‘No we don’t know that,’ he agreed, ‘but I think you’ll find that all the protection officers are on increased alert. Kramer gave me a demonstration earlier on.’
‘Bugger Kramer,’ I exclaimed. ‘What if I took my phone out right now,’ I challenged him, ‘and reported this to PaDP. What do you think would happen?’
He looked at me, seriously, and replied, quietly, ‘I think your career would be over before you hung up.’
He hadn’t needed to tell me that. I knew he was right, but nonetheless I grinned. ‘You’d have to shoot me, would you?’
He laughed, in turn, shaped an imaginary pistol with his right hand and pointed it at me. ‘That’s all that I have to do it with,’ he chuckled. ‘Amanda’s only given me a warrant card so far.’
He sighed, his humour evaporating. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘It’s a weird situation, I know, but don’t tell me you aren’t just a wee bit excited. And you are fireproof; don’t worry about that.’
I shrugged. ‘Aye, fine. All my training and all my procedural nous has just gone out the window, but what the hell. Let’s do what we can. Which,’ I pointed out, ‘in the context of a crime scene investigation, will not be very much.’
‘I agree,’ he conceded, ‘but let’s do what we always do and try to imagine the crime.’
He took out his phone and showed me some of the photos that he had been taking when I arrived; they had been saved in a folder named ‘Emily’. He scrolled straight to one that showed the Prime Minister lying face down on her desk, with her right cheek on its surface, and the blade in situ in her skull, in line with the top of her left ear, a couple of inches in front. The handle was touching a notepad, which was stained with a small amount of blood that had leaked from the wound. Her left hand was beside it, palm down, fingers curled.
He swiped the screen to enlarge the central area of the image. As I studied the detail, I noticed that she wore a large diamond cluster on her third finger but no wedding band. At first glance I had thought that the central stone was a ruby, but on closer inspection I realised that a spot of blood had settled on it.
He pointed to it. ‘We’d better add Lord Forgrave to our interview list,’ he murmured.
‘Who’s he?’ I asked. The name was familiar, but I couldn’t pin it down.
‘Her former husband, and former Justice Secretary.’
I felt my eyes widen as I recognised the name and title. ‘Ah yes,’ I said. ‘The guy who was caught shagging . . .’ I let it fade away.
I only knew whom he’d been caught shagging because Bob had told me. The relationship had surfaced during an investigation in which we had both been involved. There was photographic evidence, he had said, but I hadn’t seen it. Even so, when Forgrave and Repton had split, it was clear to me that the full story had been kept well away from the tabloids, or they’d have had a field day.
‘You don’t think this could be a domestic, do you?’ I ventured.
‘Most murders and attempted murders are,’ Bob pointed out, ‘but in this case Forgrave will only go to the top of our list if he shows up on the CCTV footage. We should talk to him, possibly. Emily binned him because he was a liability politically; for all we know they may have stayed close. That does look like her engagement ring she’s wearing.’
‘Given the timescale, we’re going to have to talk to a lot of people very quickly,’ I observed.
‘Agreed, so let’s finish up here and get ourselves over to the Cabinet Office.’ He seemed to allow himself a brief moment to gather his thoughts, before he voiced them.
‘It could be that the Prime Minister will recover consciousness,’ he said, ‘and that she’ll be able to tell us who attacked her, but if not, you’re right; we have to move fast. So,’ he asked, ‘what do you see here? Where was the attacker positioned when he stabbed her?’
‘It’s a long reach across the desk,’ I suggested, ‘probably too long.’ I took another look at the photograph, enlarging as much as I could. ‘Also, there’s no sign of any defensive reaction that I can see, no wounds that suggest she might have tried to grab the blade, or to ward it off with her hand or arm.’
‘No, there aren’t,’ he agreed, ‘which suggests to me that the blow was struck from her left . . . but if it was, it would still have been within her line of vision, and we should have been able to see some sign of a reaction . . . or from behind, taking her completely by surprise.’
