The Ministry of Love

by O'Mahony, Jason

  “Yes, yes we were.”

  “And you miss her, right? But you’re dealing with it. Compare that to how you felt when you woke up the morning after she died, and the memory rushed back into your brain. We can create that gap with a mixture of chemicals and electrotherapy.”

  “Is it dangerous?”

  “Everything is dangerous, but the danger level is manageable.”

  “Is there not an Orwellian tone to this whole thing?”

  Rebecca smiled, and it was a beautiful smile.

  “Probably, and it could be abused. But it could also help someone who has been devastated by a tragic loss to get their life back, and I know that I would not want someone I loved to suffer needlessly. I wouldn’t want them to forget me, that’s true, but I don’t want them to suffer. Where’s the love in that?”

  The DVD ended.

  The three of them sat in silence.

  Thomas stood up, and faced Julian.

  “I take it you have a plan?”

  • • •

  The editors of the big four newspapers faced each other across the table. In the hallway, a group of large ex-military types in well-fitting yet bulging suits stood guard, as they had since the Eddie Trellis news had broke. It had been received with genuine shock by his peers, not because they were horrified that a fellow colleague had perished in such an awful manner, but that one of them had effectively been held accountable for what he put in his newspaper. They had been outraged. An attack on democracy, on free speech, they had declared to each other. A terrorist attack on their rights as British newspapermen to wind up the Great British Public with a mix of emotional button pushing, hearsay and innuendo! Was this, they asked each other, what we defeated Hitler for?

  The fifth man, large, rotund and well dressed with a mess of overly long silver hair (though a little too long for his age), peered over his gold-rimmed half moon spectacles at them. Sir Jocelyn Phist-Harrington QC was the finest damage limitation man in the industry. When he spoke, they listened because he tended to have a direct line to their proprietors and explained every case to them in the one language they cared about. Cost.

  So the editors listened, although they had not liked what they had just heard.

  The boardroom, a thick-carpeted rectangle of frosted glass with a view of the early morning city skyline, was silent for a moment save for the chime of Sir Jocelyn’s teacup rattling as he replaced it back in its saucer. A large table full of Danish pastries and croissants sat untouched in the corner, with the exception of Sir Jocelyn’s intervention and liberation of a particularly custardy-looking pastry. All the others were on diets, demanded by their younger wives.

  The editor of the newspaper that targeted women and bigots (in that order) sniffed his nose a little too enthusiastically, displaying an affinity with a certain Columbian export that would not go down well with the blue rinses of middle England — those very people whose values of bridge, traditional family values and hanging he claimed to espouse.

  “All of them?” he asked.

  The QC nodded, also nodding approvingly at the first bite into the pastry.

  Mr. Women-And-Bigots twitched in his seat, his face reddening.

  “But that’s ridiculous!”

  Sir Jocelyn’s raised an eyebrow that looked as if it had escaped Denis Healey, and stirred his tea.

  “My dear man, be a pet and listen to me. I’m not saying that you will like the answer, I’m just giving you the best answer that your proprietor, whom I was playing golf with this morning, pays me for. The email has said very clearly that it will regard any celebrity named in his identified list of media outlets — and he has named all the entities represented here this morning — as a target. He — assuming it is a he — has further stipulated with his electronic communication that celebrities who are not named by those same outlets will not be harmed. It means that you have a very clear duty of care towards these people: if you display them, you are putting them in danger and leaving yourselves open to liability.”

  The editor of the newspaper that pretended to speak for the working man whilst defending viciously the commercial interests of its owner raised a finger.

  “My legal people say that we can get disclaimers from the celebs in question. And I’ve got agents with mobile phone burnmarks on their ears from ringing me, pushing their clients as brave celebrities willing to face down this maniac.”

  Heads nodded in agreement.

