by Rob Wyllie
'I don't think so. I mean, the love bit, not that she's not pretty.'
Elsa returned a few minutes later with the coffee. Maggie was pleased to see she had brought her one too. 'Believe me, I need this Jimmy. My brain hurts.'
'Mine's ok actually. I suppose it's because it's so much younger than yours.'
'Cheek. I'm only thirty-nine I'll have you know.'
He raised an eyebrow but made no comment.
'Aye, well I'm going to do a bit of rooting around the net,' he said. 'See what I can dig out on Gerrard Saddleworth, then maybe we could have a wee bit of a brainstorm, see what else we can come up with.'
She gave him a thumbs-up. 'That's sounds like a plan, but if you don't mind, I'm going to have to pop out for ten minutes to get several packs of ibuprofen, because my brain is storming but not in a good way. So you carry on and I expect an answer when I get back. And no flirting with Elsa, ok?'
He snapped his heels together and made a smart salute. 'Yes ma'am.'
◆◆◆
The problem was, where to start? You couldn't just Google 'Gerrard Saddleworth bank accounts', could you? Well actually, you could, and he did, with predictable results. Plenty of results about what Saddleworth's party politics would mean for your life savings, and on the administration's plans to create a national business investment bank, and a report about an obscure question he had asked in the House of Commons about foreign ownership of UK-registered financial institutions. But nothing about his personal financial affairs. That was no more than Jimmy expected.
So where to next? Maybe it would be worth looking to see if he could find out anything related to these fancy restaurant bills. At least they were something tangible. Some place called The Bull in Southwark, and another place up in Gloucester, they seemed to be amongst his favourites. Searches for 'Gerrard Saddleworth The Bull Southwark 'and 'Gerrard Saddleworth Seven Cathedral Close Gloucester' failed at first glance to bring up anything of significance, but as he scrolled further down the Google results, an item buried away on page eight caught his eye. The Gloucester Journal reported that the government minister Gerrard Saddleworth had visited GCHQ in nearby Cheltenham, meeting with the Director and several members of staff. The purpose of the visit was not disclosed. Jimmy checked the date - 14th October. Quickly, he looked down the list of receipts he had created earlier and yes, Saddleworth had dined at Seven Cathedral Close that evening. So that perhaps explained why he was in Gloucester, but would you really then entertain your colleagues - Jimmy was working on the initial presumption that the dinner was work-related- in such lavish fashion? Normal protocol would surely dictate a more modest venue, especially since it would be the Home Office expense budget that would be footing the bill.
Not bad for a first go, he thought, but it didn't help to identify who Saddleworth had dined with that evening. So he ran the searches again, but this time selected 'Images' instead of 'All' and included '14th October' in the search string. A micro second later, the screen was filled with a mosaic of photographs of the town's cathedral and its surroundings. Damn - too specific, maybe just try 'Gerrard Saddleworth Gloucester'. Better - this time the mosaic was made up mainly of faces, pleasingly, some of the current Home Secretary, although surprisingly it appeared the world was not short of men with that name. Jimmy scrolled down, as the search engine relentlessly filled the screen with images, outpacing his gentle movement of the mouse, but there were none that captured that visit to the expensive restaurant on that evening.
It had been a long shot of course and he was disappointed but not really surprised by the outcome. But then something struck him, something he should have thought about from the start. The receipts showed that he had dined at the restaurant on four occasions. He obviously loved it, that was clear. But why should it be assumed that he always paid the bill?
Jimmy punched in 'Seven Cathedral Close October Saddleworth'. No specific day this time, just the month.
Once again, the screen filled with images, but this time dominated by exterior and interior shots of the upmarket restaurant, many featuring diners appearing to enjoy themselves despite the extravagantly-priced menu.
