Deadline

by Terence J. Quinn

  I took her hand. ‘How about you, love? Has this brought back, you know, the memories?’

  She shook her head. ‘I’m okay. I knew something like this was going to happen. I told you from the start that I had a bad feeling, didn’t I?’

  ‘I think you should talk to Madeleine McCabe. See what she suggests.’

  ‘I’m more worried about Neville,’ she said.

  ‘Why? What happened?’ Shit, I’d forgotten to ask about him.

  ‘The poor man’s beside himself. He feels responsible for Posh being killed.’

  I was suddenly struck by the realisation that I would now be dead instead of the young nanny if Nev hadn’t intervened. His action caused the shooter to miss me and hit Posh. I felt as if I couldn’t breathe. It should have been me.

  That poor, poor girl. A mixture of rage and guilt overcame me. I was the one responsible for her death, not Nev.

  * * *

  The two policemen were polite, professional. I was beginning to feel more alert by the time they came into the room. The previous, post-operative fog in my brain was being rapidly burnt off by a mix of rage and guilt.

  They got straight to the point: Had I any idea who was responsible for the attack?

  ‘Surely it was those jihadi pricks – Harkat-ul Shaheed? The mysterious martyrs? As you must already know, they’ve previously made death threats against me and others. My wife says the gunmen were shouting in Arabic.’

  ‘Yes, but I told you – they didn’t look Middle-Eastern,’ Annie said.

  The more senior of the two, a Detective Chief Inspector Titmus, nodded but indicated that they were pursuing various lines of inquiry. The usual bollocks.

  ‘Do you have any leads on the two men?’ I asked Titmus.

  ‘Nothing substantial yet. But we do have the gun.’

  ‘What gun?’ I looked at Annie. She had not mentioned this.

  ‘One of the attackers dropped it when Neville hit him with the umbrella,’ she said.

  The DCI coughed. ‘Our forensics people are examining it now. Despite the cold, neither man was wearing gloves. Should be prints. We’ve also got the bullet that the doctors retrieved. From inside you. That plus the pistol could well be useful.’

  ‘That’s good news, isn’t it? If there’s a match, you might be able to find our nanny’s killers.’

  ‘Indeed, sir. But it’s early days.’ He asked me a few more questions about the attack but I could not conjure up any more memories so, eventually, he put away his notepad and indicated to his colleague that the interview was over for now. As he got up to leave, Titmus said that colleagues from the Met’s Counter Terrorism Command would want to talk to us both. In the meantime, a uniformed officer would be posted outside to keep an eye on things.

  By now, I was feeling utterly knackered. The after-effects of the operation and the news about Posh had pole-axed me. Annie said she’d stay and sleep on the armchair but I insisted she go home. ‘Percy needs you. He’ll be wondering where we all are.’

  65

  WAKING IN the hospital bed was weird. At first, I thought I was in my cabin on The Scoop Jon B but as the sounds and smells of the institution beyond my door filtered through, I remembered where I was. Actually, I did not know exactly where I was. I had forgotten to ask Annie which hospital I was in. The room was hot and stuffy. Institutional beige. No frills, no furnishing other than a single chair. Machines, monitors and minimal comfort. It felt like a condemned man’s cell.

  ‘You are an honoured guest of the Royal Brompton Hospital. Used to be Princess Diana’s favourite,’ the nurse said proudly as she busied herself with the various bits of plastic plumbing that adorned my body. ‘If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were some sort of gangster,’ she said.

  ‘Excuse me?’ I was confused.

  ‘You got shot. And there’s a copper outside – is he making sure you don’t escape?’ She smiled. ‘Your wife’s outside too, talking to the doctor. They’ll both be in shortly. I’ll be back later to make sure you’re fine and dandy.’

  The chest surgeon who appeared with Annie wore gold-rimmed glasses on a chain. Her short grey hair was cut in a sharp geometric style that must have required a theodolite to work out the angles. She wore a dark, shiny dress with a large floral pattern and low-heeled shoes. Surprisingly, she had a slight stutter. ‘S-so, Mr Bligh, how are we f-feeling this morning?’

  We are f-feeling like sh-sh-shit, I almost answered. My chest felt like there was broken glass inside. In fact, I could have eased the pain easily with one tweak of the morphine drip but, with my history of cocaine abuse, I was not going to tempt fate. I smiled instead and said: ‘Not bad. Bit of discomfort with the rib.’ On its merry way to my lung, the bullet had cracked one. ‘But I guess I’m just glad to be alive.’ I smiled at Annie. Her colour was better but she still looked a bit haggard.

