State Secrets

by Quintin Jardine

  I nodded. ‘I’m flattered; that much I will admit. Not by Clive Graham’s machinations, I’d never go for that, since it would be fundamentally dishonest, but as I said, I do like Brady, and I can see that he has a job that needs doing. His leader in the Lords is very able and very useless at one and the same time. I’m not a member of his party and I’ve never voted for it, but if the objective was to remove the son of a bitch who’s just slithered into power, that’s something I would love to do.’

  I winked at her and grinned again. ‘But I might be able to do that,’ I told her, ‘without joining Merlin’s team. A lot has happened in the last thirty-six hours, and I’m wrapped up in it.’

  I took my temporary MI5 badge of office from my pocket and laid it on the table. Sarah picked it up and studied it, a frown forming then deepening as she read it, and absorbed its meaning.

  ‘She’s pulled you in!’ she exclaimed, indignantly. ‘The Dennis woman has been trying to recruit you since you left the police, but I didn’t think you were interested. In fact,’ she said, and there was a challenge in her voice, ‘you promised me that you weren’t.’

  ‘I haven’t broken that promise,’ I assured her, ‘but this was something I couldn’t refuse. Since midday yesterday, Neil McIlhenney and I have been investigating what has turned out to be the killing of Emily Repton.’

  ‘I think you’d better . . .’

  I nodded as her whisper faltered, then I took her through the whole story, step by step, move by move. When I’d finished she was silent for a while, then said, ‘You think this man Balliol killed her? Is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘That’s what the evidence suggests, and more than that, there’s further clear evidence of a conspiracy to cover it up. Neil’s on Balliol now; I’m not going to move yet, but when we’re ready we’ll take him. I need to get somebody else out of the game before then.’

  ‘Is this dangerous?’ she asked.

  ‘If I thought it was,’ I replied, ‘you wouldn’t have set one tiny toe outside of Gullane.’

  ‘Then why am I here?’

  ‘Why do you think?’ I grinned. ‘I want you to do what you do best . . . well,’ I added, after a moment’s reflection, ‘second best. A prime minister deserves the top people, even after she’s dead.’

  Thirty-Three

  Lou called me at five minutes to midnight; by then I’d been watching John Balliol’s so-called cottage for four and a half hours. That might have been what Bob had called it, and the sign at the end of the drive might have read ‘Greystone Cottage’, but in reality it was a substantial country house, set in a few acres of land.

  There was a rough track along what I took to be a boundary, from the satellite image that I’d printed out. After I’d sussed the place out, as carefully as I could in the darkness, I’d found a spot where I could park up out of anyone’s sight, and from which I had a clear view of anyone arriving or leaving the house.

  I’d come prepared for a siege; sandwiches, fruit, diet Red Bull and other sugar-free drinks, biscuits, and also a supply of plastic bottles to piss in, as necessary. In truth I was excited. I hadn’t been on a proper stake-out in years. I’d gone along on a couple of occasions when the time had come for my undercover officers to take their targets down, but then I’d been more or less an observer. Being involved, keeping concealed watch on a suspect was different, something I’d enjoyed in the junior ranks, and which I thought had been gone for good.

  Mind you, while I was up for the task, I wasn’t quite sure why I was doing it. Given what we knew about Balliol, my view had been, ‘Get him, sweat him, close the case,’ but Bob hadn’t wanted to do that.

  ‘Too many imponderables,’ he had said. ‘We have no physical record of Balliol being in Repton’s room, only the word of Mickey Satchell and the intimidation of Joe Coffrey. They’re both flakes, the sort of witness you dread exposing to an aggressive defence counsel. Coffrey’s terrified, and Mickey will probably say anything she thought would benefit her career. I want the whole package, and most of all I want the whole story.

  ‘Look, Neil,’ he had argued, ‘we have a certain advantage here. Nobody knows what we’re doing, other than Hamblin. I don’t want to blow that, and that’s what we’d do by hauling in Balliol for questioning at this stage. For that’s all it would be; he would hide behind the most expensive lawyers he could find and would be back on the street in half an hour. For now, let’s just watch him, see where he goes, what he does, whom he visits, who visits him.’

