‘Nick Wheeler is the archetypal modern professional politician. His father, Cotton Wheeler QC, was in the same chambers as his cousin Lawton, and young Nick could have gone there too, to a long and comfortable career as a barrister, but he chose not to. Instead he took his firsts in international law and economics into the Conservative Research Department. He did a few years there, became a department head, and then was appointed special adviser to the shadow Foreign Secretary. He came into parliament in twenty ten, and was appointed straightaway as PPS to his cousin, Lord Forgrave, the new Justice Secretary. At the first reshuffle he became a junior minister in the same department, and two years later went to Defence as Minister of State for the Armed Forces.’
McIlhenney held up a hand. ‘Isn’t that an odd career path, given that he has such a strong background in law?’
‘International law,’ Amanda pointed out. ‘Given the ructions over the Iraq war and the fifteen-year debate over its legality, the last prime minister decided that there was a need for exactly that expertise within Defence at ministerial level. His successor agreed. When everybody thought that his connection to the adulterous Lord Forgrave might get him the sack, Emily confounded them by promoting him into the big chair in Defence.’
‘How does a thirty-four year old manage the Defence Staff?’ I asked.
‘Very well, apparently. Unlike too many of his predecessors he lets them do their job, he fights their corner in Cabinet when cuts are being decided, and when an operation requires a legal decision, he makes it on the spot, without passing the buck to the Attorney General.’
‘How do he and Roland Kramer get on?’
‘They’re good, from what I hear. Nobody can dislike Nick Wheeler, and Kramer has no need to fear him, any more than Emily had. He won’t run for leader, not yet, and he wouldn’t have even if the Repton administration had run its natural course. He knows that government is cyclical, that the electorate wants change after two or three terms, and that the next leader might well be on a loser. He wants to be prime minister, yes, but he’s able to take the long view, because he has time on his side.’
‘How do you know all this?’ Neil put my thoughts into words. ‘Are you watching him that closely?’
‘We don’t have to. That analysis comes from him, from newspaper articles he’s written, from things he’s said on TV programmes like Question Time and from a speech he made a couple of years ago in an Oxford Union debate on proportional representation. He spoke against the motion, arguing that the present system guarantees a continual refreshing of government and that PR would bring stagnation. His side won hands down.’ She grinned. ‘His Private Eye nickname is Galahad,’ she added.
‘Mmm,’ I grunted. ‘He didn’t last too long, as I recall. And Emily Repton found her Holy Grail but look what it got her. So he’s the golden boy of politics,’ I said, ‘but what about his personal life?’
‘Heterosexual, unmarried, and determined not to acquire a wife simply because it’s expected of him. He has relationships, and he’s discreet, so rumours swirl around him, inevitably.
‘Wheeler is very careful whom he gets into bed with, literally; we’ve never had to worry about any of his flings.’ She paused for a second; when she continued I detected a slight change in her tone. ‘Although there is a friendship developing that we’re keeping an eye on, even though it is outside our remit, there being no security issues attached.’
‘Another politician?’ I murmured.
‘Public figure.’
‘Two sword lengths apart?’
‘As in the distance between the two sides in the Commons?’ she laughed. ‘Ah, are you thinking it might be your ex-wife?’
‘That had crossed my mind,’ I admitted. ‘She was a wee bit mysterious this morning.’
‘Then cross it off. No, it’s not an MP. It’s a member of the royal family, albeit a junior one; she’s also a constituent. The palace gets very nervous about any political relationships, and we’re just a little nervous too, because this individual has a couple of media contacts.’
‘Can we interview her?’
‘Not unless Wheeler tells you something that means you have to. I doubt that he will, though. It hasn’t got as far as pillow talk yet.’
‘Okay, but we might ask him about her,’ I warned.
‘As discreetly as you can, if you have to,’ she warned. ‘These guys all know we monitor them, but they don’t like to be reminded of it.’