  “The document states that if any celebrities appear in your outlets, he could target a celebrity who has appeared in your outlets within the last six weeks. Now, we can get them to all sign waivers as well I suppose, but it is numbering into the thousands. It will take us weeks to identify and negotiate with all these people. In the meantime, before we do that, if you put these people on show, you are knowingly endangering the lives of thousands. Now, if you believe that no third rate, eh — “He paused to consult his notes for a moment.

  “If you believe that no third rate C-Lister from Celebrity Colon Exam will not see this as an opportunity to hit you for a quarter of a million in danger money then by all means, go ahead. But this could turn into millions very quickly. Bear in mind, this is a global market and your companies all have US interests. Do you really want to fight this case in a Malibu courtroom, because that is where it will be lodged, as well as in the Old Bailey? The legal costs alone of defending these cases could run into multiples of millions very quickly.”

  Women-And-Bigots sniffed again, his knee shaking with nervous energy.

  “No celebs. What do you suggest we run, then?”

  Sir Jocelyn dropped a sugar lump into his third cup of tea, and eyed another pastry.

  “Have you considered news?”

  • • •

  “That’s Mr. Burgess. A lovely gentleman.” the letting agent noted with a self-satisfied air, clearly delighted to be the centre of attention. Her tiny business premises was now filled with police officers. Switzerland had arrived at the premises within minutes of being notified, after a local constable had called in the positive identification.

  “Does he stay often, Mrs. Philips?” he asked.

  “Miss,” she corrected sharply before continuing. She was dressed in a tight single piece grey woollen dress which hugged the curves of the twenty odd year-old who had bought it. Sadly, that was at least a quarter of a century ago and Miss Philips now looked like a plump and ageing sheep with a penchant for rolling in soot.

  “Yes he does. Every few weeks he’s down, so he is. Lovely man. Always pays in cash and leaves the place absolutely spic and span. Not as much as a hair in the place, which is more than can be said for some of them. I had one crowd who smeared the place in Swarfega, I don’t know what…”

  “Miss Philips, where is Mr. Burgess now?” Switzerland interrupted, politely but firmly.

  “About three miles outside the town. I gave the address to the officer there.”

  Two minutes later, Switzerland and the profiler were in a Police Armed Response Vehicle in convoy.

  “Pays cash. Not a hair out of place. Sounds like a guy covering his traces, doesn’t it?” he commented rhetorically. He was actually feeling a little giddy.

  • • •

  The cottage overlooked a dale and was just off an isolated road, with no other homes visible from it. The remote police drone that had surveyed the area confirmed this and that the walls surrounding the cottage were quite low. Bearing this in mind, Switzerland had the convoy stop half a mile up the road and ordered that the officers approach on foot. The armed officers spread out, some taking a long route around to allow them to cover escape routes to the rear.

  It was getting dark and as the sun went down on the clear day, it threw shadows which gave them some welcome cover.

  Switzerland crouched with the profiler and the local commanding officer behind a wall and the CO told his units to await his signal. The DCI checked over his warrant once more, for the fourth time. He was meticulous about things like
this, having seen too many cases collapse on a point of technicality and police sloppiness. Date. Person. Address. Probable cause. Everything was in order. He neatly folded the warrant and slipped into his coat pocket, then looked at the CO.

  “Alright, let’s go.”

  The CO barked the ‘go’ order into his radio. All around the cottage, officers turned on the torches on their guns and moved towards their target, surrounding it in a manner not unlike particularly well-organised fireflies. The lead team, led by Switzerland’s young DC, who just loved dressing up in all the SWAT gear, barked an order at the front door announcing the presence of armed police, then stepped aside to allow an officer with a battering ram to swing at the door. The door shattered as the lock was torn from its receiver, and the officer nimbly moved to one side, letting the entry team past him, machine guns and pistols at the ready.

  The CO’s radio was a jumble of noise, officers shouting warnings and announcing cleared rooms. This seemed to go on for an age which irritated Switzerland given the size of the cottage. He thought to himself: What was it, a fucking Tardis? How could it take so long?

