The Maggie Bainbridge Box Set

by Rob Wyllie

  'Hi Jimmy, are you anywhere near our Starbucks?' She knew he was, and he would know that she would know too. 'Elsa's run out of bloody beans again and I was desperate. I think Frank's going to pop round in a bit too.'

  'Funnily enough, I'm just a couple of minutes away,' he said, his voice feigning surprise. 'Quite a coincidence that you should call when I'm only a skip and a jump from the front door.'

  'So, how did you get on?' Maggie asked as he pulled up a stool alongside her. 'Must have been a worthwhile visit given how long it took.'

  'Yeah sorry about that. I took the opportunity to look up an old army pal afterwards. From the Helmand days. Had a few beers and grabbed something to eat and then crashed out on his sofa.'

  She didn't like to tell him that she already knew some of that, having tracked his about-turn at the station and all his movements thereafter. Except of course, she didn't know who he had been with. Although she'd found it interesting that he had walked back to Lily Hart's office just twenty minutes after he'd left.

  'That's nice.'

  'Yeah, it was,' he said hesitantly. 'It was a great evening. He's a good lad, old Lawrence. One of the best.'

  Maggie gave him a wry smile. 'And Lily Hart? What was she like?'

  He shrugged. 'Lily? Yeah, good, very helpful. And smart. She reminded me a bit of you actually.'

  She assumed it was meant as a compliment, but if he had spent the night with her, she wasn't sure she welcomed the comparison. And she didn't really want to find out either, so she steered the conversation onto business.

  'But did you find out anything interesting from her?'

  He too seemed keen to move on. 'You could say that,' he said, grinning. 'Aye, you could say that.'

  And then he told her. About the Trust, and the safety deposit box stuffed with two million in cash, and the non-disclosure agreement. The non-disclosure agreement that had been drawn up and witnessed by Philip Brooks.

  She wasn't at all surprised by the revelation. Philip hadn't told her anything during their marriage, let alone what he'd done before they met, and this would be just one more in a long list of skeletons in his cupboard.

  'Did you know he was involved?' Jimmy asked. 'I guess it was quite a few years before you married him.'

  She shrugged. 'No. One of many things he kept from me.'

  'But don't you think the whole thing is bloody unbelievable?'

  'What's unbelievable?' Frank had strolled in, taking a final drag on his cigarette before extinguishing it between his fingertips, ignoring the reprimanding stare of a tattooed barista.

  'All of it.' Her mind was racing, trying to process this new information that Jimmy had mined up in Yorkshire. Even with a cursory review, she could see that it supported her crazy theory. One hundred percent. She had to be right, there was no doubt about it now, and it couldn't be kept to herself any longer. The words rushed out in a torrent.

  'Guys, I want to run something past you. Something that came into my head yesterday when we were with Chief Superintendent Wilkes. Something mental.'

  'Aye ok,' Frank said calmly. 'We're all ears.'

  'I like mental,' Jimmy said.

  And then she told them. It was all about freeing Alzahrani. Yes, they hadn't misheard her, that's what she had said. There had been a conspiracy to ensure that Alzahrani walked free. She didn't know why, and she had no idea who was behind it all, but she couldn't be more sure she was right. There was a long silence as each of them tested the sense of Maggie's premise, trying to force the facts of the case into place, like pieces in a particularly complex jigsaw. Frank was the first to speak.

  'There's a lot of stuff going on in this case, stuff that's way, way out of the ordinary. Five people have dinner and now two of them have been murdered, along with the waiter who served them. Professionally murdered too, don't forget. And now we know that at least three of them have big secrets that they really wouldn't want to come out into the open. Dr Khan with his fondness for rent-boys, and now we find out Brooks and Saddleworth are all implicated in a multi-million fraud. That's all serious shit.'

  'And what about Saddleworth's visit to Moscow?' Jimmy said, 'and Cameron's drugs bust and the fact we think there's something suspicious about Maggie getting the defence brief.'

  'Yes, there's all of that,' Frank agreed. 'As I said, a lot of stuff going on.'

