The Ministry of Love

by O'Mahony, Jason

  DAC Likker was beside himself with a curious mixture of excitement and hysteria. He had lectured Switzerland in the car all the way over, adamant that he was in charge and that the Prime Minister would be dealing with him, and that Switzerland was to defer to him on all questions asked by the Prime Minister. Switzerland wasn’t quite sure how that would work in practice. What if the Prime Minister asked him a direct question, as he almost certainly would? What should Switzerland do then? Perhaps a series of hand signals to the Prime Minister, gesturing like one of the Three Stooges towards the DAC? If Fairfax asked him a question, Switzerland had decided that he would answer it, and the DAC could go engage in intimate carnal relations of an impossible nature.

  A young aide escorted the two men into the Cabinet room. Switzerland stopped at the door, just to take in the history for a moment. This was where Hitler was faced down, the Falklands was won, the NHS was created, the decision to join Europe and invade Iraq. Switzerland couldn’t help but be slightly moved by it. Likker peered at him.

  “What’s wrong with you?” he snapped. Switzerland ignored the question. He wasn’t surprised that Likker had no grasp of history. His idea of ancient history was the last season of You’re A Fat Bastard But We’re Going to Starve You!.

  “It’s a bit intimidating, isn’t it?” a very recognisable voice said from behind him. Switzerland turned to meet the Prime Minister.

  “Yes sir,” the DCI replied. “Do you still find it any way daunting?”

  Fairfax nodded.

  “Oh yes, but one of my predecessors summed it up to me once. You won’t always make the most popular decisions, but as long as you can sleep after making them, that’s what matters.”

  Likker, who had advanced to the end of the room before Fairfax entered, practically polevaulted down the room to shake hands with him, almost elbowing Switzerland out of the way in the process.

  “Richard Likker, Prime Minister. I am the Deputy Assistant Commissioner.”

  “Yes, I know what you are.” Fairfax replied, shooting a God-help-us-both look at Switzerland.

  He gestured they both take a seat on the far side of the cabinet table, and proceeded to listen to a blow-by-blow account of the investigation from Likker which seemed to give one the impression that not only was Likker leading the probe, but he seemed to be the only person involved. Fairfax listened patiently, taking the odd note, and then looked with a furrowed brow at Switzerland’s Filofax, but didn’t say anything until Likker stopped 15 minutes later. The whole monologue confirmed to the DCI that some mammals can actually breath through their anal passages.

  “Excellent, excellent, thank you Deputy Assistant Commissioner. Tell me, Detective Chief Inspector, is that an A4 Filofax?”

  Switzerland confirmed that it was.

  “Do you mind me asking, how do you get the holes lined up to insert non-Filofax pages? I have one and I just can’t get a four hole punch anywhere.”

  Likker looked on aghast as the Prime Minister struck up a conversation with the DCI.

  Switzerland looked down at his Filofax for a moment.

  “Ah, I had that problem. The way to do it, sir, it to take the back of your ordinary two-hole punch. Punch in the middle using the A4 plastic rule, and then turning the punch over, you’ll be able to see if the top or bottom holes are lined up, and then punch in the extra hole. They’ll line up perfectly,” explained Switzerland.

  Fairfax’s eyes lit up.

  “Do you know, I’d never even thought of that. I can see why you’re the detective.”

  Switzerland noted the praise from a fellow stationery aficionado with a slight nod of the head and took the opportunity of the conversation to fill in the gaps of Likker’s account.

  “One other thing, sir, in relation to this case which may be useful. We have just confirmed that every one of the victims had appeared in the papers in the previous seven days. Doesn’t mean much, but it does mean that we can have an idea as to potential targets.”

  Likker shot him a filthy look.

  “Excellent, excellent. Well, now, I didn’t really drag you in here today for a long drawn out affair. My people have my day segmented into five-minute slots, apparently. Makes me feel like a piece of Chorizo. Anyway, keep me informed, gentlemen. In fact, I want to be kept informed everyday. In the picture. Here’s the direct number of my PA. If you need anything or have any developments, do pick up the phone. I’m only the Prime Minister, but I can always try to cajole a chap on your behalf.”

  He took out a small card from his Filofax. Switzerland could see Likker’s eyes light up. Having the Prime Minister’s direct line was a major coup in the bunfight that was the Met’s senior ranks, but even more than that, a direct instruction from 10 Downing Street to report direct! Pure political gold. If Likker was any more excited, Switzerland noted, he’d need a new pair of trousers.

  Fairfax went to hand it to Likker, who stretched out two hands as if he were received a blesséd infant, but then Fairfax looked down at his Filofax, tapped the rings, and looked at Switzerland, and smiled.

  “Turn over the hole puncher. Would never have thought of that!” he commented with a grin, and slid the card across to Switzerland.

  The DCI thought he heard a stifled cry come from beside him.

  Likker didn’t say a word to him in the car back to New Scotland Yard.

