The Ministry of Love

by O'Mahony, Jason

  He slipped into the booth with him, his nose wrinkling on seeing the food.

  “Not drizzled in enough extra virgin avocado oil for you? Do you know, it’s actually hard to get a plate of simple sausage, egg and chips these days.”

  “What do you want, Triscuit?” the Tory uttered hurriedly, struggling to contain his disgust for his surroundings.

  Triscuit pulled a slim envelope from his inside jacket pocket, and slid it over the table.

  “There’s a flashdrive in there. Conversations between you and one Yves Bertrand. Plotting to murder a senior government official, you bad boy.”

  Triscuit splashed a healthy dose of Lea & Perrins sauce on the chips and quietly admired the sauce’s ability to dress up any meal. Rilk’s facial expression didn’t change an iota. A definite sign of guilt, Triscuit decided.

  “I have no idea what you are talking about.” Rilk reacted, aware that he could be under electronic surveillance now. He doubted he was as Triscuit had promised he wouldn’t. Triscuit was a straight up guy after all. Unlike Rilk.

  Triscuit laughed and popped another fat chip in his mouth. Proper chips, Triscuit thought. Proper fat chips cooked in fat. Delicious and deadly, the way they should be.

  “Don’t worry Edgar, I’m not taping this. And I’ve a little gadget in my pocket that is making sure that you’re not either. Do you know how Bertrand recorded this by the way? I know you swept him for recording devices before each meeting but he secretly bugged you before the meeting. Bumped into you before you arrived. Clever fella, that Stoat.”

  Rilk had now gone grey.

  “What do you want, Triscuit?”

  “Edgar, have a chip. You could do with the colour. No? Alright. We’re five days from polling day. If this story isn’t all over the media tomorrow, then we’ll put it out. I mean, come on, Edgar. Electing a Prime Minister who supports assassinating innocent people? Jesus, I’ll play dirty as much as the next guy, but that’s taking the piss.”

  Rilk picked up the envelope, shoved it in his pocket, sneered at the plate of food in front of Triscuit and left the café.

  Then Triscuit realised something.

  These chips would be really tasty in some buttered bread. He waved at the bloke behind the counter.

  • • •

  He stood in front of the camera, pulling his collar up to keep out the rain and hoping that the raindrops gathering on his glasses didn’t change his appearance too much. He was going to take them off to allow himself to dry them but she had never seen him without the glasses and he wasn’t sure she’d recognise him, so he kept them on.

  “Hello?” A female voice crackled from the speaker.

  “Susan? Good evening. Julian Tredestrian from the National Companionship Agency. I think my PA may have rang you?”

  She acknowledged him and buzzed him in. The apartment block had been built in the late 1970s and was dated but well maintained, freshly painted and vacuumed. Her apartment was on the first floor.

  She met him at the door and led him into a moderately sized but tidy, cosy apartment, all throws and lamps and candles smelling of oranges. Julian accepted her offer of tea which was accompanied by Marks and Spencer orangey chocolate rounds, a real treat as they were his absolute favourite. She sat down on the sofa, facing him. Her hands were gripped together anxiously. Looking at her, he realised how much she looked like Rebecca. Maybe that was what had triggered the idea, although he knew that was nonsense. Her profile had matched Thomas Baker’s so the appearance was just a bonus. Perhaps even a hindrance.

  That very morning, he had witnessed the administering of the secret Cupid compound and the targeted electroshock treatment that accompanied it. When Thomas had awoken hours later, the change had been noticeable. His personality was less dour, more balanced. They talked about his feelings about Rebecca and he was frank. He still had the feelings, but the events themselves, indeed everything in his past, just felt like it had been a long time ago. He could remember the details vividly, they just happened a long time ago, even though he knew that wasn’t true.

  Julian mentioned Susan, showed a photo and suggested what he proposed. Thomas agreed, provided that Susan was made fully aware of Thomas’s background and what had happened to him. Julian assured him, knowing full well that he would have to do that anyway, for ethical reasons. The NCA couldn’t go about dumping people with undeclared baggage into other people’s lives. It was actually against the law.