‘In that case,’ I ventured, ‘the assailant is left handed, almost certainly.’
‘Assailant? Get you with the English police-speak,’ he mocked. ‘But you are on the button with that supposition. We’re looking for a left-handed man; that’s a start.’
‘Man?’ I repeated, questioning that assumption like the good sidekick I was.
‘Okay, that’s a supposition too,’ he admitted, ‘but . . .’ He found another image on his phone and showed it to me. It was one that he’d taken of the Prime Minister’s bathroom. ‘What do you see there?’ I asked.
I peered at it, looking for some tiny detail, then smiled as I saw what he’d meant me to see. ‘You foxy sod,’ I murmured. ‘The toilet seat’s up.’ I got the message. ‘We need to get Amanda’s Home Office forensic specialist in here,’ I said, ‘to print that door, toilet handle, taps, every-bloody-thing, and they need to do it before anyone else comes in here and contaminates the scene even further.’
Ten
When Neil and I had finished our study of the crime scene and the images that I’d taken, we agreed that a specialist examination was essential.
I called Amanda at once; she was back in Thames House by then, having travelled even that short distance by car. I gave her an update, and asked her to send the Home Office team to the PM’s office to do what was needed.
‘They don’t need to know what has happened there,’ I pointed out. ‘You could tell them there’s been a robbery; that would do.’
Asking wasn’t something I’d done for a while; in the final years of my police career I had given instructions, interspersed with the odd suggestion. While it was happening, I’d never thought of myself as an autocrat, but looking back, I realised that I had been.
As we left, I showed my brand-new badge to the Security Service operative on door watch who had replaced the guy there earlier. The man had never seen me before that morning, but the fancy title got his attention. I gave him strict instructions that nobody, repeat nobody, was to enter that room until the CSI arrived, then we headed out of the Palace of Westminster, and along Whitehall, towards the Cabinet Office.
I wasn’t sure where the entrance was, but Neil knew; just past Downing Street, he said. Like most British people, and quite a few foreigners, I was familiar with the names of these places from news programming, but not so clear about their locations. One of the surprising things about the seat of our government is how compact it is. The great departments of state are crammed close together with only the Home Office being any distance from the rest.
We stepped into the foyer, to find that we were expected. A uniformed escort met us, led us to a lift, and accompanied us all the way to the Cabinet Secretary’s eyrie on the top floor. There was a small staff in an outer office, presided over by a woman with heavy eyebrows and an even heavier build. Her hair was in a bun and she had a large bulldog-like jaw. She only had one head, but even so, she was ‘Cerberus’ to me from that moment on.
She eyed us up and down as our escort departed, then pointed over her shoulder at a door behind her desk and announced, ‘You may enter.’
Norman Hamblin was waiting for us inside; I could tell at first glance that his humour had not improved. He frowned at me, ignoring Neil altogether. ‘Mr Skinner,’ he snapped, looking down his nose as if I’d come to clear a blocked toilet. Metaphorically I had, but everyone deserves to be treated with respect, even those who do the smelliest jobs.
/>
I met his glare with one of my own. ‘Cabinet Secretary,’ I growled. ‘What’s the word from the hospital?’ I asked; I wasn’t in a mood to be deferential and my tone let him know that.
He winced, slightly; my question had reminded him that at the heart of the crisis, a woman, someone he knew and served, had been grievously injured.
‘The Prime Minister is still alive,’ he replied, ‘but only just. I’ve just spoken to Sir Sajid Chaudhry, the consultant neurosurgeon who’s looking after her. They’ve given her a brain scan. As you would expect, that shows there to have been considerable bleeding. It seems to have stopped but a clot remains. Sir Sajid says that it would be too hazardous to attempt to remove it and that in any event there would be no point. The damage has already been done. If she survives, which he thought to be on balance unlikely, she will be severely impaired, physically and possibly intellectually.’
