Catherine gestured towards the empty chair. “Please, take a seat.”
“No thanks.”
Catherine frowned.
“This won’t take long,” said Jennifer. “I’d rather stand.”
“Do you have it?”
“Yes.” She reached into the inside pocket of her jacket and produced a sheet of paper. She unfolded it and handed it over.
Catherine held it out as if it was contaminated. “This isn’t it.”
“Yes, it is.”
“No.” Catherine looked from the paper to Jennifer, her eyes sharp. “It’s a copy.”
“I’m not giving you the original until I have your assurance that Samir will be freed and you’ll close the centres.”
“The British Values Centres?”
“Of course.”
“But you got out. Why should you care now?”
“I’ve got friends still in there. What you’re doing there, it’s—”
“Ah. I see. Rita Gurumurthy. The runaway. Where is she?”
“I don’t know.”
“Was she with you, before they searched your house?”
Jennifer hated that Catherine knew everything about her. “Yes. But she left.”
“Where did she go?”
“I’ve no idea.”
“Hmm. Well anyway. The answer’s yes.”
“Sorry?”
Catherine gave her a smile. “Yes. I’ll do as you ask. Once I have the original.”
“You’ll close the centres? That easily?”
A shrug. Jennifer could smell Catherine’s perfume in the confined space, overlaid with the faintest tang of sweat. Had she got to her? If so, Catherine was putting up a good act.
“They aren’t working. It’s a pilot. Nothing permanent. We’ll just put those people into the prison system. Is that what you want?”
Jennifer clenched her fist. “No.”
“Look. I want that note. I’m prepared to give you what you want. But I want the original first.”
Jennifer shook her head. “It’s too late.”
“What do you mean, too late?”
“I don’t have it anymore. I gave it to someone else.”
“Yusuf? He’s keeping it safe for you. I can send a car round…” She pulled a phone out of her pocket.
“No. Not Yusuf.”
“Who, then?”
Jennifer allowed herself a smile. “Oh, you’ll find out. You’ll find out very soon.”
Chapter Sixty-Four
Rita sat on the chair Yusuf had carried in for her. It was light, easily lifted so it wouldn’t scrape on the floor; institutional, orange and black like the chairs in the centre.
She stared at the window, trying to assess how much time had passed. It felt like hours.
From time to time she heard sounds outside; voices, footsteps. She cowered against the door, terrified someone might open it. She had that key, clutched so tight it left its impression on her palm. Was it the only copy? Wouldn’t a janitor hold a master key? What if they didn’t believe Yusuf’s story about the blocked toilet; might they try and break in?
She stared at the door, half expecting an emergency plumber to come crashing in at any moment. If they found her here, what would happen? Could she pretend to be Maryam Gandhi again? Or did they keep a list of recent arrests, people they didn’t want here?
She heard a noise behind her and spun her head round, her breathing shallow. She gripped the chair seat under the fabric of the jeans Jennifer had lent her.
Outside, silhouetted in the obscured glass, was what looked like a pigeon. It slammed into the glass then made scrabbling sounds as it found a perch. She stared, desperate for distraction. Then she realised.
The window might open.
She crossed to it. It was a sash window. The paint was flaking. The wood had swelled over time.
She gripped the handle and heaved upwards. With a jolt, the frame went up about a centimetre. The pigeon flew away.
She tugged again. A few more centimetres, far enough to get her arm through. She looped it around the bottom of the frame and rested her palm on the glass outside.
She heaved with her shoulder. It moved again. Now there was enough space for her to push her face out.
She twisted her neck and peered out, gulping in the fresh air. The window overlooked a brick wall and a rooftop below. It was covered in felt, a heating unit on top. On either side of her were walls. One of them had a window at her level.
She gave another heave. She grunted at a sharp pain in her shoulder.
The window didn’t budge. She tried again, more gently this time. Her shoulder screamed at her.
The window didn’t move.
She fell into the chair, her shoulder throbbing. She ran her fingers over it and widened her eyes. It felt wrong, bulging and twisted.
She plunged her head between her knees and gulped in breaths. At last the dizziness passed and she felt able to touch her shoulder again.
She looked back at the window. It wasn’t going to move any further, and even if it could, she didn’t have the strength. She’d never squeeze through that gap.
She stiffened. A knock at the door. Just two this time. She flicked her head round, wincing at a snag from her shoulder.
Who was it? Did they have a key?
She gulped down bile.
Then there were more knocks. Four this time. She allowed herself to breathe again.
“Hello? It’s me.” Yusuf’s voice.
She slumped into the chair, regaining her breath. Her heart was galloping in her chest.
“Let me in?”
“Sorry.”
She opened her palm to reveal the key then slid it into the lock. Her shoulder burned as she moved.
“Take it easy coming in. I’m hurt.”
She drew back and waited for him to see the state she was in.
Chapter Sixty-Five
Jennifer followed Maggie along the third row in the Strangers’ Gallery. As they shuffled past journalists and visitors, she heard whispers rise up around them. She allowed herself a smile.