  I could have stuck to my guns, and overridden him; I was a serving police officer, he was a civilian with an uncertain legal status. But I didn’t. If I took my case to Sir Feargal, I wasn’t sure he would back me, and anyway, Bob was probably right; he usually was.

  So there I was, munching a banana by moonlight at damn near midnight when my phone flashed in its dashboard socket; ‘Louise’, the screen proclaimed.

  ‘I just found your note,’ she said, when I answered her summons. ‘Underneath the half-bottle of Lanson, which is currently chilling. You’re involved in an operation and don’t know when you’ll be back? How many CID wives are spun that story, I wonder, with or without the champagne persuader? It’s lucky for you I know that Bob Skinner’s involved. With him, anything’s possible. That man will never change.’

  Although my wife and Bob go back more than thirty years, to university when he was a final-year student and she was a fresher, straight from school, I’ve never asked either of them about the extent of their relationship, because it’s ancient history, and frankly because I don’t want to know, but it’s pretty clear from what she’s told me that they had the hots for each other.

  It didn’t last because Bob had another girlfriend, Myra, who became Alex’s mother, a girl he’d known from his school days who was a student teacher through in Edinburgh, sowing plenty of her own wild oats, or so I’ve heard. When they parted it was amicable; Lou’s acting ambitions were very strong by that time, and Bob’s heart was set on a police career. His loss, eventually my gain.

  ‘Is he with you?’ she asked.

  ‘No, this is a solo mission.’

  ‘So he’s tucked up in bed somewhere,’ she laughed, ‘while you’re freezing your nuts off watching some low-life scum.’

  ‘Not low life; far from it, in fact. And as for big Bob’s surroundings, not any old surroundings; the Savoy, no less.’

  ‘Bloody hell, we can’t afford that, and we’re not skint.’

  ‘There’s a reason for that,’ I assured her. ‘Sarah’s with him. And we can afford it,’ I added. ‘I promise you a night there, soon.’

  ‘You will be held to that, McIlhenney. Where are you anyway? Or is that hush-hush too?’

  ‘I’m somewhere south of Watford,’ I replied. ‘At least I think it is. You know my geography; it’s shite.’

  ‘Why did you take my car, and not your own?’

  ‘It’s compact, it’s unobtrusive and finally I’ve found a use for its four-by-four capability.’

  ‘Don’t bend it.’

  ‘I’ll try not to; if I do, the Met’ll fix it. Enjoy the champagne.’

  ‘I may keep it for your return. One glass won’t hurt you. Take care. Night, love you.’

  ‘You too.’

  My job satisfaction dimmed more than somewhat as I ended the call, wishing I was back home . . . even though one glass would probably hurt me, my diabetes being just a wee bit more problematic than I let on.

  Greystone Cottage seemed to have settled down for the night, after a pretty unremarkable evening. The only three arrivals had been a van, delivering sushi, according to its side panels, a motorcyclist, dropping off a pizza order, and finally a sleek dark BMW saloon. A dark-haired woman in a tight-fitting black dress had emerged from the back seat, door opened for her by the peak-capped driver, and gone inside, her only lug
gage being a small vanity case. I fired off several frames with my Nikon, hoping that its night setting would steal enough light from the open door of Greystone Cottage to yield an identifiable image.

  I took an educated guess at her function, and her profession, reminding myself of the fundamental truth that while money can’t buy love, it can rent some pretty spectacular alternatives.

  Through an upper window, I had caught a glimpse of a man I took to be Balliol, from his age and general description. He’d been pacing up and down, a phone pressed to his ear; the call lasted for over ten minutes, and he wasn’t smiling when it was over.

  The food orders had been accepted by a black-clad oriental . . . or possibly by two for I couldn’t be sure that it had been the same man on each occasion. Bob had told me that John Balliol’s father Everard had maintained a cadre of Korean bodyguards. It seemed that his heir was keeping up the family tradition, a remarkably generous act, given that one of them had gone rogue and killed his employer before vanishing without a subsequent trace.

