The rest, as they say, is history.
– =OO=OOO=OO-= Mickey was always stylish. Today's style appeared to be a dress that was one size too small and heels that were more like traffic hazards than shoes. Goodfellowe, by contrast, had arrived sporting a charcoal grey suit he had bought with a little of the proceeds from the bequest of his constituent. His first new suit in a couple of years. He paused at the entrance to his office to allow her to admire it.
'Got a funeral?' she enquired, without raising her eyes from her work.
Suddenly Goodfellowe realized how little he had seen of his secretary in recent days, and how much he missed her. She brought a sense of irreverence to everything, never allowing him to take matters – particularly himself – too seriously. It was the type of loyalty he needed right now. Goodfellowe had spent a sleepless night wrestling with self-doubt. His life had changed so much in recent weeks – haggling with Prime Ministers and Chief Whips, scooped up in the struggle to save the nation. If power corrupts, proximity to power distracts, and much of the fun seemed to have been squeezed out of his life.
Most distracting of all was the dilemma he faced about Elizabeth and Sam. Was it to be Paris? Or Florence? It was a silly and spurious debate, he knew, for a Ministerial salary would sort everything out for him, but somehow he felt he was losing control, becoming beholden once more. He didn't want Jonathan Bendall to sort out his life for him, he wanted to be able to do that for himself. Yet the two women he loved most in the world were pulling him in opposite directions. He owed Sam everything, but surely there should be room in his life for ambition. And for Elizabeth. Somehow the two women he loved seemed to be drifting into different camps and he didn't want to decide, couldn't decide. Paris or Florence.
Obstacles, nothing but bloody obstacles. As he walked towards his desk, a metal wastepaper bin blocked his path, as there always seemed to be something in his path. It was time to change that. Or change the bin, at least. He gave a small hop, drew his leg back and let fly. The bin hurtled the full length of his office and hit the wall with a satisfying clatter.
'What did you do that for?'
'Needed the practice. Haven't kicked anything in ages. Or anyone, come to that.'
'Like that, is it? Sounds like woman trouble. Or money.'
'Both.'
'Sam? Or Elizabeth?'
'Both.'
Mickey studied Goodfellowe as though measuring him for a straitjacket, then rose from her desk and walked over to the battered bin. She rescued it, examined it for signs of fatal bruising, then walked back across the office in order to place it upright in front of him.
'Go ahead, be my guest.'
This time he sent it flying into the door.
'Why does everything come down to money?' he demanded, feeling better for his exertions.
'Sex or money. Everything comes down to sex or money,' she corrected, before returning to her work, sucking the end of a pencil with which she had been drafting a reply in the margin of a letter. It was from a constituent, Mrs Godsell. Mrs Godsell was complaining about the warble fly. She often wrote to complain, and would write again if she hadn't got a reply within a week. There was always something that concerned her – one week the disappearing habitat of the long-eared bat, the next the destruction of the ozone layer from the methane of French cattle which, according to her, was particularly pernicious. Opinionated and impatient, was our Mrs Godsell. Yet at every election she was the first in line to volunteer to stick stamps and lick envelopes in one of the Marshwood committee rooms, so Mickey always took care to ensure she got a rapid and personalized response. Some day she might even let Goodfellowe see one.
She looked up, distracted. 'It's the reason Justin and I split up,' she mused.
'What, sex?'
'No, idiot. That was great. You think I'd get myself engaged to a choirboy? It was the money.'
'I thought he had plenty of it.' Goodfellowe stepped forward tentatively, knowing he was on marshy emotional ground. It was the first time in more than a year that Mickey had disinterred the remains of her former fiancй. 'Didn't he do something in the City?'
'A market maker. With a tan, a Jacuzzi and a tight butt. And a mother who lived north of Manchester. Or was it Middlesbrough? Anyway, it was enough she hated travelling. Yes, plenty of money, too. And very sensible about it, he was. That was the problem. I remember he wanted to buy me a very sensible and tasteful engagement ring, while I… you see, I wanted something really huge and vulgar. Hell, if I'm going to wear it, I want people to know about it. Until my arm aches.'