“Out of the way, folks,” Maggie urged. She pushed her way through, not caring whose feet she trod on.
From their seats, Jennifer surveyed the room.
Around them, people were nudging each other and whispering. They glanced at Jennifer and Maggie, their eyes dark.
She looked ahead, her expression neutral. Beyond the bulletproof glass was the familiar Chamber of the House of Commons. She clenched her fists, remembering the last time she’d been here.
John Hunter entered, surrounded by MPs vying for his attention. She smiled. John loved this; the networking, the chat. She’d always envied him his ease at this aspect of the job, something she’d struggled with.
But then, she had her own skills. When Hayley Price had killed herself with a coat hanger at Bronzefield Prison, Jennifer’s words in this room had saved her own skin. They’d resulted in reforms to the prison system that had, as far as she knew, meant no suicides since.
John would have been all bluster in a similar situation. He had a habit of saying what he thought. His bluntness was refreshing, especially after Michael Stuart’s guile, but sometimes he took it too far.
She didn’t care how he played this today. Bluntness would be just fine. In fact, it would be perfect when weighed against Catherine’s aloofness.
Tom Hamilton, the MP who had replaced Jennifer, had found his way to a seat immediately behind John. She smiled; well done, that man. He looked up at the gallery then laid a hand on John’s arm.
John turned, puzzlement crossing his face. Then he followed Tom’s eye. He looked at Jennifer. He gave her a quick smile.
She grinned back.
Chapter Sixty-Six
“That looks bad. What happened?”
Rita felt stupid. “I was trying to open the window. I pushed too hard.”
Yusuf looked towards the window. The pigeon had returned. It stared in at them. “C
an’t blame you,” he said. “Stuffy in here, I imagine.”
“Yes. Thanks.”
He frowned. “It’s dislocated. You’ll need me to put it back in.”
She felt the blood drain from her face. “To do what?”
“Don’t worry. I’ve been trained. We’ve had a few service users turn up with dislocated shoulders. I’ve popped – ooh, three, maybe four – back in. I’m a pro.”
How could he be so confident?
She pulled away from him. The pain bit at her shoulder again, continuing to chew its way down her upper arm. She felt faint.
She nodded.
“That a yes?”
Another nod.
“Say it, Rita. Please.”
“Yes,” she breathed.
She closed her eyes.
She felt his hands on her arm, large and firm.
There was a wrenching sensation in her shoulder and a crunch. A moment of intense pain was followed by the realisation that the pain was fading.
She brought her fingers up and touched her shoulder, screwing up her eyes. It felt like a shoulder again.
She opened her eyes and forced herself to breathe. Her shoulder ached still but it was nothing like it had been.
“Thanks.”
“No problem. You need to go easy on it for a bit. I’ll bring you up a sling. But first there’s something you might want to watch.”
“Watch? Downstairs?”
What had happened? Had the police arrived? Was there trouble, because of her?
“I’m sorry, Yusuf. If my being here is—”
“No. No, it’s not that. It’s live, on TV. We can watch on the computer in my office.”
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Catherine was on her feet now, delivering the standard speech that kicked off Prime Minister’s Questions. Innocuous stuff for the most part, but then she threw in a grenade.
“This House will be aware of the government’s pilot programme of British Values Centres. I can announce today that we will be conducting a thorough review of their effectiveness in reducing recidivism rates as well as limiting recruitment to extremist organisations in prisons. The Home Secretary will report on this review in due course.”
Words, thought Jennifer. Words that meant nothing. Pilot studies, reviews, reports. All mealy-mouthed nothingness. Was she going to close them down, or not?
Around her, the Strangers’ Gallery was hushed. Journalists scribbled in notebooks or tapped the screens of phones or tablets. Occasionally someone would glance her way.
Catherine sat down and the Speaker stood. He waited for the MPs’ responses to subside; the shouts and accusations. From above, it looked more like a sport than the business of government.
The Speaker cleared his throat to call John.
Catherine turned to look at the Strangers’ Gallery. She scanned the rows for a moment then stopped as she reached Jennifer. Her expression was impassive, her eyes blank.
Jennifer stared back, mirroring her expression. Beside her, Maggie chuckled.
“Oh, she’s a one.”
Jennifer turned to frown at her. Catherine was more than a one.
John stepped towards the dispatch box. He patted his top pocket. Jennifer felt her breathing slow.
The Speaker glared around at the MPs and they quietened. If Rita was watching this, she’d say they reminded her of a class of naughty children.
John looked across at Catherine. He smiled. She stared back, not returning the smile.
“I have a question for the Prime Minister,” he said.
“Get on with it!” someone called. There was a laugh. The Speaker focused his glare on the Tory benches.
“The Prime Minister has already referred to the British Values Centres in her statement,” John continued. “Which is fortunate, considering my question regards a former member of this house who so recently was held in one of those barbaric places.”
He paused, still watching Catherine. She kept her gaze steady. Maggie grasped Jennifer’s hand.
“My question is about Jennifer Sinclair. The Prime Minister may have noticed she is here today, watching proceedings. Having won her freedom.”