  • • •

  Julian reviewed the file again. He’d been surprised by how few cases like this there actually were, but nevertheless there had been a few. There were obvious ethical issues after all the entire process was voluntary. You can’t force people to participate, even if you feel it is for their own good. We’re not running a Love Gestapo as the Prime Minister had reminded him. Then there was the client’s safety that had to be an absolute priority. The NCA had a whole division for weeding out potential psychotics and sex criminals and so far, it had been 100% successful despite the tabloids attempt to suggest otherwise. In fact, one newspaper had deliberately tried to tamper with the system to register a convicted rapist, to ‘prove’ their point, but they’d been caught and exposed. It had hurt the paper, with a number of female orientated advertisers withdrawing their ads in protest. It had also revealed two actual sex offenders on their own staff, a fact that the other tabloids were very quick to leap upon.

  The NCA was proving to be a very popular initiative, especially amongst women, and the tabloids were beginning to tread carefully around it. According to the polls, it wasn’t doing the Prime Minister any harm either which pleased Tredestrian. He felt that the PM was a good man and did want to see him re-elected. He wasn’t a very political person, but he always found it odd the way people would dismiss politicians with the sour declaration that ‘They’re only in it for the votes.’ Of course they are. What else would they be in it for? Dancing girls? The free buffet? Truth was, Switzerland could see in the prime minister a man not unlike himself. Calm, logical, concerned with the facts of an issue. Not as concerned with the excessive over-emotionalism that seemed to permeate modern society.

  He looked back at the file. He’d have to speak to the potential candidate himself, and attempt to convince him. And he’d have to seek the PM’s permission as well for what he wanted to do. It wasn’t illegal as such, but he was enough of a realist to understand the political ramifications.

  Julian then started a new pile on his desk with Susan Fisher’s file.

  • • •

  Despite his unusual career choice, the Stoat was politically a middle-of-the-road man. He didn’t like extremism and as a result found that manipulating extremists for his own ends was not something that caused him many pangs of guilt. Yet, whereas he had contempt for the pure stupidity of the neo-nazis, it was the pure hypocrisy of this new lot that resulted in his contempt.

  They were the hard left, the self-titled ‘the voice of the people’. The anti-globalisation campaigners who travelled the world on cheap flights brought about by globalisation. Those who conspired against capitalism o
n an Internet created by capitalism. They ranted against consumerism as they downloaded tracks onto their iPods and lashed out against ‘the fascists’ who, from what The Stoat could see, were defined as everyone who did not agree to their world-view. It was a very fascist way of looking at the world, The Stoat noted. For that and many other attributes, he despised them. It wouldn’t stop him using them, though.

  He had paid good money for information hacked from various counter terrorism agencies and identified the individuals in question. They called themselves believers in ‘direct action’ which seemed to involve smashing up McDonalds restaurants and damaging the private property of anyone they suspected was middle-class bourgeois, which in The Stoat’s eyes seemed to be anyone who actually got up for work in the morning.

  Having identified a group of likely recruits, he turned up at a public meeting disguised as a fairly worn down sociology lecturer and kept quiet down the back of the room. The meeting was held in a pub so dingy that he suspected that generations of creatures had lived and died in the carpet so he kept an eye out to avoid any suspiciously sticky surfaces.

  Scanning the room, he identified the key figures he needed to recruit. The leader, or at least the biggest mouth, was a sociology student known to everyone as Dante whose real name was Bernard Huggins. The Stoat’s mouth wrinkled at the name. It didn’t sound like the moniker of a revolutionary leader but then again what did, he supposed. Che Guevera did have a certain musical quality to it but Bernard Huggins? Upon reflection, he could see why he clung to Dante.

  Dante was a good-looking (assisted by mascara and a bit of holding powder) and charismatic speaker as long as everything was about pointing the finger at someone or something else: the IMF, the World Bank, the EU. It was only a matter of time before Giant Lizards got the finger pointed at them by Mr. Huggins.

  That particular conspiracy always caught The Stoat’s attention. The idea that giant lizards (who had the apparent power to change their shape at will) were responsible for the Iraq war, the global recession, climate change and all the other events caught his attention not because it meant that the world was not just run by lizards, but rather it meant the world was run by incompetent giant lizards which was even more depressing. Or maybe the lizards themselves were divided, with other liberal lizards complaining about the mess that the conservative lizards in charge were making. Or maybe Earth got the really rubbish lizards with the really good ones running Mars or Alpha Centauri.

  The Stoat refocused his thoughts when she entered the room, as indeed did every heterosexual man in the room, along with most of the lesbian women and all of the fashion conscious gay men. She was absolutely striking, tall and slim with cheekbones so high that they looked like they needed scaffolding. Dressed in jeans that looked tastefully sprayed on, she wore a top that managed to look both sexy and ethnically responsible, with her tight bobbed brown hair and sallow skin giving her a slightly aristocratic air. Dante almost stuttered when he saw her. She kept her heavily mascara made-up eyes locked on his, a slight hint of a smile playing on her lips as she sat down to watch him speak. Exactly as The Stoat had told her to.

