‘Dear God, I didn’t think it could come to that.’
Nigel leaned forward and laid his hand on Kelvin’s arm. ‘Don’t worry, whatever happens, we won’t be tainted. PM’s passed it on to the Security Services; he wanted a covert investigation by people less restrained by the law. Marcus Soames, Fallon’s number two, is dealing with it. He was making arrangements for someone to go and question the girl when the message came through that she’d been taken from the children’s unit.’
‘Could the girl’s escape and the father’s death be linked?’ Kelvin said thoughtfully.
‘Possibly, but why rescue the girl and then kill her father? And the woman who did the job was almost certainly a Russian. It’s more than likely the father arranged it before he was killed.’
‘There’s something strange about it,’ Kelvin muttered. ‘Why would the father feel he had to resort to those measures? Surely he could have sent in a lawyer? Holding her for her own safety was little more than a pretence; you’d have had to let her go.’
‘He’s prodigiously wealthy, Kelvin. Few men could become so rich, so quickly, without straying outside the law. He might not react to situations in the way that you or I would.’
‘I take it the security people are searching for the woman and the girl?’
‘Diligently. I spoke to Marcus before I left Scotland Yard. Ports and airports are being watched; a flat the family owns in London, their house in Gloucester, the girl’s school, are all under surveillance.’
‘What about the mobile phones?’
‘They’re still putting out trace signals, but there’s not been a cheep from the things so far.’ Sir Nigel frowned down at his apron, then added, ‘We must retrieve those phones. If the press or some anti-establishment lefties get hold of the things and publish the images all hell will break loose. And there could be more than images of copulating couples.’
‘You’re talking about the death?’
Sir Nigel nodded. ‘That tale about the girl losing her balance when she was sliding down the handrail on the stairs is utter nonsense. The body was lying in the centre of the hallway; she must have gone over the balustrade on the landing. And Mortmane’s autopsy didn’t reveal any trace of drugs or alcohol; she had her faculties, so she wouldn’t have been inclined to do anything senseless. And there were bruises all over her body.’
They sat in thoughtful silence for a moment, then Sir Kelvin asked, ‘How did her father take it when you gave him the news?’
‘Badly. The mother was absolutely devastated.’
‘Did they view the body?’
‘The father did. Mortuary attendant was told to keep the torso covered, just expose the face, so he couldn’t see the bruising. Face is a ghastly mess: the skull was crushed by the fall and the features are badly distorted. He phoned me afterwards, said he was going to demand a full investigation. I managed to calm him down – he’s one of us, attends a lodge in north London. When I told him about the semen and how the PM had leaned on Mortmane to keep the sordid details out of the autopsy report, he saw sense. What man wants his daughter’s dirty linen washing in public? And he’s got his political career to consider. He’s not going to make waves.’
‘Where would we be without the brotherhood?’ Sir Kelvin muttered. They sat in silence for a moment, listening to the low murmur of male voices all around them. Presently Nigel Dillon asked, ‘Do you think we should question the people who were at the party again? We’ve lost the girl. Without her it’s going to be virtually impossible to find the phones. Surely there’s someone who was at Darnel Hall that night who could give us a lead?’
‘Waste of time, old boy. I gave them a good talking to, a good grilling, before you arrived on the scene. They were either dopey with cannabis or coming down after taking cocaine. Most of them were too stupid to think, too stupid to even speak coherently. They only knew the names of their immediate friends. They’d no clear idea who was at the party or who they’d had sex with. Some of them weren’t sure where they were. If we talk to them again we could alarm them, make them start blabbing about it. I impressed on them that they had to keep mum; that if any of this got out we’d no longer be able to help.’ Anger suddenly exploded in his voice. ‘It’s an absolute bloody disgrace, Nigel! They’ve had every advantage, every opportunity, and if we can’t contain the situation they’ll have brought shame on themselves, their families and the entire establishment. They’d been having an orgy, dammit; a bloody orgy!’ His complexion had deepened from pink to puce.
