‘Doing great. He’s trying to figure out what snow is.’
Maddy laughed. ‘And Jonno?’
‘He’s – well, he’s pretty busy right now. We don’t see much of him, to be honest. He has a lot on his plate. A lot of pressure. There are political issues too, with his Russian boss. And then, of course, there are the death threats.’
‘Are you serious? Death threats! Who from? Why?’
‘Look, it’s complicated. You don’t really want to know.’ Annie wiped her eyes. ‘Sorry, I’m just a little upset.’
‘Is it something to do with Jonno’s job? Are you feeling a little resentful perhaps that he’s spending so much time at the office?’
‘A bit, I guess. But he’s also stirred up another hornet’s nest. It’s to do with Princess Izzy’s murder and a bunch of terrorists. I feel … well, I feel that it’s all about to kick off again. But Jonno doesn’t seem to care.’
‘Tell me, do you regret your decision to return to him? When you found out you were pregnant with Percy?’
Just then, the waitress returned with their order. Annie put both hands around the mug for warmth.
‘No – not for a second! Jonno is, has been …’ She paused and closed her eyes. ‘He just makes up for everything that has happened. You know, Maddy, sometimes I get frightened by how much I love him. That maybe he’ll be taken away from me just like Martin and Pascal.’
‘Pascal was the boy who died?’
‘Yes, in a motorcycle accident. That was when I married Martin, sort of on the rebound. Maybe it’s because Jonno and I went through so much together … You know, our love forged in the fires of hell, or something.’ She laughed. ‘Sounds like a romance novel. But I think you know what I mean.’
Maddy nodded. She was doing what she did best – listening.
‘My husband is the sweetest, best guy in the world. He can be quiet and a bit moody from time to time – he was a complete shit this morning, for example – but who isn’t? And now we have the added gift of our beautiful boy.’ Annie paused, gazing out the window as a slow-moving Thames cruise boat chugged towards the bridge. ‘But I’d be lying if I said that my life is complete. For all that I love them both, I feel there’s still a tiny hole that needs to be filled. I don’t just want to be Jonno’s plus one forever more. I need to achieve something independently. For myself.’
The therapist nodded and said, ‘Have you ever thought about writing a book about your experiences?’
Annie laughed. ‘That’s Jonno’s territory. He wrote about all of that stuff in his second book. I couldn’t possibly compete.’
‘Why not? You were a copywriter for a big advertising agency. And you have an amazing story to tell. My God, Annie, releasing all that toxic stuff bottled up inside you could be cathartic. And, just think – it could also help other rape victims.’
42
I‘D CLOCKED a few glimpses of Bill Todd skulking around various corners of the editorial floor like a fox on a suburban street. Odd, he’s supposed to be on holiday. What the hell is he doing here? No good, I bet.
The next morning, as I was looking at our front-page headline – RIPPER MURDER COP EXTORTS HOOKERS FOR SEX – above a carefully pixellated and cropped picture of ‘Sergeant Pantsdown’ outside the SUV, I asked Mrs H if she knew what Todd was up to.
‘No, but I’ll find out.’
Ten minutes later she was back, looking like the cat that got the cream. My secretary was not a paid-up member of the Bill Todd fan club either, I was aware. ‘It appears he’s working on some “project”.’ She put stiff fingers in the air to signify quote marks. ‘Geraldine in the morgue says he’s been asking for cuttings on stuff to do with, um, EU sanctions. Does that sound right?’
The morgue was the department where story cuttings and photos from the paper were filed. I guess the name came from the fact that everything in it was dead but not buried. Sometimes, a journalist would come along and resuscitate a long-forgotten article or series of stories. Most archiving was done digitally but there were still a few old hacks who preferred the reassuring touch and smell of yellowing newsprint in their hands. Todd would be just such a one.
Bugger. I’d had enough of that bastard doing Macrae’s dirty work.
‘Mrs H, would you please tell our mutual friend Mr Todd I want to see him ASAP.’
I was still at my desk when Todd appeared at my office door five minutes later. To his credit, he looked a little shame-faced.
