Late one evening Harry was walking home after a long and wearing day at the Commons, his head down, lost in thought over such things when he found a woman, a stranger, wrapped in Burberry and on his doorstep.
‘Mr Jones, I hope you don’t mind, but I want to volunteer.’
She was late twenties, presentable, as if she’d just stepped out of a John Lewis makeover session, everything suggesting a young professional.
‘Emily Keane,’ she said, holding out a hand.
‘And so you are,’ he said, taking it.
Yet he wasn’t used to being picked up on his doorstep. The new school term had started and Jemma was back in her own flat, and for once in his life sexual discretion got the better of Harry. Better not to take her inside. ‘How about a drink at the pub?’ he suggested.
‘Yes, of course,’ she blushed, ‘but . . .’ She began hopping from one foot to the other. ‘I’ve been standing here for ages. Do you think I could use your loo first, please?’
So Harry changed his mind. ‘Come on in,’ he said, reaching for his keys.
By the time she had sorted herself out Harry had already taken off his coat, so he offered her a drink, which she declined, her raincoat still firmly buttoned, so he suggested they move to the sitting room. He found that Jemma had left a scarf draped over the back of a chair; for some ridiculous reason, he hastily removed it.
‘You could have written, made an appointment,’ he observed as they sat down.
‘Sorry, yes, but you must get a million letters,’ she blurted, ‘and I didn’t want to end up at the bottom of a pile. Anyway, I’m trained to be proactive.’
‘Trained?’
‘PR, Mr Jones. I’m a senior account director. Getting on fine, but I’ve come to something of a crossroads.’ She was perched on the edge of the sofa, her knees clenched coyly together. ‘I’ve been with my company five years, it’s time to move on, get more experience. I’ve always been interested in public affairs, politics – my dad was a local councillor in Devon – so I’ve been thinking about the election, seeing politics from the sharp end. Wondering if I could help you.’ She was gushing, a little nervous.
‘You live in my constituency?’
‘No. But I’m sure I could find somewhere to stay. Bed and breakfast, perhaps a spare room with one of your supporters. I’m very flexible. I’d work something out.’
‘So if you’re not local, why me?’
She laughed as if it was the most ridiculous question in the world. ‘But you’re Harry Jones.’
Well, he had been Harry Jones. War hero, rising political star, a man who seemed to have an uncanny capacity for attracting challenges that would test him to the limit, and which had left scars both inside and out as evidence. It had also left bodies along the route. But it all seemed a long time ago.
‘What could you do?’ he asked.
She relaxed, sat back, the initial nervousness gone; she unbuttoned her coat, revealing a fine waist as she talked about her background.
‘Could you handle the press?’ he asked.
She laughed once more, bounced up and down on her cushion.
‘Stupid question,’ he apologized, ‘but I couldn’t pay you. Against election law.’
‘I’ve done enough research to know that, but it’s not a problem, Mr Jones, I’ve got plenty of accumulated holiday.’
‘OK, let’s try next weekend. See if you like the place.’ See if the retired matrons who usually staffed his election headquarters with the passion of disgruntled dragons liked her. ‘And call me Harry.’
‘Thank you – Harry.’
She rose. In an earlier life Harry might have encouraged her to stay a little longer, but he was discovering that Jemma had changed many things in his life. He felt silly about the scarf.
‘It seems I have a new press officer,’ he said, leading her to the door. ‘There’s a chance I might hold on to my seat after all.’
Her face lit up as she stood on the doorstep in the lamplight. ‘I’ve never yet been on the losing side.’
Although it was late, well past eleven, she declined the offer of a taxi. A truly focused, self-reliant young woman, he thought, ideal for the task. He didn’t spot the man in the shadow of a doorway down the street taking photographs of her as she left.
CHAPTER SEVEN
It had been the darkest time of Sloppy’s life. He and his wife were taking a bit of a break from each other, breathing space to recharge their separate batteries, as he explained it to his colleagues in the City. It meant he had spent Christmas alone with nothing but his demons for company.
