So he’ll go, tough it out at the ceremony, find a brave face for the reception. He will kiss the bride and shake the groom’s hand. If he gets maudlin drunk then that is what happens at weddings when all that’s on show is the happiness of others.
*
In the week before the wedding, McCall meets Roly Vickers in the snug of the Mitre, a darkly panelled medieval pub at the end of a narrow alley in the diamond quarter. Vickers is ex-army, prematurely grey hair slicked with brilliantine. He’s no Colonel Blimp. Far from it. He claims Labour Party membership though is troubled by the influence wielded by communists who’re covertly infiltrating its branches.
‘But I’m more interested in your politics,’ Vickers says. ‘I gather you’re a pretty liberal-minded sort of young man.’
‘Left of centre, I suppose. Nothing too radical.’
‘Given your upbringing, I’d expect very trenchant and independent analysis of the world and the many threats we face in this country.’
McCall reads this remark as an oblique but knowing reference to his adoptive father’s very anti-Soviet views. He threw Vickers a curve ball.
‘Are you one of Francis’s associates, then?’
‘We know of each other, yes.’
‘Through intelligence work?’
‘I’m a publisher, Mac. But I know where my loyalties lie. What about you? Do you think our western values are worth defending?’
‘I thought I was here to talk about my Varsity articles and about getting a job.’
‘We are, Mac… we are,’ Vickers said. ‘And I think Evan’s right. You’ve a journalist’s eye for detail and you know your own mind. Good qualities, I’d say.’
One of his Fleet Street contacts has agreed to give McCall a three-month trial.
‘It’s on the Daily Mail so you’ll have to prove yourself,’ he says. ‘It’ll be tougher than Cambridge so harden up and learn fast. But stick with it and I’ll make sure you go on to bigger things before long.’
McCall doesn’t ask himself why a man like Roly Vickers should favour him in this way, still less what he’ll want in return. But his parting words offer a clue.
‘Information is a commodity, Mac. You’ll want it, I want it. That’s the trade we’re in.’
*
There’s an odd assortment of guests at The Eagle – academics being modestly jolly amongst themselves, Lexie’s theatre friends acting loud, socially awkward relatives in big hats and ill-advised outfits keeping to the fringes as befits their insecurities.
Against all McCall’s preconceptions, Evan’s father is not a learned professor but a farm labourer. He and his Toby jug of a wife live in a tied cottage in the Fens. Neither can see beyond their pride to begin to understand the genetic quirk which produced so brilliant an offspring.
McCall is stalked by conscience. He’s sure the eyes of others are constantly upon him. They must know he is Lexie’s lover and disapprove of his shameless presence. If only she wouldn’t leave her hand on his arm for so long, adjust his tie, smile so fondly into his face. But it’s her way of compensating for the heartbreak she cannot stop herself from causing.
Evan observes them from the winner’s enclosure. He could be a solicitor or a doctor in his muted olive green suit. Lexie is dressed more spiritedly - for the anarchic times if not the occasion - in a naval officer’s jacket from Carnaby Street and a collarless mauve shirt with bell-bottom jeans. Lexie has a public image to create and maintain which explains why a photographer from the Cambridge Evening News is there.
Evan comes over and steers McCall to a discreet corner table. Above them on a ceiling smoked yellow by nicotine, is warrior graffiti from the last war – the names of British and American air crew scrawled in pencil or burned with cigarette lighters during nights of drunken revelry between bombing raids and dog fights from which some returned but many did not.
‘I’m glad you’ve seen Roly Vickers, Mac. You’ll have a focus to your life now.’
‘Yeah, I suppose so,’ McCall said. ‘Tell me, is Roly a spook?’
‘Not officially. He’s what the real spooks call an alongsider, someone they trust, a propagandist publisher who specialises in books about the iniquities of communism and the need for the West to win the ideological war against it.’
‘So he’s a Cold War warrior, then?’
‘Yes, but don’t underestimate his ability to help you in journalism. Roly is privy to many people, many secrets. You’ll have a direct line to him.’
