Danny wasn’t home and I was feeling restless. I thought about heading up to my studio to process the films, but I was tired and felt in need of a shower and a lie down. I popped the kettle on but then remembered that we’d used the last of the milk that morning. So, reluctantly, I put my jacket on, and popped out of the flat to get some from the petrol station on Camden Road (and some biscuits, I won’t lie).
As I was queuing up to pay, I heard the door open behind me. I paid and took my change, and turned to leave, only to see scarf man walking towards the chiller cabinet at the back of the shop. I did one of those double take things, just as he turned around and caught me looking at him again.
There was a momentary look of puzzlement and then he started to smile.
“Are you following me?” he said.
It was one of those scenes you play back in your mind with all sorts of witty responses, but in the heat of the moment I could only manage a “What? No. Sorry.”
And then I thought, hold on, I was in the shop first, so I was very much not following anyone. I pointed that out.
“Valid point,” he said. “Although you did follow me onto the platform at Bromley-by-Bow.”
“No, I didn’t. You just happened to be there when I arrived. That’s different.”
“Okay, but you were looking at me on the train.”
“Don’t flatter yourself. I was trying to see the title of your book.”
“My book?”
“Yes.”
“Right.”
“It looked familiar and I was bored, all right?”
“If you insist.” He started laughing. Normally that would have annoyed me but actually I didn’t mind. I could see the funny side.
“So, what was it?”
“My book?”
I nodded.
“The Shipping News.”
“Ah, okay. I’ve heard of that. Is it good?”
“I think so.” He looked down. “Anyway, I should leave you to your, um, biscuits.”
I followed his eyes to the packet of overpriced chocolate digestives and suddenly felt guilty. I hoped my choice of comfort food didn’t scream desperation.
“Yes, well, thank you. Nice meeting you. Again.”
“My pleasure. See you soon.” It was said with a genuine smile and a twinkle in his eyes.
“Not if I see you first,” I said, but didn’t mean it. I was just leaving the shop when he called after me.
“So, what were you doing in Bromley-by-Bow?”
I stopped, letting the door close on its own.
“Taking pictures. And you?” He took his change from the shop assistant.
“I was at 3 Mills.”
“3 Mills? Should I know that?”
“Possibly. I don’t know. It’s a film studio.”
“Ah, very impressive. So, you’re what? A film star?”
“I wish. No, just the odd bit of acting but nothing you’d have heard of. Not yet, anyway.”
That was my next question answered.
“What’s your name? I’ll look out for you.”
“Mitch Hennessey. And you are?”
“Anna. Anna Burgin.”
“Pleased to meet you then, Anna Anna Burgin, so good they named her twice,” he said, offering me a handshake. I accepted. His hand was warm and the grip firm, but not overly so.
“You can let go now,” I said, but part of me didn’t mean that either. What was happening to me? First the thoughts of Ben, and now this. Maybe it was my subconscious deciding it was definitely time to move on. Or at least definitely show Danny what he was risking.
“I don’t suppose...” he started, then paused. “No, sorry, I shouldn’t.”
“Shouldn’t what?”
“I was just going to say, if you’re so intent on stalking me, maybe you could fancy going for a drink some time?”
“Ah,” I said.
“I’m sorry.”
“No, don’t apologise. I’m flattered.”
“Really? So you would?”
“I didn’t say that. Just I was flattered to be asked. And just to reiterate, I’m not a stalker.”
He laughed.
“Ah okay. Sorry. I was getting carried away. Boyfriend?”
“It’s complicated.”
“Understood.”
“Nice meeting you, though.” I turned to leave.
“Let me give you my number,” he said. “Just, you know, in case it gets any, er, less complicated.”
I turned back. I was flattered. I liked him. God.
“Okay,” I said.
He took a card from his wallet. It said Mitch Hennessey, screen actor, and had a mobile number below.
“Very impressive,” I said.
“Call me,” he said. “Any time. And I’ll lend you the book when I’ve finished.”
“Okay,” I smiled. “I may just do that.”
I didn’t give him my mobile number in return, not least because I can never remember it. But this time, I really did leave the shop, and headed home with slightly more of a spring in my step. There was suddenly even more to think about, but the possibilities were intriguing.
* * *
Samuel Elmhirst-Banks looked at the clock. It was nearly ten. Maybe too late? It was worth a try. He dialled a number. It was answered on the third ring.
“DS Cranston.”
“Amy! How are you? It’s Seb.”
“Seb. Hi. What’s up?”
“Just a quick call. Is it a good time?”
He doubted there ever a good time for an unsolicited call from a politician, but he’d met DS Cranston several times in the course of his Home Office duties and they knew each other well.
“It’s fine. I was just running a bath. What can I do for you?”
“Nothing urgent. I need to talk to you about a friend of yours.”
“Of mine?”
He laughed.
“Okay, not a friend. Graham March.”
“Oh God. What’s he done now?”
“That’s what I need to talk to you about.”
