‘Apologies, Your Honour,’ said the defence counsel, before resuming his cross-examination. ‘May I ask you, Ms Daniels, do you work?’
‘I have various sources of income.’
‘So we could say you are gainfully employed?’ Mr Adams probed, removing his spectacles.
‘I receive a number of different incomes.’
‘Was the defendant, Mr Rylands, one of your sources of income? Before you answer,’ said Mr Adams, flicking through his papers, ‘there is a record here of a number of transfers from Mr Rylands’ bank account to your own. June the fourteenth, six thousand pounds; June the twenty-second, three thousand pounds; June the thirtieth, three thousand pounds.’ Raising his voice, Mr Adams turned to face the jury, ‘July the fourteenth, nine thousand pounds. That must have been quite a night.’
‘They were gifts,’ Elegant Daniels replied. Jessie heard a crack in her voice as the witness rallied to try and defend her position.
‘Did you receive so-called “gifts” from many other gentlemen callers?’
Elegant Daniels did not respond.
‘You may answer,’ said the judge.
But Mr Adams was continuing his cross-examination.
‘How did you meet Harvey Rylands, Ms Daniels?’
‘I was introduced to him at a cocktail party I was attending with my former lover,’ she whispered.
‘May I ask who that was?’
A long silence followed. Then Elegant Daniels looked up and spoke in a strong, clear voice.
‘His brother-in-law. Andrew Turner, the Prime Minister.’
CHAPTER 13
ROSCOE WAS SITTING with Anna in the private office at the rear of the foyer of the London Tribeca Luxury Hotel. They were both transfixed by the events of the day as they unfolded on the television news reports that ran repeatedly throughout the day – as was the whole nation.
‘Questions to the Prime Minister,’ had been the call from the Speaker of the House, as Andrew Turner stood at the dispatch box in the House of Commons to face the toughest thirty minutes of his political career. Challenged directly on his involvement with Elegant Daniels, of how he too had used her as a paid-for lover, he refused to comment on matters currently taking place at the Old Bailey.
Roscoe struggled to think of a day in recent British history when such sensational news dominated the headlines. Smiling, he thought of his Aunt Jessie being at the very centre of the action.
‘I don’t think it will faze her in the slightest,’ he said to Anna, when she asked him how he thought Jessie would be coping. ‘I know her legs are a bit stiff from sitting in the jury box each day, but it takes a lot to shake her. She couldn’t care less what the Prime Minister’s been up to; she’ll just want to get to the truth.’
‘You must’ve spoken to her about the case a little bit?’
‘I promise: not a word. I’ve hardly seen her since she was selected for the jury. She’s got her own front door, so she’s very much doing her own thing while the trial is on. I saw her for five minutes last night, but other than that we haven’t spoken.’
‘What was last night?’ said Anna, kicking off her high-heeled shoes and edging down the volume on the latest reporter standing outside the Houses of Parliament.
‘Martin was last night,’ said Roscoe.
‘You’re worried about him?’ asked Anna, rubbing her feet, having been on them for the past eight hours.
Roscoe nodded.
‘Something’s going on with him, but I don’t know what.’
‘What kind of something?’ asked Anna, as Roscoe slid his size-eleven foot across the floor, settling it next to hers.
‘What size feet have you got?’
‘Size three,’ she laughed, her tiny foot up against his.
‘And just how tall are you, now you’ve got your shoes off?’
‘Five foot three-and-a-half inches, if you must know. Good things come in small packages.’
‘They do indeed,’ said Roscoe, smiling as he lazed back into the luxurious sofa.
‘So what’s the “something” with Martin?’ said Anna, tucking her legs up on the sofa beside him. ‘If you don’t tell me, how am I supposed to share my mother’s Scottish wisdom with you?’
‘I’m sure you’ve much wisdom to share,’ said Roscoe, ‘but if I’m being honest, I don’t really know. We’ve always had a great relationship; even when Marika and the girls came along, Martin and I always shared everything. Or at least I thought we did.’ He hesitated. ‘He lied to me about where he was yesterday, for the whole day. He skipped school and then put on a pretence of going to a track meet, but I know he wasn’t there. For a while I had no idea where he was.’