  Then he heard the voice of the young DC.

  “Fucking hell!”

  Switzerland grabbed the radio off the CO.

  “This is Switzerland. Have you got him? Have you got Farrington? Over.”

  The radio crackled, then the DC spoke.

  “Eh, yes sir, we have. You’d better see this.”

  • • •

  The Stoat had just begun to relax. The fact that the train stopped before reaching the Channel Tunnel was all the information The Stoat needed, with the sound of a helicopter landing nearby, and then taking off again confirming his suspicion. He had failed, and sat back in his seat to await his fate, when a familiar face moved down the carriage aisle. She didn’t take her eyes off him. A quick look over his shoulder revealed two bulging jacketed heavies moving down the aisle from the opposite direction. They didn’t break sightline with him either. The Stoat smiled as nearly every male eye in the carriage locked on her. She kept a small, respectful smile on her lips, well used to the attention.

  “Monsieur Bertrand. Olivia Olerenshaw Bradley. Nice to make your formal acquaintance, as it were.” She slipped into the double seat facing him, resting two well-manicured hands on the table. The voice was one of breeding and clarity.

  “Now, I have no doubt that you are armed and are well capable of drawing your weapon and perhaps killing me and one of my colleagues, but our third colleague will almost certainly kill you. So I’d like to lay out a second option.”

  The Stoat nodded. He could feel his adrenaline making its way to where it had to go, but he still felt calm. Curiously, situations like this always left him feeling very clearheaded.

  She really was strikingly beautiful, with her hair constructed so delicately as to be fragile. Exactly her hair in Rear Window. He wondered had she deliberately modelled it that way.

  “Here’s the good news. You haven’t killed anyone. Yes, your lackeys — your incompetent lackeys — have killed people, but you haven’t and that matters. You did try to kill me, but even that I’ll place to one side. I certainly do not take it personally. We want who hired you.”

  The Stoat saw the waiter coming down the aisle.

  “Do you mind if I order a coffee?” he asked.

  She slipped one hand under the table.

  “That’s no problem. Just bear in mind that I have a pistol now pointed at your crotch which will almost certainly remove your scrotal sac before any hot coffee reaches my face.”

  The Stoat nodded, tilting his head in a polite sign of gratitude.

  He ordered the coffee and offered her something. She declined politely and so he paid the steward and then gave the security woman his full attention.

  “Alright, Miss Bradley. Firstly, please forgive me for trying to kill you. Strictly professional, you understand.”

  “Of course,” she acknowledged.

  “Master stoke with the stun gun, by the way. Excellent.”

  She nodded her head only once, just to acknowledge the compliment.

  “Secondly, you must understand that, given the business I’m in, if I start revealing my employers, my reputation suffers; both in terms of future business but also in terms of stopping bullets being put into the back of my head. My fee does have an implicit discretionary element to it.”

  The waiter returned with the coffee. The Stoat thanked him, added the cream, stirred and took a sip. It was nice coffee.

  Boo nodded understandingly.

  “I appreciate your situation, so let me paint a slightly different set of scenarios. One, you talk to us and in return you get five years in a low security white collar prison where you can spend your time learning a new language or studying for a degree in early 20th Century lesbian literature. With good behaviour, you’ll be out in three. The alternative is that when this train reaches Paris we hand you over to the French secret service, who I believe are quite bitter over you actually killing some of their colleagues. They will debrief you, both figuratively and literally, and get the information we need, probably by inserting various implements of varying shape, size and voltage into your rectal cavity. Either way, you’re talking Monsieur Bertrand.”

  The Stoat shrugged acceptance. There was nothing in her scenario which was wild bravado. Lesbian literature? Probably not. He wouldn’t mind trying sculpting, all the same, or maybe some painting.

  He sipped his coffee. Could he reach his gun, by first blinding her with the coffee? Possibly, but she would be equally fast, and the two goons standing behind him would almost certainly overpower him.