“And?”
“He seems to be putting himself about a bit.”
“Hold on, let me just turn the taps off.”
He refilled his glass while he waited for her to return. One more wouldn’t hurt, although it was looking like a busy day tomorrow. There was never a quiet one in Government, just seemingly endless firefighting, committee meetings, and covering of tracks. Talking of which...
“I’m back,” she said after a moment.
“I do apologise. This won’t take long.”
“Do I need to take notes?”
“No, you’re okay. It’s off the record at the moment. It’s just, well... Delicate.”
“How come?”
“It’s just March. How’s the investigation going?”
“You know I can’t tell you that. It’s an internal enquiry. I’m not involved except as a witness, but even if I was, I wouldn’t be able to discuss it. You know that.”
“I do. Of course. But I don’t need to tell you the sensitivity of the situation. Can I be frank with you?”
“Of course.”
“Okay. Look, I probably shouldn’t say this but I’m being leaned on, if you know what I mean. You’ve seen the papers, I assume?”
“Which ones?”
“All of them, just about. Conspiracy theories about corruption seem very much in vogue.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“Exactly. And those above seem to expect me to - how can I put this - keep a lid on things, if you catch my drift. Anything new could be very bad PR, and we can’t have that, especially at the moment.”
“Sorry to hear that, but he’s suspended while the investigation continues. There’s nothing more I can tell you.”
“I know. And I’m sure it’ll be very thorough.”
“It will. It is.”
“Of course.”
It was time for a different approach.
“Are you k
eeping an eye on him in the meantime?” he asked.
“Not personally, no.”
“Is that not within your remit?”
“Not really. Why? What’s bothering you?”
“I’m just concerned, Amy. The rottweilers are circling and they don’t need any encouragement. Who’s the guy who broke the original story? Danny someone. You know him?”
“Danny Churchill. Yes, I know him.”
“What do you make of him?”
“He’s straight up. Thorough but decent.”
“Is he still on the story?”
“I don’t know, but probably.”
“But you haven’t heard anything?”
“No.”
“Okay. But listen, Amy, could you do me a favour? If you hear anything about it, or about anything that March is up to, can you let me know? Within the realms of whatever you can do without breaking any rules, of course. I need to make sure it doesn’t get any worse. I could do with knowing what he’s up to.”
“Okay,” she said. “Just don’t pin your hopes on it.”
“I won’t.”
They ended the call. DS Amy Cranston returned to her bath. Seb took his glass through to the kitchen. There was progress of sorts, but he still felt uneasy. Maybe it was time to start thinking about insurance.
10
Monday, April 4th, 1994
MORNING stranger. How was Germany?” Derek Hughes, one of the Daily Echo’s longest-serving sub-editors, looked up from his desk as Danny walked across the open-plan newsroom, towards his corner office.
“Cold,” said Danny, pausing momentarily. “Good, though. How are things here?”
“Ah, just the usual. Mike’s on the warpath.”
“Again? God.”
“Definitely in your interest to pop your head in. Word to the wise.”
“Cheers, Derek. Shall do.” It was good to have someone looking out for you, especially when deadlines were being missed.
With a deep breath, Danny crossed to Mike Walker’s office. His editor had been supportive since Danny had taken over as the head of the Special Investigations Department, but his mood could fluctuate in a heartbeat. He handled stress by sharing it equally among his staff, with added venom when a front page was at stake. Danny knocked on the open door. Walker looked up from the newspaper he was reading.
“Danny, come in,” he said. A seat wasn’t offered. It never took long enough to get comfortable.
“Did you want to see me?”
“No, I didn’t want to see you. I wanted to see your fucking copy.”
“I’m working on it, Mike.”
“What the exact fuck use is that? Shall I call the press hall? Tell them not to bother today because the golden boy’s been fucking off round Europe on a jolly? And then call accounts and ask them to express your expenses because you’re skint after running up a massive fucking bill trying to find whatever the German equivalent of a wild goose is?”
“No, I’m sorry. But it’s taking time.”
“To do what? March is as guilty as the fucking Kray twins. How much more time do you need?”
“Is that rhetorical?”
“What?”
“Just asking.”
“No, go on. How much longer?”
“It’s hard to tell.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Walker shut the newspaper and threw it on his desk. “What’s the delay?”
Danny closed the door without asking.
“I’m going to have to ask you to trust me on this.”
“Go on.”
“It’s getting bigger. I had a hunch he wasn’t spending his suspension looking after the garden, so I started looking deeper.”
“And?”
“It seems like he’s got some very naughty friends from eastern Europe.”
“Can you get to the point?”
“Yes, sorry. Okay, he seems to be getting involved in people trafficking. Sex trafficking to be exact.”
“Jesus.”
“Exactly. He’s working with a guy from Poland but there’s a network. And then yesterday I found out he’s got an involvement in a homeless shelter.”
“A what?”
“Exactly. Says it’s his charitable side, putting the world to rights, but does that sound feasible? I don’t think so.”