‘And no longer capable of exercising her office,’ I said.
‘Exactly,’ he sighed. For the first time his eyes showed me something other than hostility. ‘Mr Skinner, the Home Secretary does not seem to have taken the time to consider that this is a massive constitutional issue.
‘The Prime Minister exercises executive power on behalf of the monarch. If she is temporarily incapacitated then her deputy, in this case Kramer, may fill the gap. But if her disability is permanent, the Queen should be advised.
‘Normally, the handover process is quite clear; where a prime minister falls, be it after a general election defeat or for other reasons, established practice is for him or her to go to the palace and tender their resignation in person. At that time he or she would advise Her Majesty to summon their elected successor and invite him or her to form a government.’
‘But Emily Repton can’t do that,’ I observed.
‘Nor may she ever, or so I am advised by the consultant. And the fact is that our constitution, such as it is, does not provide specifically for such a situation. The office of deputy prime minister is not recognised in British law, the perception being that if it was, there would be a presumption of succession, which would limit the prerogative of the monarch to appoint her head of government.’
‘Kramer knows this, presumably?’
‘Yes, and I have just restated it to him; forcefully, I might add. His reaction was that the present national security situation justifies his course of action. He went on to forbid me from discussing it with anyone else . . . a prohibition which I now realise I have broken by speaking to you. I told him that I was of a mind to consult the Attorney General; he replied that if anyone does that it will be him.’
‘And you accept that?’
‘I have to,’ Hamblin replied, quietly. ‘I am a civil servant and he is my political master. I am still of a mind to consult the Attorney General but only in respect of my own position in law. If the Prime Minister dies, the situation will be unequivocal, and the constitution must be defended. As it is, we are at an unprecedented moment, but I am concerned that what Kramer is doing is borderline illegal. Of course,’ he added, ‘that might also mean that what you are doing falls into the same category.’
‘Except,’ I countered, ‘I have a badge that says I’m an official of the Security Service, and that makes Kramer my boss, just as much as he is yours.’
‘You could always resign.’
‘So could you, but you’re not going to, are you?’ The Cabinet Secretary lowered his eyes and shook his head. ‘As it happens,’ I continued, ‘I tried that; it resulted in a confrontation with a man called Daffyd.’
‘Kramer threatened you?’ Hamblin’s frown deepened. ‘He’s that serious?’
‘Seems to be; I can’t say how serious he is without calling his bluff, but his attitude is that I have no way out. Besides, Amanda Dennis is my friend and my loyalty is to her. She’s brought me in to do a job, and I have to see it through for her sake. So, please, can we get on with it?’
‘I suppose so,’ he conceded. ‘I have procured an office for you on this floor. You’ll find all the equipment you need in there. Let me show you where it is.’
He led us back through his outer office, where his staff carried on working, oblivious to the drama that was unfolding, and along a high-ceilinged corridor to an unnumbered door. He threw it open; there were four desks crammed into the modest space, each with a terminal and two phones.
‘The Cobra staff use this, when there’s an emergency situation . . . an acknowledged emergency that is,’ he added. ‘I suppose it’s appropriate. I’ll leave you to begin. If you need me, you know where I am.’
‘We need you now, Mr Hamblin,’ I told him. ‘You’re on our interview list, remember.’
‘Is that really necessary?’ he sighed.
‘Yes, it is. Come on, let’s get it over with. There’s something else you can help us with as well, when the CCTV footage we’ve asked for is available to us. We’re not going to know many of the people we might see on there. You can help us identify them.’
I led the way into our temporary base, with a reluctant Hamblin following. ‘Take a seat,’ I told him, as I chose a desk that faced the door. Neil grabbed the one on my right, leaving the Cabinet Secretary facing me.
‘This is an informal situation,’ I began, ‘within the context of a discretionary investigation, but for all that we will proceed formally. This interview will be recorded, as best we can, using a phone if we have to.’