  Twelve thirty came and went, then 1 a.m., with one light showing through a carelessly drawn curtain. Finally, at one ten, that went out also.

  Greystone Cottage had settled down for the night; I took a piss in one of my bottles, set my alarm to wake me at five thirty, and then followed suit.

  Thirty-Four

  I felt guilty about arguing Neil out of hauling John Balliol in for questioning, and even more so about asking him to camp outside the guy’s house, but I had convinced myself that if we were ever going to get to the truth of Emily Repton’s death, it would be through him.

  That said, I didn’t feel so guilty that it got in the way of my enjoying my night in the opulence of the Savoy with my lovely wife. Sarah loved it too, once she had come to terms with the job she was being asked to do the next day.

  The river was still flowing slowly towards the sea when we woke next morning. I had just ordered breakfast when Neil called my mobile. If you can sound stiff in a phone call, he did, and tired too.

  ‘There’s nothing doing,’ he reported. ‘The curtains are all open now, the ones I can see, and I have a good view into the house. Balliol doesn’t appear to have any staff other than the three Koreans I’ve counted so far, unless you count the woman who left ten minutes ago in the same Beamer that dropped her off last night.’

  ‘Koreans?’ I said.

  ‘Family loyalty, I guess.’

  ‘Will you be able to ID the woman?’ I asked.

  He recited the registration plate of the vehicle that had picked her up. I noted it, to be passed to Amanda for tracing.

  ‘I have a couple of images too,’ he added. ‘I have a usable one from this morning.’

  ‘Send it to me, if you can; I’m sure you’re right. She’s not his chiropractor. But she has been inside the house; that could be useful. Anything else?’

  ‘Just one observation,’ he replied. ‘So far, I’ve got five people inside the house, including the lady, who did not just come for dinner, I imagine. Given that, they had a hell of a lot of sushi and pizza delivered last night, more than enough for that number of people.’

  ‘Maybe he’s throwing a party for the Aldermaston Spitfire team after the announcement this afternoon,’ I suggested.

  ‘Trust you to curb my enthusiasm,’ he grunted, ‘but you could be right.’

  But maybe I wasn’t, I thought, after I’d signed off, promising Neil I’d get down there as soon as I could to relieve him. I suspected that I’d slipped down Lou’s Christmas card list by several notches, and she’s not someone I’d ever want to upset, not again.

  I passed on the registration number to Amanda; yes, she was up and about that early, or at least her mobile was. I forwarded Neil’s photograph too. It may have been we were miscalling the woman by labelling her as an escort, but anyone who leaves a billionaire’s pad in a hundred-grand auto wearing a five-grand designer dress in perfect make-up and with not a hair out of place at 7.45 a.m. is unlikely to be an amateur, whatever her game.

  ‘Who’s that?’ Sarah’s question took me by surprise, I hadn’t heard her leave the bedroom, but she had and was looking over my shoulder at my phone.

  ‘It’s not Mother Teresa.’

  ‘Dunno,’ my wife murmured, ‘she looks as if she could perform miracles.’

  I let that one pass. While she went off to shower and get ready for her day, I called someone else I hoped would be an early riser. And he was; Sir Feargal Aherne had been in his office since seven, he told me, perusing the morning’s media.

  ‘Have you seen the coverage?’ he asked.

  ‘No, but I can guess how it looks. I had a call from my managing editor on the Saltire yesterday afternoon. It went to voicemail, and I chose not to return it.’

  ‘Probably wise,’ the Commissioner observed. ‘It’s as if everything happened so fast yesterday, the PM’s death followed almost immediately by the coronation of Kramer, that it took the news desks by surprise. But now they’ve caught up and the questions are coming thick and fast, demanding to know what happened to Emily.

  ‘I’ve agreed with Kramer and the Mayor that everything will be channelled through my press office for the moment. I’ve instructed that we hold to the line that there will be no detailed statement until the cause of Ms Repton’s death is established by post-mortem examination.’

  An alarm bell rang in my head. ‘Hold on, Feargal,’ I said. ‘I don’t want Sarah besieged by a howling mob of journos.’