  CHAPTER 5

  ---

  NCA APPLICANTS CONVICTED UNDER ‘TIMEWASTERS’ CLAUSE - The Times

  ---

  A number of National Companionship Agency applicants have been fined £3000 each under the so-called ‘timewasters’ clause in the National Companionship Agency Act. They were convicted by a jury having been found to have falsified their relationship status to be eligible to enter the government programme.

  Earlier this week, the Supreme Court of the United Kingdom found that the requirement that divorcees must be divorced at least two years before applying was not discriminatory after NCA director Dr. Julian Tredestrian testified that such a clause was vital to deal with the problem of ‘heat of the moment’ divorces being sought to allow for applications to the NCA. Speaking from the dock, he pointed out that individuals with such a casual commitment to relationships tended to fail many of the NCA tests anyway.

  ---

  From her early teens, it had become very apparent that Kirsten Phillips was going to grow up into a very beautiful woman, a fact that she had become aware of quite quickly herself. As a teenager she had seen how the attitude of boys to her changed, from playing chasing in the street to gradually becoming dumbstruck in her presence. Even the boys she regarded as friends had started to become awkward around her and once her soon-to-be curvaceous body had begun to take shape, the dynamics of her relationships with boys changed totally. The nice, thoughtful boys whom she used to love going to the library with now hardly ever spoke to her while the rougher boys who drank and smoked and played football would not leave her alone. By her late teens she had been approached by a model agent and though she had dismissed the idea of modelling out of hand, the money involved was so tempting for what she regarded as simply taking up mass on the planet that she could not refuse. Her family, although not poor, were definitely not flush and she knew how much her parents had struggled to give their only child the best education they could afford. Neither of them had been on a foreign holiday for years as they were saving up for her college fund and this was an opportunity to make a contribution that she could not in good conscience turn down, regardless of how silly she regarded it.

  The truth was, it was stupidly simple work. Unlike the other girls, who had to work to keep their toned bodies and looks, Kirsten’s skin remained clear and glowing and her trim curves remained alluring. She ate normally and healthily and didn’t stink of that weird stale waft of empty stomach gases and cigarettes that hung around so many models. She felt almost embarrassed to turn up to the shoots to stand around like mobile meat for a few hours, having people pander to her, and then collect cheques for ridiculous amounts of money. The more she worked, the more money she made, and the more famous she became. It wasn’t long before television came offering.

  The shows offered were awful — F grade celebrity rubbish — but her agent had assured her that once she got into the celebrity world, she’d have better control over the projects she could get involved in. So she put up with it, primarily because of what the money allowed her to do for her parents. They were getting on a bit and she was now able to buy them a lovely cottage with all the mod-cons and one of those robot stair-chairs one always expected to see Thora Hird descending on like the High Priestess of a religion based around shag pile carpeting and Rich Tea biscuits. She’d even paid for them to go on a world cruise and to see their thrilled faces as the ship pulled away from the docks was enough to convince her to carry on with the crap. From presenting Celebrity Herd, where a cluster of low grade celeb-rabble moved across an American state on an old Wild West cattle trail, to Celebrity Tramp, where former soap stars were made sleep on the streets begging for money, given extra food for exposing themselves to passing cars and fighting each other with handmade shanks, Kirsten worked away, odious as it was. But in the evenings, she carried on with her secret project.

  • • •

  Julian stepped out of the car, finding Boo already standing behind him, her eyes quickly scanning the surrounding area. The village was one of those upper class getaway-from-London ones, populated by stockbrokers and people who worked ‘in the creative industries’ and all seemed to wear those retro, black-rimmed NHS glasses. The house itself was in its own walled grounds, a modern built home with stone cladding, timber windows and a gravel driveway crunching underfoot, suggesting that the owner had money or at least once had. The grounds had been landscaped, although now they were overgrown, and while the seven series BMW was only three years old, it looked like it had not been washed in that time.

  “Is it really necessary for you to accompany me, Captain? This is very delicate,” he asked her.

  “I’m sorry sir, but given the situation, and the, um, emotional stability of the gentleman in question, I’m afraid so. I can pretend to be an associate of yours, if that will help.” She looked towards the house
.

  “There is no reason to believe that he is violent or disposed towards violence. Can you just make sure he does not see that thing?”

  He nodded towards her weapon, which was on a hip holster covered by her long jacket. She buttoned the jacket closed as they crunched across the gravel towards the house. The windows were dirty and the flowerpots hanging beside the door contained dead flowers. It was clear that the whole property had been cared for greatly at some point but now had an air of promise abandoned about it.

  The door opened before they reached it and a tall, dishevelled but handsome man stood before them. Mid thirties, in a t-shirt and jeans, both in need of a wash.

  He looked at Julian for a moment, then at Boo, and then past them at the government car.

  “I said no.”

  The door closed shut.

  “Mr. Baker, please hear me out,” Julian asked politely but sternly through the door.

  He opened his jacket and took out a chequebook.

  “I’ve a cheque here for €25,000, Mr. Baker. Made out to the Cancer Research Trust. I know you care about that. Please, just give me twenty minutes to explain and we’ll go. I promise.”

  There was no reply.

  Boo quickly scanned the garden behind them.

  “This isn’t what Rebecca would have wanted.”