And then, astonishingly, unexpectedly, there it was. Gerrard Saddleworth, looking serious with a glass of red wine raised to his lips. Beside him, a good-looking man of about fifty, formally dressed in an expensive-looking shirt and matching tie, holding up his glass for a young waiter to fill. Next to him, a younger man, south Asian, also well-dressed. From his expression it appeared that it was he who was leading the conversation at that moment. Opposite them, recognised from the photograph that accompanied her by-line, sat Penelope White of the Chronicle, engrossed in her mobile phone. Next to Penelope, a man with his back to the camera who Jimmy thought he vaguely recognised. He clicked on the image, revealing it had originally been uploaded to Facebook by someone called Amber Smith; the powerful Google web-crawlers linked to Facebook's clever automatic facial recognition technology had had no trouble linking Saddleworth's features to Jimmy's search. One more click, and he was on Amber's Facebook page and looking at her timeline. It always amazed him why people were so naive when it came to their social media privacy, but in this case he gave thanks. She was evidently a party girl, her timeline dominated by selfies of her having a good time. A pissed Amber with a gaggle of equally-pissed friends. A skimpily-dressed Amber snogging some man or other. A sunburnt Amber lifting her top to show off her small white breasts. Pure class.
It didn't take him long to find the picture he was looking for. Sure enough, it had been uploaded on 20th October, which turned out to be Amber's thirtieth birthday, explaining why she was at the upmarket establishment. The text with the picture read 'Out with ALL the girls for my 30th at this FAB place. A bit pissed, of course :-). This guy from the government is here, Samantha thinks he's called Julian Saddleworth and he's the chancellor or something, who knows xxxxxxxxx.'
'Oh yes!' he bellowed to the empty office, 'oh yes, oh yes, oh yes!'
◆◆◆
'So I've managed to make a wee bit of progress. Don't know how you're feeling but maybe you could come and take a look?'
Maggie had returned nursing a large Americano which she had strengthened with a double espresso shot. Simultaneously the ibuprofens were beginning to take effect and she was already thinking more clearly.
'Yes sure Jimmy. What have you got?'
'Well whilst you were out- for ages by the way, where did you get to?'
She raised her coffee cup and gave a sheepish grin. 'Got waylaid by Starbucks I'm afraid.'
'Aye right, well as I said, whilst you were out, I came up with what I can modestly describe as a mind-blowingly brilliant thought.'
He folded his arms, leaned back in his chair and said nothing.
She smiled. 'Well alright then, tell me.'
'Ok, so I took a look at a couple of these restaurant bills that Olivia discovered. So there were a couple of eight hundred quid- plus bills at Seven Cathedral Close - that's Paul Waterson's Michelin-starred joint in Gloucester, of all places. Then there's seven hundred quid at The Bull in Southwark - that's one of these pretentious bistros, claim they serve plain hearty food but it's fifteen quid for the soup and forty quid for a main course.'
'How do you know about these places? You move in these circles, do you?'
'Interweb. But the thing is, we're living in the social media age, worst luck, and no-one goes to a hundred-quid a head restaurant without posting at least a dozen photographs on their Facebook or Instagram. Not my generation at least,' he said, smiling.
'Shut up. I told you I'm only thirty-nine.'
'I thought you said thirty-eight. Anyway I rest my case, m'lady. But seriously, if you see someone in the public eye, like Saddleworth, it's ninety-nine percent certain you're going to try to get a selfie or at least a photo so you can say 'guess who's also here at the very expensive Seven Cathedral Close tonight'. So I reckoned with an hour or so online, there was a reasonable chance I might be able to find out who he was d
ining with at these restaurants.'
'And...?'
He pointed at the screen.
'And I found this. Look, these are some folks who were sharing a fancy dinner with Saddleworth in Gloucester. And the interesting thing was, it was the second night in a row he had eaten there, although it looks like someone else picked up the tab on this occasion. That looks like Penelope White on her phone, and if I'm not mistaken Maggie, that's your husband, isn't it, with his back to us? But I don't recognize any of the others, do you?'
Maggie stared at the photograph on the screen, struggling to make sense of it. For if Jimmy didn't recognise the other diners, Maggie did. All of them.
Adam Cameron, Queen's Council and superstar prosecutor. Penelope White of the Chronicle and next to her, Philip Brooks.
But taking centre stage, clearly the star attraction judging by the way the others were apparently hanging on his every word, was Dr Tariq Khan, world expert in automatic facial recognition technology. The question was, why were they meeting only a few weeks before the start of the Alzahrani trial. Indeed, why were they meeting at all?