‘Did you ask him?’
‘I’m still hoping he’ll tell me when he’s ready.’ Roscoe looked directly into Anna’s dark eyes. ‘When he was missing I didn’t care what he was up to. I just wanted him home.’
He dropped his head forward, and Anna ran her hand through his short cropped hair.
He looked up at her.
‘What am I doing, Anna? I’ve got Martin going who-knows-where; the two most beautiful twin daughters in the world live four hundred miles away, and all I can do is Skype-call them each evening. That’s not being a good dad.’
‘You’re being stupid. You’re a great dad – but nobody said it was easy.’
‘They were right.’
Impulsively, he leaned across and placed his hand on her arm, pulling her closer into a kiss. He felt her breath shorten as he moved his hand across her body.
And then his phone buzzed.
Laughing, they moved apart, and Roscoe took the phone from his pocket.
‘I’ve got to take this. It’s a VIP line.’
CHAPTER 14
STEPPING OUT OF a black London taxicab, Jessie Luck imagined herself already inside her apartment, savouring a cup of tea with her feet resting on her old sofa. As she struggled through her front door, try as she might, she couldn’t ever remember her legs aching like this.
The Prime Minister and Elegant Daniels?
She still couldn’t quite bring herself to believe it. But why make it up? And after everything she’d been through, why would Elegant Daniels invite further interrogation into her life?
Jessie knew Andrew Turner was a man who was protected in many different ways. She had talked in the past with Jon about the influence and access that powerful figures demand, of the contacts that allowed them another way of life and different moral standards.
She wondered how far protection of the Prime Minister went. Did it include attempting to have someone killed? She’d watched too many movies with Martin, she told herself. This wasn’t James Bond. But what did happen, the night Elegant Daniels was blinded?
The moment she finally did sit down she let out an exhausted sigh. Plumping her cushion and turning on her radio, all she wanted to do was drink her tea and start the next chapter in her latest romance novel.
Having read no more than a couple of pages, she felt her head falling forward, her eyes starting to close. Waking with a start when she heard the front door of the house slam closed, she realised it was over an hour later.
‘Martin, is that you?’ she called, still only half awake. ‘Martin, I’m in my living room,’ she called again, hearing a knock on her apartment door.
‘Hey, Grams,’ said Martin, kissing her on the cheek before he slumped his lanky body down into the armchair opposite her. ‘How’s the court case going?’
‘You know I can’t tell you that.’
‘It was all over the news today. Even the Prime Minister—’
‘Stop right there, Martin Roscoe. You know I can’t talk about it.’
‘But do you think he’s guilty?’
‘Stop it, before I get annoyed.’
‘Okay – whatever,’ said Martin, pretending to sulk.
‘Tell me what’s been going on with you?’ said Jessie.
‘Not much. School. Track. Same.’
&nb
sp; ‘Nothing else?’
‘Not really.’
‘You know you can talk to me whenever you want, Martin.’
‘’Bout what?’
‘That’s the thing, Martin, I don’t know,’ said Jessie, desperately trying not to show her frustration. ‘Perhaps you should tell me?’
‘There’s nothing to tell, Grams. Just the same old shit.’
Telling herself to ignore Martin’s language, Jessie could see something was wrong. No grandmother could be prouder of her grandson than she was – an A-student in class, a national track champion but, like all kids, he looked for the chance to push boundaries whenever he could. Jessie knew that and it didn’t worry her. What did worry her was Martin going missing and not telling his father where he had been.
‘Your dad knows you missed school yesterday,’ said Jessie.
Martin rolled his eyes and put his feet up on her coffee table. She raised her eyebrows in a manner she felt Judge Phillips would have been proud of, and Martin quickly took his feet down.
‘And what about the track meet?’ added Jessie. ‘You never miss track.’
Martin folded his arms across his chest.
‘Who told him I missed track?’ he asked angrily.
‘Don’t you raise your voice at me, Martin Roscoe.’