Sir Nigel decided to let it go. This was one of those times when being Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police gave him no satisfaction. He noticed groups of dark-suited men drifting towards the foyer where the stairs swept up to the lodge. ‘We’d better go,’ he said. ‘They’re moving off. Meeting starts in a few minutes.’
They rose, joined the crush in the foyer and began to climb the stairs. When they neared the top, Sir Kelvin asked, ‘What’s on the agenda?’
‘Chap being raised to Master Mason. One of my men, actually. Vernon Greenwood, a Detective Chief Inspector. You’ve met him. He was the officer who came with me to Darnel Hall. He’s very sound, understands the big issues; knows when to tread softly, when it’s wise to look the other way.’
They passed through heavy doors, into the lodge with its sky-blue vaulted ceiling, oak-panelled walls, black and white chequered marble floor. The Inner Guard was already seated beside the entrance. In a few minutes the chamber would be secured and then the Tyler, the Outer Guard, would take up his station beyond the doors.
Sir Nigel breathed a sigh of contentment. He liked this ancient lodge. The impressive furnishings and decorations inspired a feeling of awe, even reverence. Long, leather-upholstered benches were arranged on either side of the ceremonial floor. The lodge tracing boards, visual and allegorical instructions on the three degrees of Masonry, stunningly executed by John Harris two centuries earlier, were displayed behind the junior warden’s table. Everywhere, on the blue vault of the ceiling, the panelled walls, the high back of the Worshipful Master’s chair, were the signs and symbols – level, square, compass, column, orb and sunburst – that spoke to the initiated of the mysteries of the craft.
He and Sir Kelvin took seats at the eastern end of the room, close to the dais and the lodge banner. Soon the Worshipful Master and the Grand Officers would take their places, the chaplain would say the opening prayers and the proceedings would begin. There would be an exchange of knocks on the door, from without and within, then the blindfolded initiate would be led in by his left arm, a rope around his waist, naked save for a pair of white linen briefs. The ritual of initiation into the Third Degree would then be enacted on the chequered floor.
He settled himself in his seat, straightened his apron, adjusted his gloves. He felt at ease here, amongst this gathering of honest and respectable men, where fellowship and loyalty were assured. He and Sir Kelvin had to do their best to assist brothers Barksdale, Farnbeck and Fairchild. Why should the children of these distinguished men have their lives ruined by a youthful indiscretion; why should important and high-ranking families, special people, be shamed and brought low? This Russian girl and her liberator had to be found; the incriminating phones had to be recovered. Tomorrow he’d talk to Marcus Soames, discuss the possibility of some liaison between the Met and the Security Services. Of course, any help he gave would have to be covert – he was reluctant to become involved in actions that might be beyond the law – but he knew he could trust Marcus. The man was devoted to the monarchy, to the concept of aristocracy; passionate about protecting the Queen and her family. But then, he’d expect no less from a man who’d been a Major in the Household Cavalry.
Until this dreadful business had been resolved there would be no security, no peace of mind, for Earls Barksdale and Farnbeck, Foreign Secretary Fairchild, and all the other men of worth whose children had attended that party at Darnel Hall.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Annushka Dvoskin o
pened her eyes. The bed nearest the door was empty and she could hear water cascading in the tiny bathroom across the landing. The woman who’d said her name was Georgina was taking a shower.
She yawned and stretched. Being shut up in this pokey little place was beginning to drive her crazy. It was three days since the woman had promised to go with her to the flat. Every time she asked her when it would be, she’d smile and say, ‘We’d better wait another day, until the watchers become bored and less attentive.’
Georgina did a lot of watching herself: at the window of the tiny sitting room, at the kitchen window that overlooked back yards. And she was endlessly flicking the television to the security cameras so she could check the entrance to the mews. The intense, icily calm gaze of those green eyes scared her a little. The woman was like a tigress stalking her prey: always alert, vigilant, ready to pounce. And she had the knack of encouraging confidences, saying little herself, just deftly steering the conversation by asking the occasional question. Several times she’d had to stop herself saying too much. When she did that the woman smiled, the green eyes blinked slowly and held her in a knowing stare.
