State Secrets

by Quintin Jardine

  ‘The strongest representations were made to me about it. I tried to persuade him, but he insisted on a degree of freedom and personal privacy. He laughed, and said that even if he did have a detective with him in the car, he’d still be at risk because of the way he drives.

  ‘He’s a pleasant young man, but he wouldn’t be persuaded. I went over his head; I went to the Prime Minister’s office, but Ms Repton refused to intervene.’

  ‘So?’ I asked. ‘How did you get around it? For it’s clear that you did.’

  ‘I did what I did when a similar situation arose during my time as head of the Police Service of Northern Ireland. A particularly recalcitrant minister of state in the Northern Ireland Office took exactly the same line as Mr Wheeler. The reckless bugger had a mistress and thought we didn’t know about her,’ he explained.

  ‘Even in the modern era in Ireland, with a much lower threat level than at the height of what they still call the Troubles, the man’s behaviour was suicidal. So I told my security people to put a tracker in his car, without him ever being aware. And I did the same with Wheeler. I had to be a little discreet, since technically it involved breaking and entering; his protection officers don’t even know it’s there.’

  ‘You put a bug in a Cabinet minister’s car?’ I laughed.

  ‘Yes,’ he declared, with something like pride in his voice. ‘I won’t have anything happen to these people on my watch, not if I can prevent it. Most modern vehicles have trackers fitted anyway; his, being a vintage model, didn’t.’

  ‘How effective is it?

  ‘If it’s tucked away under six storeys of housing, there might be a loss of signal. But if it isn’t, we should be able to find it. I’ll put people on it as soon as they come in, and get back to you as soon as I can. I agree with your summary; finding Wheeler has become imperative.’

  I left him to keep this promise and went to tell Sarah of the arrangements he had made for the autopsy. Then I did the obvious; I called all of the personal numbers I had been given for Nicholas Wheeler, his flat, his home in his Gloucestershire constituency, and his mobile, to check whether he’d surfaced overnight. The home numbers went to voicemail, and the mobile was switched off.

  I rang his agent too, on the mobile number she’d given me, but all I got out of that was an earful from an irritable husband, a crusty sod who snapped that his wife was in the lavatory, and that she hadn’t heard from her boss since the last time she and I had spoken. He added that as far as he was concerned, Mr Wheeler could stay absent without leave for as long as he liked, as his business took up far too much of his wife’s off-duty hours. I had some sympathy with that view; during my marriage to Aileen, she had seemed to spend half her life on phone calls with her agent. At least that’s what she told me; maybe it had been Joey Morocco.

  Breakfast arrived just as Sarah emerged from the bathroom. We took time to do it justice, and I studied her carefully as we ate. I had begun to worry that I was asking too much of her. She was excited by the job in hand. Was she too excited? That was my worry.

  As often she does, she read my mind. ‘Relax,’ she said. ‘I’m fine. I’m a doctor, remember; I know how to monitor myself and I do, on a daily basis. My blood pressure is on the low side of normal, and I had a kidney function test last week which was clear on all counts.’

  Reassured, I took some time to glance at the newspapers that had arrived with the breakfast trolley. Sir Feargal hadn’t exaggerated. ‘PM Death Mystery’ in the Daily Telegraph was the most restrained headline I saw. Even the Financial Times was excited. ‘Repton Passing and Kramer Accession Rock Markets’, it declared.

  Most of the stories quoted Grover Bryant’s Downing Street announcement and no more, but The Times may have been his favourite, for its political editor carried additional lines in his piece. They didn’t say much, but made it ominously clear that Bryant would not be content until the full circumstances of his half-sister’s death had been established.

  Nevertheless, the tropical illness story seemed to be holding, just. ‘Inexplicable’, the Sun described it, breaking its usual syllable limit.

  In a few hours’ time that would all change, once Sarah had done her work. How would it be announced, I wondered, and by whom? My guess was that Kramer would insist on taking the lead, setting the agenda rather than reacting to it.

