Diana scrutinized the warrant card and, satisfied that it was genuine, released the chain and opened the door. She led them through to the living room. “Would you like a cup of tea or coffee?” she asked. “I was just going to put the kettle on.”
“Why not,” said Mills. “I’ll have a coffee please – milk, two sugars.”
“I’ll have the same please,” said McCormack.
Diana left them on the sofa and went to the kitchen. The kettle shook in her hand as she filled it. What had she gotten herself into now? Who was Mr Abebi? Was he some sort of terrorist? All sorts of horrible circumstances flashed through her head. Perhaps she should give them the letter and have done with it. But then, would they believe her story? They might implicate her with Abebi. After the business last year with her husband she was on very thin ice. She decided to keep the letter hidden, and her mouth shut.
She carried the tray of drinks into the living room. “There you go,” she said. “I’ve put out some biscuits as well, just in case you’re peckish.”
“Thanks very much,” said Mills. “You shouldn’t have gone to so much effort.”
Diana sat down in the armchair and sipped at her tea. The detectives maintained an eerie silence.
After what seemed like ages, Mills finally spoke: “The reason we’re here Mrs Stokes, is because Mr Abebi’s post-mortem has thrown up – how should I say this…certain irregularities.”
“Oh,” said Diana. She didn’t like the intonation.
Mills produced a notebook from her jacket pocket. “Your account says that you walked into Mr Abebi’s room and found the monitor switched off, and Mr Abebi without a pulse. Is that right?”
“Yes.”
“May I ask what you were doing in Mr Abebi’s room in the first place?” asked Mills.
“I’m a nurse, he was one of my patients.”
“Yes, he was,” said Mills. “But not on Sunday evening. He was on somebody else’s round then. Your evening duties were elsewhere in the hospital.”
Diana remained calm and took another sip of tea. “Yes, they were. But I had been chatting to Mr Abebi in the afternoon. He was a very nice man, and I wanted to pop in and see him before I went home. It’s not unusual for a nurse to have a soft spot for certain patients.”
“I’m sure it isn’t,” said Mills. “It just seems a bit convenient, that’s all.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, you turning up just at the right moment to try and save him.”
Diana felt her chest tighten with anger, but she kept on deter-minedly. “Look, it just happened that way. I wish I’d got there sooner, then he’d still be alive.”
Mills nibbled at a biscuit. “Oh, I doubt that,” she said. “Not with all the morphine he’d been given. Enough to kill the proverbial rhinoceros by all accounts.”
Diana’s anger turned to fear, she didn’t like the way the conversation was headed. She put down her mug and reached for the cigarettes and lighter on the coffee table. She sparked up a Marlboro Light.
“Do you have access to morphine at the hospital?” asked McCormack.
“Of course I do,” Diana said sharply. “But everything’s regulated and accounted for. Anyway, the guy was on a morphine drip for Christ’s sake.”
“Yes, he was. But someone must have altered the flow.”
“You can’t alter it to that extent, there are safety measures in place.”
McCormack gave her a hard stare. “Well, someone must have overridden them then.”
Diana took a deep drag on her cigarette. “Look! I didn’t do anything to Mr Abebi. I tried to save him. Why don’t you just listen to me!”
McCormack put up his hands. “It’s alright Mrs Stokes, there’s no need to get worked up. We’re only asking questions. We have to check everything out.”
Diana sighed. “Yes, I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s just my life seems to be spent answering…” She stopped suddenly.
Mills tried to finish the sentence for her. “Answering what? Police questions?”
“Yes.”
“It’s alright Mrs Stokes, we know all about the situation with your husband. We haven’t come to dig that up, it’s not our case.”
At the mention of her husband Diana flinched. She had spent most of the last year trying to block him out, which was a parlous task when the police were knocking on your door every five minutes. Wherever he was, she hoped that he and his little floozy would be caught soon, and that she could get on with her life.
“Mrs Stokes? Are you alright?” Mills asked.
