French and Shiv both nodded.
‘Now,’ I said, ‘what was the other delicate matter you wanted to see me about?’
French’s face screwed up in distaste. ‘Ugh. Involves a cabinet minister, I regret to say. Appears he’s been a naughty boy. Shiv knows I don’t like getting my hands dirty on these grubby little sex scandals. So, if you don’t mind, I’ll pass on the details to her.’
I looked at Shiv. She shrugged. ‘Who is it?’
Doug coughed into his hand as he whispered, ‘Marcus Devereux.’
Fuck me. The Home Office minister from the Number 10 lunch.
44
CARLOS MACRAE was eyeballing Bill Todd from across a restaurant table when he got the order from the oligarch to have him killed. It gave him a sort of perverse pleasure to discuss the details of Todd’s murder with his boss right there in front of him.
‘He is no use to us. He could not even do simple job you gave him,’ Bolshakov said.
‘Yes, boss, I understand.’
‘He is kozël. I should have let the loser drown. He knows too much. He could be problem to us.’
‘So, what do you want me to do?’ Black Mac smiled at his dinner companion as he asked the question.
‘Pfft. You know what to do. I need not tell you. Particularly on phone. It is your fault, I never liked him. He is loose end. You brought this rubbish into my fucking house. Now you take out trash. Know what I’m saying?’
‘Yes, boss, you’re right. I know exactly what you’re saying.’
‘Listen to me, comrade, do it quickly. And make sure it does not, how would Jonno Bligh say – boomerang back on us!’ There was a malicious chuckle at the end of the phone.
Black Mac laughed and said the oligarch could leave it with him. He would act immediately.
‘And, Carlos, talking of Bligh – I think he need something to make him feel pressure. Perhaps something happen, you know, to wife or child. Not fatal. Not yet, at least. But a reminder that bad shit can happen, eh?’
‘Got you, boss. It will be my pleasure, I can assure you.’
‘One last thing: now that your little puppet Todd is no longer working at UKT, you must find another way to monitor what Bligh is up to. Understand?’
‘Yes, I’m already on to that. I’ll deal with it first thing in the morning.’
After the call had ended, Todd said. ‘Was that about Bligh?’
‘Yes, partly. There was also some other shit he wants sorted. Fair to say, the boss isn’t happy with our wild colonial boy.’
‘I don’t fucking blame him. Look at what the fuckwit did to me! You said you’d look after me, but I’m now out of a job. A pariah in the newspaper business.’ His face was flushed from the two bottles of wine he had consumed during dinner.
‘Trust me, Bill. I’ll take care of you.’ A crocodile smile. ‘Now you go get our coats while I make another call and then we’ll get you home.’
45
I HAD just got my feet under my desk when Mrs H bustled in with a coffee and some disturbing news. ‘As I got here, just before eight am, Mr Macrae was coming out of your office. Walked right past me without saying a word. The cleaners must have left the door unlocked. I’ll make a complaint to the maintenance manager.’
‘Don’t bother, Mrs H. An honest mistake, I’m sure.’ I let her think I was unconcerned but in fact I was shocked. What the bloody hell had Black Mac been up to in my office? No good, that’s for sure. I looked around. What had he been looking for? There didn’t appear to be anything out of order. But knowing Macrae, he wouldn’t just have been dropping in for a social call at that time of the morning. And he must have got himself a key from somewhere. Bill Todd had had one. I went out to the outer office where Mrs H had her desk.
‘Did you get Bill Todd’s office keys before he left?’ I asked.
She looked pained. ‘Sorry, no. After his meeting with you that day, he left immediately and hasn’t been back. HR were arranging for his personal belongings to be sent to him. Why? Do you think that Mr Macrae got a key from Bill?’
‘Maybe. But don’t worry about it, Mrs H. Just ask HR to make sure they retrieve the keys from Todd.’
I went back into my office and sat down with my feet up on the desk. I had a lot to think about: death threats, EU sanctions, Bolshy’s aggression and now this rather sinister development.