‘But why me? The Mail might sling me out after three weeks, let alone three months.’
‘Roly thinks ahead, that’s why. You’re an asset for the long war, Mac. But play your cards with care.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Nobody is indispensable in that world. Their rules are just that - theirs.’
McCall sees Lexie across in the other bar, glass of wine in one hand, cigarette in the other, half listening to her new mother-in-law while trying to lip-read a lover’s conversation with her husband. He feels ever more awkward. Part of him wishes he’d never come. Evan returns to Lexie and embraces her. It is time for McCall to slip away, to make a discreet exit before the newlyweds make theirs.
Sixteen
Hoare insisted on taking McCall for a drink in the Manor Hill Arms after the undertakers carried Etta’s body to their blacked-out van. He’d been tasked by Benwick to find out McCall’s angle now the wrong body had been found.
‘The boss was dead certain it’d be Ruby down there,’ Hoare said. ‘The job’s hit a bloody big wall now Etta’s taken a dip.’
‘So he still thinks she’s key to all this?’
‘That’s why he kept ramping up the pressure on her. Sooner or later, she’d crack.’
‘She cracked, all right… now you’ll never know if she was holding something back.’
‘That’s the bind we’re in. No one thinks we’ll find Ruby alive now.’
‘As bleak as that?’
‘Looks like it. Anyway, how does what’s just happened play in the piece you’re planning to write?’
‘It’s no longer the feature idea I put up. It’ll need completely re-thinking.’
‘I bet it’ll become a knocking piece - cops drop a clanger and all that.’
‘That’s what you’d write, is it?’
‘Come on, I only ever did tabloid stuff. My career was a mile wide but an inch deep but you just dig and dig, you bugger.’
‘Only when something doesn’t add up… like in this Ruby business.’
‘Don’t try tempting me again, Mac. I’ve signed the Official Secrets Act.’
‘More fool you. Anyway, I still need my sit down with Benwick.’
‘I’ll get back to you on that. He’s not in the best of moods. Want another drink?’
‘No, I’ve got to be going.’
‘Yeah, I suppose I’d better be off, too. We still haven’t traced Etta’s sister to tell her the bad news.’
‘Lexie, you mean?’
‘How do you know her name?’
‘We’ve been friends for years. I’ll be talking to her later.’
‘You’ve never mentioned that, you sly old sod. What else do you know?’
‘Not as much as I’m going to find out, matey… with or without your help.’
*
A pathologist ruled Etta’s death was suicide. Only reservoir water was found in her lungs. She’d been drinking heavily but showed no evidence of sexual assault, defence wounds or illegal drugs.
Benwick left the mortuary ill at ease, the stench of dead flesh in his nostrils, in his hair, on his clothes. Etta had been sliced, diced and sawn up then stitched back together again. A mortician’s powder puff and lipstick would create the final illusion of a sleeping beauty. There seemed little point. Etta was destined to be a heap of ashes.
This thought, callous as it might be, wasn’t the issue. Could it have been her guilt - or his pressure - which had driven Etta to wade into the water and leave the
child it was his responsibility to find without a mother? He needed to believe Etta’s death was down to her guilty knowledge and the life she’d led.
Her fingerprints were on the empty bottle of vodka the search team found under the tree where Ruby played her games of make-believe. And the jeans, blouse, bra and pants dumped in a heap alongside were Etta’s, too.
Benwick should’ve thrown a scare into her when he’d had the chance. A night in a cell might have induced her to open up about precisely who - and what - he believed she was involved with.
The reconstruction of Ruby’s last known movements hadn’t brought in much worthwhile intelligence, either. And that tricky loner, McCall, was already snuffling in the undergrowth. He had trouble written all over him.
Yet Benwick knew not to let a bigger picture be obscured by anyone or anything. He’d have to make his move soon. Time was short. Just because something cannot be seen does not mean it isn’t there.