'You're kidding. Aren't you?'
She smiled sweetly.
'Maybe you should consider counselling,' he ventured.
'On the grounds that I'm grasping? Or on the grounds that even though I'm grasping I've still somehow ended up working for you?'
Goodfellowe pressed on. 'So why did you break up with him?'
'Oh, hell…' As the memories revived, her careful marginal notes grew into absentminded doodles. Mrs Godsell became covered in extravagant bundles of flowers. 'Because I wasn't ready for him. He was a really nice boy, thought I was perfect. But you know me, I still felt in need of a second opinion. Several of them, in fact. The wedding ceremony would have turned into a fiasco. I wouldn't have got the odd one or two standing up to object, I'd have got a full-scale Mexican wave. It wasn't going to work, would have hurt him even more if I'd stayed.'
'No regrets, then?'
'None at the time, I was too young. But now…?' Suddenly the point of the pencil snapped, sending a fragment of lead spitting across the desk like a missile headed for Serbia. 'I suppose I've changed. Dunno if it's maturity, but it's certainly older. Nowadays when I go into a hotel on the arm of a forty-year-old man, the receptionists don't snigger anymore. That hurts.'
His face creased. She had this extraordinary ability to raise him from the deepest of despairs.
'It's serious, Goodfellowe. I may have to dip into my face-lift fund sooner than I expected.'
'A stitch in time…'
'Saves a lot of tears. And a lot of money.'
She returned her attention to Mrs Godsell while he retrieved the battered remains of the waste bin and placed it distractedly on top of his desk like a hunting trophy. 'I wonder if you're right.'
'About what?'
'About Captain Beaky being in it for the money?'
'I said that?'
'It's a thought, at least. Possibly an inspired one. You really can be quite brilliant at times.'
She was beginning to lose track of this one. 'What thought?' she asked, enunciating both words carefully as though addressing a foreigner.
'That Beaky or whatever he's called might be in it for the money.'
'What money?'
'Good question. The water companies lost a small fortune as a result of the attack on Bendall's bathroom. Someone loses, someone gains. The money didn't simply get flushed away. I've got this funny feeling that telephone shares are being murdered, too, right this minute.'
'Beaky's in it just for the money?'
'You really think so? You could be right. In which case, maybe we should do some digging. You know, you were right not to get married. You're far too good for Justin. There are brains buried somewhere inside that delectable body of yours.'
'You're patronizing me, which is always a sign you're up to something. Where's all this leading?'
'It's simply that I think you're right. That it's worth trying to find out if anyone has made a killing on the shares.'
'Isn't that sort of share-dealing information confidential? You'd need someone in the City for that.'
'Yes, I suppose we would.' A slight pause, like a missed heartbeat. 'What did you say Justin does?'
She sat bolt upright. 'Goodfellowe, you devious bastard. You can go jump in the Thames along with your bloody shares. I am not going to meet up with Justin. Hear me? Not. Nor am I going to telephone him, smile at him, beg him for favours, use him, fondle him for old time's sa
ke or… or anything else. Absolutely not. Understand? Get that into your scheming head. No Way.'
'Sure, Mickey.'
A pencil came spinning through the air. Goodfellowe ducked.
– =OO=OOO=OO-= She found him in a watering hole nicknamed the Essex in Exile in one of those little alleyways off Bow Lane, barely a stone's throw with a good shoulder from his office. It was the usual Thursday-night crush, young blood and brash money sandwiched between the uncertainty of short-term employment contracts or no employment contracts at all. On the ground floor the drinkers were sweating in spite of the air conditioning, while in the basement, where the toilets had been turned into a makeshift coke hole, the young customers were way beyond discomfort. The bar itself was soulless, all brushed stainless steel and blue glass; the waitresses appeared to be constructed of much the same unforgiving materials. They'd probably squeeze more from the customers after the bar had closed than ever they did serving drinks and designer sandwiches, it was that type of bar. Everything was for sale here.