  “I was surprised to see you, Doctor Tredestrian. I take it you don’t visit every candidate. Is it bad?”

  “No, no, not that at all. Our system has come up with a recommendation but I need to tell you about this particular gentleman. There are things that you need to know before you make your decision.”

  • • •

  The profile had been sound, they decided. It hadn’t been unreasonable to suspect Farrington. All his actions — hiding his identity, paying with cash — all pointed to a nefarious act, just not the nefarious act they were looking for. But he wasn’t the man and so they’d gone back to the beginning. The skills required to commit the murders and the possible motives: all that was sound analysis. What were they missing?

  They reviewed the likely suspects again and came up with the same names. Farrington, who was now busy being prosecuted under the Animal Welfare Act and Colonel Tom Wrightman, who was not physically capable.

  “Why did we suspect Wrightman again?” the profiler asked.

  “Because he criticised the media’s handling of Afghanistan. And he has many of the skills needed to commit the crimes.”

  “But we ruled him out.”

  “Because Farrington looked far more likely,” the DCI replied before picking up Wrightman’s file.

  “He’s a widower, has a son and daughter who are both in their late twenties, no, wait… the daughter’s dead. Suicide.”

  The profiler leapt from her seat, snatching the file, rapidly scanning it.

  “Can you get the coroner’s report?”

  Switzerland already had the phone in his hand.

  • • •

  Three days before polling Edgar Rilk, with his best morally outraged face in place, faced the media to reveal that he was resigning as Conservative Party chair(wo)man/person. Speaking to a large crowd of media people in a London hotel, Rilk revealed that he had uncovered a shocking conspiracy whereby the party leader, Sebastian Spence MP, seemed to have commissioned an undisclosed assassin, in a ‘wicked’ plot to assassinate Dr. Julian Tredestrian, the head of the NCA. Rilk revealed how the money had been paid from accounts controlled by Spence (which Rilk had in fact set up) and that sources in the security services had made him aware of the situation. Putting on his best stony face, Rilk told the media that he could not in good conscience help such a man become Prime Minister and was therefore resigning.

  Spence was stunned. And trapped. He had to deny everything of course, so could not implicate Rilk. In fact, Rilk had carefully constructed the evidence in such a way that it would not be enough to convict Spence when the file eventually went to the Crown Prosecution Service. If Spence just denied everything he wouldn’t go to prison, which meant that he had to keep his mouth shut. It would cost him the election, and his political career, but at least keep him out of prison where he knew he would be pillow-bitingly popular.

  The media, starved for a juicy story with the serial killer celebrity embargo in place, leapt on the story and decided that Sebastian Spence was to be turned into a monster. Even the pro-Tory papers, who had been singing his praises only days previously with the enthusiasm they had shown for other handsome gentlemen with a taste for fascism, decided that it would be financially prudent to get onboard.

  Spence resigned from the party leadership just before polling day and the new leader, a rumpled but decent former chancellor of the exchequer from the left of the party, who had been banished under the Spence regime for being too lefty and looking like he enjoyed a bacon and egg sandwich far too much, was rapidly
drafted in as the Anti-Spence but it was too late.

  Election night was a bloodbath for the Tories and the Liberal Democrat/Labour Alliance shattered the 50% share of the vote barrier for the first time since the 1930s. Ironically, it was the new proportional representation single transferable vote system, which the Tories had railed against, which stopped them from being completely annihilated, although it did not stop Sebastian Spence from losing his seat to a man dressed as a giant bumblebee, running as a ‘Honservative’.

  Alexander Fairfax was elected by such a huge vote, people were not calling it a re-election. It was a coronation.

  • • •

  “Mary Wrightman. Studying journalism in the University of Durham. Was quite bright by all accounts.” The profiler handed over a photo of a plump, cheerful looking girl. She scanned the psychologist’s report.