  'It's got to be Saddleworth, hasn't it?' Jimmy said. 'Behind all of this, I mean. He's got the most to lose.'

  'Or Philip,' Maggie said. 'Remember, he's a long-time supporter of the cause.'

  But then she thought about it again. Yes, he was a supporter, but not a believer. Philip wouldn't give a sod whether Alzahrani got freed or not, because Philip didn't believe in anything other than himself. The rights of the Palestinian people were no more than a lucrative market niche, a niche that paid big bucks. Money, that was all that Philip believed in.

  Frank did not answer directly. 'You know, it's not exactly rocket science but people with big secrets are vulnerable to coercion. And I think that's what is in play here. Maybe all of these guys are being forced to do something they really don't want to do.'

  'Were being forced,' Maggie corrected. 'Penelope White and Adam Cameron are both dead.'

  'Aye, and that's the next step when coercion stops working,' Frank said, looking serious. 'I laughed at you two when you brought up the means, motive, opportunity thing, but guys, I'm not laughing now. We're still struggling with the motive, but it's the other two I'm worried about right now.'

  'What do you mean?' Maggie asked.

  'What I mean is we've got professional killers on the loose here and they've always got multiple options when it comes to both. We've had a clinical shooting and two expertly-executed stabbings. So as I said, professionals.'

  'So where does that get us?' Maggie asked.

  'Nowhere,' Frank said flatly, 'because until we know why someone wanted Alzahrani freed, we're buggered. Totally buggered.'

  ◆◆◆

  It was Yash Patel at the Chronicle who had originally broken the 'Saddleworth and his murdered lover' story. Poignant too, given that the lover in question was his former boss Penelope White. Not that he had shed many tears for her himself. She was a bitch, and a racist bitch too, although she had tried hard to keep that under the radar. Keen too to take all the credit for everything, when often as not it was him who had put in all the legwork. But what the hell, now he was the columnist with the photoshopped mug-shot alongside his by-line, so you could say that whoever had murdered her had done him a big favour. That's the way he saw it and the paper was secretly pleased with the outcome too, having previously been a bit light on diversity amongst its columnists. He wasn't too modest to admit it had been a stonking article, with just enough innuendo for the readers to go away thinking, you know what, maybe he did kill her. Perhaps he had, Yash wasn't ruling it out. What a story that would be.

  And now Gerrard Saddleworth was doing what all politicians did after being caught with their pants down. Round up the wife, children and pets, stick them on a platform in a nice conference room in a nice hotel convenient for the media and turn on the tears. Except Saddleworth's estranged wife Olivia had told him to bugger off, so he was left only with his beautiful nineteen-year-old daughter Patience by his side, and judging by her expression, she didn't look too pleased to be there either. The room was packed with hacks and TV crews from all around the world, so much so that it was standing room only. Yash had anticipated this and had arrived nice and early, being rewarded for his diligence by a seat in the front row, close enough for a bit of discrete upskirting, and Patience had unintentionally obliged by wearing a micro-skirt and no tights. An innocent pastime in his eyes and ridiculous that it had been made illegal, but on balance, probably not the subject for one of his campaigning articles.

  The party's press officer stood up, cleared her throat, gave a weak smile then began reading from a prompt card. 'Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming. May I introduce Gerrard Saddleworth
, Minister of State for the Home Department. Gerrard.' She hadn't had to bust a gut to come up with that introduction, but maybe he was being a bit harsh on her. It was odds-on she had written what was to follow too, but even that wouldn't have been too difficult given the number of times she'd had to do it. A simple cut and paste job, no more than that.

  Saddleworth was wearing the standard man-of the-people uniform of navy suit with blue open-necked shirt. On the outside at least he appeared relaxed. Having stood in for PM's questions on many occasions, he was hardly going to be fazed by this lot. He smiled fondly at his daughter and she scowled back at him with a look that so clearly said 'wanker.' Yash assumed it was only the threat of her allowance being withdrawn that had brought her here.

  'Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming,' he parroted. 'I've come here to apologise publicly to my constituents, my party and above all to my wonderful family for letting them all down...'

