by Phil Walden
It was a further five minutes before the bitter wrangle subsided, with a puce faced Faversham appearing in the corridor and pacing off towards the stairs leading up to his office. Olivia, secreted in a doorway, peered out and waited for anyone else to leave the staffroom. Had the two been alone in there? If not, how could she tell if the next person to exit was indeed the prey she was pursuing. She’d heard no other voices contributing to the squabble. Any doubts were removed when a tall, thin man emerged into the corridor and aimed a sharp one fingered gesture in the direction of the headmaster’s retreating back, before flouncing off towards the college entrance. She recognised him immediately.
She had spoken to Ross Williams on a number of occasions but never suspected him. And not once in any of those discussions did he give a hint of a speech impediment. As one of the housemasters he always appeared calm and confident. Had his stutter emerged precisely because he was nervous and angry? And was that same passion brought out when he informed the paper of Angel’s true identity and hinted at sinister occurrences at the college? If so, it only served to underline the seriousness of whatever secrets Faversham was keeping and reinforced her determination to find out. She couldn’t wait. Ross had to be confronted then and there.
Olivia jogged though the main doors. She looked around. He was nowhere to be seen. However, on the far side of the car park an engine was revving furiously. She saw Ross, his head slumped over the steering wheel, both hands fiercely gripping its sides. She ran across, anxious to catch him before he got away. Suddenly the car charged forwards, swerving to the right and heading directly towards her. She froze, putting both hands out in front of her. The car squealed to a halt, the bumper inches from her knees. Olivia gulped and steadied herself. She then moved around, opened the passenger door and got in.
“What the f..f..fuck were you d..d..d..doing?” a furious Ross asked.
“I heard you.”
“I could have f..f..fucking killed you.”
“I heard you and Faversham arguing in the staffroom. I just wanted to check you were alright.”
He began to breathe in deeply, fighting to regain his composure. “Well I’m fine thanks or I will b..b..be if I’m just l..l..left alone.”
“Okay. Just concerned for you, that’s all.”
“Well that’s kind of you but really there’s no n..n..eed.”
“You don’t like Faversham, do you?”
“I loathe the man.”
“Why?”
“That’s none of your b..business.” He looked hard at her. “So if there’s nothing else?”
She half opened the door but paused before dropping her bombshell. “There is one more question I need to ask you.” His scowl spoke of rising impatience but she could not back out now. “What do you know about Alice Keeling?”
The mention of Angel’s real identity alarmed him. Ross could stand up to Faversham’s bullying over ordinary school matters, but this was something much more serious.
At first he denied everything. “Never heard of her.”
“Then why call the newspaper to say you did?”
“I didn’t. You’ve got the wrong person. Now, if you don’t mind. I need to go.”
She persisted, threatening to play back the tapes of the phone calls to prove the voice was his. He eventually backtracked to say he had got it all wrong and that, although he had recognised the girl in the newspaper, there was no link to Faversham whatsoever.
“One of our journalists came to the college some weeks back,” explained Olivia. “Showed your headmaster a picture of Angel, a mock up of what she would have looked like aged 16. He claimed not to recognise her.”
“Easily explained”, Ross retorted. “If it was just a likeness, how could Faversham be expected to recognise her, especially after all these years? Anyway it wasn’t like she worked here long.”
Olivia was unrelenting. This was her one chance. He had to crack. “Then why say nothing was stolen during the break in, when we know for a fact that key documents were removed?” she demanded.
“How could you know that?”
“Now, that’s none of your business. I need to know everything about the girl and you’re going to tell me.”
“And if I don’t?”
It was time to pile on the pressure. “We publish anyway with you named as the informant.”
“You’re p..p..putting my career, my l..l..livelihood in danger.”
“You should have thought about that before you contacted the paper.”
“I’ll lose my job.”
She made a promise she had no right to make. “If you cooperate, I guarantee your identity will be protected.”
Ross crumbled. He started to sob. She felt the urge to reach out and comfort him but forced herself to hold back. Then something strange happened. His head rose from behind his hands. The stress slowly began to ease from his face, almost as if his decision to share what he knew and had long suppressed, was a relief, even a sort of release. But there was one proviso, one which momentarily diminished her sense of triumph and one, she felt, would deny her the full scoop she had wished to deliver to Deacon. Yes, he would talk. Yes, he would share everything he knew. But only with Joe Start.
*
Start may have been absent for more than a year but he had lost none of the aggressive, driving skills needed to survive the roads of the capital. He dodged and weaved in and out of the traffic to blasts from protesting horns. Where there was one lane, he made two, where there were two, he made a third. You had to make progress. The task had become ever more difficult with the explosion of kamikaze cyclists intent on staking their claim to the city’s streets by riding at speed and ignoring every red light which threatened to inconvenience their journey.
Inwardly Start wasn’t complaining. He loved ducking and diving down the narrow lanes and alleyways of the Old City, using the freedom granted him by driving a London cab. Bus lanes and restricted areas were his, fellow cabbies beckoned him on and he delighted in ploughing on past the pleading raised hand of some desperate commuter. He was back on his own patch. This was his manor, his home.
