by Phil Walden
The second arrival would until recently have been unknown both in name and appearance to Deacon, but the move to more openness and accountability had seen him represent and argue for the hidden and secretive organisation he fronted. As a result it was not unusual these days to witness Alan Haig, Head of MI5, being grilled by a parliamentary committee on live television. He had worked closely with Mellor over the last decade, supplying intelligence on a range of terrorist targets. The source and means of gathering such information was never disclosed but most assumed the widespread monitoring of all electronic information was being condoned by the powers that be. Criticism was deflected by reports suggesting that as many as one hundred potential plots had been unearthed and stopped. The old and much trumpeted adage, that if you had nothing to hide, you had nothing to fear, allowed the practice to continue unfettered and largely unchallenged.
The third man’s clipped moustache and ram rod bearing had given him away immediately. Sir Peter Fabian was the former Chief of the General Staff and so once the senior soldier in the country. He had recently retired but remained prominent in the press for his regular and forthright condemnation of Government cuts to the Armed Forces. A veteran of the Falklands, Afghanistan and Iraq, he had also served in Northern Ireland, earning a fearsome reputation for his interrogation of IRA activists and sympathisers, as well as for his uncompromising tactics in dealing with incidents of civil strife. Conversely, he strove to ensure the very best for those under his command, whether at war or at peace. As a result he was adored by his soldiers both those who had served in the past and those currently in uniform. At reunions it was an oft quoted aphorism that his loyal men fought as much for him as they did for Queen and Country.
But what made Deacon gasp with shock was the identity of the fourth man. He had not expected to see a politician involved in this group and certainly not one with the relatively high profile of the Shadow Justice Minister, Harry Spenser. As such he had been a frequent and fervent critic of Haig. Although seen as more to the right of his party than other leading figures, Spenser’s notable and ultimately successful cause celebre had been to bring and hold the secret services to regular account. Indeed, it was seen as one of the few definite stances taken by a politician who seemed to take pride in being evasive and non-committal on most other issues.
Equally puzzling was the prospect of any collusion between Spenser and Lord Bailey, the peer first targeted by Start. Bailey was a notorious right winger, tolerated by his party largely for the funds donated by his circle of wealthy aristocratic friends. His pro hanging and often barely disguised racist and sexist views made him a frequent embarrassment to the government, who tried to excuse him and pass him off as an old and rather irrelevant English eccentric to be humoured rather than censured. His infrequent visits to the Lords were brief and followed usually by an indulgent enjoyment of the subsidised hospitality offered by the House. Nonetheless, he was popular, particularly amongst the raft of other hereditary peers whose attendance in the chamber was also rare.
Such a collective was startling enough but the fact that Coburn was choosing to seek out such company was even more surprising. He was a self-made man from the north, ever keen to encourage his journalists to go after the rich and the powerful. Deacon was sure that he would have been disparagingly dismissed as a mere ‘shopkeeper’ by the other more privileged four, were it not for his billionaire status and influential media interests. Coburn had begun as a reporter on a small local weekly, working his way through the ranks until he assumed the editorship. From there his rise was meteoric, from provincial dailies to national tabloids. He knew the business inside out, from top to bottom, and to this day kept a tight grip on the output of all his newspaper, radio and television outlets. His father had run a larger steel producing conglomerate and upon his death, Coburn had sold up and acquired a massive fortune. He used it to build a media empire, the scale of which had never been seen in this country before. It was powerful enough to ride out the strikes of the eighties which had seen the hegemony of the printing unions challenged and destroyed.
Since then his business had gone from strength to strength, expanding from red tops to embrace the quality press, from radio to ownership of its own television channel. Some accused him of vulgarising journalism, of abandoning the sacred mission to inform and educate, of pandering to the lowest common denominator in the social psyche. Others defended his approach, calling him the saviour of the British press. What neither side could question was his formidable influence. Coburn was courted by all parties across the political spectrum, anxious for his approval and support. Electoral success was dependent upon it.
However, what also could not be denied was the threat to that power. The growth of social media was rampant, unstoppable and increasingly beyond anyone’s control. The days of the all-powerful media mogul, it seemed, were drawing to a rapid close.
To Deacon the most intriguing aspect remained the secrecy. There had been at least four meetings, possibly many more. Why the remote venues, the heavy security and the anxiety not to be seen? The clue could have lain in the identity of the fifth and final man photographed moving swiftly into the Lodge that night. If only Deacon had had the faintest idea who he was.
*
Over the last twenty years the popularity of the marina had grown. The Boat Inn had long been established but was now joined by two restaurants and a tourist centre, all serving the rich mixture of locals, day trippers and holidaymakers who sought to spend their leisure time and money by the river. The last rays of the sun were sinking to the west, and lights began to flicker from the buildings, yachts and houseboats which lined the waterside, a shimmering oasis in the darkness of the land beyond.