The New Year gave him no respite. Quarterly statements were due to his clients, and no matter how much he shuffled the cards and the accounts he couldn’t find a combination that would beat the bank. A temporary situation, of course, soon be through it, but for the moment he was so deep in fresh compost he’d do better opening up a mushroom farm. There was nothing but darkness. Pain. And more painkillers.
When he stood in front of the mirror, gazing into his own eyes, examining the lines, the marks of age, and pain, he didn’t quite recognize himself. The world had changed, he had changed – but not as much as the rest of them. His clients demanded more, more, and ever more, yet gave nothing in return. They didn’t deserve him. That was why it wasn’t simply justifiable but entirely proper that he should give them a bit of their own medicine, taking back a little of what he had given them over the years. While they had sat around their Christmas tables exchanging useless presents and offering up empty wishes, he had been left on his own. No one cared, gave a damn, so let them all be damned, they deserved what they were getting. Payback time.
Except that, with a bit of time and good fortune, and a little accounting alchemy, they would never know.
He sat in Brokers wine bar in Leadenhall Market, at the table farthest from the entrance, avoiding others, waiting. It was a favourite haunt, from where he could stare out at the Victorian splendours of the ancient market and wash down the pills with a decent glass of something French. Always French. He was a man of tradition, old values and old wine. He’d received a phone call, a prospective client, referred to him by Angus, an existing client who couldn’t introduce them personally since he was away in the Far East. At least, that’s what the man had said. But how else would he have known that Angus was one of his clients? Or away in the Far East? Frankly, who cared? Sloppy didn’t normally take on clients who walked in off the street, but the man had money. It was enough to drown a few doubts.
When Felix Wilton walked in, he was all but unrecognizable, even to close friends, and that almost included Patricia who had prepared him for this part. He had shaved his goatee beard, dyed his hair, changed his parting, replaced his usual rimless spectacles with a pair of heavy frames. And if he was supposed to leave behind his usually cautious character in favour of a flamboyance that touched on the camp, that was no great challenge.
‘Mr Sopwith-Dane,’ he greeted, extending a moisturized palm and flashing an acre of crisp shirt cuff. ‘A pleasure.’
‘All mine, Mr Anderson, all mine,’ Sloppy replied. He could still rise to the challenge. He might be screaming inside, but he knew he had to smile.
They exchanged a few conventional pleasantries and ordered drinks before Wilton got down to business, leaning forward, lowering his voice. ‘I have a situation, an interesting situation, with which I am seeking some assistance. It needs the utmost discretion, and I’m told you are discreet.’
Sloppy nodded, said nothing, not sure where this was going, and drank.
‘I’m a private investor, I keep my ear close to the ground, so to speak,’ Wilton continued, twisting an elaborate cufflink. ‘I’ve done rather well for myself over the years. As they say, nothing ventured, nothing gained, eh?’ he continued, piling up the clichés. He’d never make a playwright, but right now he thought he was acting out of his silk socks. ‘There’s a fund I’ve been watching for some while – Shengtzu Investments. Always thought ther
e would be a time to strike. Very big into China and the rare metals market, that sort of thing. You understand?’
Again Sloppy nodded. Terbium, dysprosium, yttrium, thulium, cerium, all rare commodities without which the modern world simply wouldn’t work. Phones wouldn’t ring, light bulbs would flicker and fade, computers would crash and missiles refuse to fly. China was building up its strategic stores with the ferocity that the Tudors had built castles, while the rest of the world scrabbled to keep pace.
‘My sense is that the fund is about to go big. Very big,’ Wilton continued.
‘Your sense?’ Sloppy intervened for the first time, finding the expression very loose.
The other man pursed his lips, studied his glass, rolled it between his clammy palms. ‘As I said, I’ve been making a close study.’ He paused, the eyes came up. ‘And, entirely by coincidence, I also have a close friend who works for it.’
‘I see.’
‘It’s because of that coincidence that any direct investment by me into the fund would look . . .’ – he stretched for an appropriate expression – ‘a little clumsy.’
