State Secrets

by Quintin Jardine

  ‘It is very mysterious,’ I replied. ‘That’s why we’re involved.’

  ‘Have you met anyone famous?’

  I smiled. ‘Apart from Bob? Well, there’s the head of MI5, Mrs Dennis; a very impressive woman. Mr Hamblin, the Cabinet Secretary; he’s so much of a Civil Service mandarin that he almost looks Chinese. Mrs Kramer, the chair of the Conservative Party; a glamorous, ambitious and devious woman. The Right Honourable Montgomery Radley, MP, the Foreign Secretary; he’s just a berk.’

  ‘Berk? That’s not one of your usual words.’

  ‘I chose it carefully,’ I assured her. ‘It’s Cockney rhyming slang, short for “Berkshire Hunt”. I’ll let you work out the rest.’

  ‘Easily done,’ she said. ‘It came off him in waves when we saw him at that reception a while back. How about the Defence Secretary? Nicholas Wheeler? Did you meet him? I did, a few weeks ago; he was in a box at the theatre with his little royal friend and he was invited backstage.’

  ‘How royal?’ I asked.

  ‘Cousin several times removed. I don’t think it’s serious; my impression, and don’t ask me why, is that she was camouflage, something to have on his arm, like the Queen’s handbag.’

  ‘Gay, probably, but not ready to come out,’ I surmised. ‘The nation is used to women prime ministers, but I’m not sure it’s ready to go a step further. In fact I’m damn sure the Tory Party isn’t.’

  ‘He may be, but I doubt it. I like him; he struck me as his own man, not the sort of Tory MP who’ll acquire a wife because it’s an expected part of the package.’

  ‘I’ll form my own view if we meet him. Bob decides who we need to interview, and I don’t know what he’s got planned for tomorrow.’

  She glanced at me. ‘Does she really have a tropical disease? I haven’t heard a word about any of her staff being quarantined.’

  She’s a very shrewd woman, is my wife.

  Twenty-One

  I’d picked my hotel because it was the closest to the Palace of Westminster that I could find. It was above a pub and it wasn’t pretentious but it was clean and had everything I needed, namely a comfortable bed and an en suite bathroom.

  Amanda and I talked until they were ready to chuck us out of the restaurant. She called a cab, but I decided to walk back, through the maze of streets and squares, with Westminster Abbey as my lighthouse.

  The pub was still open when I reached the hotel, but I wasn’t tempted; I wanted a clear head for the next day, and also I was tired. I will never admit to feeling my age, but only because I don’t know how it’s supposed to feel.

  My phone had been switched off during dinner; it was only when I put it on the bedside table that I realised I’d forgotten to switch it back on. I decided that it was too late to call Sarah, but I was wrong; she called me.

  ‘Where have you been?’ she asked, a little anxiously. ‘You’ve been off air for hours; that’s not like you. Did you go to see Lou’s play?’

  ‘No, sorry, dinner with Amanda.’

  ‘Is she still trying to lure you into her tangled web?’ She chuckled but it was a serious question.

  ‘Not exactly,’ I replied.

  ‘So come on,’ she exclaimed. ‘I’ve been waiting all day for this. Are you going to make a Lady out of me?’

  ‘Your parents did that, love,’ I retorted, then winced. Sarah lost her mother and father tragically; she doesn’t talk about them very often.

  ‘No, I don’t see that happening,’ I added quickly, moving on. ‘Paddy Pilmar and Lady Mercer made their pitch, during which I found out that there may be a second offer on the table, courtesy of Clive Graham. I tell you, if Machiavelli was still alive, he’d come a bad runner-up to our First Minister.

  ‘But either way, I don’t fancy it. Everything down here is a fucking plot. I’ve met a lot of people today, and only one of them was open and above board. Because of that, he, poor sod, has no chance. The knives are out for him already, and it’s a matter of time before he’s gone.’

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Merlin Brady.’

  ‘The Labour Party guy? I thought he was a wild-eyed leftie.’

  ‘He’s left wing,’ I agreed, ‘but there’s nothing wild about him. He’s a nice man, he’s honest, and he’s open about his beliefs and intentions. In his public life, what you see is what you get. Because of that he has absolutely no chance of ever being prime minister.’