Going to Belgravia, getting inside the flat, was becoming really urgent. She had to remove things from the safe and find fresh clothes to wear. She couldn’t wait any longer. Her bitch of a stepmother could be plotting and scheming. She needed to see her father’s will and study the pre-nuptial agreement. Had he bothered to remember her? She couldn’t say she’d been a loving or even a dutiful daughter. Yet, despite her rudeness, her cutting remarks, her failure to show him any love or affection, he’d gone on being kind to her, and loving too, after his fashion. Now he was dead she could no longer make amends: she couldn’t even say she was sorry. Cold fingers began to crawl up her spine. She shivered. She’d lost his protection. When she was threatened or in trouble she could no longer scream my father is Vladimir Dvoskin, one of the most powerful men in the whole of Russia. She was motherless, too. She had no one; no one except Babushka, and she was too old and frail to help her. Tears began to trickle down her cheeks and she could feel her chin trembling. She threw back the duvet, swung her legs from the bed and padded out on to the tiny landing, just as Samantha was emerging from the bathroom.
‘Can we go to the flat?’ Annushka demanded tearfully. Blonde hair tousled, dressed in pyjamas, she looked less like a woman and more like the child she still was. ‘You promised we’d go to the flat, but it’s—’
‘What’s the matter?’
‘Nothing’s the matter. I just want to go to the flat.’ The girl’s eyes were bright, her chin was quivering.
Samantha put her arms around her and drew her close; felt the feverish warmth of her body. ‘Is it your father?’ she asked softly.
Annushka sniffed back tears. ‘And my mother. I feel so alone. I have no one.’
‘And you’re frightened?’
‘A little . . . More than a little, a lot.’ Her voice wavered. ‘I’m in so much trouble, I’m so alone and there’s no one I can turn to.’
‘I understand,’ Samantha murmured. ‘My mother died when I was eight, my father when I was twelve. But life goes on, and I’m protecting you, and I’ll get you out of the mess you’re in if you’ll co-operate.’
‘I want to go to the flat. I have to find a copy of Father’s will. There could be problems.’
Samantha released her. ‘Perhaps we’ve waited long enough. We’ll go today.’ She felt uneasy at the prospect, but this wretched business was dragging on and it was time she moved things forward.
‘We can go this morning?’
‘Not this morning. We need clothes and transport.’
‘We have clothes and transport. And Belgravia’s less than a mile away from Chelsea; we could walk.’
‘It wouldn’t be safe to walk to a place that’s being watched. They could snatch us in the street, and I don’t want the car to be seen near the flat. How is the building arranged? How do you get inside?
‘A lot of steps up to the front door, a big entrance hall, then up a flight of stairs. The building’s been converted into two flats. One takes up the semi-basement and ground floor, ours is on the first and second floors. The flats are spacious and quite grand.’
‘Is there a caretaker?’
Annushka shook her head.
‘Who does the cleaning?’
‘Two women, from a cleaning firm. They come most days when the flat’s occupied; about once a month when it’s not. The people who manage the park in the square attend to the entrance hall and the rear yard.’
‘You can get into this rear yard?’
‘You enter through security gates set inside a recess in a high brick wall. They open with a remote control. There are parking spaces round the back, and an enclosure for refuse bins.’
‘You have this remote control?’
‘It’s on my keyring. It’s quite small.’
‘So,’ Samantha mused, ‘the front of the house overlooks a private park; I take it there are more big houses around this park?’
Annushka nodded.
‘And at the back of the house?’
‘Just the narrow access road, then more high walls and gates to the rear yards of the houses that face the other way.’
‘We’ll go as cleaners,’ Samantha decided. ‘We’ll pin your hair up, I’ll leave off the wig, and we’ll both wear headscarves. When we’ve had breakfast we’ll drive over the river and cruise past used car lots until we see one that sells second-hand vans. Then we’ll park the car somewhere, buy a van, a hoover and buckets and things.’
‘Seems a lot of bother just to get into the flat.’