‘You wanted to see me, Jonno?’
I told him to take a seat. ‘Bill, I don’t know exactly what you’ve been doing here over the past couple of days – or, for that matter, for whom – but I can guess. And now I need you to stop.’
‘Carlos Macrae ordered me to do some prep work on a sanctions campaign,’ he said in whingeing tone. ‘What was I supposed to do?’
‘Look, mate, you do not work for Macrae. You work for me. And, as you may have heard on TV last night, I have already decided that UKT will not campaign against the EU sanctions. So that makes what you’re doing rather redundant.’ I paused before ploughing on. ‘And it also means we won’t be needing you around any longer.’
‘Eh? What are you talking about?’
‘It means you’re fired.’
Todd’s face became a mottled mix of red and white. ‘You’ve got to be kidding, Bligh. This isn’t The fucking Apprentice!”
I’ll get the HR people to put a package together. Don’t worry, mate, it will be generous.’
‘You arsehole! You have no idea – Macrae will have something to say about this.’
‘No doubt he will. But, happily, I do not work for him.’
‘But you work for Bolshakov, and he’ll go ballistic over this. He already wants rid of you. What you said last night won’t have helped matters.’ Todd got up. ‘You know what, Bligh, you useless colonial cocksucker? You’ve not heard the last of this.’
Hurrying out, still cursing and gesticulating, my now ex-deputy nearly steamrollered over the Meerkat, who had to flatten himself against the wall to escape injury. I sat back in my swivel chair and let out a sigh of relief. I felt a bit shaken – but elated. I’d done it. I’d got rid of Macrae’s mole. The first person I had ever fired. It hadn’t exactly been a pleasant experience but it had to be done. The man was a complete shit. Not one single person in the newsroom would mourn his departure.
I looked at Finkelstein. ‘What do you want?’
‘Dude, thought you’d like to know that we’ve uploaded part of your BBC thing. It was, like, supercool. People are posting that you totally kicked ass. I think so too, what it’s worth.’
That was a surprise. The first nice thing he had ever said to me. ‘Any more death threats?’
‘Sure. But not from the previous bunch. A few new ones. They don’t seem so, like, serious.’
‘Well, that’s a comfort,’ I said wryly. No need to mention them to Annie. She’s already freaked out as it is.
The Meerkat’s phone beeped. ‘Bill Todd has just tweeted that he’s, like, left the paper,’ he said.
‘Really? That was quick. What’d he say?’
‘Bye-bye UKT. Can no longer work for someone who thinks he’s Crocodile Dundee’.
‘Ouch! I guess we can say he’s gone walkabout.’
That, like, went over the Meerkat’s head. When he’d gone, I began to ponder Todd’s comment about Bolshy wanting rid of me. Already? Well, what did I expect? I only went on national television and said that the paper would continue to support international sanctions against Russia! Bolshy clearly has no sense of humour. I smiled at the thought.
My phone chirruped. It was Bolshakov. That’s spooky, I thought. Ah well, time to face the music.
Before I could even say ‘Jonno Bligh speaking,’ my Russian boss went up like a Soviet missile aimed at Washington DC.
‘Dostál! You are durák, a fucking moron! You have screwed me over. You tell me you run campaign. Now you say you no do. Menjá nadúli! You mad
e fool of me.’ I could almost hear the spittle splattering his lips.
While I knew he would be angry over my TV comments, Bolshakov’s foul-mouthed aggression shocked me. It was in complete contrast to the charm offensive he had used to woo me at the Minto party in Sydney. At one point I tried to interrupt him. Complete waste of time. The oligarch went on for another minute or so. Finally, when there was a slight pause in the verbal onslaught while he drew breath, I jumped in and lied my head off.
‘Look, I’m sorry, mate. I hadn’t intended to say anything but was caught on the hop. That bloody BBC woman, Francesca Whatshername, ambushed me with that question on sanctions. I just sorta blurted it out.’
‘Blurt? What is this blurt? You idiot. Now you must explain that you made mistake and UKT will be opposing sanctions. Now! You bring Bill Todd back and start campaign.’