It had been just like old times. He and Donnelly had stayed up long into the night, revisiting old haunts, retelling favourite stories and chewing over shared grievances. They’d laughed a lot and drunk even more and that, in combination with just a couple of hours sleep, left Start feeling jaded and unkempt. It was worth it though, he told himself.
Plus it had been worthwhile in a wholly different way for Donnelly. He woke early that morning, cajoled his friend off the sofa and out of the house, and slipped into work, all before his own family stirred. There, alone in the building, he retrieved a series of photographs long buried in the newspaper’s archives, ones he knew might cast a whole new light upon the Bailey case. As part of the team on that fateful night, his task had been to sift through the many photographs taken at the hotel, selecting those which would accompany the text Start was working on nearby. It wasn’t the shots chosen which concerned him now but those he’d rejected. These showed none of the salacious activities in the hotel room, being merely a record of the wayward peer’s movements on the night.
The events which had since transpired, particularly his tracing of the concierge and the revelation that Coburn had been at the complex that evening and keen to hide his identity, made him think again about that particular set of photographs, the ones not considered for publication because none of them featured the target, Lord Bailey. He did not dare to email them. He could not chance anything being traced back to him. Slipping the shots into a large envelope, he wrote out Deacon’s address. He knew the package had the potential to be far more powerful and damaging than anything they had intended to publish at the time. Perhaps now, he could go some way to making amends for the wrong Joe Start had suffered.
*
The direct route to Greenwich was via the Blackwall Tunnel but it was barely dawn and Start was mindful of disturbing Trisha too early. He had to see her. S
he had to be warned. He knew the welcome would be cool and, if too early, positively frosty. Anyway the city was best seen by first light. The streets were largely empty and the air clean. He pottered along the Embankment before turning across Westminster Bridge to pause on the South Bank. The gentle swell of the river seemed in line with the tranquil mood, saving its tidal surge for the frantic rush hour to come.
The cab chugged through Bermondsey and New Cross, past the growing array of flats and apartments, among which were dotted black, grime encrusted and once grand Victorian buildings. Old schools, town halls and derelict public baths sat forlorn and out of place, increasingly the only reminder of a bygone age, past glories and a long lost community.
Greenwich itself typified a capital in transition. The Admiralty buildings, the Pentagon of the eighteenth century, glistened in their pristine whiteness, cleansed and reborn as a seat of learning and a magnet for tourists. An eclectic mix of bars and restaurants had sprung up alongside trendy shops specialising in expensive goods, wholly peripheral to the daily survival of the human species. It was once said that the sure sign of a borough’s gentrification was a Sunday market. Greenwich had two.
Start parked the cab and ambled through the old town, past shops busy with last minute restocking and commuters rushing to catch buses and trains. He peered into the breakfast bar where, in happier times, he and Trisha had regularly drunk coffee and devoured bacon sandwiches prior to going their separate ways to work. She wasn’t there, at either their usual table nor at any of the others set out in a long line parallel to the serving counter. A quick glimpse at the television monitor on the wall showed someone else in place to read the early bulletins. He had guessed right. It was one of her days off.
Emerging from the rear entrance to the market, he walked towards Greenwich Park, sparse apart from a smattering of energetic joggers and latex clad cyclists. He flopped onto a bench and scanned the street of terrace houses which skirted the park. The old place didn’t look so bad. She’d had the outside painted, its gleaming whiteness contrasting with the tatty stucco of the residences either side. He was sure she would still be in bed, enjoying a rare lie in, a luxury probably relished after her normal four o’clock starts.
At that moment a taxi drew up outside the house. A lone passenger sat in the rear of the cab. It waited, its diesel engine rattling and grumbling away. The door of the house flew open and Tom Catchpole, throwing his arm into a suit jacket, dashed out. He jumped into the cab, which swung round and accelerated away. Start was obviously too late. Things had gone further than he imagined. Part of him wanted to leap out, stop the taxi and drag its new occupant from his seat. To do what? Beat him up? Scare him off? Exactly what Trish would expect him to do and guaranteed to make her want the man even more. Still more of him wanted to leave but he felt compelled to stay. Even more reason, he thought, to talk with her, warn her, stop her from making a huge mistake .
So he dragged himself across the road and knocked on the door. Hurried steps bounded down the stairs.
“You forgotten something?” she called out, the light joy in her voice evident despite the partition between them. The door opened and the smile on her face switched instantly to one of surprise and barely disguised disappointment.
“Joe!”
“Expecting someone else?”
“What are you doing here?” She pulled her dressing gown close.
“Do I need a reason? This is still my house.”
“I don’t need this.” She went to shut the door.
His foot shot forward, jamming between the door and its frame. “I’m sorry. I need to talk to you. It’s really important.”
Her face, peering through the gap, relaxed slightly into an accepting frown. She walked away inside. He pushed the door open and went in.
They sat on opposite sides of the square kitchen table, in the same chairs with the same mugs. Even the tension between them was familiar, evoking the strained last year of their lives together before the scandal broke them apart. They could now see the whole debacle for the catalyst that it was, bringing them to see the deep flaws in their relationship and the impossibility of making it work. They were both too selfish, both hell bent on making an impact in their respective careers to have the necessary time to nurture and sustain any kind of love.