Start was late. He was an infuriating man. Deacon had let slip that he had been, maybe still was, in London. He hadn’t answered his mobile despite Olivia trying on several occasions to contact him with the details of the time and place for the meeting with Ross Williams. Then a single short text flashed up. It simply said OK. Four hours later and she’d heard nothing more. She despaired.
When the anxious teacher arrived, she guided him to a table at the far end of the bar, where she felt they would find some quiet and a degree of privacy. Beer in hand it had taken little prodding to get him to embark upon his life story, almost as if Ross was grateful to be able to unburden himself and share his undoubted frustrations, at last, with someone who appeared to want to listen. His father was in the diplomatic corps and his childhood seemed to have been lived out of a suitcase as his parents took up postings in a variety of different countries. He had only joined the college in the sixth form after their return from abroad. A quiet and withdrawn young man, he struggled to make friends and found himself very much on the periphery of life at Hereward College, saying little but seeing all.
One issue still played on Olivia’s mind. “If you dislike Faversham so much, why go back and teach there?”
“I have my reasons. Anyway jobs aren’t easy to come by, particularly in teaching, if you’ve spent so much time abroad. I did my degree in Australia and worked in the Far East before coming home.”
“What was the argument about?”
“You mean in the staffroom?” Ross asked.
She nodded.
“He’s short of boys for his choir. No one in my House wants to join?”
“Why?” she asked.
“I push them towards more physical activities. Things like the cadet corps, rugby and cricket. It’s healthier for them.”
“And he doesn’t like that?”
“Really bugs him. He thinks he should have the pick of the bunch.”
Finally, Start ambled through the main doors. Olivia stood and urgently waved him over. A quick call to the barmaid produced a rapidly poured drink before Start eventually and without apology slid onto a chair and demanded they got on with it. She introduced Ross who began to talk about the school, the break in and the police, anything it seemed other than the girl.
&nbs
p; Start interrupted, “Listen. This is about Angel.”
“You mean Alice?” Ross chided.
“She’s still missing, remember?” Start snapped.
“Yes. Of course, I’m sorry.”
Start caught Olivia’s disapproving glare but ploughed on regardless. “Cast your mind back. When was the last time you saw her.”
“The college had quite a few functions in those days. They used to bring in temps to wait on tables.”
“Angel being one of them?” Start asked.
“Yes, but only in my final year. She came four or five times. The last was the Sixth Form Christmas Party. She was the only girl. All the boys fancied her. She was wearing this Santa Claus outfit. She always got plenty of attention. But she wasn’t comfortable with it. Was very shy. She must have needed the money badly. One of the guys said she lived out in the sticks, that the family were loners and never mixed. Wasn’t the brightest either. She put up with a lot of teasing.”
“Poor kid,” Olivia said.
“But that night it went too far. They plied her with drink. Some of the lads from the Cadet Corps had taken a gun. Revolver it was. They played this game of Russian roulette. Over and over again they made her spin the cylinder, then aim at a boy and pull the trigger. When it clicked, each boy would demand a reward for his bravery. He’d drag her onto his lap and kiss her.”
“Did nobody stop them?” Olivia fumed.
“I’m afraid not. Faversham saw it as harmless fun, a chance for everyone to let their hair down. Anyway everybody except Alice or Angel, as you call her, knew the gun wasn’t loaded.”
“That’s just sick.”
“She got a bit hysterical, started slapping a few faces. One boy, Harry, got angry. He went to hit her back, would have done if someone hadn’t intervened and got her away.”
“Who was that?” asked Start.
“Boy called Tom. I remember because he was really kind to her. Wiped her tears gently with his hand and looked after her.”
“Where did he take her?”
“No idea. The party broke up shortly after. She hadn’t come back. I didn’t see him until the next evening.
“Remember that time at the hospital when Thorne wiped away her tears?” asked Olivia.
“Yes, she picked up the chair,” Start recalled.
“And went mental. Could there be a connection?”
“These boys, Harry and Tom?” inquired Start.
“Harry Spenser and Tom Catchpole.”
Start and Olivia exchanged knowing glances.
“They’re both top politicians now,” Ross added.
Before Start could react, the barmaid leant in to clear away the empty glasses. “You’re selling it then?”
Start looked puzzled. “What do you mean? Selling what?”
“Well you ought to know. Your boat! Some bloke was in earlier. He wanted to know where it was moored. You’d said he could come and look it over.”
“That’s news to me, Sal. What did he look like?”
“Sorry. I didn’t really clock him.”
Start jumped up from his chair and headed for the door.
Olivia got up to follow him, gesturing to Ross to stay put. “Wait here, will you? It’s probably nothing.” She plucked ten pounds from her purse. “Get some more drinks in.” When she emerged from the pub, she could see Start already striding towards the bridge. “Start! Hang on! Wait for me.” Her voice was laced with concern.
He either didn’t hear her or chose to ignore her, breaking into a jog as he turned to cross the river. She began to run after him.
