State Secrets

by Quintin Jardine

  ‘So are you,’ she complained. ‘You’re too senior an officer for all-night gallivanting; and you’re too old for it too.’

  ‘That’s not what you said when we were in that club in Barbados last winter.’

  ‘Hmph,’ she snorted, managing to grin simultaneously at the reminder. ‘I want you fit to go back there. By the way, is that a lump on your forehead?’

  I took the phone from her without comment, having pushed my luck enough for one day.

  ‘Things are moving on,’ Bob told me. ‘There’s something I’d like you to do.’

  ‘What makes you think I’ll be let out to play?’

  He told me what needed doing.

  ‘No problem with that. I can handle that from home.’

  As soon as I was dried, shaved, suited and shod, I shut myself in the room that Lou and I use as an office and went to work. I had to make a couple of phone calls to source the information and numbers I was after, but after pulling a bit of rank I got them.

  Emily Repton’s chief protection officer was a man named Rob Hull. He’d been a uniformed inspector before being approved for protection duty, but rank counts for less in that division than in the rest of the Met.

  He was guarded when he answered my call to his service mobile; not many people have the number. ‘Rob here. Who’s calling?’

  ‘Commander McIlhenney. You know who I am?’

  ‘Yes, sir; who and what. How can I help you?’

  ‘What you don’t know,’ I told him, ‘is that I’ve been seconded to investigate the death of the former Prime Minister.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ Suddenly his level of interest sounded higher than a payday loan. ‘It needs investigation, does it? At commander level.’

  ‘Subject to autopsy findings, it’s being classed as suspicious.’

  ‘Good,’ he retorted. ‘I liked the boss and I didn’t swallow that virus story for a second. What can I tell you, sir?’

  ‘Let’s go back to Monday morning. You and your colleague went with Ms Repton from Downing Street to the Commons, yes?’

  ‘We did. The car dropped us at the side entrance; Barry and I walked her upstairs and into her office.’

  ‘Did you encounter anyone else?’

  ‘Yes, we did,’ he replied at once. ‘Ratty and his guy were leaving for an engagement locally just as we arrived.’

  ‘Ratty?’ I repeated.

  ‘Sorry, sir. Mr Kramer, the Home Secretary; Prime Minister now. First name Roland, so the guys in the group call him Roland Rat. He was a character on breakfast telly, way back,’ Hull explained.

  ‘Yes, I knew that. The only rat who ever joined a sinking ship, they said at the time. Did they stop and talk?’

  ‘They stopped,’ he replied, ‘and they talked. Ratty said, “Good morning, Prime Minister,” with a bit more enthusiasm than he usually shows. Emily looked up at him, then she said something in reply. I couldn’t quite hear all of it, but I did hear Nick Wheeler’s name mentioned. He was her bit on the side,’ he added. ‘I can tell you that now she’s gone. She thought we didn’t know, but we did. When she was done, she tapped Ratty’s chest with a big envelope she was carrying, handed it to him and carried on up the stairs.’

  ‘Then you saw her into her office and left?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Hull sighed, sadly. ‘And we never saw her again; bloody shame. Yeah, the boss was all right. We’ll miss her, Barry and me.’

  ‘Where are you now?’

  ‘In limbo, sir, we’re being replaced. The new man doesn’t want any of her old staff. He has his own bloke, and he’ll pick the team.’

  I thanked him and let him go, then went through to the kitchen to tell the headmistress, as I like to call her, that I was going back to team up with Bob, wherever he was.

  She smiled. ‘Go on then,’ she said. ‘Whatever this is, it has you so pumped up that you’d never forgive me if I gave you detention.’

  Forty-Four

  Neil joined us at Wheeler’s flat. The news he brought was what I’d expected; finally, I reckoned, I’d got something right.

  ‘Emily gave Kramer a copy of her statement as he left for his Prison Governors engagement,’ I said. ‘He read it on the way there and I imagine he hit the roof. He told Les Ellis and they made a plan.’

  ‘Radley too?’ Neil asked.