  “She was very depressed. Couldn’t get a job. Wasn’t qualified.”

  Switzerland took a few pages from the file.

  “She spoke three languages and had a masters in Economics and European Law. How could she not be qualified?” he asked.

  The profiler looked through the file.

  It was filled with rejection letters from media outlets.

  “I’d say, and it pains me to admit it, she was too fat.”

  “That’s outrageous. Look at her letters of recommendation from her professors. There’s even some of her articles in there. She was concise, well-informed, clearly sourced her facts and quotations and…”

  “And this is the 21st century, David. She wanted to be a television or online media journalist, and how you look matters more than what you know.”

  “So she should have been content to just work in the background so that a less able but better looking presenter could claim all the credit?”

  “Do you watch the news?”

  “I watch Newsnight. And the Channel 4 news,” he said, defensively.

  “You and about seven other people. Basically, if you’re a woman over thirty-five, or look over thirty five, there’s less opportunity for you. That’s it.”

  “Don’t we need journalists who actually know things?”

  “The watching public decides that and the fact is only a minority of the public actually want to know anything other than who Jordan is sleeping with, or who Cheryl Cole is fighting with in nightclub toilets. Look at the BBC, gradually removing older presenters they deem less attractive, despite their abilities. There was no place for Mary Wrightman.”

  “Which would make her angry war-hero father less than well disposed towards our celebrity culture.” Switzerland concluded.

  The profiler continued to search the file.

  “But that still doesn’t put him in the frame. I mean, he’s in a wheelchair. Your young DC has verified that with the NHS. He has a genuine disability. And anyway, look at his build. This is a big man, wheelchair or not. This is not the guy we saw in the car park.”

  She held up the photo, and he conceded, even looking at the photo. The man who had attacked him had been tall, and slim, and wiry. This wasn’t him.

  “Oh wow!” She exclaimed, burrowing through the file. She pulled out another file.

  “He has a son. A twenty nine year old son who is a qualified electrician and a concert sound and visual effects technician.”

  Switzerland’s eyebrows shot up.

  “In other words, the kind of guy who would know how to rig a lift or disable CCTV cameras. A guy who knows his way around electronics.”

  “Just the sort of guy.”

  Switzerland snatched up his car fob. She grabbed her handbag.

  “Aren’t you going to call back-up?”

  He shook his head.

  “No, I’ve already made myself look like a fool with the bloody goat. We’ll have to check this one out ourselves.”

  “Oooh. A stakeout!” the profiler exclaimed.

  • • •

  Susan’s hands were actually shaking as she sat down at the table. She took a series of deep breaths to try to calm herself and looked out over the bay.

  The Port Bexley resort had a clear hillside view of the Cornish coast. The cluster of tables sitting out on a veranda, combined with a balmy evening was very much a Richard Curtis style romantic setting, as indeed the NCA had intended it to be. The lighting came from a serious of burning torches dotted about the veranda and candles on each table. Some of the tables had couples who were just meeting, entranced with each other, others had nervous singletons waiting. She caught the eye of another woman, who smiled in embarrassment at her.

  Susan recognised the woman. She had been the shy woman at the first NCA session she had attended, the one with the desperate ‘last chance’ look in her eyes. Susan gave her a little nod and a ‘look at us’ roll of the eyes. She knew how the woman felt, because she felt the same feelings herself. It was the feeling of disbelief that she, a grown adult, was putting herself through this factory production line.

  Yet it had all made sense. She had actually met Dr. Tredestrian himself. He had patiently explained how and why the NCA did everything and answered her questions and it had all made sense. This was the most logical rational approach to finding a life partner despite the Orwellian tones.