  Events were finely balanced for our new Prime Minister; his rush to make the Spitfire announcement interested me. I’ve learned a bit about news management since I joined InterMedia and one principle that I understand is that if there’s a big story that you have an interest in burying, the best way to do that is by finding another one.

  The truth about Emily’s death would have to come out in some form, but as long as Balliol couldn’t be linked to it, and as long as no motive emerged, Kramer’s version would be accepted.

  He was the man perched at the top of the pyramid, as I had observed. It was built of pebbles, but as long as they all stayed in place, he would be fine.

  The first one shifted when my mobile rang, and I saw that the caller was Hamblin.

  ‘I have some interesting news for you,’ he began. He was a man so not given to excitement that when he did show some, it had a hint of hysteria. ‘The Number Ten phone records; I have gone through them and one call stands out, made by the Prime Minister on her private line, at twenty-five past midnight, to Nicholas Wheeler, at his flat.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ I exclaimed, his excitement infecting me, ‘and as soon as it was over, Wheeler kicked out his protection officers. What about hers?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ Hamblin replied, ‘but I did summon the night duty police officers as soon as their shift ended this morning. Miss Fortescue sent for them, privately. Under, shall we say, forceful questioning, one of them admitted that he let Ms Repton out of Downing Street, by a back entrance that goes into Horseguards, at twelve thirty-five. This has happened on other occasions, he confessed.’

  ‘Oh you fucking beauty,’ I laughed. ‘Are there any politicians in Westminster who aren’t sleeping with other politicians?’

  ‘I believe you Scots have a saying,’ he murmured, ‘of which the punchline is, “Damn few and they’re all dead.” Am I right?’

  ‘Close enough for the cigar, Cabinet Secretary. We know that her protection team dropped her at the Commons at a quarter to ten. Did they pick her up from Wheeler’s?’

  ‘No, she seems to have walked back. She re-entered the building by the front door at ten to eight, carrying a Costa coffee beaker and a bag that the night duty officer thought contained croissants. She’d have been unobserved by the media at that time.’

  ‘I hope she enjoyed them,’ I told him. ‘They could well have been her last meal.’

  ‘Does that take you forward, Bob?’ he asked. We had attained solid first-name terms, a major advance on our first encounter.

  ‘Oh yes, it does. Think about it. Emily spent the night with Nick Wheeler; twelve hours later she was dying and he was missing. I don’t do coincidences, Norman. It leaves me hoping that another pebble will be dislodged. When it is, the whole damn lot might come tumbling down.’

  Thirty-Five

  I was more than a wee bit grumpy when Bob called me just before eight; my enthusiasm of the night before had vanished, as gradually I had been reminded of the realities of being in the field (almost literally in this case) with only a watching brief. The big man’s calmness didn’t help. His equanimity had been restored, but a night in the Savoy will do that for you every time.

  Mine had gone to hell in a handcart. It rolled even further down the pathway when I broached the theory that there might have been more people in the house than we knew about, based on the amount of food that had been delivered. His instant response, that the team from nearby Aldermaston would have something to celebrate in the afternoon when Kramer took the wraps off Spitfire, was one th
at would have occurred to me had my brain been working even at seventy-five per cent efficiency.

  Still, I was chuffed with what I had achieved, particularly the clear, identifiable shot of the lady who had visited Greystone Cottage overnight. Even in early breaking daylight she was a looker. Balliol’s accountant? They usually carry briefcases, not make-up bags. His companion? Probably. A performance bonus for one of the Koreans? Unlikely.

  She may have no part to play in the story, I thought, woozily, but if Bob’s friend Amanda, or my boss Sir Feargal, could trace her, she might be able to tell us how much of that sushi had gone in the fridge.

  Yes, I really was feeling woozy for an hour or so after Bob ended our update with a promise to come down to relieve me as soon as he could. I’d miscalculated the amount of food I’d need, given that I’d managed a bit less than two hours’ sleep through the night, and my blood sugar levels were in danger of joining my equanimity on that handcart to hell.