  ‘You met him,’ I replied. ‘He couldn’t plan his way out of a phone box. Nor is he a man for a crisis. No, I think they kept him out of it. My guess is that after speaking to the Chancellor, Kramer called Emily on his private mobile, and asked her to meet with Balliol, either to brief him in advance or to give him a chance to talk her round.’

  ‘Do you think they sent him in there to kill her?’

  ‘I wouldn’t put it past them; they were ready to eliminate Nick here. But on balance I don’t think they did; my assumption is that Balliol lost it when she told him he was missing out on his share of a few billion pounds’ worth of arms sales and went over the top. I believe that, because things happened very fast when it was discovered. Amanda was called in, rather than the police, with a view to containing the situation, until they could come up with an alternative account of what they thought was the Prime Minister’s death.’

  ‘True,’ she agreed. ‘Containment was the first word Kramer used.’

  ‘He thought you would follow orders, to the letter,’ I continued. ‘He didn’t anticipate you bringing me in, but it would have been dangerous to forbid it. It would have looked suspicious. So I was given forty-eight hours to sort it out, something they were sure I’d never do. Even before I’d begun they were fixing the evidence. Evans was sent to intimidate Coffrey into doctoring the tape, then he came here, and took Mr Wheeler out. Your car was in the garage, yes?’ I asked.

  The young MP nodded. ‘My lift is private and goes down to the garage; all the protection people knew that.’

  ‘That’s how he got you out of here,’ I declared, ‘and down to Greystone Cottage. They kept you under there, until they figured out what to do with you.’

  ‘What about the three phone calls Ms Repton made to his mobile?’ Amanda asked.

  ‘It was on charge,’ Wheeler volunteered. ‘Switched off.’

  ‘And the woman?’ Neil murmured.

  ‘She was either to set him up for blackmail,’ I replied, ‘or to discredit his reputation after they’d killed him. The latter probably, given the amount of juice in that syringe. Drug-fuelled orgies? The tabloids love them. Chances are he’d have been found dead in another location, and the photos would either have been there or would have been leaked afterwards.’

  Wheeler stared at me; he was astonished. ‘What photos? What woman?’

  Amanda took the SD card from her pocket and handed it to him. ‘You may examine these later, or you may choose not to. Either way, you must destroy them.’

  ‘You’ve seen them?’ he asked.

  ‘I had to,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry. The woman is not identifiable, but you are: all of you,’ she added. ‘They’d have killed you, because they had to, and then, with these images, they’d have buried you.’ Amanda turned. ‘What do we do with all this, Bob?’

  ‘We wait for your man to get here, then you all leave the room while he and I have a word. After that, we go and face the . . .’

  Mobile phones: they are a blessing and a curse but usually the latter. I gave a shout of exasperation as mine demanded my attention, but cooled it when I saw that once again it was Sarah who was calling me.

  ‘Hi,’ she said, quietly. ‘Are you alone? Because you might want to be when I tell you what I have to. You can be pretty spectacular when you explode.’

  ‘Hey,’ I exclaimed, ‘you’re not . . .’

  ‘Hell no! My waters are a way off breaking. But I have finished the autopsy on the late Emily Repto
n.’

  I walked through to the kitchen, without a word to the other three. As I left them I heard the door buzzer sound: the man from MI5, I hoped.

  ‘Right,’ I murmured. ‘I’m alone. What have you got for me?’

  I didn’t explode when she told me. I couldn’t; I was altogether too fucking tired. Instead, I told her what I wanted her to do.

  And then I went for a very private chat with the man from Thames House. I was smiling when it was over, and as we left Smith Square.

  Forty-Five

  Norman Hamblin met Amanda, Neil and me at the entrance to the Cabinet Office, then led us directly through the building, into 10 Downing Street, and onwards, upwards, to the Prime Minister’s private quarters.

  Roland Kramer was waiting for us, alone, in his sitting room: a clock on the mantelpiece showed two fifty-five. ‘I can give you fifteen minutes,’ he said, brusquely, brimming with confidence. ‘I’m making the Spitfire statement at three thirty. Mrs Dennis, you say you are in a position to report on Ms Repton’s death. I’m pleased to hear that; it needs to be cleared up.’