“Yes, I’m fine. I just want to forget about all that.”
Mills gave McCormack a look and he nodded. She finished her coffee and got out of her seat. “Well then,” she said. “That’ll be all for now. But we might have some more questions for you at a later date. In the meantime, if you think of anything pertinent to the investigation then give me a call.” She handed her a business card.
“There was one thing,” said Diana.
“What was that?” Mills asked.
“Just before I got to Mr Abebi’s room, I bumped into someone in a doctor’s coat hurrying down the corridor. At the time I thought he was one of the juniors, but I suppose he could have been anybody.”
“Could you describe him?”
“Not really…I only saw his back. Probably about five-foot-ten, dark hair, maybe Asian.”
Mills noted the description on her pad and walked to the front door. McCormack followed. They said their goodbyes and left.
Diana shut the door with relief. She knew it wasn’t over, but for now she could breathe a little more easily. She returned to the living room and poured herself a large whisky and soda. She lit another cigarette and contemplated what to do with the letter.
Chapter 22
Stella sat in the armchair, sipping her coffee in an uncomfortable silence. Her efforts to make peace had been ill-received. Stratton’s brother, Andrew, was just not the forgiving type. She had been for dinner and was trying to persuade him to attend the memorial, but all her talk of burying the past had been swept away by a hurricane of hate.
Andrew paced in front of the fireplace. He was in his early forties and prematurely grey. He was a broker in the city and he dressed and acted like one. Pomposity was his byword. “What you fail to understand Stella, is the enormity of what’s happened,” he said. “That boy has completely destroyed this family. My parents had at least another twenty years of good life ahead of them, if not more. My father had sweated to earn his retirement. He worked sixty- to seventy-hour weeks for over thirty years. He gave everyone, including my brother, a privileged lifestyle. And what did the little shit ever give in return? Nothing, that’s what. Unless you count headaches and stress as gifts.”
Stella put her mug down carefully on the table, using the coaster she had been so thoughtfully supplied with. “Like I said before Andrew, I can understand your anger. But their death wasn’t Stratton’s fault. Yoshima was systematically working his way through a list of people. If you have to blame anyone it should be Augustus Jeremy, he was the one who instigated it.”
“So you keep saying,” Andrew grunted dismissively. “But the fact is, my brother had blighted their lives constantly before that. He brought them nothing but anguish.”
“That’s rubbish,” said Stella defensively. “Just because he didn’t do what was expected of him? Just because he wasn’t a little sheep following daddy into the brokerage? I spoke to them Andrew, I know what they thought. Sure, he was wayward, but even when they’d fallen out, they never saw him as a failure or a burden. All this is in your head. You’re the one who hated him. What is it? What’s your problem? Were you jealous of him? Jealous of his freedom whilst you’d condemned yourself to a life of fiscal servitude?”
Andrew’s eyes blazed with fury. “How dare you speak to me like that!” he shouted. “This is my house and I will not be spoken to like…like some backward child. They were my parents! I knew them! I coul
d see how hurt they were! How dare you assume to know what they thought!” He took a breath to calm himself. “I think you’d better leave Stella.”
Stella almost leapt out of her seat. There was no point trying to reason with him any longer. It was patently clear that the twat was not for turning. She grabbed her coat from the hallway and left. Andrew stayed in the living room.
Once inside the car she reached into her handbag and pulled out her cigarettes. She lit one, started the engine, and drove off.
It had been a mistake visiting Andrew on her own. She wished that she had taken up Father Cronin’s offer to accompany her. He would have provided a rational voice, and Andrew would not have dared to explode in front of a man of the cloth. Perhaps Cronin could have made him see beyond his petty, long-harboured malice. Instead, she had made everything worse. She slammed the steering wheel in frustration.