  ‘She won’t be,’ he assured me. ‘The media will expect the autopsy to be performed at the Westminster Mortuary, which is state of the art. It won’t be. I had the body transferred during the night to the facility in Papworth Hospital near Cambridge; that’s where it will be done.’

  ‘You’ll need a police witness at the autopsy,’ I pointed out, ‘but Neil McIlhenney’s keeping an eye on John Balliol and I plan to go down there to relieve him.’

  ‘I know,’ he said. ‘This is a prime minister we’re dealing with. I propose to observe myself; I think that’s appropriate. I will collect Professor Grace from the Savoy at nine thirty, if that’s okay with you.’

  ‘It’s fine; it leaves both of us free to concentrate on the jobs in hand.’

  ‘Is there anything else you need from me?’

  ‘In an ideal world, I’d like you to detain Mickey Satchell. She’s the only witness to Balliol entering Repton’s room, given the destruction of the CCTV evidence, but I suspect she’s going to decline to identify him. We caught her off guard yesterday, but she’s had a chance to regroup.’

  ‘Why would she refuse?’

  ‘As soon as she does, she incriminates herself as part of a conspiracy.’

  ‘That’s what you think this was?’ Sir Feargal exclaimed. ‘A conspiracy to murder?’

  ‘That’s the way it looks.’

  ‘Are there witnesses against her?’ he asked.

  ‘There is one, who may be able to put her outside Repton’s room, when the man we think was Balliol entered. He only saw her, not him.’

  ‘Is this witness reliable?’

  If we’d been on Skype, he’d have seen me wince. ‘I think so, but that’s when it gets really hairy. At this stage, Feargal, you don’t want to know any more than I’ve told you so far. I don’t want to involve my man unless it’s unavoidable; if I can find physical evidence that puts Balliol in the room, where he’s supposed never to have been, that’ll be enough for us to detain him meaningfully, without involving anyone else.’

  ‘Then let’s hope for the best.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I sighed. ‘Let’s hope. In the meantime, there’s someone else I want to confront, or at least meet: Nicholas Wheeler. He’s been missing from his apartment for forty-eight hours, his car’s gone too, and I’m having trouble buying his protection team’s assumption th
at he’s holed up with a woman, licking his wounds. His career as a minister may have hit the buffers, but he’s still an MP. As such he has an agent in his constituency; I checked with her last night and she told me she didn’t know where he is either.’

  ‘Could she have been told not to say?’

  ‘It’s possible, if she’s a very skilled liar, but there was anxiety in her voice and I don’t think she was faking it.’

  ‘You see him as part of this conspiracy?’ the Commissioner asked.

  ‘He could be. He’s one of a very small circle of knowledge on Spitfire.’

  ‘So was Emily Repton; she was about to announce the new weapon system in parliament, and the man Balliol was its parent, so to speak. Why conspire against her?’

  ‘That I don’t know,’ I admitted. ‘It’s the missing piece. Kramer will deny all knowledge; now he’s in the big seat we probably won’t even get to put the question. His bodyguard Daffyd Evans, the man we suspect of forcing Coffrey to take Balliol’s visit off CCTV, he’s not contactable. I’ve spoken to the Chancellor, who more or less shrugged his shoulders, fed me a line about challenging Kramer for the leadership and then did nothing when it came to the crunch. If I’m going to get inside this thing I need to speak to Wheeler. He may know nothing that’ll solve the mystery, but I need to ask.’

  ‘There’s one way, you know,’ Sir Feargal murmured, ‘that might help you find him.’

  ‘Go on,’ I said.

  ‘Where’s his car, Wheeler’s car, do you know?’

  ‘I’ve never asked the question. What’s the relevance? Do we even know he has one in London?’

  ‘He has; it’s an original Mark Ten Jaguar, bloody big beast, and it’s housed in a secure garage below his apartment block. I know this, because it became a matter of concern to the protection group.

  ‘The Defence Secretary is always viewed as a high-risk target, always has been for as long as the post has existed, first for the generally disaffected and in the modern era for global terrorism. His protection officers don’t like him driving alone, but Wheeler has always insisted on going off piste on the road, as he does with his love life.