Dark Powers

by Raymond Haigh

  Grace found her husband relaxing on the sofa, his unopened dispatch box by his side. He’d discarded his jacket, loosened his tie, but he hadn’t changed into casual clothes. There was a glass in his hand and an almost empty bottle of Scotch stood on a small table near his elbow. A football match was playing on a television in a recess beside the inglenook fireplace. She nodded at the red box. ‘Finished already?’

  ‘Not even started.’ He raised the glass, sipped whisky, swirled it around his mouth, then swallowed. ‘I’ll look through the papers later.’

  ‘The Moscow conference; there’s nothing scheduled for wives on Wednesday morning.’

  He eyed her warily over the rim of his glass.

  ‘I need to know what I’ll be doing so I can pack appropriate clothes.’

  ‘You don’t need to bother about packing clothes.’

  ‘It’s a free morning? Nothing’s been arranged?’

  ‘We won’t be going to Moscow.’

  Stunned, she lowered herself on to the edge of an armchair. ‘Won’t be going? Why won’t we be going?’

  ‘Prime Minister wants me here. Emergency debate on the crisis in Somalia.’

  ‘But I was really looking forward to it, and I’ve spent an absolute fortune on clothes.’

  ‘Let me have the receipts. I can claim most of it back on expenses.’

  ‘Who’s he sending in your place?’

  ‘Tavistock.’

  ‘I thought Edward was your friend, Alex. He’s behaving like a shit, humiliating you like this.’

  Alexander shrugged, drained his glass, then returned his attention to the football match.

  Grace sagged back in the chair and stared across at her husband. He had a morose, hangdog look about him, and she’d never known him ignore the contents of his box before. Something had happened. ‘Why, Alex? Why is Edward Benson doing this?’

  ‘I’ve told you. He wants me—’

  ‘Rubbish. It’s an emergency debate, nothing critical. Tavistock could handle it, or he could deal with it himself. He doesn’t need you there, holding his hand. And you’re the Foreign Minister. Sending an under secretary instead of you is going to raise eyebrows; it might even cause offence.’

  Alexander shrugged, nuzzled his glass, continued to stare blankly at the moving images on the screen. He seemed unwilling to look at her. She noticed how grey and drawn his face was. His enthusiasm, his vitality, seemed to have drained away, leaving him tired and defeated. A sudden intuition chilled her. Steeling herself, she asked, ‘What have you done wrong, Alex?’

  ‘I haven’t done anything wrong,’ he retorted tetchily. ‘It’s just that Benson decided—’

  ‘Edward wouldn’t treat you like this, not after you’ve been so loyal and worked so hard for him and the party. We’re old family friends, for heaven’s sake.’ She rose and turned towards the door. ‘I’ll phone Helen and ask her what’s possessed her husband to do this to us.’

  Alarmed, Alexander heaved himself out of the sofa, grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her back. ‘That’s simply not done, Grace.’ He turned her towards him. ‘You don’t discuss Cabinet business with Edward’s wife. He’s the Prime Minister. He’s made his decision. We’ve got to accept it.’

  She tried to struggle free; he drew her close, crushed her against him and held her tightly, restraining her. She became still, gazed up at him for a moment, then said breathlessly, ‘That’s the first time you’ve put your arms around me in months, Alex. I think it’s the first time you’ve even touched me. Pity it had to be in anger; love would have been nice, desire would have been better than nothing.’ She looked into his face. His brow was furrowed, his cheeks gaunt, his parted lips downturned; she could see the worry in his eyes, smell the whisky on his breath. Frantic thoughts were racing through her mind, spawning notions that filled her with dread. ‘You’ve done something wrong, haven’t you, Alex? You’re involved in some scandal. Is it a woman?’ Her heart lurched. ‘Who is she, Alex?’

  ‘Don’t be stupid.’ He shoved her away, stepped back to the sofa and slumped down on the cushions. He retrieved his glass, drained it, then reached for the bottle.