  Yep, pretty much the same words that his colleague the Right Honourable James Haggerty had used just over six months ago when his pregnant Russian lover had spilled the beans to the Sun. Now there would be some crap about the pressures of office and no man being immune to temptation, and how much he deeply regretted his actions blah, blah, blah. The assembled press guys were listening politely and some were even taking notes, but this was only the starter for the main course to come. Because as soon as Saddleworth had finished, a hundred hacks were going to blurt out the only question everyone in the room wanted answered. 'Minister, did you kill Penelope White?' Already, the TV correspondents were making sure their camera crews and sound guys were properly lined up to make sure that it was nicely captured for the millions back home.

  The risk assessment for the event had come back as only a Level 2, so they had decided to keep the security pretty-low key. They would go with just his regular undercover team, stationing one at the door and the other to the side of the stage. Adequate, and besides, he didn't want the press bitching about the cost of policing what was essentially a private matter. Both of them would be armed of course, but with no guns on display. More than enough to deal with anything that might arise that afternoon. Except that it wasn't.

  The policeman watched on warily as the smiling young woman approached the closed doors of the meeting room. There was something familiar about her, he thought, but he couldn't quite put a finger on where he'd seen her before. She was holding out a press pass in front of her for inspection. He took the pass from her and smiled back.

  'You're a bit late love. I think he's already started.' These would be the last words he would ever say, as she plunged the stiletto blade into his chest, thrusting upwards to pierce the heart. Death would be instant, not that she cared about that. She pulled on the clown facemask, took the silencer-equipped pistol from her coat pocket and then, pushing the door ajar a fraction, she slipped through, locking it behind her. No-one in the room realised she was there, nor the mortal danger they were in, until they heard the dying gasp of the second policemen as two bullets thudded into his chest.

  Adopting a combat position with the pistol thrust out in front of her, she swivelled on her heels and swept the room, looking for heroes. Out the corner of his eye, Yash could see that a cameraman from a US network was still filming. Bloody idiot. The assailant took him out from twenty meters with a shot that smashed straight through his skull, drenching a dozen journalists in a satanic mess of blood and warm brain tissue. Ignoring the screams of horror, she advanced slowly down the aisle towards the platform, still holding the gun out in front of her.

  Patience Saddleworth was screaming hysterically. 'Please don't, please don't, please don't.' Beside her sat her father, rooted to the spot, his face a mask of confusion. And now the young woman was raising the pistol, pointing it at Saddleworth's forehead, standing close enough to taste his breath.

  'What do you want? Who are you? Why are you doing this?' The woman stayed silent, remaining perfectly motionless with the gun inches from his head. Waiting, just waiting until the shit ran down his leg. And then she turned slightly, no more than four degrees, and blew Patience Saddleworth's brains out.

  'This wasn't supposed to happen'. Yash was sure that's what Saddleworth had whispered. His last words before the assassin shot him between the eyes, then disappeared through the fire exit at the back of the room.

  This wasn't supposed to happen. What had he meant by that?

  ◆◆◆

  Within minutes, naturally, it was all over the news. The brutal murder of the Home Secretary and his daughter was bound to shock the country and it did. Since the press was not aware of the existence of the Cathedral Close photograph, early speculation was that this was a planned terrorist outrage aimed at the heart of our democracy, almost certainly Islamic in origin. Outrageous in planning and audacious in execution, it had clearly been arranged so that it was played out live in front of the worlds' media. There was condemnation about the lack of security at the event, which many said was another symptom of the general incompetence of the security services.

  In the barrage of comment and analysis which followed, the words of a little-known Chronicle columnist went largely unnoticed. 'This wasn't supposed to happen'. But Maggie Bainbridge read them with horror, instantly recognising what they signified. Everyone at that dinner was going to die. Meaning Philip Brooks and Dr Tariq Khan were in mortal danger. And their families too.

  Now she had only one thought in her head. She had to get to Ollie and make him safe.