  ‘In his public life,’ she repeated. ‘What about his private life?’

  ‘Rather more complicated; that’s all I’ll say.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ she challenged. ‘How do you know about that? Has your friend Mrs Dennis been telling you stories?’

  ‘No, I did my own digging.’

  ‘Have you dug out anything about the Prime Minister? The bulletin they put out at eight o’clock said nothing, only that they were continuing to treat her, but I can’t work out how they’re doing that if they don’t know what’s wrong with her.’

  ‘They do know,’ I said. ‘It has nothing to do with her trip to Africa; that’s a cover story dreamed up by the Home Secretary and Amanda. But don’t go spreading that around in the hairdresser’s.’

  ‘As if,’ she snorted. ‘What is the truth?’

  ‘Rather more complicated. What you asked me earlier, about Amanda recruiting me: she has done, on a one-off basis, and that’s what I’m working on. It might mean me having to stay here for another day or two.’

  ‘My God, Bob,’ she gasped, ‘be careful.’

  ‘I’m not in any danger, I promise you. It’s a very discreet and focused investigation and I have help. Neil’s on the case at my request . . . but don’t go phoning Lou, for he may not have told her.’

  ‘I knew it,’ she murmured. ‘The way you’ve been every time I called, your phone being off tonight, I knew there was something. I’m glad you told me, or I’d have worried about it. I shouldn’t be, should I? Honestly?’

  ‘Honestly. It’s not like that. Now,’ I said, ‘forget me. How about you? How did your appointment go?’

  ‘Fine,’ she answered. ‘Too fine in fact; they think they’ve made a mistake with the due date. They think I have another two weeks to go. If you have to stay there for any more than a couple of days, I may jump on a train and come down. It’ll either be that or go back to work. If I hang about the house without you here to distract me, I’ll get on Trish’s nerves in no time.’

  I doubted that. Our children’s carer is one of the calmest women I know. ‘In that case, take it out on the builders,’ I said. ‘Keep yourself busy. I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

  Twenty-Two

  The first thing I did when I woke next morning was to take my phone off charge and check the Saltire news app. It’s constantly updated and I was confident that it would tell me if Emily Repton hadn’t made it through the night.

  It didn’t. Instead it told me that a condition update at six thirty had described her as ‘stable but still in a medically induced coma’. The news report added that the cause of her collapse remained to be determined. It quoted her official spokesman, Grover Bryant, as expressing ‘cautious optimism’ as he left the hospital the night before.

  That wasn’t how he put it to me when he arrived in my commandeered office at eight twenty-five. ‘She’s clinging on,’ he said, as he took one of the spare seats. We were alone; Neil had called to say that he was stuck in traffic but had reached the Met HQ and would be with me by nine.

  ‘I called them half an hour ago,’ he continued. ‘I spoke to the neuro consultant. He admitted that he can only guess how it’s going to end, but he did say that with every hour that passes her chances improve. He reckons that from having a one per cent chance of survival when he did the head scan, she’s now up to about fifteen per cent.’ He held up his right hand, fingers crossed
.

  ‘I’ve just been in my office,’ he said. ‘I spoke to the communications director, Shami Patel. She told me she’s been ordered to report to Kramer until further notice. He’s in Number Ten now, making his presence felt. I tried to get in to see him but my way was blocked by his Welsh minder. He did send me a message, though. He said that at the moment I have no one to put words in my mouth, so I should keep it firmly shut.’ Bryant scowled. ‘He’ll be relishing this. Bastard!’ He peered at me through heavy, hooded eyelids. ‘How’s your investigation going?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s going,’ I replied. ‘That’s all I’m prepared to tell you. I haven’t exhausted my lines of inquiry. That said, I am no nearer finding the answer than I was yesterday. All I can ask you to do is pretty much the same as Kramer said: stay silent. You might as well get back to the Royal Free.’

  ‘That’s where I’m going.’ He dug into his trouser pocket and handed me a card. ‘Do me a favour,’ he said. ‘If you do turn something up, give me a call.’

  I said that I would, to keep him onside and under control, then watched him as he left.