“So, what are you thinking?” Walker’s tone was softening. He could recognise a story.
“That he’s using the shelter as some form of a front. Either taking girls from there and passing them into his network, or somehow using that to bring them over here from Poland, Bulgaria, wherever. Either way it needs looking into.”
“The filthy bastard. So why did you go to Germany?”
“The girls come from the old Eastern Bloc but they get funnelled through Cologne before ending up here. I’m getting close but it’s hard to pin anything on him. There’s definitely something in it, though. There’s talk of a group of girls coming over this week, or if not, soon after. I want to follow him, see what he’s up to. See if I can establish a link then bang. We’ve got him.”
“Jesus. Legal’s going to have a field day with this. Okay. Do you need any help? Photographer?”
“I’m all right at the moment but I’ll let you know.”
Walker sat back in his chair, thinking.
“How did you hear about the homeless shelter?”
“He told me himself.”
“What?”
“He rang, asked to meet me. I met him yesterday. Wants me to run it as some sort of good news story to help clear his name.”
“Well, that’s a lot of bollocks. He must know you’re getting close, though. He’s trying to cover his tracks, or lead you up an alley.”
“Possibly literally.”
“Exactly. Be careful, Danny.”
Walker stood up, came around his desk, and patted Danny on the shoulder.
“Good work. Keep me informed, okay? And on my desk by the end of the week.”
“What? The whole thing?”
“Got a problem with that?”
“I don’t know, I... It depends how it goes this week.”
“You’re playing with the big boys now, Danny. The longer you take, the more chance of a leak or the more chance he’ll get away with it. I’ll give you to the end of the week, then I want him on his sword. Okay?”
It wasn’t a question so much as a statement. Danny nodded and left the room.
* * *
There were still two desks in the Special Investigations Department. Clare’s was now covered in books, newspapers, magazines and clutter but there was an order to everything, below the superficial appearance of chaos. Her Atex terminal had been removed. Danny had thoughts of hiring an assistant of his own, but as yet hadn’t had the budget approval. In any case he was doing very well on his own, with occasional support from elsewhere within the editorial department. Clare’s nameplate had also been removed from the door. It was like she’d never existed.
There were two phones on his desk - the black one for calls through the switchboard and a red one that served as a direct line for those to whom he’d given his number. Danny picked up the black one and started dialling.
“DS Cranston,” said a voice, as the call was answered.
“Hi Amy, it’s Danny. Good time to call?”
“Possibly excellent as it happens. How are you doing, Danny?”
He’d met Detective Sergeant Amy Cranston during the search for Clare. Despite him being a suspect in the disappearance, and being on the receiving end of several police interviews, Danny found that he could trust her. She was straight, and had believed in him when her former boss, DCI Graham March, was trying to accuse him of murder. They got on well. They both wanted to see March pay for his corruption. For Amy, it was a question of pride in the police service to which she’d devoted her career.
They made small talk for a couple of minutes and then Danny got to the point.
“Can I talk to you off the record? Abou
t March?”
“Of course, although he seems to be the flavour of the month at the moment. Were your ears burning last night, by the way?”
“Mine? No. Why?”
“Nothing to worry about. I just had a call about you.”
“Me? Who from?” Danny was immediately on alert.
“A guy called Samuel Elmhirst-Banks. Calls himself Seb for short. Have you heard of him?”
“He’s a politician, isn’t he? Home Office or something?”
“That’s the one. Junior minister.”
“Why was he interested in me?”
“He wasn’t originally. He called to discuss March. He seems absolutely paranoid about bad PR for the Met. I got the impression he’d rather we brushed it all under the carpet than bring March to justice and face a media backlash. Which is where you came in. He asked if you were still pursuing him.”
“What did you say?”
“I said I didn’t know but it was possible.”
“Well done.”
“I’m telling you, I don’t owe politicians any favours. All I’m interested in is the truth and justice. I don’t appreciate being leaned on, especially by some Tory twat, if you pardon the language.”
Danny chuckled.
“I know what you mean.”
“Anyway, how can I help?”
“It’s delicate. I just wanted to bring you up to speed on a couple of things I’m working on, and see if you’d heard anything. Obviously, discretion is paramount.”
“Of course.”
“Have you heard about this homeless shelter thing?”
“Ha. Yes. I suspect we both have our suspicions, though, and similar opinions about leopards and spots.”
“Exactly. Listen, are you doing anything tonight? Could we meet? It’s not really something for a phone call.”
“Not tonight, sorry. I’m working late. Tomorrow lunchtime, though, if it can wait?”
Danny gave a thought to his deadline. That could still work.
“That’s perfect. I’ll keep digging. In the meantime, if you hear anything can you let me know?”
“You as well. Okay Danny. I can’t promise. I can’t reveal details of ongoing enquiries.”
“Understood. Just grapevine though? Unofficial?”
“Leave it with me.”
Out Of The Red Page 6