  Then there was the visit from Dr. Tredestrian. He’d been very frank about this man. He was one of the men whom Susan had scored highly during her assessment. The treatment he had received, which sounded unusual to say the least, and the fact that he had baggage. Uber-baggage, she thought. A dead wife. Baggage doesn’t get anymore baggagy than that. She had been carrying a niggling ‘why was she doing this?’ doubt around with her since the doctor’s visit. This was madness. She couldn’t quite believe she was going to let this man, this potential madman, into her life. Yet here she was.

  She looked around. Couples everywhere, men and women, women and women, men and men, all looking at someone across a table for the first time, hoping that maybe this was the one.

  Some couples were already holding hands at the table. This was the second sitting of the evening, and so some had been there a while, but no more than an hour before her — but the holding hands did take her by surprise. She looked at one man listening to his prospective partner. He looked attentive, happy, calm, engrossed in her. She so wanted a man to look at her like that and hold her hand. She was big in the hand holding department, something she tended to daydream about.

  Susan wondered what the Cupid 12 was doing. She had received a dose in the clinic which had made her sleepy for a while, although apparently only the first shot caused that. Afterwards, she had been prescribed a small plastic bottle of tablets, to be taken once a day, until they ran out. There was a month’s supply, after that she was on her own. In fact they both were, as the theory was that by that stage the artificial stimulant of the tablets would no longer be necessary. Both partners would by then have built up enough of an emotional bond within the relationship to permit it to flourish under its own strength. That was the theory, anyway.

  The woman who had smiled nervously at Susan was now meeting her own partner. She stood up, and he kissed her on the cheek.

  Susan panicked. She was not by nature one of those cheek kissers. That was a continental thing that she’d never quite caught on with. She now furiously worried about the kissing thing. If she didn’t, she would appear cold. But then she really didn’t want to. She got angry that someone in this eight billion programme hadn’t told her about the kissing thing.

  “Susan?”

  She looked up into the eyes of the man that she suddenly realised that she wanted to spend the rest of her life with.

  • • •

  They had been parked in the car for three hours now. It was dark and wet with a light, but nevertheless irritating, rain constant in its drizzling. The street, a middle class suburban street made up of artisan cottages, was quiet and lit by the orange glow of the streetlights which made it look later than the fifteen minutes after ten that it was. When the odd car drove past, the
two of them tried to look inconspicuous or at least like an adulterous couple trying to work something out. Anything but a police inspector and a criminal profiler watching a house for a serial killer.

  “What do you intend actually doing?” she asked, finishing the last chocolate Hobnob that had been her dinner.

  “We know that Wrightman Senior is inside. So we wait for Paul to return. According to his tax details he lives with his father, so it’s our best chance.”

  “Assuming he’s not off hacking someone to death using methods taught to him by Daddy,” she suggested, a little more cheerfully than she had meant.

  “Well, there is that. I’ve tried to have his mobile phone triangulated, but it’s off with the battery removed, one would assume, which means it cannot be tracked.”

  “Which is what you would expect a serial killer to do,” she added.

  “Our goat loving friend did that too so let’s not read too much into it.”

  A taxi pulled up near the house and a tall, lean figure stepped from the back door, pausing by the driver’s window to pay.

  Both of them flicked their eyes to the photo resting against the gear stick. In this light, it was difficult to tell, and with his coat collar pulled up to keep out the rain and a baseball cap pulled down low, they just couldn’t be sure.

  “Oh piss off,” the Chief Inspector muttered, as he noticed a police patrol car slowly moving down the street towards them.

  The taxi passenger finished paying the driver, not taking his eyes off the police car.

  “Piss off! Piss off!” Switzerland swore under his breath, as the car got closer to the taxi passenger before driving past him and reaching their car.

  The passenger window on the police car lowered down, forcing him to do likewise.

  “You alright, sir? We’ve had a complaint that you’ve been loitering.” The officer was young, tough looking and bored.

  The taxi passenger stood at the side of the road, watching the situation. Switzerland was aware of the scrutiny and so didn’t want to flash his badge.

  “My name is Detective Chief Inspector Switzerland, Constable. I am on a surveillance operation, which you are in the process of buggering up.”