She turned on the stereo and selected Guns N’ Roses’: Appetite for Destruction. She had found the album in a forgotten cupboard a few days before, and was enjoying revisiting it. It took her back to her rebellious teenage years when she did the ‘wrong’ things and hung around with the ‘wrong’ people. At least that’s how her parents had seen it. In her mind it had been quite different. Life had been new and exciting, every day fresh and wondrous. Older boys with sleek motorbikes had shown her a faster way to live. She skipped to track six Paradise City, sped up the car, and started head-banging to the music. For a while she felt alive again.
Being nearly 11pm the M25 was fairly clear and she wasted no time putting pedal to metal. She sped along happily with the music pumping from the stereo.
After about ten miles she became suspicious of a pair of headlights that seemed to be keeping a uniform distance of two hundred yards. She slowed down from one hundred mph to seventy, hoping that the car would catch her and pass. The car slowed with her.
She pulled over to the inside lane and gradually decreased her speed until she was at a crawling forty, cars flashed past her at regular intervals, but not the one she was watching. She kept her eyes fixed on the headlights behind and slowed again to thirty. This time the car sped up and within twenty seconds had overtaken. It was a silver Vectra. This was not paranoia, she was being followed.
Chapter 23
It was 5am, Tuesday morning, and the corridors of 10 Downing Street were silent. Outside the Prime Minister’s bedroom Jennings strained to keep awake. His eyes were closing involuntarily at regular intervals. A sharp pain in the shin woke him from yet another snooze.
“Come on sleepy head!” said a voice. “The PM’s just been stabbed! We need to get the paramedics!”
Jennings opened his eyes and jumped up in a fluster. “What?! What’s going on?” he stammered, shaking his head to clear the haze.
In front of him Appleby was sniggering. “It’s alright mate, you can calm down. I’m only pulling your leg.”
Jennings clicked his tongue. “Very fucking funny,” he said. “Sorry about that, I just drifted off.”
Appleby smiled. “Don’t worry about it mate, it happens to us all. I’ve been out for hours before. You’ll get better with experience. I’ll take over for the last couple of hours if you like. I’m wide awake.”
“Are you sure?” said Jennings.
“Of course. You may as well go upstairs and have a kip. After you’ve done a sweep of the building, of course.”
Jennings thanked his colleague and hurried along to complete his sweep. He was grateful that it was Allenby who had caught him napping, and not the PM. Who knew what would have happened in that situation? His secondment to Downing Street might very well have been over before it had properly begun.
After making sure everything was as it should be he returned to his room. He lay down on the bed and closed his eyes. Thoughts and visions entered his head, and then quickly left again without an imprint, as he hovered in the world between consciousness and sleep. In between the fleeting visions, one kept returning: an image of Stratton, not dead on the grass at Stonehenge, but very much alive and bright and calling his name. He was so real that Jennings found himself reaching out to touch him. But as he did, a ringing sound distracted him. The picture faded, and he started and woke.
He lazily reached for his phone and answered it. “Hello,” he said sleepily.
The voice on the other end was Stella’s. “It’s me,” she said. “I haven’t woken you have I?”
“No, not really. I was just snoozing,” he yawned.
“I thought you were on duty.”
“I am…I was. What time is it?”
“It’s quarter to seven. I just wanted to know if you fancied getting some breakfast. I need to talk to you.”
Jennings shook his head to expel the haze. “Okay, no problem. Shall I come up to yours?”
Stella paused for a moment. “Yeah, why not. I’ll go out and get some stuff in.”
“Okay. I’ll be round about half eight.”
Jennings hung up and reached for the glass of water on his bedside table. He took a long drink and let out a satisfied exhalation. He knew that he should probably get some more sleep, but Stella ringing at such an early hour was a rarity, and it was obvious from her voice that she genuinely needed his help. And besides, he found it extremely difficult to say no to her.