  I do have tablets for the condition, a drug called chlorpropamide that’s supposed to help my pancreas produce more insulin, but it’s an aid not a cure, and if my sugar levels were getting low, what I really needed was a bag of boiled sweets, something I did not have.

  Or maybe I was just having a panic attack, for the sound of wheels crunching along the drive snapped me back into wakefulness and made me put my problems on hold.

  I trained my binoculars on the turning circle in front of the house, just as a small white hatchback came into view, then drew to a halt. As a man climbed out of the driver’s seat I grabbed my camera, focused quickly through its long lens and was able to fire off several shots as he straightened up, then walked towards the stone steps that rose up to the portico. The door opened as he approached and he stepped inside; not a casual caller then, someone who was expected.

  And someone who was familiar to me; I’d seen him before, I knew it. A young man, early thirties, with fair hair. I studied the images I had captured on my Nikon’s small screen, and chose the one that gave the best view of the caller’s face. It wasn’t as well defined as my shot of the woman, but I zoomed it in and peered at it. Yes, familiar, but what was the context?

  And then I remembered. When I’d recruited Shafat Iqbal, my undercover currency trader, he’d been positively vetted. That means we hadn’t simply looked at his financial affairs, we’d looked at him too, without his knowledge, followed him during his off-duty time, to ensure that he really was who he claimed to be.

  I’d seen all the photographs, including several of his fiancé; a couple of those had included a white car, a BMW hatchback. I couldn’t remember the registration plate, but I could remember its owner, and I was looking at him in those images; James Ellis, the son of the Chancellor of the Exchequer.

  But what the hell was he doing there?

  My first instinct was to call Bob, but I thought better of it almost at once. Instead I set out to answer the questions that I knew he’d be bound to ask, and one in particular.

  I took my phone from its holder in the dashboard and flashed through my contacts, stopping at one who was listed only as ‘SI’, then hitting the call button.

  ‘Sergeant Iqbal,’ I began as he answered, ‘it’s Commander McIlhenney. Can you speak?’

  There was traffic noise in the background, but his voice was clear. ‘Yes, boss,’ he replied: I don’t like being called ‘guv’, or ‘guv’nor’ and all my people know it. ‘I’m cycling to work, but my helmet’s Bluetooth. What’s up? You’re not going to pull me in, are you? I’m nearly there, boss, honest.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ I assured him. ‘This is something else; I’m going to ask you a couple of questions. They cannot be discussed with anyone else, repeat anyone. Understood?’

  ‘Got that, sir.’ His breathing was heavier as if he was pedalling up an incline.

  ‘In your household, yours and James’s, has there ever been any discussion of something called Spitfire? That’s discussion to which you’d been a party, or discussion that you may have overheard?’

  ‘Hold on,’ he gasped. ‘Big hill; I’m going to pull over.’ I waited until he was ready, letting him gather his breath.

  ‘Not directly,’ he replied, his voice almost back to normal, ‘but there was one time, I walked into the kitchen on Saturday morning. James and his dad were there, and I heard Les use that word. James started to reply, then stopped again. He just said, “Nah, nothing,” or something like that. I thought no more of it.’

  ‘Okay. Second question. Has a man named John Balliol ever been mentioned there?’

  ‘John Balliol?’ he repeated. ‘An American? Sharp-dressed fellow?’

  ‘That fits his description; thirties, intense look about him.’

  ‘Yes, he has. Not only mentioned,’ Iqbal added, ‘he’s been there, let me think, three weekends ago. He arrived mid-afternoon on the Sunday; Les took him into his study and James joined them there. I wasn’t invited.’

  ‘Was there anyone else at that meeting?’

  ‘Was there ever. The Home Secretary turned up, complete with a minder; that’s the man who became Prime Minister yesterday. Not just him, either; Radley, the Foreign Secretary, he was there too.’

  ‘Anybody else? Any other Cabinet ministers?’

  ‘There was another guy; he was last to arrive. He turned up in a bloody big classic Jaguar. Lovely car; light blue. I don’t know what he was, for we weren’t introduced, but when James met him at the door he said, “Hello, Nick.” Then he took him into the meeting.’