‘Sorry, but I can’t do that. Todd is toast as far as I am concerned. And if I were to do a U-turn on sanctions, everyone would know that you were behind it. That would be very damaging for both of us as well as the paper.’
‘What do I care? There is too much at stake. And I have promised we will do this.’
‘Promised who?’
‘That is not your fucking business.’
I rather thought it was my business, so I decided to throw a spanner in the works. ‘Has this got anything to do with Jim Marvell?’ Silence. When the Russian finally replied, his voice had dropped to a hoarse whisper.
‘Listen kakáshka, you will do as I say or –’
‘Or what? You’ll fire me?’
There was a menacing chuckle at the other end. ‘No, I not fire you. Worse than that,’ he said and ended the call.
Bloody hell. I don’t mind admitting I was a bit shaken. Surely that wasn’t a death threat? Jeez, I have enough of those on my plate as it is.
43
THERE WAS a sharp rap on the door and Shiv O’Shea strode in, followed by Mrs H with her arms outstretched as if to say, ‘What can I do?’
‘Perfect timing,’ I said. ‘Mrs H, can we have some coffee please?’
I got up and walked to the two sofas that faced each other in one corner of the massive room. Shiv sat demurely on one, her face devoid of expression.
I sighed heavily. Bolshy’s vehemence had shaken me.
‘I really, really hope you are here to tell me you’ve found out something about our Russian lord and master.’
‘Well boss, now you come to mention it …’ She had a strange smile on her face that said little but promised much.
‘Come on, Shiv, whatcha got?’ I said.
‘Actually, I shouldn’t gloat … it’s quite serious. You remember I told you that an old friend of mine, Barbara Scaife, had died?’
‘Yes, but what has it got to do with Bolshakov?’
‘It’s a long story, so you’ll need to be patient.’ Shiv took a deep breath. ‘Barb and I trained together twenty years ago. Later, I went to Fleet Street, she moved back to Leeds. We kept in touch over the years, mainly by email, but only saw each other occasionally.
‘Barb worked on the business desk of the Yorkshire Telegraph. One of her banking sources tipped her off that Marvell Manufacturing International got into serious financial difficulty some years ago. After no one else would touch them, they received loans from a Russian bank.’
Bugger me. ‘I assume Marvell Manufacturing has something to do with the PM?’
‘Dead right. It’s the family firm. His father Albert is still the chairman despite being in his eighties, and one of the PM’s brothers is the current CEO. James Marvell worked there after he left uni and before he went into politics. On the face of it, he no longer has anything to do with the company. But he wouldn’t want the firm to go down the gurgler. His family has owned it for most of the last century.’
‘We should check the Parliamentary Members’ Register of Financial Interests to make sure he hasn’t got a direct interest,’ I said.
Shiv suggested that we get Douglas French on to it. ‘He’s the political editor after all. He could give us a better insight to all that stuff.’
‘Can we trust him with this?’
‘I think so. I’ve known him for several years. He’s a dry old stick but he loves the paper and he’s a byline tart. The man lives and breathes intrigue.’
‘Okay, let’s get him in shortly. But you still haven’t told me why you think Bolshy’s connected to all this.’
She smiled at me sweetly. ‘Does the name Varvara Moroshkin happen to mean anything to you?’
‘The only Varvara I know is married to Bolshakov. Wait, you mean …’
Shiv nodded in delight. ‘Barb came across the name when she was researching MMI’s financial documents. ‘She was trying to find out where the company’s big cash bail-out had come from.’
‘How do you know all this? Have you spoken to the Scaife woman?’
‘No. I told you, she’s dead. But the day she died, she sent me a text looking for my help on a big story. She didn’t even know the significance of the Moroshkin name. There was supposed to be an attachment but it was missing. I’ve finally got a copy of her notes.’
‘Remind me – how did she die?’
Shiv blew her cheeks. ‘That’s a good question. According to the official report, she fell forty feet from the Cow and Calf rocks and snapped her neck.’
‘Cow and Calf?’
‘It’s a beauty spot at Ilkley Moor in Yorkshire.’