Chapter 12
For a moment she sat in stunned silence, rendered speechless by what Jimmy had just uncovered. Then finally she spoke.
'Cameron said he had never met Tariq Khan. He said he'd never met him. Christ, he lied to the judge. I was there, in that anti-room, and he lied. And Saddleworth and my husband, what the hell were they doing there? This is crazy, I just don't understand it.'
Jimmy voiced what she was already thinking. 'Do you think it might have something to do with your trial? '
'Khan, Cameron and Saddleworth in the same room? For goodness sake, what else could it be?'
She grabbed for her phone and swiped to her husband's number. It rang a few times before going through to voicemail. That didn't surprise her because now he never took her calls or answered her messages. It was as if for him she no longer existed.
'Philip, it's Maggie. You need to call me now'. Frustrated, she slammed the phone down on the desk.
'He's a pig. Look, I'm going to send him that photograph and ask for an explanation, that should make him call me back.' She could feel the anger rising up inside her like an erupting volcano.
Jimmy struck a cautious note. 'Perhaps we should just take a rain check on that. Don't you think we need to think this through a bit, try and figure out what it all means? Then we can decide what we should do. Cool heads and all that.'
Her brain was swirling as she tried desperately to make some sense of it all. What the hell was Philip doing there and why was Gerrard Saddleworth there, what did it all mean? It had to be something to do with the trial, didn't it? Perhaps Khan had made his concerns known to his GCHQ bosses and it had been escalated all the way up to the Home Secretary. Maybe they were trying to persuade him to just let it go, buttering him up with fancy meals and flattering him with a meeting with a top government minister. But that still didn't explain why Philip was there. None of it made sense.
'What?... sorry Jimmy, I was just thinking about the whole crazy thing. Yes, I suppose you're right, we should take a rain check. To be honest, I've no idea what...'
They were interrupted by the opening riff of Nirvana's Smells Like Teen Spirit blasting from his phone.
'Sorry, need to take this Maggie. It's my brother Frank.'
He didn't have to switch to speakerphone for Maggie to follow the conversation.
'Well hello wee brother, how's it going?' boomed the voice at the other end of the line. 'Long time no see. I hear you're not seeing the Swedish princess any more. Not surprised at that really, she was a right piece of work, best out of that one pal, if you want my opinion. Oh, and I heard about you getting a job, can't believe it. You, back on civvy street. Actually, I googled your new boss this morning. Now that Maggie Brooks, she looks one fit bird. Bit old for you maybe, but still in good nick, by the looks of it...'
'Frank, Frank,' he shouted, desperately trying to stem the flow, his face turning crimson. 'Maggie is with me right now actually. And it's Miss Bainbridge now. Maggie Bainbridge.'
'Aw great,' replied the voice, seemingly unperturbed. 'Single is she? That's brilliant, I'm really looking forward to meeting her. So anyway I'm fine for tonight - about half-five in my Southwark office, and you're buying, right? See you later.'
'That was my brother Frank,' Jimmy said, somewhat unnecessarily. 'Detective Inspector Frank Stewart. I'm really sorry about all that, he's a bugger.'
'Don't worry about it. Actually, he seems quite funny.' One fit bird. Less than poetic perhaps, but right now she would take that.
'A complete nutcase. But yeah, a good copper, so he tells me himself. Actually Maggie, that's why I texted him earlier. I hope you don't mind but I thought we might try and pick his brains about how you go about doing an investigation, you know, given that we... '
She finished his sentence for him.
'...given that we don't really know what we're doing?'
'We don't, do we? It's just that you... we, we are pretty new to this game...' He stopped abruptly, as if conscious of how easily he could cause offence. But he needn't have worried.
'No, to tell you the truth Jimmy, I haven't got any idea what I'm doing. I just kind of hoped if we followed our noses something would turn up. But it would be great if your brother was able to steer us in the right direction. And especially now that that photograph has turned up. So where is the meeting? His Southwark office did he say?'
