Annie glanced down at the paper again. The Citizen, Grant’s latest brainchild, was brash, tasteless and thick-skinned. It never pulled back and it never apologised. Media buffs and sundry lawyers predicted disaster every week, yet every rule it broke, every finger it poked in society’s eye, attracted more readers. In some strange way, it seemed to have caught the public mood. The country was stuffed. The gloves were off. It was time, courtesy of The Citizen, for some straight talking. Nice idea.
‘You really think it’s some loony?’ Annie said. ‘This Sabbathman?’
Grant smiled again. ‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Then why have you been pushing the Northern Ireland line? Until now?’
‘Because we didn’t think hard enough. Because we were running with the pack.’
‘And this psychiatrist person you’ve found, the one you feature on page two, he’s changed all that?’
‘Yes.’ Grant reached for another roll. ‘Are you sure you’ve read it?’
Annie nodded, ignoring his invitation to take a second look. The drift of the piece was infantile, some provincial shrink invited to cobble together a description of the would-be killer. The profile he’d handed to the paper talked of ‘The Rambo complex’, and ‘Hungerford-by-instalments’, and predicted the probability of more bloodshed to come. The man was dangerous. The man was outraged. Killing meant nothing to him. One of the subs had evidently dubbed this invention ‘Mr Angry’, and Willoughby Grant had promptly put him on the front page. Now, ten hours later, his enthusiasm was undimmed.
‘A bottle of Krug says I’ve got it right, OK?’ Grant tapped the morning’s headline. ‘Bloke gets fed up, like we all do. Writes to the papers, phones his MP, gets nowhere.’
‘What’s he fed up about?’
‘Doesn’t matter. I can think of a million things. So can you. So can anyone. Politicians. Taxes. The weather. The point is, he’s fed up. Period.’
‘Mr Angry?’
‘Exactly.’
‘So he starts killing? Murdering people? In cold blood?’ She gazed at him, ‘Is that the way it goes?’
‘Yes.’
Annie began to laugh. A passing waiter glanced down at her and Annie nodded at the wine list.
‘A bottle of Krug,’ she said, ‘on Mr Grant.’
The waiter looked inquiringly at Grant.
Grant shook his head. ‘You can do better?’ he said.
‘Yes. As it happens.’
‘Go on, then.’
‘Off the record?’
Grant conceded the condition with a shrug. ‘If you like.’
Annie leaned forward, recognising the chance at last to plant her precious seeds. Not too much, the Controller had said, and not too many. But enough to stuff the genie back in the bottle and get the bloody politicians off the hook.
‘OK,’ Annie said, ‘this is for background only. Things are happening in Northern Ireland. There’s a genuine move towards peace. It hasn’t surfaced yet but it’s there.’ She paused. ‘The IRA people have been talking to us.’
‘Us?’ Grant frowned. ‘You mean Whitehall? Talking to the Provies?’
Annie nodded, glad that at least a little of the current affairs journalist had survived in Willoughby Grant.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘believe it or not, yes.’
‘Why? What’s in it for us? Who’d ever do it? Why take the risk?’
‘Money. The bombs in the City really hurt us. The figures you’ve seen are underestimates. We’re talking billions.’
Grant reached for his wine glass, touching it speculatively, like a man suddenly confronted by a long-forgotten friend.
‘Am I supposed to believe this?’ he said slowly. ‘The Brits forced to the table?’
‘Yes. But that’s not the point. The Provos are split. The peace faction want to make history. The hardliners still want to make war. It’s become a way of life for them. They’d be lost without it.’ She paused. ‘So the bad guys are looking for opportunities, mischief, anything, any alliance, to strangle the peace talks at birth.’
‘And you’re saying Sabbathman …?’
‘I’m saying nothing. Because right now we don’t know. Not for sure. And that’s being totally honest. But we’re finding out.’ She paused again. ‘That’s all I can say. Apart from the obvious, of course.’
‘Obvious?’
‘What happened on Sunday. A planted charge. Detonated by radio signal.’ She smiled. ‘Ring any bells?’