Criminal, you mean, Sloppy thought. This was insider trading. The other man hurried on.
‘So I would like to make a substantial investment in the most discreet manner. No names, no pack drill. Which is why I have come to you.’
‘Because I’m discreet.’
‘Precisely.’
Discreet. And, of course, desperate. Patricia had scarcely believed her luck when Harry’s phone and a few additional illicit enquiries had revealed such a tempting target as Sopwith-Dane. Anyway, he deserved what was coming to him; a businessman should take more care of his computer records.
And she had judged her target well. There was a time when Sloppy would have thrown the bastard out without a further word, but not now. His mind was whirling. He was about to send out the quarterly statements, face disaster, and now this Fairy Godmother was offering him – what, exactly?
‘How much are we talking here, Mr Anderson?’
From down the other end of the bar a group of young City workers burst into laughter; Wilton let the commotion subside before reaching inside his jacket and producing a stark white envelope. He laid it on the polished tabletop between them, keeping his fingers on it. ‘This contains a cheque. Drawn on a reputable bank in the Caymans. For a quarter of a million pounds.’ He watched Sloppy’s bottom lip hesitate, just as his own had wobbled when Patricia had handed it to him across the kitchen table. ‘Dare I ask, my dear, where this small fortune comes from?’ he had enquired.
‘You mean, is it ours?’
‘I must be frank and say that was the question that popped into my mind.’
She had laughed. ‘Oh, no, Felix, I would never do that to you. These are Agency funds.’
‘Just like that? No questions?’
‘Secrets, Felix. Remember, I deal in secrets.’
‘Very large ones, it seems,’ he had concluded, in awe, realizing perhaps for the first time just how powerful she had become.
Now Sloppy couldn’t take his eyes off it. The size of the cheque was by no means unusual in his business, but the timing was exceptional.
‘Three per cent,’ Wilton said softly – double the usual commission. ‘And I expect the investment itself to double inside three months, possibly even better than that. Well, in for a penny, in for a pound.’ He withdrew his hand from the envelope; his crested pinky ring sparkled. ‘You might even like to invest some of your own money, Mr Sopwith-Dane.’
His own money? He had damn-all left, but he might be able to switch some of the remaining funds around, scrape together enough to make a difference. Find his way out of the sewer. But doing that would nail him firmly to the deal and all its dirtiness, he’d no longer be able to claim he was simply following instructions. Sloppy had been pretty scrupulous about such things, up to now, but up to now he’d also been sane and solvent. Damn them, but he’d followed other people’s rules all his life, and where had that got him?
‘I’d need to know much more about the investment – if I’m to advise you properly.’
In response, Wilton took another, thicker, buff envelope from his pocket and placed it on top of the first. ‘The fund’s own report,’ he said quietly.
So, it was insider trading. Theft. If Sloppy touched the envelopes he would either have to run straight to the Financial Services Authority to reveal all, which would leave him wading even deeper through his own shit, or he would become part of a criminal conspiracy. He glanced at the group of young people further down the bar, made sure no one was watching, then he made a grab for the envelopes.
Elections being periods of concentrated mania, it was some time before Harry was able to sit down with Jemma to examine the passenger list from the Police Casualty Bureau. They perched beside each other on the sofa, staring at the laptop, and a list that seemed almost endless, a hundred and fifteen names, with addresses and considerable additional detail.
‘You owe Shelagh for this,’ Jemma said.
‘I already paid,’ he said, distractedly, and more than a little clumsily, as he concentrated on the details.
‘I’ll make a cup of tea,’ she said, as she often did when the only decent alternative was to kick the crap out of him.
She returned with two steaming mugs of muddy water to find him bent over the screen in concentration. ‘What have you found?’ she asked.
‘Nothing,’ he replied.
‘What are you looking for?’
‘A motive for mass murder.’
‘Well, let’s think about it logically.’
He looked up in surprise.
‘I teach maths to five-year-olds,’ she replied tartly. ‘I suspect I can teach even you a little logic.’
‘OK.’