  The coffee that I’d bought on my way into the office was only half consumed, but what was left was stone cold. I binned it and walked along to Norman Hamblin’s office. His formidable doorkeeper told me to go straight in.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said, with a courteous nod.

  I reflected on the warming of our relationship over less than twenty-four hours. At first the Cabinet Secretary had seen me as an intruder into his domain, but that seemed to have changed. I had seen enough during his exchange with the Home Secretary to decide that he wouldn’t last long in the event of a Kramer premiership. I reckon that he saw me as an ally; if so he was over-thinking my role. I was there to establish who had knifed Emily Repton, not to interfere with party politics.

  Nevertheless, I fed him a prompt. ‘I hear Roland’s moved into Number Ten,’ I said. ‘Grover Bryant’s been put on notice.’

  He nodded. ‘And I’ve been summoned,’ he replied. ‘He wants to see me at ten thirty, to discuss the rescheduling of yesterday’s postponed announcement.’

  ‘Can he do that?’

  Hamblin frowned. ‘It was actually questionable whether Ms Repton could have done it. By that I mean whether she could have implemented such a far-reaching executive decision that was taken by what I’m sure the media will describe as a cabal within the Cabinet.

  ‘The Opposition will demand a debate, and there will have to be a vote. I’m fairly sure that Mr Kramer knows that: I suspect that he will hold it within a week and that he will rally his own party behind Spitfire and enough of the pro-nuclear Labour people to pass it quite easily.’

  ‘What if Emily recovers?’ I asked. ‘I know it’s long odds against, but what if?’

  Hamblin shook his head. ‘For as long as the Prime Minister shows the faintest possibility of recovery, she will be kept in a medically induced coma. If she does begin to improve, it will be maintained to help her brain injury repair itself. She isn’t going to be conscious in the next two days, or anything like it. While she does hover, Kramer is effectively in charge, with the backing of his senior colleagues.’

  ‘Can Labour challenge that?’

  ‘Not a chance. You’re obviously not a student of Westminster, Mr Skinner. I shouldn’t say this even to you, but this is the worst Opposition party I’ve seen since I entered the Civil Service in the early eighties. Mr Brady is completely hopeless; at PMQs he keeps going off on wild goose chases and keeps on being politely squashed by Ms Repton. I don’t know who’s briefing him, but they should be sacked.’

  I had a fair idea who was briefing him, but I wasn’t about to share that with my new friend, not yet and probably not ever.

  ‘On the matter at hand,’ he continued, ‘what have you discovered in the last twenty or so hours?’

  ‘I know who didn’t stab the Prime Minister,’ I told him ruefully. ‘I still need to speak to the Chancellor and the Defence Secretary, but I don’t expect too much from either of them.’

  Hamblin glanced at his watch. ‘The Chancellor has a very full diary,’ he said, ‘but I’ve squeezed you in there. He’ll see you and Commander McIlhenney at nine fifteen, but not here, in the Treasury. As for the Defence Secretary, I’ll get back to you on that when I’ve spoken to him, and that will be when they can find him.’

  Neil had arrived when I went back into our office. ‘Enjoy your dinner?’ he asked.

  I nodded. ‘Of course. It’s always good to catch up with old friends.’ I knew he was fishing, so I took the bait. ‘No, she wasn’t able to tell me anything that helps our investigation and no, I didn’t agree to any connection with MI5 beyond the next day or so. Don’t get too comfortable in that chair,’ I added. ‘We have to find the way into the Treasury building and I have a feeling that won’t be easy.’

  I wasn’t wrong there. I chose the wrong entrance to the vast edifice, and had to be redirected by the security staff. By the time we found the Chancellor’s inner sanctum and talked our way in there, it was nine fifteen on the dot.

  Leslie Ellis greeted us at the doorway of his office. ‘Gentlemen, come in,’ he said. ‘I’ve always wanted to see what MI5 operatives actually look like. Pretty large, it seems.’

  The Chancellor of the Exchequer is one of the most powerful finance ministers on the planet, and I’d been expecting a personality to match. The incumbent was a plump little man, no more than five feet eight inches in height, bald, save for a semi-circlet of white hair around the back of his dome-like head. He ushered us into his room with a diffident smile.