  ‘Who is she, Alex?’ Grace demanded. An icy calm was settling over her. Her mind was suddenly alert, her memory clear. It really was more than a year since he’d treated her as anything other than a housekeeper, a dinner party hostess, someone to charm his colleagues and constituents. There’d been no intimacy of any kind. He’d spent more and more time in London, and when he was at home he was always shuffling through the papers in that wretched box. She’d assumed it was pressures of work, but perhaps she’d been wrong. She glared at him. He was still sipping whisky, still staring vacantly at that stupid football match. ‘Tell me who it is,’ she demanded. ‘Is it one of your researchers? Is it someone I know? If there’s trouble coming, you have to tell me.’

  ‘You’re being silly,’ he snapped. ‘You’re imagining things. There isn’t going to be any trouble.’

  ‘Then why aren’t we going to Moscow?’ She sank back into the armchair. The summer evening was dissolving into twilight and the shadowy room with its low oak-beamed ceiling suddenly felt oppressive, almost menacing. His face was expressionless. He was deliberately ignoring her. ‘Look at me, Alexander.’ Her voice was shaking. ‘And try to look at me as if I’m your wife, not a stranger.’ He continued to ignore her. Something inside her snapped. Heaving herself forward in the chair, she screamed, ‘Tell me who she is, you devious bastard!’

  He stared down at the floor for a moment, then lifted his head and met her gaze. His hair was tousled, his hazel eyes dark, distant, unseeing. ‘You really want to know?’ he demanded angrily.

  ‘Of course I want to know.’

  ‘Annushka Dvoskin. The security people must have found out and informed Edward.’

  ‘The girl who took Vincent’s car and stole the mobile phones?’

  He nodded, drained his glass, reached for the bottle on the table beside his arm and poured out the last of the whisky.

  ‘I wondered why you were so unhappy about my phoning the police that night.’ Grace’s mind was racing. Snatching at a thought, she said, ‘She’s very young, Alex: she’s still at school. I don’t think she’s in the sixth form yet. And Vincent’s very sweet on her. He talks to me about her. She’s just done her O levels. She’s . . . she’s barely sixteen.’ Disgust shaped her features. Voice outraged, she hissed, ‘You bastard, Alex. You unspeakable bastard. You’ve been fucking your son’s girlfriend.’

  ‘Must you be so foulmouthed?’

  ‘Foulmouthed? How dare you call me foulmouthed when you’ve been so disgustingly vile and so utterly stupid, fucking some promiscuous little rich girl who’s younger than your son!’ She glared at him, her heart pounding, the blood beating in her ears. ‘How long has it been going on?’

  He was staring at the television again. A roar went up from the crowd. Someone must have scored a goal.

  ‘Are you deaf? How long has it been going on?’

  He sighed, sipped whisky, shrugged and said, ‘A year, maybe a little more.’

  Grace closed her eyes, tried to compose herself, tried to think. ‘Then she probably hadn’t reached the age of consent when it started?’

  ‘She looked very mature,’ he snapped back. ‘And I wasn’t the first.’

  ‘Perhaps your son was the first.’ Her breathing had become quick and shallow. She slid a hand across her chest, trying to ease a sudden pain. After a dozen thudding heartbeats, she asked, ‘And when did you last see her? Today, yesterday?’

  ‘I haven’t seen or heard from her for a couple of weeks. She’s missing. The police are trying to find her.’ His voice softened, lost its harshness. ‘Her father was assassinated, in Athens, about a week ago; you probably saw it on television.’ Relief began to temper his feeling of angry defiance. It was out now. Grace knew. He looked across at her, seeing her as if for the first time in many months. Her auburn hair was long, luxuriant, gently wave
d, and she’d kept her sensational figure: full breasts, tight waist, broad hips, long legs. She was a mature woman of considerable beauty. Right now her dark eyes were closed and her pale skin had a waxy sheen. How long was it since they’d last made love? He’d no idea. All he could remember was that she’d been completely unresponsive, inert, still as a corpse. She’d merely accommodated him, not bothered to conceal, even for those few brief moments, her disinterest in him. He thought of Annushka, long limbed and slender; contemplated her hard pointed little breasts and pert buttocks. She was completely uninhibited – exhaustingly so – and, despite an irreverent cheekiness, a little in awe of him. He found that gratifying and rather touching. Dragging his thoughts back to the situation he found himself in, he asked, ‘What do you propose to do?’

  She didn’t answer.

  ‘Edward promised me faithfully he’d keep it under wraps.’