‘I bet it was George. That’s the last time I trust him.’
‘So you did miss track?’
‘Hey, enough with your questions, Grams,’ said Martin, springing to his feet. ‘You’re not in court now.’
‘Martin!’ shouted Jessie, as her grandson stormed from the room, slamming the door behind him.
‘And I think the Prime Minister’s guilty,’ he shouted as he ran out of the apartment and up the stairs into the rest of the house he shared with his father.
Jessie rested her head in her hands. Martin wasn’t the kind of boy to behave in this way. Something was wrong; she just wished she knew what it was.
CHAPTER 15
ROSCOE WALKED BRISKLY through the hotel and out into the employee parking lot at the rear.
He checked his watch. The Prime Minister would be arriving in less than three minutes.
The call had come directly from the Downing Street private office, and Roscoe had immediately put the hotel’s VIP protocol into place. Rapid passage was to be given to Andrew Turner through the hotel and up to the fourteenth floor. This was a private visit and was to be treated on a strictly confidential, need-to-know basis.
As he stood at the employee entrance, Roscoe received a call from Stanley, who was working the arrival with him.
‘Boss, he’s here,’ said Stanley. ‘He’s pulling round to the rear of the hotel now. Black Jaguar. From what I can make out, the VIP is the driver and he is travelling alone.’
‘Alone?’ replied Roscoe, surprised. He’d never heard of a British Prime Minister, past or present, travelling without some security entourage.
‘Can confirm, Boss. He’s pulling up to the rear-entrance barrier now. VIP is driving and it looks like he’s alone.’
At the far end of the garage Stanley raised the security barrier, and Roscoe watched the black-windowed car slowly enter. With Stanley walking behind, the car edged its way down the aisle, before turning into a reserved bay as indicated by Roscoe. As the engine was extinguished, the lights on the vehicle went dark, but the car’s driver remained inside.
By now, Stanley was standing beside Roscoe and turned to his boss.
‘I could definitely see the PM driving. Tough to see if anyone else was in the rear, but can’t imagine there would be,’ he said.
‘It is just him,’ replied Roscoe.
‘How long do we wait?’
‘Guess he’s got a lot on his mind,’ Roscoe smiled.
At that moment the driver’s door started to open and Roscoe walked forward to the vehicle, offering his hand to the Prime Minister. But as Andrew Turner stepped from the car, an explosion of light burst through the parking lot.
A high-powered photo lens was rapidly taking pictures from across the garage.
Spotting the photographer in the shadows, Roscoe instructed Stanley to take the Prime Minister to the employee elevator, as he stormed across the parking lot in pursuit of the man. While Stanley scooped his bear-like arm around Turner and walked him quickly inside the hotel, Roscoe ran across the tops of three cars, before jumping down only feet from the man who was dressed head-to-toe in black, with a beanie hat pulled down over his head. Realising Roscoe was in close pursuit, the man scrambled around a giant Tribeca Hotels SUV, his camera catching on the wing-mirror and crashing to the ground as he did.
Roscoe watched as the man ran, abandoning his kit as he made his way out of the rear of the garage. Picking up the camera, Roscoe knew he had what he needed. He gave up the chase and quickly made his way back inside the hotel.
‘Apologies, Prime Minister,’ said Roscoe, holding up the camera as he approached Turner and Stanley, ‘but no damage done. I will make sure all the images are deleted.’
‘I would be most grateful,’ replied Turner. ‘And thank you both for your discretion in such a difficult matter.’
‘We pride ourselves on the utmost discretion at Tribeca Hotels, Prime Minister, you can be assured of that,’ said Roscoe, as he accompanied Turner into the elevator. As they travelled through the building, Roscoe looked at the man who held such power. Standing next to him, he seemed so vulnerable. Roscoe knew it was his job to provide the security and diplomacy for which Tribeca Luxury Hotels was so renowned, but he did wonder if he was giving assistance to a man who truly warranted such attention.
