does now.’
I nodded, and as I did so, my phone vibrated in my pocket. I took it out, to turn it off. ‘Sorry,’ I said as I looked at the screen, which displayed a text from Sarah, just two words, ‘My Lord?’
I smiled and was about to silence it, when a very large potential problem hit me. ‘Bloody hell!’ I whispered. ‘Mr Kramer, I need to use your computer, now. I need to access my iCloud account.’
‘Why?’ he asked, curious rather than impatient.
I held up my iPhone. ‘In the absence of a forensic team, I took photographs of the scene in th
e PM’s office, and some video as well. They’ll have uploaded automatically to the Cloud. In theory all user accounts are secure, but we both know that’s only true up to a point. I have to delete them, pronto.’
‘Yes, you have,’ he agreed. He rose and led me to his desk. ‘Hold on a second, and I’ll log you in.’
When I opened the account, sure enough, all the stills and video I had shot were there, if not for all the world to see, then certainly those at GCHQ, Langley and anyone else with the technology and skills to hack in there. I deleted each image individually; it took me several minutes and all the time I was hoping that no damage had been done.
When I was finished, I cleared the history on the computer, and rejoined the other two at the table. Hamblin looked at me with evident smugness, and the closest to a smile I’d seen him display.
‘That hasn’t filled me with confidence in your ability to guard the information that I’m about to give you,’ he said.
I felt my hackles move into lift-off position.
‘Just get on with it, man,’ I sighed, ‘or give me a Snickers; I turn into a right diva when I’m hungry, and it’s closing on my lunchtime.’
Hamblin’s lip curled again; he made a sound like a hissing snake, then began.
‘Last week,’ he said, ‘a decision was taken. The Prime Minister was going to announce it in the House this afternoon. The statement prompted much speculation when it appeared on the Commons business, because nothing had been trailed and no one had been briefed, contrary to what has become standard practice in this place.’
‘I know,’ I told him. ‘My ex-wife was completely in the dark when I saw her earlier, and she’s on the shadow defence team.’
Hamblin recoiled, with a shuddering gasp. ‘Home Secretary,’ he exclaimed, looking wide eyed at Kramer. ‘In all conscience, do you really think . . .’
‘Yes I do,’ Roland Kramer snapped. ‘We knew about that relationship. And if you knew as much as you should about the key people on the Opposition benches, it wouldn’t have come as a surprise to you either. Now please, Norman, carry on.’
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