  ‘Who else knows?’

  ‘I’m guessing the security people, but they’re sworn to secrecy.’ He continued to gaze at his wife. She’d sagged back in the chair again. She was wearing her old tweed gardening skirt and her breasts looked heavy, a little droopy, beneath her shapeless green jumper. Her eyes were still closed. He said softly, ‘It was nothing, Grace. She was just a diversion. She didn’t mean anything to me. There’s no need for this to affect us.’ He paused, gave her a chance to speak. When she didn’t respond, he went on, ‘It would be best if you didn’t make waves. If we stay calm and keep this to ourselves it’ll soon blow over. Everything will be fine. We’ll be back to where we were in no time.’

  Soon blow over, everything going to be fine, back to where we were: how could he be so heartless and insensitive? He really was a loathsome little shit. Her father had been right to warn her. He’d advised her to give him a wide berth when he’d learned he was an aspiring politician. She’d taken no notice. Alex was charming, full of the smart patter politicians are so good at. And he was tall and handsome. Most of all, he was tall and handsome. He didn’t give a damn about the girl, the child, he’d been abusing; didn’t care about his wife and sons, never spared a thought for his constituents. After he’d gratified his own desires, his only concern was his parliamentary career. She’d often overheard him laughing and joking with colleagues after one of her intimate little dinners, talking about the things they were getting away with, sneering at the stupidity of the electorate. Politicians were power-seeking exhibitionists, charlatans, attracted to risk, lacking in prudence. What man with a scrap of sense and decency would risk everything for a fling with some pubescent little tart?

  She opened her eyes, saw him frowning across at her, worry and fear etched into his face. In a voice made hoarse by screaming, she said quietly, ‘I’m going to divorce you, Alex. If your involvement with the girl leaks out, I’ll start proceedings immediately. If Edward manages to keep everything secret, I’ll take my time, find somewhere to live, make plans, before I set the wheels in motion.’

  ‘She meant nothing to me, absolutely nothing. There’s no reason why you should—’

  ‘You’re a callous, selfish little shit, Alex. You couldn’t even be bothered to keep on denying it. I utterly loathe and despise you. Don’t you dare try to persuade me to stay.’

  Sir Nigel Dillon reached behind his back, unfastened tapes and removed his lambskin apron. He folded it to protect the embroidered emblems, the tassels, the blue silk border, then laid it carefully in his attaché case before turning towards his companion. ‘I must have a quiet word with you, Kelvin, before we leave the lodge.’

  ‘I’m in no great hurry.’ Sir Kelvin Makewood peeled off white gloves, tossed them in his case and dropped the lid.

  ‘It concerns the Dvoskin girl. I was called to a meeting at number ten. Prime Minister’s taken the search out of Fallon’s hands and passed it to me. Told me to treat it as a terrorist problem.’

  ‘Terrorism? Seems a bit over the top, Nigel.’

  ‘Girl’s on the loose with a Russian woman. One of them murdered a man in a flat in Belgravia. Her father’s been shot, she’s absconded from secure accommodation; PM thinks we should seize the opportunity and deal with her. The terrorism legislation gives me more freedom of action.’

  ‘It makes sense, I suppose. Here, let me help you with that, old man.’

  Sir Kelvin stepped behind his brother Mason and released a sticking clasp. Rainbow-coloured ribbons slid from around Nigel’s neck and a gold pendant dropped into his hand: Euclid’s forty-seventh proposition engraved on a small metal plate suspended from a mason’s square: the jewel of a man who has held high office in the craft. Sir Nigel slid it into a pocket in his case and closed the lid before continuing. ‘There have been developments. A couple of hours after the meeting, the PM contacted me, said he’d just been made aware that the girl posed an even greater threat. He wouldn’t give me any details; just insisted that the job be given top priority. And, earlier today, four bodies were found in a remote country area not far from Malmesbury. All men, three of them killed by the gun that killed the man in the flat in Belgravia. Wallets, documents, all means of easy identification, had been taken, and their two cars were registered to a bogus hire firm we can’t trace. We’re working on it but, as yet, we don’t know who they were.’

  Sir Kelvin picked up his case. ‘Intriguing, and I suppose it validates the PM’s decision to use the terrorism legislation.’