He was leaning on a bar stool, his tie loosened, his Italian jacket sagging.
'Hi, J.'
A startled glance. A pause. Then: 'Shit.' Uttered more in resignation than hostility.
'If you don't want me here you can throw me out.'
'Get my own back, you mean?'
She ignored it. 'You still making markets?'
'You still shagging in shifts?'
She couldn't ignore that, and flushed.
He ran his hand through his thick highlighted hair. 'Sorry. Shit. Hell. Shit. Have a drink. Old time's sake.'
'On one condition,' she instructed, sensing he was beginning to lose the battle with that part of him which wanted to pour the entire contents of the ice bucket over her. 'That you let me ask you a favour. For old time's sake.'
'You've got bigger balls than an elephant, know that? Shit!' he offered yet one more time. He had never been very good at expressing his feelings – well, you rarely needed to, driving a Porsche. Already she knew she had been right, it would never have lasted. Still it hurt.
'Deal?'
'Southern Comfort with ice and orange,' he snapped at the girl behind the bar before returning his attentions to Mickey. 'You still drink that shit?' She could see in his eyes that he'd already had too much. Perhaps it was a good thing, his resistance was low.
'I want to ask you a favour, J. About shares.'
'What shares?'
'I want to know if anyone made a killing out of the water fiasco the other day.'
'Dunno.'
'But you could find out.'
'Naughty, naughty. Chinese walls, and all that.'
She glanced extravagantly around the bar before touching an immaculately manicured nail to his third shirt button. 'I see only glass walls, J. No Chinese walls here.'
He stared at her, trying to look ferocious, but couldn't hold it. 'You sure know how to pick your time and place. But then you always did.' Another swig to wash away the memories. 'There's only a handful of guys making a market in water shares, 'n' it's a small old world. One of them's that fat twister in the corner over there auditioning for the part of village drunk. Hey, Rosenstein,' he called out, waving to attract the attention of a man who was draped over the end of the bar. 'Rosie, come 'ere.'
Rosenstein raised his head, took in Mickey and did as he was bidden, squeezing his early-obese frame through the throng. 'Charmed,' he said, looking deep and drunken into Mickey's eyes.
'Trust me, you wouldn't be,' Justin replied.
'Trust you? I suppose I could always give it a try.'
'Look, Rosie, cut through the shit and tell me. Did you get raped when the water shares fell out of bed the other day?'
'Me, raped? Didn't even come close. No, not me.' Rosenstein's alcoholic eyes gazed once more into Mickey's but couldn't focus properly, so drifted slowly down to her chest, where they roamed, then rested. 'Got a little tickle, though.'
'Which means what, exactly?' Mickey asked.
'Which means we may be halfway there, darling,' the former love of her life replied.
THIRTEEN
The meeting of COBRA had started badly, and was about to get worse. The Cabinet Secretary had begun by reporting on the findings of TAG, the Threat Assessment Group made up of representatives from the security services. The findings didn't put it in so many words, but the scribble on the Prime Minister's blotter summed it up succinctly.
No bloody clue.
Water. Transport. The Government's paging system. Telephones. What next?
The TAG team had sat long and deliberated, but they had so little on which to base any solid conclusion. All they knew was that the Government, not so many years ago, had spent several small fortunes honing the abilities of the conspirators to find imaginative ways of bringing cities like Moscow and Baghdad grinding to a halt. So what chance had London? The TAG team found itself plagiarizing its own earlier work, suggesting that the conspirators might copy the IRA who had mounted an attack on London's electricity substations, or food terrorists who had poisoned supermarket supplies, or the lone mad blackmailer who had threatened to flood the London Underground. No one could be sure what might happen next, they had so little to go on. All they knew was that unlike either the IRA, the food terrorists or the mad blackmailer, these conspirators had succeeded in remaining entirely undetected. What was even worse to Bendall's mind, their identification with humorous cartoon characters was beginning to stick in the public consciousness. 'Beaky' made for neat, sharp headlines, and that bloody record was being played on the radio again. Even the BBC was at it. As long as they stuck to making fools of the Government, there was a distinct danger of the conspirators gaining cult status.