Grant looked briefly hurt, then smothered a yawn. ‘You mean Mountbatten?’
‘Yes.’
Grant nodded. Monday’s papers, in the immediate aftermath of the Exmouth explosion, had been full of reminders about the way the Provisionals had disposed of the Queen’s cousin, fourteen years ago, blowing up his fishing boat off the coast of Western Ireland. The technique had been identical and the Monday broadsheets had run weighty articles analysing the various parallels. In parts of Whitehall, including Gower Street, there’d even been talk of ‘the missing piece of the jigsaw’ and ‘conclusive proof’.
Annie fingered the wine list. Krug was on page three.
‘Well?’ she said. ‘You can’t just dismiss it.’
‘We didn’t. We mentioned it yesterday.’
‘I know. Three lines. I counted them.’
Grant ignored the dig, sipping his Chablis, deep in thought. Finally, he shook his head. ‘No one’s interested in Ireland any more,’ he said. ‘I think I’ll stick with Mr Angry.’
The main course arrived. Grant was having Dover Sole but he only played with it, picking at the flakes of pale flesh, building walls of mashed potato with his fork, making little ponds of melted butter, leaning back to admire the effect. Annie did her best to steer the conversation back to Northern Ireland but Grant wasn’t interested. The story, he kept repeating, was Mr Angry. That was the angle they were working on now. That was the line that would put them ahead of the competition. That, and of course the communiqués, the paper’s exclusive link to the mysterious Sabbathman.
‘But he hasn’t been in touch,’ Annie said. As far as I’m aware.’
‘I’m sorry?’ Grant glanced up. He’d been planting sprigs of parsley in the mashed potato, trying to make them stand upright.
‘The communiqués,’ Annie repeated, ‘those messages you’ve been getting. The ones we’ve seen. The ones you’ve put in the paper.’
Grant nodded. His hand reached for his own briefcase. He pulled out an envelope and passed it across.
‘Sorry,’ he said again, ‘meant to show you earlier.’
Annie opened the envelope. Inside was a single sheet of paper. She glanced up. ‘Is this the original?’
‘No. That should be with Scotland Yard,’ Grant glanced at his watch, ‘about now.’
‘So how did you get hold of it?’
‘It came by post.’
‘This morning?’
‘Yes.’ Grant looked pained. ‘Terrible service from the West Country. Even first class.’
‘What was the postmark?’
‘Dawlish. It’s just down the road from …’ he smiled, ‘… where it happened.’
Annie looked at him a moment, wondering how much to believe. Getting the message late meant extending the story for yet another day. More headlines. Another nice idea. Grant was still watching her.
‘Read it,’ he said, ‘then we might talk about Mr Angry again.’
Annie unfolded the sheet of paper. She recognised the typeface at once. Same machine. Same spacing. ‘Farewell then, Mr Lister,’ it read, ‘£160,000 in share options. Thirty-eight per cent increase in salary. And all for flogging water. Obscene money, Mr Lister, which is why I decided to disconnect you. Even with your lucky hat on.’ Annie looked up. Jonathan Lister had been Chief Executive of the region’s recently privatised water company. There’d been a storm of protest about the size of local bills but no one, to Annie’s knowledge, had yet suggested Semtex.
Annie read the note a second time. ‘
May I keep this?’
‘Of course.’
Annie folded the sheet of paper and laid it beside her plate. Grant was watching her.
‘Well?’
‘Perfect,’ Annie lifted her wine glass, an ironic toast, ‘fits your Mr Angry like a glove.’
‘Exactly. You believe me now?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
Annie didn’t answer, putting her glass down again, beginning to wonder for the first time whether this strange man and his silly paper might not, after all, have got it right. Not Willoughby Grant’s little fiction, of course. Nothing as simple as Mr Angry. But maybe one man. One man with a lot of back-up. One man with nothing to do with Northern Ireland.
She looked up. ‘Why the hat? What did he mean by the hat?’
‘It was Lister’s lucky charm. He only wore it to sea. He said it kept him safe.’
‘Who knew that?’