That morning’s news meeting had two interesting items for discussion. The first was the memorial service for Princess Izzy, due to take place the following day. It was to be a private affair, albeit at St Paul’s. The great and the good were invited – including yours truly – but there would be little pomp and ceremony, in keeping with the young woman’s life and style. Griffo revealed that her family had already held a quiet funeral at their home in Switzerland. The assembled news team discussed how to cover the event comprehensively but tastefully before moving on to the second, more esoteric, item on the schedule.
I could not help but smile. The concept of karma normally left me cold but this story was surely a case of what goes around comes around. Reporter Richard Pearce had received a call from a woman called Vicki Carlucci. She had been the personal assistant to one of my rival tabloid editors – Ricky Walker. His wife, of course, was Francesca Walker, my BBC inquisitor. Ms Carlucci claimed that she had been paid off from her job after a fling with her boss. The newspaper had given her a decent settlement based on a confidentiality clause.
‘But,’ said Richard, ‘she was so bitter and twisted about her former lover’s treachery that she’s prepared to dish the dirt and take our money instead. Talk about a woman scorned!’
The ex-PA envisaged a spread in UK Today along the lines of: ‘TRICKY VICKI’S NIGHTS OF PASSION WITH RED-TOP (AND RED-HOT) RICKY!’
I was sorely tempted. I’m only human after all. Francesca Walker had caused me a fair amount of grief. And her husband had run a couple of stories in his downmarket rag about rumours of my drug-smuggling past. Fake news, of course. Annie and I had been briefly locked up in a Jakarta jail after the pirates’ stolen drugs were found on The Scoop. Nothing personal, Walker had told me at the time: ‘All’s fair in love and war, old boy.’ So I owed him one.
The others in the meeting mostly argued in favour. Not only would it tarnish the competition, it also featured a TV personality. A double whammy and a classic tabloid yarn.
‘Don’t forget, we’re in a dog-eat-dog business,’ Griffo said.
I wasn’t so sure and said I’d think about it.
It was a little earlier than usual when I got home that night – around nine-thirty. I’d made a special effort as I’d been feeling guilty all day about my breakfast bust-up with Annie. Atonement was required. I also secretly hoped that, if I played my cards right, we might even go to bed early. Make-up sex can be especially hot.
But it didn’t quite work out that way. Annie wasn’t impressed when I told her the story about Ricky Walker and his PA. I thought she’d be tickled by it, but she was far from amused.
‘That’s playing with people’s lives, Jonno. Walker’s wife will be mortified if it’s splashed all over the media. And the poor PA. First one tabloid editor screws her, now another one seems to want to do the same!’
‘Come on. She’s more than happy to play along. I told you, it’s a jungle out there. Jugular journalism, my old mate Percy called it.’
‘Hmph. A cheap trick. Beneath you. I’m not sure I like what’s happened to you since you went back to newspapers, Jonno. You’ve become selfish, vindictive. You never used to be like that.’
I sighed. So much for a quiet night and a perfect end. ‘Look love, it’s a big job with a lot of pressure. I just need time to adjust.’ I tried to sound conciliatory.
‘It’s been three months, Jonno. How much longer will it take? I want my husband back.’ And with that, she said she was going to bed and suggested that I might like to sleep in the spare room.
‘By the way, Madeleine McCabe sends her regards.’
&nb
sp; Ah, shit, I’d forgotten Annie was meeting up with her that day. And I hadn’t asked her how it had gone.
The next day I told Griffo to spike the Vicki Carlucci story, although I knew she’d try another tabloid.
46
THE LAST time I was in a church, it was also for a memorial service. That one was for Martin Greenwood, Annie’s first husband. He and another man had been murdered by the pirates and dumped in the Indian Ocean off the northern coast of Indonesia as they abducted Annie and the other man’s partner. Greenwood’s body had never been found. A service had been conducted at St Andrew’s Cathedral in Sydney, a pleasant enough Gothic pile, but nowhere as majestic or historic as this one – St Paul’s Cathedral.
Annie was sitting next to me. Was she having similar thoughts? After an uncomfortable night in a different bed, I had apologised profusely for my behaviour and promised to make it up to her. Now I took her hand in mine as I read the leaflet I had picked up on my way in. It celebrated the fact that this domed building had figured in many a scene of pomp and pageantry: the funerals of Lord Nelson, the Duke of Wellington, Winston Churchill and Margaret Thatcher, not to mention the wedding of Prince Charles and Lady Di, as she was then known by the media. I’m not sure the irrepressible Izzy would have approved of this venerable venue or, indeed, the rather sombre tone of the proceedings. Despite the undoubtedly beautiful baroque grandeur, the weight of history seemed to me to be almost oppressive.