‘Guys,’ McIlhenney repeated. ‘I thought the number of women in government was on the rise, but I don’t see too many female faces in the current Cabinet, and none at all in this core group we’re talking about.’
‘There’s a woman at the head of the House,’ Amanda reminded him, ‘and that has a lot to do with it. Emily Repton isn’t our first woman prime minister, remember.’
‘Who could forget?’
She smiled at his muttering. ‘If you look at the record of the other one,’ she continued, ‘you’ll find that she didn’t share the ladies’ room at Cabinet level with anyone. It was part of her make-up, and many commentators remarked upon it at the time. Why didn’t she promote more women? In fact, there were actually fewer of them around in those days; the talent pool was smaller. But there may have been more to it than that. She intimidated most of her male colleagues; the handbaggings at Chequers are still talked about by the survivors with nervous awe. But could she have done that to another woman and got away with it? I doubt it.’
‘I see what you’re getting at,’ I conceded, ‘but Emily Repton’s hardly . . .’
‘Your knowledge of her is limited,’ she pointed out, cutting me off. ‘You met her once in special circumstances . . .’ she winked at me, ‘. . . plus you’re a bloody old misogynist.’
I opened my mouth to protest the allegation, but she laughed, waving me to silence.
‘Just kidding; you wouldn’t be my friend if you were. There’s a lot more to La Repton than you saw at your only meeting. She’s cut from the same cloth as the last one, and her instincts are the same. There’s something Shakespearean about them.’
‘Mmm,’ I murmured. ‘I’m trying to remember which of Shakespeare’s women survived.’
‘None of them did too well, but think of King Lear and his daughters and you’d be getting close.’
‘Which one would Emily resemble?’
‘Her admirers would say Cordelia; her enemies would say Regan or Goneril.’
‘They’d all be right given what’s happened to her,’ I said. ‘Whatever, that’s the core Cabinet,’ I went on. ‘What about their Secretary?’
Amanda grinned. ‘Norman Hamblin has been described as a dinosaur more times than I’ve had a gin and tonic before dinner, but he isn’t; dinosaurs became extinct because they lacked the ability to adapt to survive a crisis. Hamblin’s still here because he’s done exactly that all through his career. They say that the Civil Service is managed independently of government, but it’s not exactly true, not at the top level. At the top level it’s very difficult to be a servant of two masters. The Cabinet Secretary is right at the top of the tree. In theory he isn’t the head of the Civil Service, but in practice nobody will ever countermand him. He oversees the ministerial behaviour code and also my service and MI6, through the National Security Adviser. That makes him the top dog, whatever the organisation chart says.
‘As you can imagine,’ she went on, ‘the holder of the post works so closely with the Prime Minister of the day that it becomes very difficult for him to maintain the political neutrality required of the civil servant. When there’s a change of government, then generally there will be a change of Cabinet Secretary, not immediately but not far into the new administration.
‘But it doesn’t happen with Norman Hamblin. He’s a peppery son of a bitch, he’s a bully with his staff, with junior ministers and even
with some of the lower ranks in the Cabinet, but he gets away with it because he’s so damn good at the job. The man has now served four prime ministers, and that hasn’t happened for over fifty years. Nobody likes him, but so what? Roland Kramer actively hates him.’
‘So I noticed,’ I remarked.
‘He doesn’t bother trying to hide it any more. But still the man goes on.’
‘Why?’ Neil asked. ‘What makes him fireproof?’
‘He’s my Civil Service boss,’ she answered. ‘That gives him a head start over the rest.’
‘Does he have access to the information you hold?’
‘If I encounter a situation that threatens national security I’m required to report it to him and the Prime Minister.’
‘What about Hamblin himself? He’s bound to have been vetted at some point in his career.’
‘More than once. Yes,’ she admitted, ‘we keep a discreet eye on him also. Apart from being a cold, emotionless little sod, he has no issues.’
‘Personal life?’