As the elevator doors opened and the Prime Minister briefly shook Roscoe’s hand, he wondered what exactly Turner’s role in the Elegant Daniels affair had been. He watched him walk down the hallway to the Rylands’ suite, where the door was already open.
Was Roscoe looking at a man already making his final walk towards the political gallows?
CHAPTER 16
HUMILIATION WAS A feeling to which Amelia Rylands was becoming immune.
Lying on her bed, she turned the pages of The London Informer and even though she had spent the day in the Old Bailey, she found it almost impossible to comprehend what she was reading. The paper had run a splash front-page headline, ‘PM EYES HARVEY’S GIRL’, accompanied by page upon page of photographs of Elegant Daniels standing on the courthouse steps.
Inside the paper, Amelia read a profile of herself, asking how she could survive each day, as she sat in court, exposed to the actions of her cheating husband. ‘Still maintaining her dignity somehow, Amelia Rylands appears each day in support of her husband – a husband who, for twenty years, has chased after women the world over, without a second thought for his loyal wife.’
As Amelia read and reread the story, she heard the Prime Minister enter the living room of their private suite.
‘I don’t have long,’ said Andrew Turner, demonstrating the force of personality that had led him to the highest office in the land. ‘I’m taking a huge risk in coming here, but what the hell is your counsel doing, introducing me into this case? And don’t tell me they didn’t lead her into it, because I’ve read the transcript.’
‘Good evening, Prime Minister,’ replied Rylands. Amelia recognised the familiar sound of her husband dropping ice cubes into a tumbler as he poured himself another glass of single-malt whisky. ‘I have absolutely no idea what you mean.’
‘Don’t know what I mean?’ said Turner, and Amelia heard him cross the room towards her husband. ‘And you don’t need any more of this,’ he went on, as Amelia imagined him removing the glass from Harvey’s grasp. ‘You used me as nothing more than a diversionary tactic,’ continued the Prime Minister. Amelia was able to hear the anger surfacing in his tone. ‘How dare you? And after everything my family has done for you; the times I’ve bailed you out of one mess or another. How dare you!’ he exclaimed. ‘You’ve simply no idea the political pressure I’m coming under.’
‘Andrew, calm down,’ Rylands said, as the sound of him preparing himself another drink reached Amelia’s bedroom. ‘If anyone should be getting stressed right now, it should be me.’
‘Don’t tell me to calm down, Harvey,’ said Turner, to the sound of his fist hitting one of the antique leather Chesterfield armchairs that furnished the room. ‘Can you imagine what Barbara would have made of this?’ he continued. ‘You’re dragging me through the mud all over again. It’s all you ever do! Look, nobody wants you to be acquitted more than I do . . .’
‘I’m not sure that’s entirely true, Andrew,’ said Rylands.
‘You know what I mean. I can’t have my ex-brother-in-law languishing somewhere at Her Majesty’s pleasure. For Christ’s sake, Harvey, I’ve made a pledge to cut the prison population – not have my family add to it.’
‘I really don’t know what you’re expecting me to say, Prime Minister. Your name came up in court today – simple as that.’
‘But your counsel led her there.’
‘In evidence, Andrew,’ said Rylands, with a patronising calm. ‘She was under oath, what else could she say?’
‘You’re using me,’ said Turner, sounding exasperated. ‘Look, Harvey, you need to know this. I’m talking to the Attorney General. I’m thinking of putting a statement out in the morning.’
‘You can’t comment on an ongoing case!’ said Rylands, his own anger suddenly surfacing.
‘Don’t you try and lecture me on the law. We will do everything possible to avoid prejudice, but I have to defend my position.’
Amelia could hear both men speaking in increasingly angry voices.
‘This isn’t just about me and my marriage,’ continued Turner. ‘This is about the party and the government. You need to understand that the government could fall, as a result of your trial.’
‘And I could end up being put away!’
Amelia got to her feet and began to edge slowly towards her bedroom door. As she did so, she heard Andrew Turner pour himself a drink from the decanter, then the creak of leather told her he had seated himself beside her husband.
The Verdict: BookShots (A Jon Roscoe Thriller) Page 4