  No, he was a professional, and a professional recognised his limits. Now was the time to adapt to the new emerging potential anal rape paradigm and act accordingly.

  “Alright, Miss Bradley. Let’s get something on paper. I have a legal chap I keep on retainer for just a day such as this.”

  CHAPTER 10

  ---

  BNP ATTACKS EU FOR WANTING TO HAVE “ENGLISH VIRGINS DEFILED BY SWARTHY JOHNNY FOREIGNER”. -The Independent.

  ---

  The BNP has condemned the European Commission for suggesting that consideration be given to the creation of an EU-wide companionship agency. “It’s a bloody disgrace. If that crowd in Brussels think that what the prime of English womanhood wants is a load of French, German and Italian buckos coming over here, peeling their shirts off and bedding them, then they don’t know English women as well as we do!”a senior source in the BNP remarked yesterday.

  The BNP announced that it intended to set up a database to allow for ‘purebred’ Britons to find suitable partners with “clean bloodlines uncontaminated by foreign pollution”. They announced that they had, after spending a large amount of money donated by an online gambling millionaire supporter, located two people of pure British stock and that they would marry as soon as the “outdated” ban on brothers and sisters marrying was struck down by a future BNP Government.

  ---

  Switzerland pushed through the heavily armoured police officers, just in time to hear the goat bleat nervously. Farrington looked embarrassed, shocked, ashamed, and aroused at the same time. The smell of industrial lubricant hung thickly in the air.

  • • •

  The last week before polling day had the coalition and the opposition deadlocked. The lack of celebrity news meant that the media had to fall back on election analysis, which in turn had caused the Tory lead to evaporate as the actual facts of Fairfax’s term in office began to emerge.

  The British people began to realise that their Prime Minister, pudgy and boring as he was, wasn’t the worst bloke in the world. On top of that, the media’s focus on what the Tories policies would actually do had caused a backlash against Spence. The one piece of ‘light news’ which emerged was the continuing success of the National Companionship Agency, which polls showed to be the government’s single most popular policy.

  • • •

>   Switzerland’s favourite movie was ‘The Day of the Jackal’. Not that awful one with Richard Gere putting on a weird Irish accent and Bruce Willis with a surreal bleach blonde hairpiece or with Jack Black playing the Cyril Cusack role. No, he liked the original one with Edward Fox. He liked the cold, methodical documentary style of it and the stylishness of 1960s France. But now, the thought of the movie didn’t thrill him as much because he now felt that he was acting out a scene in it, where the Jackal’s nemesis, Commissioner Lebel, realises that despite all the resources and the effort, he’s lost the Jackal. That was exactly how the DCI felt. They’d been chasing the wrong man all along. Farrington wasn’t a serial killer, he was a goat worrier.

  Switzerland couldn’t even begin to get his head around that. How on Earth does a man move from sex with women or men or different sizes or races or bondage or spanking or role-play to “No, what I’d really like is a go on Billy Goat Gruff there.”

  The profiler closed the office door, giving the two of them privacy.

  “You aren’t wrong,” she said.

  “Aren’t wrong? Doctor, I just gambled everything and lost. I haven’t spoken to the Prime Minister yet but I don’t expect to be in a job by this evening.”

  “Chief Inspector, the analysis was sound. The profiling was sound. Yes, I know, I would say that, but I still stand by it. I think we need to go through the profiles again and…”

  “We’re clutching at straws here,” he said resignedly.

  “Let’s review everything we have. Unless you’ve something better to do.”

  • • •

  Triscuit slipped into a corner booth in the roadside services station café and ordered himself a plate of sausage, egg and chips. It was late and the place was empty save for a truck driver with a beer gut that seemed to have its own gravitational field. Triscuit reckoned that if the driver had his belly surgically removed, he wouldn’t be able to stand such was the strain of his body compensating for the weight.

  Just after Triscuit dipped his first chip in the egg, Rilk entered the establishment, looked left to right and then saw Triscuit.