Everywhere I looked, my eyes were assailed by architectural detail: from the seemingly endless sweep of the chequerboard nave floor to the towering domes above: gold leaf, mosaics, stone carvings, Corinthian columns and the magnificent friezes. A proliferation of plaques and statues and other monumental memorabilia added to the richness of the interior. High above me, on my left, the bronze figure of the ‘Iron Duke’ astride his warhorse Copenhagen gave a thousand-yard stare as if giving the stink eye to Napoleon at Waterloo.
I figured there were around three hundred people in attendance: a sprinkling of young royals (from home and abroad), senior politicians from various parties, business titans, media personalities and sundry celebrities from the worlds of film, stage, television, music and fashion. I was pleased to see that the secretary-general of the Muslim Council of Britain was also there, along with an Imam known for his progressive views. Martha Fry was around somewhere but there was no sign of Bolshy, thank God.
Annie pointed. ‘Is that the Prime Minister?’
I looked across as the Marvells walked down the aisle towards the front seats, followed by none other than Marcus Devereux and his wife, Penelope. I looked at the minister with interest. Who’s been a naughty boy then? I wondered if Shiv had got chapter and verse on him yet. Devereux looked as if he didn’t have a care in the world.
When the last arrivals had taken their seats, the dean of St Paul’s (I don’t remember his name) opened the proceedings. ‘We come to celebrate the life and achievement of Princess Isabella, Maria von Hohenloe-Langenburg – or Princess Izzy as she was known. She was a truly remarkable young woman whose distressingly short – but love-filled – life was an inspiration to others of her generation and also to all of us. We will never know what she could have accomplished in life but we pray that, in death, her example will continue to inspire others to try to make the world a brighter and better place.’
There was a eulogy given by the head of the children’s charity of which Princess Izzy had been a patron, and a few readings, including one from the Lord Mayor of London – the first Muslim to hold that office – and the woman who had been with Izzy the night she’d been murdered. Her name was Catriona Forsyth. It was the first time she had appeared in public since the atrocity. She was pale and unsmiling, but spoke out strongly and clearly as she read a poem called ‘Stepping Stones’ by Barbara Williams.
Despite my innate cynicism, I was quite moved by the young woman’s simple eloquence and Annie leaned over and wiped a bit of moisture from my cheek with a tissue. There was more emotion to come. Izzy’s favourite singer, Ed Sheeran, who was also a friend, rounded out the service with an acoustic version of his song ‘Photograph’.
Perhaps not quite as poignant as ‘Candle in the Wind’, I thought, but pretty good. Annie obviously thought so too because, by now, her face was crumpled into a Kleenex.
The service was mercifully short – about forty minutes. Afterwards, we mingled outside and chatted to the few people I knew. Juggs Jagger was on the street taking pictures with a long lens. I pointed him out to Annie.
‘He got attacked yesterday.’
‘What, an internet troll?’
‘No, a police sergeant.’
She looked mystified and I explained that Reg Danby, the dodgy cop that Juggs had literally caught with his pants down, had accosted him outside the newspaper office.
‘What happened?’
‘He was ranting and raving, said he could lose his job. Then he made the fatal mistake of prodding Juggs on the chest. Didn’t realise that he had been in the Australian Special Forces at one time.’
‘Wow, what happ – ?’
Annie stiffened and went quiet. I looked round to see the Prime Minister and his wife at my elbow. They were both wrapped up in heavy coats against the icy wind and perhaps, I mused, the chilly reception from many of the theatre luvvies who were likely to be of a different political persuasion. Marvell looked a little haggard.
‘Ah, Jonno. A sad day. She was a wonderful young woman. I admired her spirit,’ the PM said.
I made the introductions. Cassandra, who had a small hat perched on top of her starched, upswept perm like a rat in a nest, said to Annie with a side glance at me: ‘That poor girl. You should tell your husband that he and his paper should be doing more to expose these terrorists. It’s not safe to go out these days. I half expect one of them to start shooting at us any moment.’