‘Trust me, they’ll have it under surveillance, round the clock. They know what you look like. They know a blonde woman got you out of the children’s unit. Going as cleaners in a van is the best I can think of. We can buy suitable clothes from a charity shop.’
‘Clothes from a charity shop?’
‘The sort of clothes elderly women who clean flats would wear.’
‘The cleaners sent by the firm aren’t elderly and they wear matching overalls.’
‘What about the cleaners who do the shared entrance hall?’
Annushka shrugged. ‘I’ve only seen them once or twice, but I suppose they did look a bit old and they didn’t wear uniforms.’
‘We’ll find some clothes in a charity shop. We need to look nondescript.’
Annushka grimaced. ‘I don’t care to wear some other woman’s cast-off clothes.’
‘You’re wearing my pyjamas.’
‘I don’t mind your Clements Ribeiro silk pyjamas.’
Her Majesty the Queen frowned into her Tupperware boxes. There were hardly any apricots and only one fig. They should have been replenished. The household staff were slipping. And it wasn’t just her dried fruits; the bowls of nuts and Bombay mix left out for her around the palace were emptying much too quickly again. She must remember to ask Sir Lawrence to send out another warning to the protection officers, telling them to keep their sticky fingers to themselves. It wasn’t just the theft of one’s nibbles, there was also the question of the men’s personal hygiene. Heaven knows where they put their fingers before they dipped them into her little treats.
Her Majesty spooned the two remaining apricots and some prunes on to her cornflakes, then glanced up. Her expression brightened. ‘This is pleasant, Philip, breakfasting together. You’ve usually eaten by now.’
‘Felt a bit off-colour. Thought I’d have a lie-in.’
Jason, the under butler, laid a warm plate in front of His Highness and Henry, the butler, served him scrambled eggs from a silver dish. Jason supplied a rack of toast, Henry poured coffee into the Duke’s cup and Jason placed a jug of warm milk beside the sugar bowl. Both butlers faded away.
The Queen touched the corners of her mouth with her napkin. ‘Sir Lawrence mentioned something rather troubling to me yesterday, when we were going through the diary. I forgot to tell you.’
‘
Jolly good scrambled eggs.’ The Duke hadn’t heard her. He chewed and swallowed. ‘That new chef was a find.’
‘He’s from the Cameroons.’
‘He makes macaroons?’
The Queen raised her voice. ‘He’s from the Cameroons. Lattimer engaged him.’
‘Cameroons, macaroons; he knows how to scramble eggs.’
‘The eggs are organic, dear. It makes a difference.’
‘Charles and his chickens, I suppose.’
‘Charles is having all of our eggs and dairy produce delivered from the Duchy Estates, and most of the meat and poultry.’
‘Do we have to have so much of this organic nonsense? It’s ages since I tasted a decent sausage. That butcher in Cheapside knew how to make a sausage. Your father gave him a Royal Warrant.’
‘That was more than seventy years ago, dear,’ the Queen said patiently. ‘As far as I’m aware, the firm no longer exists.’
They ate in companionable silence for a while, then the Queen touched the corners of her mouth with her napkin again and repeated, a little louder this time, ‘Sir Lawrence mentioned a rather worrying incident when we were going through the diary yesterday.’
‘Sir Lawrence?’ The Duke forked up the last of the perfectly scrambled eggs.
‘Sir Lawrence Jenkins is my new private secretary. Bainbridge retired last month.’
‘Worrying incident, old girl?’ He poured milk into his coffee.
‘Yes, dear. He said Earl Farnbeck had telephoned him a few evenings ago. It seems there’d been a party at a place called Darnel Hall, attended by his son and Earl Barksdale’s boy, together with a few of their friends. I’m sure you remember them: Teddy Farnbeck and Julian Barksdale. They joined us at Sandringham last year. Julian’s a friend of Harry’s, he’s a first-class polo player, and Teddy’s awfully good at tennis.’
Her husband rattled his cup down on its saucer. He’d finished his eggs and drunk his coffee. He could be more attentive now.
The Queen went on, ‘There was an accident. A girl was larking about, sliding down the handrail on the stairs. She fell off, hit her head on the floor and died.’
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