  ‘I agree, Prime Minister,’ she conceded, ‘but that may not be so easy.’

  She was carrying a document case, from which she produced a tablet. ‘The post-mortem examination of Ms Repton’s body is complete. The pathologist, Professor Sarah Grace, has submitted a written report but she has also delivered a summary by video, from the mortuary where it was carried out. The simplest way to proceed is for me to play it to you.’

  She switched it on, placed it on a coffee table so that we could all see it, and pressed a button.

  Sarah’s face appeared on screen, still at first, but when Amanda hit the ‘Play’ arrow, in full video mode.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ she began. ‘I am Professor Sarah Grace, head of Edinburgh University Forensic Pathology Unit. I was instructed by the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police Service to perform a forensic examination of the remains of the late Prime Minister Emily Repton. This is now complete. I have submitted my full report to the Commissioner; this is a summary of its principal conclusions.’

  I sneaked a quick glance at Kramer; there was tension about his eyes, as he stared at the screen, no question about it.

  ‘Ms Repton died from the effects of a profound injury to the brain caused by the penetration to a depth of four point two inches of a narrow blade, following a violent blow. There were no other injuries, and none of the defence wounds often found in victims of a knife attack. This was a single, fatal, penetrative impact.

  ‘I have autopsied more stabbing victims than I care to recall, and in every one resembling this I have been able to declare uncontrovertibly that death was the result of a homicidal act.’

  She paused; for effect. ‘In this case I am unable to do so.’

  I’d seen the video earlier; I’d known what she was about to say. As she dropped her bombshell I kept on looking at Kramer, and saw a tremor run through him that could only have been one of relief. His mouth twitched at the corners, as he suppressed a smile.

  ‘Ms Repton was in excellent physical condition,’ Sarah continued. ‘All of her major organs were perfect . . . with one exception. When I removed the brain and was able to examine it closely, I found something that had not been visible on the scans made at the Royal Free Hospital because of bleeding.

  ‘There was a large tumour attached to the primary motor cortex in the frontal lobe of the brain, the area that controls motor skills. This had been neither detected nor treated, but it was so advanced that its effects could have been catastrophic at any time.

  ‘For example, at times of stress, it could have induced seizures that might have been taken for violent epileptic fits, in the grip of which the sufferer would be liable to lose all control of her movement and would thrash around, violently, in all directions.

  ‘While I cannot state definitively that this happened, I believe there is a probability, rather than a possibility, that Ms Repton plunged that blade into her own head.’ I looked at Kramer for a third time. The smile had forced its way on to his face.

  ‘In support of this,’ Sarah continued, ‘I would point to three factors. I am advised that only Ms Repton’s fingerprints and DNA were found on the letter-opener that killed her, and that those prints were clear and unsmudged.

  ‘Also I have examined photographs taken of the scene, with the victim still in situ at her desk. Her Red Box is there, and in front of her there is a pile of envelopes. On close examination, and enlargement of the images, it can be seen that these have been slit, but that their contents have not been removed. This indicates that Ms Repton sustained her fatal injury while opening mail.

  ‘Finally, the position of the wound indicates that if it was inflicted in that way, the victim would have been holding the blade in her left hand. It is a matter of record that Emily Repton was left handed.’

  She paused again, this time to gather herself. ‘I repeat that I can’t say, beyond a doubt, this is what happened. It is possible that she was stabbed by someone else. However, all the circumstances I have described indicate otherwise. That is what Sir Feargal Aherne will say when he announces my findings later this afternoon.’

  The recording ended, Sarah’s face was frozen once more on the tablet until Amanda picked it up.

  ‘So, Mr Skinner,’ Kramer boomed, ‘the crime wasn’t a crime after all.’