‘One hundred and fifteen on board. Seven crew members. And we think the target wasn’t the thirty-seven kids. That narrows it down to seventy-one. So get rid of the rest of the kids on board, everyone below the age of twenty.’
‘Seems reasonable.’ He scrolled through the list, deleting another seventeen. ‘What next?’
‘Married couples.’
‘Because?’
‘They would have been in Brussels for a pre-Christmas jolly. Shoppers. Not the sort of people you need to take out with a missile.’
‘That’s very feminine.’
‘You noticed.’
For some reason she was pissed off with him, but he didn’t dare enquire why, he simply deleted another dozen names. They were down to forty-one.
‘Were there any Egyptians on board?’
‘No.’
‘That would have been too easy. But look, there were a couple of Asian names.’ She pointed at the screen.
‘There are Asian names on almost every flight in the country. Anyway, they were from Manchester,’ he muttered. ‘Being a United supporter’s not enough to condemn them, not this season, at least.’
‘Or give them an alibi,’ she said.
He left their names on the list.
‘You ruined football when you let all those foreign tycoons and oligarchs take over the clubs.’
‘Me?’
‘You English. Wouldn’t happen to a Scottish club. We’d never sell out.’
‘Those green eyes of envy are really sexy on you.’
‘What colour are Shelagh’s eyes?’ Bugger, she’d let it slip.
But even as she bit her own tongue, she was reprieved. He didn’t seem to have heard. His face was creased in concentration. ‘You know, Jem, you may have a point. It’s all about power and money, isn’t it?’
‘What is?’
‘Everything. Football. Life. Politics. Mass murder. Something like that’s got to be behind the attack.’
‘So where do we look?’
‘I dunno. Business class?’
Their heads almost clashed as they bent over the screen. Business class had been almost full, but not quite. A couple of seats spare. Eighteen names in the r
emainder.
‘These are the people who we should be concentrating on, Jem, their jobs, their personal circumstances, that sort of thing.’
‘How do we do that?’
‘I could try Shelagh.’
‘Let’s start with the Internet,’ she said firmly. ‘All the victims will have got some sort of mention in the media – obituaries, local news reports, company press releases, something that will get us started.’
‘Could take time.’
‘I might do it.’
‘You would?’
‘I could be persuaded.’
‘How?’
She placed the laptop to one side. It was some considerable time before either of them spoke again.
‘By the way,’ he panted, lying back, a bead of sweat trickling from his forehead onto a sofa cushion, ‘they’re brown.’
‘What are?’
‘Shelagh’s eyes. Since you asked. And there was nothing like this between us.’
‘Ah, just a friend. I see. And if I remember right, that was the year they discovered a cure for the common cold and Auchtermuchty Athletic became European Champions . . .’
Patricia Vaine’s office was uncompromisingly functional, except for a solitary framed photograph on her desk. It was of her cat, Freya. Other senior figures in Brussels were surrounded by frippery and unnecessary aggrandizement, in offices spread out like tennis courts or dashing around on private jets, but in her view, the less people saw of her, the better.
A knock at her door disturbed her concentration, rapping out Morse code for ‘B’. Bukowski’s little joke.
‘You might want to watch this,’ he said, scuttling in and making for the bank of four screens that were mounted opposite the sofa. He played with the channels until he had found what he was looking for. It was a Russian news channel, no translation, and with a mediocre picture full of stray pixels and stiff movements betraying an inadequate feed to the satellite, but what it showed more than made up for the poor technical quality. It was broadcasting the scene from the outskirts of a shabby town with all the drabness and decay that marked it as part of the old Soviet Union. The road was rough, the buildings soulless and dust-smeared. The sky threatened rain, everything appeared as grey, except for the fire that was raging from the roof of a three-storey house in the centre of the screen. As she watched, angry trails of dark smoke twisted into the air, and there was the sound of explosions. She struggled to recognize any snatch of the commentary that was being poured out in breathless style by the commentator, then she saw a flash of a fresh explosion on the second floor of the house. A mortar round. That was when she heard the only words she understood. Abdul Mohammed Ghazi.
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