‘We don’t,’ McIlhenney said. He opened his briefcase and took out a dictation device. ‘I didn’t know what I was walking into when the Commissioner ordered me here, but I brought the basics.’ He inspected the palm-sized recorder, checked the battery status, switched it on, and placed it on the desk.
‘In that case, let’s get under way. I am Robert Skinner, currently seconded to the Security Service, accompanied by Commander Neil McIlhenney, of the Met.’
Our interviewee leaned forward. ‘I am Norman Hamblin, CB, Cabinet Secretary,’ he announced, in a loud clear voice, ‘and I would like to put on the record my discontent at these proceedings.’
‘Noted,’ I said. ‘However, we are here to investigate an attack this morning on the Prime Minister which has left her severely injured. Mr Hamblin, how did you come to hear of the incident?’
‘I was called, on my direct telephone line, by Ms Repton’s parliamentary private secretary, Dr Michaela Satchell.’
McIlhenney intervened. ‘You were in this building at the time?’
‘Obviously,’ Hamblin sighed, with a show of forced patience. ‘It was a landline.’
‘Did you make a note of the time?’
‘No, but when I took the call, I was looking at my computer screen. I had barely put the instrument to my ear when the clock in the corner moved from ten fifty-nine to eleven.’
‘What did Dr Satchell say?’ I asked.
‘She was in a rather agitated state. She called me by my forename, not something she would do normally. She said, and I remember quite clearly, “She’s dead, Norman, Emily’s dead.” Naturally, I was stunned. It took me a second or two to absorb what she had said. When I had, I asked her to control herself, and to repeat what she had just said. She did. I asked her where she was, and she told me she was in the Prime Minister’s House of Commons office. She said that the Prime Minister was at her desk and that there was a blade embedded in her head.’
He paused and I stepped in. ‘What was your immediate reaction?’
‘Disbelief,’ he retorted. ‘Dr Satchell has a history of prescription drug abuse. There was a psychotic incident when she was a junior doctor in a hospital in Berkshire. She was treated in the Priory clinic in Roehampton, and it was discreetly excised from her records by a sympathetic hospital administrator, who happened to be a friend of her father. There has been no sign of a recurrence, but what she described to me was so bizarre, th
at was what I feared.’
‘What did you do?’
‘I instructed her to stay where she was, to lock the door and to admit nobody until I got there.’
‘Did she comply?’
Hamblin’s eyes flashed fury. ‘No she did not!’ he hissed. ‘When I arrived, five minutes later, the Home Secretary was already in the room, and had assumed command. I asked Dr Satchell whether there was any part of nobody that she did not understand, but Mr Kramer intervened to say that she had quite correctly summoned him.
‘At that point we believed, on Dr Satchell’s say-so, that the Prime Minister was dead. I told Mr Kramer that I would call Her Majesty’s Private Secretary at once, but he forbade me from so doing. He said that the Spitfire announcement offered a potential motive for what we then believed to be a murder, and that the situation should be contained to allow immediate and thorough investigation. At that point Mrs Dennis arrived, and was given the instruction by Mr Kramer that has led to your involvement, gentlemen.
‘I returned to the Cabinet Office at that point, since I felt that my position had been usurped.’
‘You went off in a huff?’ I ventured.
His eyes widened. I expected him to be outraged by my temerity. Then he confounded me by laughing quietly and nodding. ‘On reflection, Mr Skinner, that is exactly what I did.’
‘Who would have been in the Prime Minister’s Commons office as a matter of routine?’ Neil asked him. ‘She must have a considerable Civil Service staff. Were none of them there?’
‘No,’ Hamblin replied. ‘Mostly they work in Downing Street. The principal private secretary and his senior assistants would have been there had it been a Wednesday, to help her prepare for Prime Minister’s Questions in the House, but there was no reason for them to be present at that time, on a Monday morning.’
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