‘Oh, we seem to be well guarded, don’t you think?’ Annie looked pointedly at the police all around us. I knew there were snipers on the rooftops covering us. ‘And besides, my husband and I already have one death threat against us, I’m not sure I want any more, thank you very much.’
* * *
Later in the day, after Neville and I had dropped Annie at the Kensington flat on the way to the office, I got a call from Byron, Martha Fry’s PA, a young bloke with dark stubble and an obsequious manner, saying she wanted to see me. Ah, shit, I thought. What now?
She was sprawled on a sofa when I went to her office ten minutes later, her hair mussed and heavy make-up smeared. She reminded me of Heath Ledger’s Joker. It was obvious she’d been drinking all afternoon. That wasn’t like her. She was normally highly professional. Something’s upset her, I thought.
‘Jonno! Itsh cocktail hour. Wha’ll ya have? Byron here makesh an aweshome dirty martini.’
The guy dutifully rattled the large shaker in his hand and looked at me with his head cocked.
‘Nothing for me, thank you. I still have work to do.’
Byron shrugged and left.
‘Aw, come on, spoilshport.’ Martha patted the seat beside her and crooked a finger.
I sat as far away from her as possible.
‘Sho what’sh going on with you an’ ol’ Bolshy?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Oh, gimmeabreak. One minute he thinksh the shun shines out of your assh, the nexsht he wants to shend you back to Aurshtralya on the nexsht available flight.’ She shimmied along the sofa and put her hand on my leg. ‘I like you, Jonno, I really do. An’ I tole him the paper wash doing good, thanksh to you. Aw, honey, I’d hate for you to get on the wrong shide of Bolshy.’ The red-varnished fingernails dug into my thigh. She moved even closer, her breasts brushing my forearm. Her olive-infused breath was hot in my ear. ‘You do not wanna crosh him, buddy. Believe me, you do not wanna to do that.’ One finger wagged in front of my nose. ‘If you ain’t gonna give him what he wantsh on that shanctions shit, y’all will be sorry. Knowing Bolshy like I do, he’ll ki –’
‘He’ll what?’ I asked, trying to release her death grip on my inner thigh.
No answer. I looked down at her. Her panda eyes had closed and she gave a long, boozy burp as she passed out, her head landing in my crotch.
47
THE RIGHT Honourable Marcus Devereux was normally a cold, arrogant toff who looked down his ski-slope nose at any man unable to trace his lineage back to some Norman invader. Right now, however, the MP was on the ropes. Shiv and I were in my office listening to him on my speakerphone. I could almost feel his fevered sweat dripping down the telephone line as he wriggled and wheedled, ducked and dived. Shame on me, but I savoured the moment.
‘Please, Jonno – you mustn’t run the story. My dear fellow, you know this will ruin me. My political career will be in tatters. I’ll be the laughing stock of Westminster. Listen, you really must spike the stupid story. I’m begging you. I thought we were friends.’
To be honest, I did feel a soupçon of sympathy for the man; he might well be an odious character but I had little stomach for celebrity kiss-and-tell stuff. Particularly after what Annie had said about it being beneath me. It was old-fashioned tabloid muckraking but the problem was it still sold papers. And besides, Devereux was a self-righteous hypocrite, endlessly preaching about family values on television.
‘With great respect, minister, why would I do that?’ I said. ‘Your dungeon master “Lord Payne” has given us chapter and verse, plus photographs. A bit grainy perhaps but it’s definitely you. During parliamentary recesses, I’ll bet. Actually, that black rubber outfit suits you, if I may say so, Marcus. A nice change from the navy chalk stripe.’
‘But my wife, my family … Surely you wouldn’t wish them to suffer?’ A whiny, desperate tone had replaced his normal booming upper-class drawl.
Devereux was dead right – both his career and marriage were probably toast if we published. I thought about his wife, Penelope. If I were a betting man, I would wager that she was not the type to stand next to him at the front gate of their Hampshire country pile and sing ‘Stand by your Man’, the party anthem for such circumstances. My guess? She’d be glad of the excuse to finally get shot of him.
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