Catherine straightened her back. She blinked.
The shouts started: Bloody Jennifer Sinclair! What you on about! Close them down!
“Order!” cried the Speaker, rising from his gilded chair. The shouting dropped.
“This House will recall that Ms Sinclair – Jennifer – was arrested for hiding her son. Who was under suspicion of being a member of a prohibited group.”
The Speaker stood up. “The Right Honourable Member needs to ask a question.”
“Apologies, Mr Speaker. Can the Prime Minister tell us how it was that Jennifer knew her son was under suspicion? How did she know she had to hide him?”
Maggie’s grip on Jennifer’s hand tightened. “What?” she whispered. “What’s he on about?”
“Keep listening,” Jennifer replied.
She looked at Catherine, that blush creeping up her neck. She smiled, remembering the first time she’d seen it, the way she’d been impressed how Catherine learned to control it as she rose through the ranks.
She glanced at Jennifer, steely eyed, stepping to the dispatch box. John gave her a smile that to the uninformed observer would look friendly. He sat down.
Jennifer held her breath. He wasn’t stopping here, surely?
“The Right Honourable Gentleman will probably have more idea than me of the answer to that question, given that he was such a close friend of Jennifer Sinclair and her family.”
MPs jumped to their feet, waving order papers and shouting. Jennifer twisted a thumbnail into her palm.
Catherine retreated. John advanced. He was shaking his head and smiling.
“I find the Prime Minister’s response most interesting.” He dipped his fingers into his top pocket.
Catherine paled. She glanced up at Jennifer, her eyes wide with accusation.
John continued, his fingers still inside his pocket.
“Can the Prime Minister deny that it was she, in fact, who knew about Samir Hussain, Jennifer’s son, being under suspicion? Can she deny that she warned Jennifer about this…”
He leaned forwards, his eyes shining. Jennifer felt her heart skip.
“…in a note that she delivered to Jennifer’s office on the sixth of September last year. A note that I have in my possession.”
Chapter Sixty-Eight
John pulled the note from his pocket and held it aloft. Catherine looked from him to Jennifer, her mouth open.
“Order!” cried the Speaker. The MPs were in turmoil now, shouts and accusations peppering the air.
“Was that you?” Maggie whispered in Jennifer’s ear. Jennifer nodded.
“Good girl.”
John leaned further over the dispatch box. “I have another question. Is the Prime Minister aware that by doing this, she broke the Official Secrets Act?”
The House erupted. Jennifer felt the floor beneath her shift as journalists shuffled in their seats, trying to get closer to her.
The Speaker cried out, his face reddening. He was ignored.
At last the noise died down. The Speaker was glaring at John, his hair damp with sweat.
John stared at Catherine. The note was in front of him, on the dispatch box.
The Speaker cleared his throat.
“The Right Honourable Member needs to retract his statement.”
John turned to him. “I apologise, Mr Speaker. But I can’t do that.”
The Speaker shook his head. “Accusations of this nature are contrary to Parliamentary rules. I ask the gentleman to retract his statement at once, or face censure.”
Voices rose up. A journalist leaned around Maggie and looked at Jennifer.
“Can you confirm what he’s saying?” she asked.
Jennifer glanced down at Catherine, who was staring up at her. John’s eyes were locked on the Speaker.
“Yes,” she s
aid, not dropping Catherine’s stare.
Catherine looked from her to the journalist. She turned to Robert Trough behind her, her Shadow Home Secretary. She spoke to him and he looked up.
The Speaker’s voice was lower now. Firm.
“The Right Honourable Gentleman is subject to the censure of this House. He should leave the Chamber.”
John grabbed the note and stuffed it in his pocket. He looked up at Jennifer and started walking in her direction, towards the St Stephen’s exit. She’d expected him to go the other way, but that would mean passing the Speaker.
She had to get to him. She had to make sure this was carried through.
She stood up.
Maggie stood with her. “Right, everyone. Out of the way. We need to get through.”
They pushed through the packed gallery, Maggie elbowing journalists out of their way. Questions were fired at them, voices raised. Jennifer stared at Maggie’s back as they headed for the exit.
As she reached the doorway, she looked down. Catherine had gone. MPs were thronging the space, shouts and gestures traded across the floor. The Speaker was almost purple, straining to be heard.
She hurtled down the stairs. Behind her, the rumble of footsteps followed.
The stairs spat her out into St Stephen’s Hall. It was already filling up.
“Jennifer!”
She turned to see John waving at her. MPs crowded round him. The noise engulfed her.
She pushed through the crowd towards him. He was in the centre of a tight group of Labour MPs. His face was red.
“John.”
“Jennifer. Sorry I wasn’t able to do more.”
“I think you’ve done enough.”
Jennifer turned to see Catherine standing behind them. The crowd fell silent, pulling back to let the Prime Minister through. From the corner of her eye Jennifer saw a BBC cameraman approach.
She smiled.
“Catherine.”
“Jennifer.”
Jennifer said nothing. She waited for the cameraman to come closer. She wondered if Yusuf was watching.
The Division Bell Trilogy Page 73