‘Most of the workforce. Apparently it had been in the company rag.’ He paused. ‘And his wife, of course. She knew.’
‘I don’t imagine she did it.’
‘No,’ Grant looked grave, ‘wrong sex.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Mrs Angry? I hardly think so. Hasn’t got quite the same ring. Lacks impact.’ He spread his hands wide. ‘No offence.’
Annie looked at him for a long time, trying to separate the whimsy from the hard-nosed journalist that she knew must be in there. At the Gower Street morning conference, when she’d raised the question of tactics, her controller had been impatient, almost dismissive. If Downing Street wanted Willoughby Grant pulled into line, then so be it. It wouldn’t be a drama. It wouldn’t even be difficult. Any journalist, he’d assured Annie, would jump at the Irish exclusive, even if it was embargoed until later. That’s what they all wanted. That’s what made these people tick. A little flattery. A little self-importance. A week or two in the front circle. It had worked before and it would doubtless work now. At the time, listening to the theory, Annie had simply nodded in mute agreement but now she knew the Controller had been wrong. Willoughby Grant was different. He didn’t respond to any of the normal blandishments. No one could rein him in. He was well and truly off the leash.
‘Tell me something,’ Grant was saying, ‘Why are your lot so upset by Mr Angry? Why is he such a threat?’
‘He kills people,’ Annie said simply.
‘No, I meant our Mr Angry. The way we ran it this morning.’
‘That’s no threat.’
‘Yes it is. That’s why you’re here. That’s why they sent you. They’re trying to warn us off. Not that we’ll take any notice.’
He looked across at her, waiting for an answer. Annie, for once, refused to meet his eyes.
‘Listen,’ she said at last, ‘the point about your Mr Angry is simple. The theory’s wrong. That’s all I came to say.’
Grant thought about it for a while, eyeing his plate. Then he shook his head. ‘No,’ he said, ‘the point about Mr Angry is that he sells papers. It doesn’t matter whether we’re right or wrong. We’re not talking right or wrong. If you’re interested in all that then you go and buy some other paper.’ He paused. ‘Don’t you?’
‘I’ve no idea. I read the Daily Telegraph.’
‘There you are then. You want a laugh, you read our paper. You want to get mad, have a cry, you come to us. The rest of it …’ He shrugged. ‘It’s a free country.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning we carry on building the story. I’ve a feeling we might be hitting a nerve. Our Mr Sabbathman. Our Mr Angry.’ He smiled. ‘Have you seen the figures? The copies we’ve put on? Since Wednesday? How can we afford to drop a campaign with figures like that?’
‘Campaign?’
‘Yes.’ Grant began to laugh, summoning the waiter at last, ordering the champagne. ‘Believe me, you ain’t seen nothing yet.’
Annie was back in Gower Street by half-past three. ‘T’ Branch, the recently-formed counter-terrorist department, occupied a drab suite of offices on the fourth floor. Since her return from Belfast, Annie had been assigned a cubby hole across the corridor from the Controller’s office. The place was tiny – a single desk, a telephone, a battered grey filing cabinet, a newish safe – but to have an office of your own was a sure sign of status, and Annie was glad of the privacy.
She shut the door and dialled a four-digit number on the internal network. Her controller had told her to ring as soon as she returned, and he answered the phone at once. His name was Francis Wren, a 54-year-old, unmarried, cautious, one of the few of the MI5 old guard who’d managed to survive the Thatcher administration. Annie had worked for him now for nearly two years, and rather liked him. He was honest, and painstaking, and his office nickname – ‘Jenny’ – did him less than justice.
Now, he sounded irritable and out of breath. He was over at Thames House, the new MI5 headquarters on Millbank. The place was still being fitted out, and he was trying to secure some last-minute changes to the Branch office layout. Negotiations were obviously going badly.
Annie described her lunch with Willoughby Grant. She said he’d no intention of abandoning Mr Angry. On the contrary, he was evidently destined for greater things.
She paused. ‘But why is it so important?’ she queried. ‘Why does it matter?’