*
Hoare sat on a green leather pew in the Central Lobby of the House of Commons, gazed upon by the four patron saints of the British Isles in their mosaic panels on the walls above. The footfalls of clerks and ushers intruded on a babble of innumerable conversations echoing over the tiled floor and into the groins of a vaulted ceiling.
He was early for his appointment but hadn’t time to hurry back through security for a calming smoke. What could Guy Inglis possibly want of him? When he’d phoned, he mentioned only a matter of “mutual interest”.
‘We’ll be off the record. But best not mention it to anyone else, agreed?’
Everything was politics at Inglis’s level. Some game was afoot. It hadn’t been easy for Hoare not to let on to Benwick when he’d pitched up the previous night for another drunken session of palliative care with crisps and peanuts.
‘This Ruby job’s all going to rat shit,’ Benwick said. ‘You can’t tell me Etta wasn’t as guilty as hell or else why did she go for a midnight swim?’
‘You seem under a lot of stress, if you don’t mind me saying. Have you thought about going sick for a while?’
‘You’re joking - in the middle of all this?’
‘Take some leave then, come back and look at it all afresh.’
‘Can’t do that, either.’
‘Well if you don’t, I’d say you’re going to become somewhat vaginated.’
‘Does that mean fucked?’
‘It did at my school.’
Hoare checked his watch yet again. An unsmiling, matronly woman approached him under the golden glow of the Lobby’s huge chandelier, a clipboard protecting an ample bust. She nodded for him to follow her down a corridor where outsiders rarely went.
He saw the tension in the faces of those scurrying by, intent on the business of government even in recess. There was danger in the air and war on the TV monitors. The skies over Kuwait were on fire as the invading forces of Iraq put their enemies to the sword and threatened to ransom the world’s supply of oil.
*
‘Glad you could make it,’ Inglis said. ‘Tea? Coffee? There’s water if you’d prefer.’
‘Water’s fine.’
‘Sparkling or still?’
‘Doesn’t matter. From the tap would do.’
Inglis nodded to his hovering aide. She poured black coffee for him, unscrewed a bottle of something gassy from the Alps for Hoare then retreated through a door in the panelled wall.
Inglis’s office looked over the striped canvas awnings of the Commons terrace and across the slow moving muddy waters of the Thames. His desk was the size of a snooker table, empty except for two black telephones and his red box for Cabinet papers. They sat either side of a coffee table by the window. All was hushed, like the library of a gentlemen’s club.
Hoare sipped his water, crossed his legs and waited for Inglis to open the batting.
‘I’ll not waste your time. I’m looking to beef up my press team with a safe pair of hands. Might you be interested?’
Hoare immediately recalled the advice given to young hacks on first meeting a Member of Parliament… always ask yourself, why is this bastard smiling at me?
‘That’s most flattering,’ Hoare said. ‘Are you talking about a secondment from the police or something more permanent?’
‘I’d much prefer the latter but I can promise you interesting times either way, bang in the centre of power.’
‘Sounds quite a challenge.’
‘It is but I want a no-nonsense PR with a Fleet Street background who knows how to handle the media. I was most impressed by your performance on television after that awful business at the reservoir.’
‘All in a day’s work.’
‘How’s that investigation going?’
‘Not much progress, I’m afraid.’
‘Why so?’
‘Well, the mother was the main route into whatever has happened to the little girl. With her dead, there’s no other prime suspect on the horizon.’
‘You mean there’s no forensic evidence, no DNA?’
‘Nothing has shown up in their flat that links to anyone on police files and neither do her telephone records.’
‘Being at the reservoir that day, I feel somewhat close to this case,’ Inglis said. ‘I’d rather like to be kept abreast of any developments… very much on the quiet, of course.’
‘I’m sure something could be done.’
‘Good. Now, let’s go for lunch.’
Inglis’s aide had booked a table at Rules in Maiden Lane. A black cab took them from the Commons and through the leaderless tribes of tourists in Covent Garden.
Hoare put him in his late forties, still unmarried, six feet tall, heavily built, probably played rugby or cricket in younger days. He could pass as a lawyer now - midnight blue Dege & Skinner suit, pressed white shirt, plain red tie in shot silk.