‘He barely has one. He lives with his sister, Constance Hamblin; she was an assistant secretary in the Foreign Office until she retired ten years ago. They’ve both devoted their lives to the state. I know that sounds corny, but it’s true.’
‘Come on, Amanda,’ I insisted. ‘Nobody is that self-contained. I’ve just met the man. He’s petty, arrogant . . .’
I held up a hand as my phone vibrated in my pocket. I’d meant to switch it off but had been distracted by my rush to clear the crime scene photos from the Cloud. ‘Sorry,’ I murmured. ‘Let me take this; it might be Sarah and . . .’
She nodded. ‘Yes, I know; given her condition. Go on, take it.’
I took it out and peered at the screen; yes, it was her, but as my thumb moved to take the call, the icon vanished and the trembling stopped. I shrugged, and was about to put it back in my pocket, but Amanda told me to call her back. ‘You won’t be focused until you do,’ she said.
I pressed recall; she picked up in an instant.
‘Bad time?’ she asked. ‘I’m sorry, lover; you know my patience threshold.’
‘Only slightly above mine,’ I admitted.
‘Is it done? Did they win you over?’
‘Yes, and not yet. I’m tempted but there are a few things to consider. I’ll probably stay down here for an extra night or two to sort it out.’
‘Do they measure you for a coronet?’ she laughed.
‘No, I think you buy them off the shelf.’
I waited for her comeback, but she fell silent. ‘Hey,’ she exclaimed, after a few seconds. ‘What’s this about the Prime Minister? I’ve just had a flash on my tablet from Sky News about her being hospitalised with a suspected tropical disease. Have you heard about it?’
‘What are they saying?’ I retorted, avoiding a direct lie.
‘Just that. She’s been taken to an isolation unit. They’re linking it to a trip she made to Africa. If so, she’s been pretty unlucky; I’d have thought that national leaders would have been kept well away from any dangerous sources. Seems not. I’m reading the story now; they’re being very guarded about her condition, not saying how serious it is. They’re not even identifying the virus. It won’t be Ebola, not where she was. Did you know about this? Have you heard about it where you are?’
‘I knew something was up,’ I replied, trying not to sound evasive.
‘Where are you anyway? Still in the House of Lords?’
‘I’m in the palace, yes. Never mind me. How are you? Are you taking it easy like you’re supposed to?’
‘I’m fine,’ she drawled. ‘I’m bored out of my skull, if you want the truth. I wish I’d come with you; I could have, since you went by train.’
‘You’d have been too long on your feet. Anything else on Sky?’
‘No, that’s it; another bulletin at eight they’re saying. And some defence statement’s been cancelled, apparently. The reporter’s curious about that. She’s asking why that needed to happen, why the Defence Secretary couldn’t make it.’
‘Has anyone given her an answer?’
‘Not so as you’d notice,’ she admitted, ‘but she’s speculating that the Prime Minister’s condition might be more serious than they’re letting on. If you hear anything, let me know.’
‘Will do,’ I promised insincerely. ‘I have to go now. Take care. Love you.’
As I pocketed the phone I saw that Neil was smiling. ‘That was good to hear,’ he said. ‘You’re at your best when you’re with Sarah.’
‘Let’s see if we’re both still at our best when we’re up at three in the morning with a new baby,’ I chuckled, then turned back to Amanda.
‘The story’s out and accepted,’ I told her, ‘although the media are wondering why Wheeler isn’t making the defence statement.’
She shrugged. ‘Let them. The situation is contained, for now.’
‘You’re happy that the hospital is leak proof?’
‘As happy as I can be. Very few people will have access to her. We can live with all the speculation there’s bound to be about the nature of the disease.’
‘Won’t the press want to know who’s treating her?’ Neil asked.
‘We won’t tell them.’
‘There can’t be that many people in the field.’
‘Enough,’ Amada retorted. Neither of us was sure whether that was a comment or an impatient warning.
I took it as both. ‘Back to Hamblin,’ I said. ‘You say he’s a man with no issues, but how long have you known him?’