She heard Wren smothering one of his little coughs. It meant that the question was unwelcome, ill-advised, and Annie thought again about the conversation they’d had earlier on, prior to the lunch, when he’d briefed her on the line she should take. Even Wren himself had seemed uncomfortable with the Northern Ireland leak.
‘I tried,’ she said, ‘I really tried. But he just wasn’t interested. It’s all about sales figures. Money. Circulation. The facts don’t bother him either way.’
There was another silence and Annie wondered for a moment whether Wren was still there.
‘I went to the briefing this morning,’ he said at last, ‘at the Yard. As far as I can gather, Allder’s put himself in charge of more or less everything.’
‘Oh?’ Annie frowned. ‘What did he say?’
‘Not a great deal. The Devon and Cornwall people are doing what they can but there’s not much to get excited about. Not so far.’
‘What about the woman that came forward? The bird-watcher you mentioned?’
‘She’s made a statement and they’ve got a description of sorts. They’re circulating details but no one’s come forward yet. No other sightings that I’m aware of.’
‘And the marina? At Torquay? Where Lister kept the boat?’
‘More inquiries. Our friend obviously gained access at some point or other but no one seems to have seen anything.’
‘No evidence on the boat itself?’
‘Hardly.’
‘I meant the wreckage. The bits and pieces they’ve recovered.’
‘Oh, I see.’ Wren hesitated. ‘No, I don’t think so.’
His voice faded and in the silence that followed Annie could hear the sound of men hammering.
‘Anything on Lister?’ she said brightly. ‘Anything on the shelf?’
‘Nothing. Except a great deal of money.’
‘Accountable?’
‘All of it. He did well out of privatisation, as you might have gathered.’ He paused. ‘Did Grant show you the latest? From our Sabbathman friend?’
‘Yes. What did Allder make of it?’
‘He said it was very interesting.’
‘Is that all?’
‘Yes.’
‘And what do you think?’
‘Me?’
There was a sigh and then he fell silent again. Annie tried hard to think of another question to ask, something that might ease whatever it was that deadened his voice. She’d never heard him so depressed.
‘You’re due at the Home Office at five,’ he said at last. ‘I gather it may go on a bit.’
Annie frowned. ‘Home Office?’
‘Yes.’ Wren was brisk now, de
liberately matter-of-fact. ‘They’ve set up some kind of steering group. They’re taking the whole business pretty seriously. It’s standard procedure but I’m assured we have the inside track. Go through the master files. They’re in your safe. And for God’s sake don’t let us down.’
Annie was still staring at the phone. ‘But why me?’ she said. ‘Shouldn’t you be there?’
Wren didn’t answer for a moment. Then, for the second time, he changed the subject. ‘There’s a man called Cousins,’ he said. ‘He’ll be opening the batting for us. He’s young, and bright, and extremely forceful.’ He paused, half a beat. ‘I expect you’ll like him.’
Annie spent a little over an hour with the master files. Building them up, one for each of the Sabbathman murders, had been Wren’s responsibility and he’d guarded them with his usual manic dedication. On this and other operations, Wren always played the spider, crouched in the middle of the web, sensitive to the least vibration, analysing the raw data from the contact notes, weighing one piece of evidence against another, ruling out rogue factors, dismissing coincidence, looking all the time for that single chain of events that would enable him to make sense of everything else. It was a job he’d always done well but he favoured a particular style, an almost obsessive secrecy, that occasionally made him a difficult man to work for. Like many in the Service, he regarded information as power and he handed the stuff out in such tiny parcels that Annie sometimes found herself operating in a state of almost complete ignorance. Since she’d joined the department, she’d done her best to come to terms with it. To be working for ‘T’ Branch, the one arm of the Service that was still expanding, carried a certain cachet. But lately, since her promotion, the frustrations had started to get the better of her. She was good at taking a brief and turning it into a series of actions. She excelled at writing the subsequent report, with its annexe of ‘bullet points’. But even now, when she was effectively Wren’s deputy, her reports simply disappeared into nowhere. The bigger picture, hidden in the intricate lattice that was Wren’s brain, remained a blur.
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