  ‘How long did James stay in there?’

  ‘All the way through; afterwards I asked him what it was about. All he said was that it was government business, and that his father wanted a note kept of the meeting.’

  ‘Isn’t that what the Civil Service is for?’ I pondered.

  ‘I had the same thought,’ Iqbal said. ‘Commander,’ he paused as a heavy vehicle passed by, waiting for its noise to fade into the distance, ‘what’s this about, and why is our unit interested in it?’

  ‘We’re not,’ I told him, abruptly. ‘I am. Do you know where James is now?’

  ‘I don’t. All I do know is that he left earlier than usual this morning. I asked him what was up. He glowered and said, “Crisis bloody management.” Then he was gone. Is he in trouble, boss?’

  ‘I don’t know. Don’t ask him either, ever. This conversation never happened, Shafat. I am very serious about that.’

  ‘Understood, boss.’

  ‘On your assignment,’ I asked, to get him off the subject, as much as for any pressing need to know, ‘you said you’re nearly there. Can you put that in a timeframe?’

  ‘There’s a meeting next Wednesday. Once I find out who’s going to be there, I’ll know better. If we get all the right people in the room, that could be the moment to close them down.’

  ‘OK, report back as soon as you do know.’

  I ended the call and looked back at Greystone Cottage. The white Beamer was still there, but one of the Koreans was standing in the portico. On guard? That’s how it looked.

  I went back to my phone and called Bob. ‘I think you should get down here,’ I said, ‘soon as you can. James Ellis is paying a surprise visit to his friend Balliol. When you come, bring me some sandwiches, bananas and boiled sweets. I’m staying for the duration.’

  Thirty-Six

  Amanda Dennis is a hard person to surprise, in my experience, but when I called her just after Sarah had been collected by Sir Feargal, I pulled it off twice; first when I told her about Emily Repton’s early hours’ walkabout habit, and again when I revealed her destination.

  ‘She was eleven years older than him,’ she exclaimed, more than a little naively, I thought.

  ‘Did you really say that?’ I laughed. ‘A woman who had a relationship with her son’s pal?’

  ‘I s
uppose,’ she conceded. ‘But . . . my God, I hope the new administration takes a more responsible approach to personal security than hers did.’

  ‘Give her a break; Wheeler too,’ I argued. ‘Single people in the public eye must have a hell of a job sustaining a private life, politicians more than any other. If they want to get laid they can hardly do what Balliol did.’

  ‘Oh no?’ she chuckled. ‘You should see some of the stuff we have on file.’

  ‘Have you traced that woman, by the way?’ I asked. ‘The one Neil photographed?’

  ‘Her and the car. You were right, it was private hire and so was she. Her name is Amelie Tinker, she’s Spanish and she’s pretty exclusive. She lives in Madrid, and uses an agent, who provides her services to men with net worth of no less than twenty million sterling. Five grand a night plus a business-class air fare might be a lot to ordinary mortals, but it’s pocket change to the likes of Balliol. By the time we traced her car, it was on its way back to its base from Gatwick and she was in flight.’

  ‘If we need her can we reach her?’

  ‘I’m sure we can,’ she said. ‘One call to her agent should be enough; he won’t want to get on the wrong side of the likes of us. If it isn’t, I can call my opposite number in the Spanish Interior Ministry; but the agent will know that, so he’ll cooperate.’

  ‘Keep that on hold for now,’ I replied. ‘I’ve just had Neil on the line; there’s something else we need to find out if we can. Why did James Ellis turn up at Greystone Cottage half an hour after Señorita Tinker left?’

  ‘The Chancellor’s son?’ she exclaimed. ‘What the hell’s he doing there?’

  ‘A bit of crisis management was what he told his boyfriend. I’m now wondering whether it relates in any way to a gathering held three Sundays ago in the Chancellor’s house in Wimbledon. There were five participants: Ellis, Kramer, Radley, Wheeler and Balliol. They met in the Chancellor’s study and the minute was taken by Ellis Junior.’