  They left the deserted robing room with its bench seats and rows of numbered pegs, its gleaming parquet floor, and headed down a broad, red-carpeted flight of stairs. A buzz of male voices was drifting up from the club room and the bar. The brothers were enjoying a convivial moment before departing the lodge.

  Sir Kelvin smiled, gave Police Commissioner Dillon a searching look, then asked, ‘What is it that you really wanted to talk to me about, Nigel?’

  Sir Nigel passed his attaché case to his other hand. ‘I understand there’s a lodge in the city that has no name, that’s never been assigned a number, that’s not included on the register; all of its members Rose Croix Masons, all dedicated to the protection of the monarch?’ Sir Kelvin was eyeing him warily now. Nigel cleared his throat, then added, ‘I understand you’re the Master of that lodge.’

  ‘I’d be interested to know how you discovered that, old man. Your information’s not quite correct. There is a lodge, just as you’ve described, and I am a member, but not the Master, Lord Gordmoncroft’s currently the Master, and we’re all sworn to resist any threat to the actual institution of monarchy and the aristocracy. As far as I’m aware, Her Majesty has no idea that we exist.’

  ‘Quite so,’ Nigel muttered, a little embarrassed, ‘Quite so. Thing is, I’d like you to pass on what I’ve told you to the brothers there. And I need to know if you’re trying to locate and silence the girl. We don’t want your people caught in the crossfire.’

  ‘Crossfire?’

  ‘Two Russian women on the rampage, five men killed; I intend to move an armed unit in when they’re found.’

  ‘We’re not taking any action. The brothers know I went to Darnel Hall that night and you joined me; know we did everything we could to ensure things were dealt with discreetly. No close members of the Royal Family attended the party, if we can call it a party, so the brothers are content to let it rest. But they’ll be mightily relieved to hear the problem’s been handed to you. One can’t trust a woman; one certainly can’t trust a woman like Loretta Fallon. Chief’s job should have gone to Marcus Soames.’

  ‘They said he didn’t have the intellectual rigour.’

  ‘Intellectual rigour! Balderdash. Organization’s crawling with chaps with intellectual rigour. All the chief needs is an ability to lead, to identify the crucial issues, and above all a sense of tradition, a realization that the nation’s standing, its destiny, resides in its greatest institution. I don’t think Fallon has that. She takes an egalitarian view of things. When the elite aren’t respected and protected, society descends into chaos.’

  ‘Fallon’s
certainly not one of us,’ Sir Nigel sighed.

  ‘Precisely, old man.’

  Ivory silk pyjamas pristine, black silk dressing gown falling open, Samantha reclined on the bed nearest the door, her shoulders propped up by pillows. She was drawing the beads of her mother’s rosary through her fingers, slowly, like a caress, trying to recall the sweetness of her mother’s face, the gentle murmuring of her voice at prayer. Samantha no longer recited the prayers, but the words still spoke to her out of the past, faint sounds whispering through the distant rooms of her lost childhood.

  The light had faded in their hotel room; the sound of traffic along the Promenade was less intrusive. Annushka was curled up beneath a sheet on the other bed, her slender body completely still, her breathing slow and regular. Another few minutes, Samantha decided, then she’d go into the bathroom and make a call on the encrypted phone.

  The events of the day had been traumatic for the girl. She’d heard the crash of the gun when she’d killed the man in the field; seen the mangled body of her other pursuer lying in the road. Discovering that the phones had been taken from her friend’s house had reduced her to a state of trance-like despair. Only complete exhaustion could have enabled her to fall asleep so quickly.

  Samantha glanced towards the window. A sudden movement of air through the opening beneath the sash had stirred the net curtains. In the street below, a car braked sharply and a horn sounded. Along the corridor, the lift hummed, its doors rattled open, then footsteps, padding over thick carpet, approached and moved on past the door. She swung her legs down from the bed, reached for her bag and crept into the bathroom. Once inside, she gently closed the door and tugged the light cord; mirrors and chrome sparkled, white tiles and porcelain gleamed. She took the phone from her bag and keyed in a number. Within seconds, out of the silence, came the rustling of the encryption, and a forceful voice demanded, ‘Where are you?’