Yet in the silence that engulfed them, even now she felt drawn to reach out and touch him. But she resisted. She still felt some affection for him but wanted nothing from him. It was over. It had to be. There was no going back. This was personal damage limitation.
Trisha spoke first. “If this is about Coburn?”
“It’s not.”
“Because if it is, I’ve got nothing to say.”
“Forget about Coburn!”
“I knew nothing then and I know nothing now!”
“It’s about him!” He cast his eye over his shoulder in the direction of the door. “I was waiting outside…in the cab. I saw him leave.”
She stood. She moved to the window, and stared out into the walled garden, not wanting to admit the guilt she felt, or for him to see the tinge of regret which now swept across her face. She fought both.
“So?”
“I wanted to warn you not to get too involved. But seems I’m a bit late for that.”
“I don’t have to explain myself to you.”
“I know.”
“I’m free to do what I please, with whoever I please.”
“Just hear me out, will you?”
It ended badly. Start went over the whole saga of Angel, the link with Hereward College, Faversham’s deceit, the girl’s subsequent disappearance and the significance of Catchpole’s radio appearances. She was having none of it, and he had to admit when all of it was put together and taking away his personal antipathy for the man sleeping with his wife, nothing was cast iron or full proof.
In fact, she was utterly dismissive. “It’s a coincidence, that’s all.”
“It’s more than that. I know it. I sense it.”
“That oh so famous gut instinct of yours. Well look where that got you.”
“Be careful. That’s all I’m saying.”
“Get out, Joe. Just go!”
And so he went, out of the house and, surely, if she was to have any chance of moving on, out of her life for good.
*
The black cab turned off London Bridge, proceeded left along Upper Thames Street and ploughed slowly up the Embankment, already bustling with the onset of rush hour traffic. It was neither the quickest nor the easiest route to take to the Houses of Parliament but then Tom Catchpole had specifically instructed the taxi driver to take a longer route. He was in no hurry. He had something to say. In the rear of the cab he and Harry Spenser poured over a collection of the day’s newspapers, all leading with the Caroline Bruce scandal.
“Yet another unfortunate leak,” Catchpole said.
Spenser tossed his paper down. “These weaknesses have a habit of surfacing.”
“At the most inconvenient times.”
“For her, certainly. This scuppers any plans she may have had to move against Devaney.”
“And the party continues to slide,” Catchpole added.
“Another self-inflicted disaster.”
“Any chance we have of returning to government demands that we regain the initiative and set the agenda.”
“We simply can’t go on like this.”
“You’re right.” Catchpole leaned forward and pushed the partition window firmly shut. “I’ve been thinking.”
“And?”
“You were right. It’s time.”
Spenser stared at him in eager anticipation. “I’m listening.”
“Time to reclaim this party for the people who founded it, for the very reasons they founded it.”
“You’ll force a leadership contest now?”
“Yes. And on a platform which will redefine what it is to be left wing.”
“Go on.”
“No more c
ompromise, no more complicity with the forces that have held us back and tried to destroy us. I’ll present a truly radical manifesto for change.”
“You know you can count on my full support.”
But Catchpole had ceased to look at him. Instead he looked forward. He spoke as if addressing an imaginary mass audience. “I’ll rebuild and renew our party. I’ll lead a revolution, one which will shape this country for the next hundred years!”
Harry turned away and watched as the taxi spun by Big Ben. He beamed broadly.
Chapter Sixteen
Paula King dropped the large envelope on top of Deacon’s already cluttered desk. “This came for you.” She pointed to the scrawled message across the top:
‘For the urgent attention of Jack Deacon only’.
“Someone’s obviously keen you see it.” She hovered expectantly.
Deacon swung his eyes in the direction of the door. “Well then, we’d better respect their wishes.”
With a look of distaste she reluctantly departed. He immediately snatched up the envelope and tore it open. Donnelly had phoned the day before and warned him of its imminent arrival but said little about the enclosed contents, only that they were linked to the night of the Bailey scandal and that one day they might prove useful to Start and himself. He pulled out a series of long shots taken with a powerful telephoto lens. Each one showed a different man arriving at the secret venue in Norfolk, not to the hotel but to the lodge hidden in the woods nearby. As they, one by one, emerged from chauffeur driven cars, screened by heavily built security staff, the photographer had still managed to get shots, exposing their faces full on. Coburn wasn’t among them but the identities of those joining him simply took Deacon’s breath away.
The first two he recognised instantly. Ralph Mellor was an Assistant Commissioner in the Metropolitan Police and considered by most as a leader of the force in waiting. He was a frequent face on television, often brought out to defend or justify the more contentious actions of his force, earning the admiration of his men on the ground and the grudging respect of his interrogators. He had earned his spurs in counter terrorism, particularly in the aftermath of the attack on the twin towers but was also credited with the development of containment measures at public demonstrations, the most widely contested being the tactic of kettling large numbers of protestors.