When Goodfellowe slipped into his seat in COBRA a full ten minutes after everyone else, failing miserably in his attempt to do so unobtrusively, Bendall was not amused. The Prime Minister felt isolated and in need of an opportunity to show he was still in charge of proceedings. In short, he needed a victim, and latecomers always provide an ideal target. It was possible that Goodfellowe had an excuse, of course. Perhaps his bike had a puncture or he'd lost his bus ticket, but whatever the reason it wasn't going to be enough. Bendall decided he was going to make an example of Goodfellowe.
Maybe it was going to be a bit like World War I, Bendall thought. Perhaps this one wasn't going to be over by Christmas, either. With every passing day the mood of his security advisers was becoming more bleak and their explanations less digestible. They'd be talking about the long haul and heavy pounding next. He needed fresh impetus, to introduce a little terror to stiffen the backbone, and for that he needed a bloody sacrifice. Stir up a little fear, inflict a little violence. To encourage the others. Yes, Goodfellowe would do, and do nicely.
The Police Commissioner was in the middle of giving his report in which he was ticking off a long list of completed actions and proposed new initiatives when Bendall interrupted.
'Yes, yes, yes, Commissioner, but perhaps we can all save time if I direct you to one simple question. What hard evidence have you managed to find?'
The Commissioner studied the nail on his thumb. 'We have to accept that it's early days yet, Prime Minister, and-'
'Anyone?' Bendall interrupted once more, testily. 'Security services? SIS? What's your budget this year – more than a billion? What do you do with it, apart from buying curtains and restocking the drinks cabinet, eh? And what about you boys at Defence? Or GCHQ?' He glanced around the table at each in turn.
Silence.
'I've given you everything. Anything you asked for. We've got bills for overtime running into millions, we've raised security on every public building in the country, we've interviewed thousands of suspects, done wiretaps, a bit of burglary too, and for all I know we're coshing the Roman Catholic Cardinal to see if he's heard anything in the confessional. I've got the Attorney General on my back telling me we've pushed things to the very limit of the law, but it's what you asked for so I gave it to you. And wha
t have I got in return…?'
More silence, broken only by the rustling of grown men trying to shrink.
Suddenly Bendall's fists banged down on the table, sending the papers scattering like grouse in August. 'Give me strength. Doesn't anyone in this room have a clue?'
Much more silence. Very serious silence. Then a sound, innocuous, almost apologetic, of Goodfellowe clearing his throat. It had an effect similar to the rivet of a submarine popping at the bottom of the Marianas Trench. Without further effort, he had everyone's attention.
'Prime Minister, I'd like to apologize for being a little late…'
Inside, Bendall smiled grimly. The turkey had walked into the abattoir.
'… but it was the matter of a few phone enquiries which I think might help our discussions.'
'Help is a rare commodity around this table.'
'Since we can't establish their identities and we have little clue as to their intentions, I've been wondering about something else. Their motives. Now, on the surface they claim to be military men with an agenda which is almost political-'
'Excruciatingly bloody political when it's aimed at me.'
'Well, precisely. But I've been considering the possibility there might be another motive.'
'Such as?'
'Money.'
'What – ransom? Blackmail?'
'More in the line of a killing on the Stock Exchange. There would be a lot of money to be made out of water and telephone shares if you knew that the attacks were about to take place. And who would know that – other than the attackers themselves?'
Chairs were being pushed back from the briefing table and necks twisted round as everyone strained to get a good sight of Goodfellowe.
'So I made enquiries of a market maker in water shares – there's only a handful of them.'
'What about telephone shares?' Bendall interrupted yet again.
'A huge market, too many market makers there for me to check on my own. But water's almost pocket-sized by comparison. So I asked if anyone had enjoyed a little windfall.' He paused to enjoy the effect before continuing. 'One investor did, indeed, seem to have a remarkable stroke of luck. He took out some put options only two days before the attack on Downing Street. Betting that the shares would crash.'
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