  Chapter 29

  'Shit, that was close.' Jimmy had the pedal nailed to the floor as he accelerated away from the junction, the engine screaming up to maximum revs. He had barged through the crossover at nearly sixty miles an hour, smacking into the rear flank of a big Lexus and narrowly missing being T-boned by the refuse truck proceeding lawfully at ninety degrees with the green light. The wing of the Golf was now hanging on by a thread, throwing up a kaleidoscope of sparks as they powered along, headlights on full beam and horn blaring.

  'Sorry about the no-claims Maggie.' He knew it wasn't the time for jokes, but she looked as if she was close to passing out. 'We'll be there in ten minutes, but please when it's time for a change, can you trade this wreck in for something quicker.'

  She responded with a weak smile. He could tell the tension would be gnawing at her stomach like a bad curry. We just have to get there, we just have to get there. There was a loud bang as the trailing wing smashed against a lamppost and detached itself, flying through the air and taking out the plate-glass window of a charity store.

  'Whoa, lost a bit of weight there,' Jimmy exclaimed. 'All helps.' He reached across and took her hand, giving it a squeeze. 'It will be alright.' God, how he hoped that would turn out to be true.

  They reached her Hampstead home - he knew she still thought of it as hers, even after all this time - without further incident, as he brought the Golf to a screeching stop with two wheels on the pavement. They threw open the doors and sprinted up the path. Suddenly Jimmy shot out an arm and shouted. 'Wait Maggie!' The front door was ajar, creaking quietly in the gentle breeze. This didn't look right. Helmand all over again, the old instincts kicking in.

  'Maggie, you just stay here.'

  'But Jimmy...'

  'For god's sake Maggie, do as I tell you. Get back on to the police and find out where the hell they've got to.' No time for niceties, he didn't want another dead rooky on his conscience. Gingerly, he edged open the door and went in to the hallway. Shit. He could smell it. Cordite, and recently fired too. The smell of death.

  'Philip!' he shouted. 'Philip Brooks!' No response. Every door in the hallway was closed tight, making the sweep doubly difficult and doubly dangerous. A professional job, no doubt about that.

  'Philip!' He kicked open the nearest door, allowing it to slam against its brass doorstop before entering. A comfortable living room furnished with two soft leather sofas and a huge wall-mounted television. Fresh flowers in a crystal vase. Tasteful reproductions on the wall. Noth
ing here. Two more rooms yielded similar results. Three more to go. But wait a minute, what was that? The faintest of cries. He stood stock-still and listened hard. A child's voice. My mummy, I want my mummy. Please god, no! He dashed to the end of the hall and kicked open the door. Christ, he had seen some shit over in Afghanistan, but nothing like this. Spread-eagled on the terracotta tiled floor in a pool of blood lay Angelique Perez, two bullets holes drilled neatly through her forehead. Her white silk blouse, now blood-splattered, had been ripped away, exposing her breasts above her black silk bra. Her flower-patterned skirt had been pulled down to her ankles, and a pair of knickers lay discarded beside her. Whether she had been raped before or after her murder was impossible to tell.

  Philip Brooks' body was slumped face down across the kitchen table, an exit wound clearly visible on the back of his head. Jimmy had seen this so many times before. A pistol rammed into the mouth, and then the killer would wait and wait, wait until the shit literally ran down the victim's leg before blowing his head off. Was Perez forced to watch her lover's execution, or was Brooks forced to watch her being raped? It turned his stomach just thinking about it.

  But where was Ollie? Surely it was his voice he had heard, it must have been, but where the hell was he? Rapidly, he surveyed the big kitchen. What was that in the corner? A door, maybe a pantry or something. He leapt over and flung it open. There, tied to a wooden chair was little Ollie Brooks. A bloody swelling had almost closed his right eye and his cheek showed the weal marks where he had been struck with force. The bastards, the evil bastards.

  And then, to his horror, Jimmy saw the package. Attached to one leg of the chair with cable ties. A package that he instantly recognised. Eight or more coloured wires emerging from the top, most likely leading to a trigger or timer. His eyes traced along the line of the wires as they snaked around the chair-leg and up the backrest. From there, they had been fed down the neck and along the arm of Ollie's jumper. Yes, it was a trigger all right. A trigger that little Ollie Brooks now held in his tiny hand.