There were the usual four permanent moorings with Start’s houseboat perched some distance away at the far end of the row. Nothing was out of place, except for one thing. Lights shone from all the vessels including his own. This would be of no concern to anyone who was not familiar with the boat and its owner. But Start, knowing he would be away for an extended period in London, had cut the power. Someone had been aboard and, either by accident or by design, had left their calling card: his galley light was on. Was it sheer clumsiness, the work of opportunist thieves? Well good luck to them, he thought. It would hardly be the haul of the century. Or was it a warning? Did someone want him to know they had been there? If so, who and why?
Start reached the far bank and hurried down the towpath. He noticed the cabin door lay open, tethered loosely and flapping in the stiff evening breeze. He slowed. Lowering himself silently onto the deck, he fingered and inspected the smashed lock on the door, before peering gingerly inside. Hearing Olivia approach, he whipped round.
“Stay back.”
“Why? Is there someone in there?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. But keep back while I take a look.”
He dropped into the cabin and disappeared from view. Through the portholes she followed his movement along the cabin, each section bursting into light as he edged towards the bow. He opened cupboards and draws, shutting them just as quickly as he progressed. She saw him turn and retrace his steps and was by the stern to greet him as he emerged back on deck.
“Find anything?”
“No. Nothing’s been disturbed. No damage either.”
“Has anything been taken?”
“Not that I could see.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Nor me.” Start untied the rope holding the cabin door and pushed it shut. Instantly, the bow of the boat exploded. Start flew backwards, his head smacking against the tiller before he crashed into the water. Facedown, his body began to float slowly downstream.
Blown sideways and into the air, Olivia fell headfirst to the ground beside the towpath. Confused and dazed she struggled up onto her knees. Flames were engulfing the forward section of the hull. Debris, hurled high into the sky, cascaded around her. Her hazy fading vision caught sight of the lone figure of the Sheikh sprinting away from a nearby bridge before darkness crushed and overwhelmed her.
*
The blast and ensuing fireball brought late night workers at the marina rushing to the scene. Whilst some dragged Start out of the water, others tended to Olivia, lying semi-conscious in the long grass which broke her fall. She escaped relatively unscathed and was able to accompany Start to the hospital.
In Accident and Emergency, they sat watching the news, with the usual lack of sound, on a flat screen hung as an apologetic salve to the interminably long wait they had to endure. Olivia was soon dispatched to hunt down two coffees, just as the obligatory royal story completed the late night bulletin. A princess was cutting the ribbon at the opening of a new library in the West Midlands. The other members of the family must be sunning themselves in warmer climes, Start thought, doing their usual vanishing act in the cold winter months of the year. He reflected on how, in his heyday, he had tried to go after them, in a quest to expose the truth behind the hypocritical and carefully managed idyll manufactured by the Palace and broadcast unchallenged by a fawning and deferential media. But Coburn wouldn’t countenance it and, as a result, Deacon ran scared. Whilst the bulk of the people bought into the charade, any attack on the monarchy was bad for business and therefore a no-go area.
Olivia returned, brandishing the drinks, accompanied by a fresh faced detective from the nearby station. The conversation was short.
“Any enemies?”
“I worked in Fleet Street for the best part of twenty years. How long have you got?”
“Nothing recent?”
“Not that I know of,” he lied. The policeman was young and local. This was way out of his league. Anyhow what could he tell him? They knew as much about Angel as he did, and Trisha’s reaction had confirmed that any link to Catchpole would be seen as tenuous at best.
“Well, we’ll salvage what we can and send away for tests. Don’t disappear.” Typical rural constabulary thought Start, as the policeman scurried away. Probably the biggest crime in the area for years and they send a rookie to interview him.
Olivia sipped at her drink.
“You can stay at my flat you know. I’ve a sofa going spare.”
“Thanks but no thanks. I’m going back to the boat.”
“You can’t. It’s a wreck.”
“The bow needs a bit of attention that’s all.”
“Please yourself.” She paused. He wasn’t going to like what she was about to say. “I’ve told the police about the Sheikh.”
“You shouldn’t have done that.”
“Why not? He has the know-how.”
“Makes him the prime suspect, does it?”
“When you asked him, he wouldn’t let on where the cross was?”
“Maybe he didn’t know!”
“And he ran off, just like he did after the boat exploded. The police say he’s vanished into thin air.”
“Come on. I’m not waiting around here any longer,” Start declared. He was anxious to leave despite the heavy bang to his head. The few cuts and bruises he had suffered were superficial and the explosion confirmed his suspicion that a deeper, more sinister truth lay behind Angel’s long term illness and possibly even her disappearance. Someone at best was warning him off, at worst trying to kill him. Either way, the incident gave him every reason to want to pursue the investigation without delay.
“But they want to keep us both in overnight, just in case.”
“No need. I’m fine. And there’s nothing wrong with you.”
“Since you ask,” she sneered. “Not a scratch.”
“Well then?”
Olivia couldn’t have known that earlier he had badgered the nurses, his concern evident and, to them, touching.