Hoare’s researches of the public record revealed Inglis got a first in mathematics at Keble College, Oxford and was active in Conservative student politics. He’d become an accountant-cum-banker in the City before the party gifted him a seat in the midlands.
They knew Guy Inglis at Rules. He got bows and scrapes as a way was cleared for them to a corner table. Inglis ordered Mersea oysters and roasted squab pigeon. Hoare went for rack of Suffolk lamb and opted for the Chateau Mouton-Rothschild when Inglis asked him to select their wine.
‘Good choice,’ he said. ‘Did you know that Bing Crosby and John Wayne would dine here when they were in London?’
‘No, I didn’t.’
Inglis unfolded his linen napkin then leaned forward and lowered his voice.
‘I suppose you must’ve heard these whispers about Mrs Thatcher.’
Hoare shook his head. He felt like some favoured Lobby correspondent being given a confidential briefing.
‘There are those who want a challenge mounted against her leadership.’
‘But she’s been your most successful Prime Minister in years.’
‘She’s drawn the unions’ teeth and now it’s time for a change.’
‘So there’s a putsch being plotted, is there?’
‘Look, Lobby rules so keep this to yourself. My seat in the Cabinet is secure but if Thatcher is challenged, who knows which of us will end up in Downing Street.’
‘Does that mean you could be in the running to be the next PM?’
Inglis gave him a modest but knowing smile. His eyes were almost as black as his hair but the grey skin around his jowls was starting to sag like a waxwork left in the sun.
‘The horse-trading will go on behind closed doors first but don’t rule anything out.’
Hoare then became aware of an unsmiling, aggressive-looking man trying to listen to their conversation from a couple of tables away. He was about fifty with gingery hair and a port wine birthmark spreading across his neck.
‘Don’t look round but we’re being ear-wigged.’
‘I’m afraid that comes with appearing on TV,’ Inglis said. ‘Complete strangers think they know on
e personally and just stare.’
He raised a finger and their waiter brought a second bottle of the Mouton-Rothschild. Inglis then changed the subject.
‘Your colleague at the reservoir… that police inspector. Interesting chap, I hear.’
‘DI Benwick? Yes, you won’t get many like him coming out of Bramshill.’
‘A bit unconventional, is he?’
‘And how - hasn’t been through the blander like so many others.’
‘Someone told me he might have worked overseas for a time.’
‘That’s possible but I don’t even know if he’s married or where he lives. All I can say is he’s utterly committed to finding that missing child.’
‘Fingers crossed for him, then. The other thing I wanted to ask… there was a journalist knocking about that day. I thought I knew his face.’
‘That’d be Francis McCall, does features for the colour supplements and researches television programmes.’
‘Ah, yes. I remember. I wouldn’t have thought this type of story was up his street.’
‘Neither would I but it turns out he knows the sister of the dead woman.’
‘Does he, by jove. I wonder how that will affect what he writes.’
‘McCall’s in no-one’s pocket. He’ll just go where the evidence leads.’
They parted after coffee and shook hands in the street.
‘Have a think about things,’ Inglis said. ‘Then let’s meet again. What’s your club?’
‘I don’t belong to one.’
‘Really? I could propose you for mine, if you wished.’
Hoare thanked him for lunch then disappeared into the crowds pushing towards The Strand. But as soon as he could, he slipped into a shop doorway and looked back towards Rules. For reasons which eluded him, Hoare was intrigued to know what Inglis would do next. And there he was - talking to the birthmark man who’d watched them across the restaurant.
A cab pulled up and they were driven off together. Hoare went back to Rules and found the waiter who had served him and Inglis.
‘I forgot to tip you,’ he said. ‘So rude. Forgive me.’
He slipped a ten-pound note in the waiter’s apron pocket. Then he asked him for the name of whoever had paid the bill at the table where the ginger-haired man had sat. The waiter winked and checked the credit card receipts in the till.
The Convenience of Lies Page 8