  ‘Seat yourselves, please.’ He pointed at a group of three chairs, round a table on which a coffee pot and three mugs stood, on a silver tray. ‘The least I could do,’ he said as he poured. ‘It would have been much easier for me to find you, as Norman Hamblin suggested, but I do have a permanently tight schedule; also, to be honest, once I’m in here I tend to take root.’ He handed Neil a mug, then filled one for me. ‘I’ll leave you to add milk and sugar. Now, who is who?’ he asked, as I added a little milk.

  ‘My name is Bob Skinner,’ I replied, ‘formerly a chief constable in Scotland, and my colleague is Commander Neil McIlhenney from the Metropolitan Police. My commission with the Security Service is short term, for as long as this investigation lasts.’

  ‘That’s a task I don’t envy you.’ The smile was replaced by a look of concern. ‘All I can tell you is that it wasn’t me,’ he added.

  ‘Who did what?’ I murmured, as I sipped my coffee. It was, I realised immediately, a hell of a lot better than the takeaway variety that I’d binned earlier.

  ‘Who stabbed Emily in the head with her letter-opener.’ He smiled once more as Neil and I exchanged glances. ‘My colleague, the Home Secretary, favoured me with the truth. I understand the reasoning behind the subterfuge that’s going on and I agree with it, so worry not, Mr Skinner; I have a couple of secrets of my own, so this one is safe with me.’ He paused. ‘How long can it stay safe? That’s the question.’

  ‘Not for much longer,’ I replied. ‘Possibly for as long as Grover Bryant can live with being kicked out of his sister’s office by Kramer. He promised me twenty-four hours, but they’ll be up soon.’

  Ellis nodded. ‘Compassion was never Roland’s strong suit. You’re right, he should be treating Grover gently, and not simply for political reasons.’ He laid down his mug and peered at us. ‘What would you like to ask me, gentlemen?’

  ‘When was the last time you saw Ms Repton?’ Neil ventured.

  ‘The night before last. I looked in to see her just before I left. I should explain,’ he said, ‘that I don’t actually live in Number Eleven Downing Street. The accommodation is there when I need it, but most of the time I live in my own house in south London, with my son and his partner. Male partner,’ he added, ‘but I suspe
ct you know that.’

  I nodded. ‘Yes but it’s irrelevant. How did the Prime Minister seem?’

  ‘Excited,’ he replied, immediately. ‘She was working on the statement that she was to deliver in the House yesterday, and she was looking forward to it.’

  ‘Spitfire?’

  ‘Yes.’ He looked surprised. ‘You know about it?’

  ‘We do,’ I said. ‘The Home Secretary felt I should know all the background; I felt we both should. It’s going to cause a major sensation when eventually it does become public knowledge.’

  The Chancellor’s grin returned. ‘I understand now why Roland described you as a man of independent mind.’

  ‘Were those his exact words?’

  ‘Well, no,’ he admitted. ‘Awkward and Scottish were two of them; I needn’t trouble you with the other.’

  ‘I’ve heard that before,’ I laughed. ‘To me that’s a compliment, not an insult, especially, with all due respect, when it comes from a politician. I did a class in constitutional law at university; because of that, as a point of principle I’ve never taken an order from one of your crew in my life . . . apart from when I was married to one, and even then it never went further than “Clear the table”, or “Pour me a glass of Chablis”. My ex-wife is a socialist,’ I added, ‘but she has expensive tastes.’

  ‘I’ve made similar observations myself, around this place,’ Ellis confessed. ‘Most commonly in the House of Commons restaurant, where the Côtes de Nuits Village outsells the house Merlot by quite a margin among the members of the Opposition benches . . . even under the new regime.’

  Neil must have felt we were getting too chummy, for he cut in. ‘When you saw the Prime Minister, Chancellor, did she say anything to you that was out of the ordinary? Anything that might make you think in hindsight that she felt threatened?’

  ‘No, Commander,’ he replied, firmly. ‘Emily is a very confident woman. She never feels threatened; she never has done, not even at the height of the leadership election when things were fraught, to say the least, between her and the Kramers. And she was right; she won a clear majority in the ballot of the membership, in spite of all the whispering and the briefing against her.’