'His little joke. He means the Old King's Head. It's a pub, just round the corner from The Bull actually. He's in there more than he's in the office. All strictly in the line of duty of course, that's what he'll tell you. I'm sure he'll be able to help us. I mean this thing with Cameron and Khan and the rest, it looks serious. It should be police business.'
◆◆◆
It was only just past six o'clock, but the Old King's Head was packed to capacity, Thursday evidently being a popular night for after-office booze-ups. Jimmy had to shout to make himself heard above a cacophony of conversation and laughter as they threaded their way towards the bar.
'He'll be sitting on a bar stool and onto his second or third one now if it goes to form.'
'What?'
'Never mind,' he mouthed, shaking his head and taking her hand to drag her the last few steps to the bar.
She recognised him immediately, Jimmy's description of him as an older, shorter and fatter version of himself being broadly accurate, although he wasn't much shorter, she thought, five foot-ten at least, and she would have said strong and powerful rather than fat. Good looking too, like his brother, and probably around her own age. His pint stood on the bar, temporarily parked whilst he finished off a jumbo-sized sausage roll. Flakes of pastry were strewn on the floor beneath him and several surrounded his mouth. He wiped his face with his shirt sleeve as he saw them approach, then extended his hand. 'Hello wee brother. Looking good pal.'
'Wish I could say the same for you Frank. I see you've not gone vegan yet. This is Maggie Bainbridge, my new boss.'
'Good to meet you Maggie,' he roared, 'but c'mon, let's wander off to the pool room so we can hear ourselves think. There's a wee bar in there so we'll be fine.'
He swilled the last of his beer and indicated a door in the far corner of the bar. 'Be with you in a minute, just need a quick wee-wee. Get us another pint of Doom Bar Jimmy, there's a good boy.'
They settled in at a corner table in the dimly-lit room. 'He's a model of sophistication, my brother,' Jimmy said, then evidently remembering that morning's overheard conversation, 'but of course you know that already.'
'He's nice, I can tell that already.' More than nice, she thought. Just like you.
'My mate Pete Burnside from Paddington Green ran your attempted murder investigation,' Frank said on his return. 'Just as well for you it never went to trial because it would have been a damn lynch mob with all the publicity surrounding the case at the time. And for what it's worth, I never thought f
or a minute that you tried to kill your boy, and neither did DI Burnside for that matter. It was just our lily-livered arse-licking bosses bowing to the hysteria of the press, a bloody modern day witch-hunt.'
More than a year later, every second of that terrible terrible day was imprinted in her mind in vivid technicolor, as if it had only happened yesterday. And yet still she was unable to answer the critical question - had she or had she not, in her hopelessness and desolation, in her utter despair and in her blind hatred of Philip, really tried to kill herself and Ollie? Eventually the CPS had decided the evidence was inconclusive; they could not say for certain -and nor could she. But Camden Council Social Services did not need conclusive evidence. They could work on the balance of probability, and on the balance of probability they had concluded that Maggie Brooks was a danger to her son.
'Thank you,' she said quietly. 'It was a very difficult time.'
'Aye, sorry, I didn't mean to bring back bad memories. Shouldn't have said anything. Anyway, what was it you two wanted to talk to me about?'
'So Frank,' Jimmy began, 'what it is, is that Maggie and me need your help and advice on something that's come up on the big divorce case we're working on. The husband is Gerrard Saddleworth... '
'What, the Home Secretary?'
'The same. His wife Olivia is convinced that he hasn't been exactly truthful about his finances. She thinks he's got a wad of cash salted away somewhere, and we've been tasked by her solicitor Asvina Rani to see what we can find out.'
'Well this wife must be bloody sure about that wad of cash if she's using Rani, 'cos she doesn't come cheap, at least that's what I've read about her.'
Maggie laughed. 'You're right there, but she gets results.'
'Well I'm sure she does,' Frank said, 'but you know folks, I don't want to burst your bubble or anything, but the Met doesn't really do divorce cases, no matter who it is. But you might as well tell me what you've got, you know, like evidence and that.'
'We've not really got much bruv. A letter from about eight years ago suggesting he might have had a secret bank deposit box, a few mega bills from top restaurants, and an estate agent's brochure for a fancy pad in Wimbledon.'