After officially handing over to Stone and Davis – who both looked tired, and didn’t seem to have recovered fully from their Sunday night binge – he showered and changed into jeans and a sweatshirt. He then left the building and hopped onto the tube at Westminster, taking the district line to Chiswick Park. The train was packed and Jennings struggled to maintain his composure. He hated the London Underground and made a point of using it only when necessary. As a rule, peak times were strictly off limits. The dense compaction of bodies tested his innate claustrophobia to the maximum. And the Islamic bombings of July 2005 had done nothing to help his nerves. When he eventually arrived at his destination, he jumped off and almost sprinted up the stairs to get out into the fresh air.
Outside the station he turned right and headed for Stella’s flat. It was windy with a light drizzle and he hunched himself up to keep warm. His tiredness returned and exacerbated the elements. He wondered if it he might have been better served by staying in bed.
As he approached the old house that contained her flat, he saw Stella walking up the path with a couple of shopping bags. He halloed her and waved. When he caught up she was out of breath. “Heavy shopping?” he said.
“No, not really,” she said. “I’ve just been walking quickly. I didn’t want to leave you waiting on the doorstep in this weather.”
“No. It’s a bit unforgiving isn’t it.” He rubbed his hands. “Anyway, less chitchat. Let’s get inside.”
Stella opened the door and Jennings grabbed the shopping. As they entered the flat a welcoming blast of warm air hit Jennings full in the face. He immediately felt better.
Stella went to the kitchen and put the kettle on. “What do you want? Tea or coffee?”
“Tea, please.”
He removed his jacket, settled himself down at the table and picked up Stella’s Daily Mail. The front page was, unsurprisingly, still devoted to the assassination attempt. A large photofit of the suspect dominated, with the inevitable headline: ‘FACE OF TERROR’. Jennings was pleased with the likeness, but still uncomfortable with the media’s stubborn refusal to consider the shooting anything but Islamic violence. Although, it had to be said, the police and security services were not trying to disabuse them of the fact. He gave the article no more than a perfunctory glance and carried on to the rest of the news.
Stella returned from the kitchen bearing two cups of tea. “There you go,” she said, handing him one of them. “Strong with milk and two sugars.”
“Thanks.”
“Any more news on the assassin?” she asked.
Jennings put down the newspaper. “No. Absolutely nothing. Not even the briefest sighting.”
“Surely MI5 must have
something concrete by now.”
“You would think so, wouldn’t you?” said Jennings. “But if they have, I certainly don’t know about it. Just because I’m stationed at Downing Street doesn’t mean that I know any more than anyone else. You should know that.”
Stella went back into the kitchen to start breakfast and Jennings returned to the newspaper. Nothing much seemed to be happening in the outside world, well nothing good anyway. The recession continued to bite; kids continued to knife other kids; and celebrities continued to bounce in and out of rehab. The only ray of hope was a story about a man who had given his life to save two children from drowning off the coast of Cornwall. But one selfless act wasn’t going to stop mankind’s slippery descent into soulless oblivion, was it?
The back-page splash was about the Prime Minister’s horse Jumping Jon and how it was going to take its chance in the Grand National. Jennings hoped that he would be on leave that particular day. He’d gone right off horseracing.
Breakfast was varied and plentiful. As well as eggs, bacon, sausage and beans, Stella had fried up some hash browns and mushrooms. She had also gone to the trouble of juicing fresh oranges. Jennings tucked in hungrily, suddenly realizing how famished he was.
“I’m not going to steal it you know,” said Stella.
Jennings finished a mouthful of bacon. “Sorry,” he said. “It’s just really nice. I haven’t had a proper fry-up for ages. I never usually have the time for it at home. Anyway, why don’t you tell me what’s so important. You said you needed to speak to me about something.”
“I’m being followed,” she said.
“Oh. Are you sure?”
“Pretty much.” She went on to describe the events of Sunday and Monday.
“Did you get the registration number?” Jennings asked.
“Yeah. I’ve written it down for you. I thought you might be able to get it traced for me.”
“No problem,” he said. He paused for thought, his fork laden with a slice of sausage. “No offence, but who would want to follow you?”
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