  ‘Not that one,’ I agreed, ‘but the cover-up, that was. Terrifying wee Joe Coffrey into editing the CCTV to take John Balliol and Dr Satchell off the version that was given to us. Removing from Emily’s office the printed copy of the statement she would have made that afternoon, the only copy other than the one she’d given you earlier. The abduction, drugging, forcible detention at John Balliol’s house, and attempted murder, of Nicholas Wheeler, who knew what the Prime Minister had intended to do that afternoon. All of those things are crimes.’

  ‘Which you will never prove!’ Kramer barked. ‘Or ever allege again.’

  ‘You know it’s all true, and Les Ellis knows it, because you two ordered it, all of it. You did that because you thought that Balliol had indeed killed her. You sent him in there to persuade her to change her mind, and the next thing you knew, she had a blade in her head. That’s why you went to such lengths to conceal his presence there.’

  ‘If so, it isn’t relevant; there was no crime,’ he protested. ‘Balliol denied it from the start, did he not? You must have interviewed him; you know that.’

  ‘Yes, but the point is, until a few moments ago, the evidence said he did, and you believed it. Balliol told me as much himself. And you were glad, because it took Emily out of the way and left you with your hands on the world-changing weapon she was going to give away.’

  ‘It wouldn’t have come to that,’ he said. ‘Les and I would have confronted her before she made the statement and forced her to amend it or resign.’

  ‘Forced her? At knifepoint? And what would you have done about Nick Wheeler?’ I glared at him. ‘Maybe Daffyd Evans can tell us.’

  The Prime Minister’s eyes gleamed; his narrow smile was deeply unpleasant. ‘I doubt that he will,’ he murmured. ‘He’s been taken from the hospital where you sent him, on my orders. You’ll have difficulty calling him as a witness, although I promise, you would be wasting your time! It’s over, Mr Skinner,’ he said, quietly. ‘Face it, it’s over.

  ‘Mrs Dennis, you can keep your job; in fact I’d be obliged if you would remain as Director General. Mr Skinner, you may keep your temporary commission . . . or you’re free to accept Labour’s offer of a peerage, which I know about, and to waste your time crusading from the Opposition benches.’

  He glanced at the clock. ‘And now you must go, for I have to get across to the Commons and complete the job of saving Spitfire for the nation. Come and watch me. There’s a spectators’ bench on the floor of t
he chamber. I’ll arrange for you to be seated there.’

  ‘You know,’ I said, grimly, ‘I think we will. I warned you, Kramer; you’re my next project.’

  The people downstairs wanted us to leave by the way we had arrived, but Hamblin, who was clearly demob happy, countermanded them, and we made our exit through the iconic front door, under the gaze of the media mob gathered to record the comings and goings as Kramer completed his ministerial team.

  ‘Let them make what they will,’ the Cabinet Secretary said happily, ‘of the head of MI5 and the rest of us coming out of here together.’

  He fell into step with Amanda, Neil and me as we walked through the gates and on towards the Palace of Westminster. Once we were out in Whitehall I dropped a pace or two behind, and made yet another phone call on the move to the man from Thames House who’d arrived at Wheeler’s flat, and one more, a last one, after that.

  As Merlin Brady answered I decided that yes, on balance, I do come down on the ‘blessing’ side of the argument.

  Forty-Six

  There really is a spectators’ bench that’s as close to being on the floor of the House of Commons as makes no difference. Sitting there is like being an MP without having to bray cheers and abuse and wave an order paper.

  Amanda and Neil had decided to pass on witnessing Kramer’s triumph and go back instead to their respective offices, but Norman Hamblin talked us through the officials and into the chamber.

  We arrived at three twenty-five. At that time half of the green benches were unoccupied but they began to fill with remarkable speed, like an extraordinary stream of scurrying early-morning commuters that I witnessed once in a railway station in Surrey, when I was down there for a police conference. In the blink of an eye it was standing room only in the Commons.

  Our vantage point looked down the length of the House and slightly across to the government front bench. There was a solemn murmuring, a deep-throated hum, from that side, as Kramer entered, squeezing past his Cabinet colleagues to his position at the Dispatch Box. From the Opposition benches there was silence.