‘For the eight years I’ve been at deputy or director level. He’s a team-spirited little man, he has a mind like a mainframe and if you cut him open you’d find “Loyalty” running through him like “Blackpool” in a stick of rock.’
‘What about his sister? What did she do in the Foreign Office?’
‘Commonwealth relations, latterly. She’s a dry old stick, Bob.’
‘Was she a dry young stick? She made it to assistant secretary; that suggests a university education.’
‘She and Norman both went to Christ’s, twelve years apart. She got a two one, he pulled a first, then came top in the Civil Service examinations.’
‘So she’d be there early to mid-sixties,’ I suggested. ‘A volatile time; students were just as political then as now and CND was very active. Did she have any affiliations?’
‘We don’t know,’ she admitted, ‘but we’ve never had any reason to ask. I’ll see what we can find out now.’ She rose to her feet. ‘What do you need?’ she asked.
‘A working base; Hamblin’s getting us a room in the Cabinet Office, and lining up the people we need to interview. I’ve asked for CCTV footage as well if it exists.’
‘It does; I’ve requisitioned it already from the Serjeant-at-Arms. When I have it I’ll send it on to you. If we can, we’ll look at it together. Shall we go?’
I shook my head. ‘You should go, but Neil and I need to stay here for a while. Before we do anything else we need to start behaving like detectives and take a proper look at the crime scene . . . or what’s left of it.’
She headed for the door, until I called out to stop her. ‘One thing, Amanda,’ I said. ‘Neil, you have the weapon.’ McIlhenney nodded, then retrieved the bagged letter-opener from his case. ‘Have the forensic lab go to work on that, please. Fingerprints, blood spatters, anything else they find. Got another bag, chum?’
He nodded and produced one. Carefully, I picked up a mobile phone that lay on the desk, encasing it in the see-through plastic. ‘This was hers, I’m guessing,’ I murmured. ‘I’d like to know who she called in the period leading up to the attack, on this and on the landline.’
‘I’ll get people on it right away. There’s a secure Home Office lab that can look
at the knife; my people will handle the phone issues.’ She took both items from me and left.
Nine
When Mrs Dennis left us, and it was just Bob and me, reality kicked in for a moment.
‘I’m still bloody nervous about this, man,’ I confessed as the door closed behind her. ‘This should be a police matter; it’s not for spooks.’
‘I’m not arguing with you,’ he admitted, ‘but in practice, it’s what Roland Kramer says it is. He’s the Home Secretary, which would give him all the authority he needs, and on top of that he’s acting Prime Minister.’
‘And if he misuses that authority?’ I countered. ‘We’re expected to go along with it, are we?’
‘In the circumstances, yes,’ he said, but with less conviction than usual.
‘But what are the circumstances?’ I protested. ‘All I’ve seen is a woman with a blade buried in her head. At any other time, in any other place, the full resources of the police would be thrown into finding out who put it there. What makes this different?’
‘The context.’ He paused, as if he was considering his next words very carefully, until he nodded, as if he had made a decision. ‘Fuck it,’ he muttered.
He took my breath away then, by launching into a staggering tale about a top-secret defence project called Spitfire, the name he’d dropped earlier, which was going to revolutionise global nuclear policy and put Britain in a position of unprecedented power. Emily Repton had been due to announce it in parliament that afternoon, but the attack on her had put paid to that. Were the two related? Yes, I got that.
When he was finished he gazed at me as if he expected me to react, with either awe or outrage, but I didn’t. I was still taking it in.
Bob never was the most patient of men. ‘So you see . . .’ he continued, but I cut him off.
‘To be honest,’ I confessed, ‘I see a crime scene, that’s all; one that’s being wilfully concealed. Okay, there are national security issues, but what if this crime has eff all to do with national security? And another thing. Was Repton the only target? We don’t know that for sure. What if she wasn’t? What if other senior politicians are at risk?’
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