‘So, what are you saying? It wasn’t an accident?’
‘Well, it wasn’t suicide, that’s for sure. Barbara was formidable. It’s unthinkable that she would kill herself. And two men were seen up there around the same time. So, it was either an accident or …’
That thought hung in the air while we both pondered the implications of a reporter falling to her death while in the middle of a major exposé. Then my mind turned to the exciting link we had discovered between the Prime Minister and the Russian – well, his wife to be more precise. Too much of a coincidence, surely?
‘I think it’s time we talked to Doug French,’ I said.
* * *
The political editor bustled in a few minutes later, having been summoned by Mrs H. ‘I’m glad you called me in, Jonno. I wanted to see you anyway,’ he said. ‘About a rather delicate matter.’
Douglas French was in his early sixties, a short, dapper man with a fine head of white hair crowning an owlish face. Behind thick-lensed glasses, his eyes looked like Sydney rock oysters. He wore a blue blazer, grey slacks and a bow tie. His voice was low, almost a whisper, as if he’d spent his life in dark, smoky corners swapping secrets with dodgy people. Which, come to think of it, he probably had.
‘Look, Doug, we’ll get to that in a moment. But first Shiv and I need to talk to you about an even more delicate matter. And I need you to promise that what we are about to discuss does not leave this room.’ French’s forehead crinkled as he looked gravely first at me and then at Shiv before nodding.
I cleared my throat. ‘What do you know about Marvell Manufacturing?’ If he was surprised by the question, he did not show it. He pushed his glasses up to his forehead and rubbed his eyes.
‘Let me see. Started off ninety-something years ago in the wool trade in Keighley, Yorkshire. Marvell and Sons, Wholesalers. They prospered and expanded into textiles. Satanic mills and all that. Made a fortune in the first half of the last century. Several fortunes, actually.
‘The Marvells diversified in the sixties, when the wool price plummeted as cheap imports began flooding into Britain from the Far East. They got into carpets, furniture manufacture, property, etcetera – and continued to prosper. But the GFC changed all that. Textiles were badly hit. The family should have sold the company years ago but old Albert was too proud or stubborn, or both. A few years ago, the word was that the business might go bust but then it got a new lease of life and continues to trade. That enough?’
I smiled. ‘More than enough. Okay, my first question i
s … does James Marvell currently have any direct financial ties with the company – apart from his name, of course?’
‘Unlikely. Easy to check his public declaration of interests. Doubt it will tell me much … the PM could have everything tied up in an offshore trust – Jersey, Panama or the Caymans – and we wouldn’t find out the extent or origin of his finances. But knowing James, he’d be mortified if the company went under. Hardly a good look for the man running the country if his own family firm goes bankrupt.’
‘Okay, putting that to one side for the moment – do you know anything about the PM’s relationship with Borya Bolshakov?’
French’s eyebrows nearly hit his hairline. ‘What?! I assume there’s more to that question than meets the eye?’
I kept a poker face.
‘As far as I know,’ he said, ‘it is as it looks – a straightforward relationship between a senior politician and the proprietor of a prestigious newspaper. I have never felt any warmth between them, no chemistry at all, but I’ve never given it much thought.’ He rubbed his eyes again. ‘Mind you …’
‘Yes?’
‘Well, you were there! That lunch at Number 10. A week or so ago. Do you remember how Marvell looked? As if he’d just been hit by a train.’
‘You spotted that too?
‘Couldn’t miss it. Barry Townend told me over lunch that Mr Bolshakov had just been to see Marvell. So what are you saying, Jonno? That there’s something, shall we say, not quite right going on between them?’ He looked up at the ceiling and then seemed to put the pieces together. ‘Something to do with the EU sanctions? Oh, my sainted aunt! And that’s why – Bill Todd.’
Doug’s a wily old bird, I thought, but kept quiet. I decided against giving him any of the details Shiv had received from her friend about Varvara and the Russian loans. ‘Look, I’m not saying anything at the moment but I would like you to look into the political side. See what you can dig up. Be totally discreet, of course. No one must know about any of this apart from the three of us.’
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