  ‘Indeed. It was f-fortunate that they got you here in time. Another f-f-few minutes … and who knows?’

  ‘So, doctor, how long will I be in here? There are things I need to be –’

  ‘Yes, yes, you are a busy man,’ she replied brusquely. ‘A n-newspaper editor, I believe.’ She looked at me sternly. ‘I don’t have much time f-f-for n-newspapers. One doesn’t find much good n-n-news in them these days, does one?’

  Ouch, I thought. ‘If all you want is good news, maybe you should read that,’ I pointed to a copy of the Bible on the bedside table.

  ‘Jonno!’ Annie said sharply.

  ‘Sorry, Doc,’ I said. ‘I’m not at my best right now.’

  She nodded and told me that I’d be in for about a week, provided there were no further complications: inf-f-fection, that s-sort of thing. I’d also have to rest for several weeks after that.

  After the doctor had gone, Annie told me she’d rung Posh’s mother in Tumbulgum in northern New South Wales. ‘It wasn’t good. She didn’t seem to take it in at first. It’s funny … Posh always seemed to suggest there wasn’t much love lost between them but once I explained what had happened, her mum sounded devastated. She could hardly speak. Must have loved her after all.’

  ‘Should we offer to bring them out here? It’s the least we could do,’ I was feeling guilty again.

  ‘I could offer, but Posh said her father was in prison. And I’m not sure her mum would want to come on her own. I said I would call again as soon as I found out when we could take her body home. Jonno, I’ve been thinking – I should go back with her. With Percy. I can’t bear the idea of her body being put in a plane’s hold without anyone to watch over her.’

  I took her hand. ‘I understand. Actually, given all that’s going on, I think it would be a good idea for you and Percy to go home.’

  ‘God, Jonno, do you think they’ll try again?’ Between the Russian and the jihadis, I thought there was a good chance but I wasn’t going to tell my wife that. I’d discuss the possibilities with the CTC people.

  ‘No darling. I doubt it,’ I lied. ‘And with regard to Posh, I’ll come too, if I’m able.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary. Her mum will understand. Your injury. All that way. It would be too much.’

  ‘We’ll see. But I feel guilty. About Posh, I mean. It was only recently that I began to know her properly. See the real person under all that gunk, you know what I mean? I think we would have been good friends if she hadn’t … they hadn’t …’

  I couldn’t go on. Tears were falling again and I found myself in Annie’s arms. A moment later, I was asleep.

  66

  I DREAMT of our wedding. A simple affair in Noosa on Queensland’s Sunshine Coast. The ceremony was held on the jetty of a beautiful rented house on the water. Close family and a few friends. Percy in his pram alongside us as Annie and I made our vows. A happy, beautiful day, far removed from the ugliness we had just experienced on a wintry Kensington street. Annie looked truly beautiful in a soft pink lace dress, holding a simple bouquet of white lilies. It was blissful: warm breeze, glorious skies and clear jade water
… but suddenly a dark storm cloud eclipsed the sun and Annie started shaking uncontrollably. Percy was screaming as only upset babies can. I was having trouble putting the ring on Annie’s finger and dropped it into the water that was now black and churning. I looked over and the celebrant was Carlos Macrae, grinning evilly at me.

  I woke with a start to find Shiv smiling at me. I hoped I hadn’t been drooling. It was hard to tell with the oxygen prongs snaking up my face.

  ‘Hi, boss, hope I didn’t disturb you. How’s it going? I brought you something.’ It was a bottle of Barossa Valley shiraz wrapped in a brown paper bag.

  ‘Apart from the fact that I can’t help thinking about our murdered nanny all the time, I’m in good shape.’

  She didn’t try to hide the look of disbelief on her face. ‘But you’ve been shot. Surely that’s a bit fucking serious?’

  ‘Look, it’s not as bad it seems. Ronald Reagan was shot in the lung once … you remember the assassination attempt? Well, he was making jokes as he went into the emergency room. He told Nancy: “Honey, I forgot to duck”. How good is that?’

  Shiv shook her head and sat down. ‘Glad you’re taking it so well, but some of the staff are less sanguine. They think they’ll be under attack at any moment.’

  ‘At least you have a flak jacket.’

  ‘Shit, I forgot to put it on.’

  ‘Seriously, what’s happening?’

  ‘People are running around like headless chickens. What with you and Martha Fry gone, no one seems to be in charge. Ray Griffiths and Mike Kelly will be in to see you a bit later. They’ll give you a better heads-up than I can. I haven’t been in the office much of late, as you know.’

  ‘Of course. Have you met with the lawyers yet? That was supposed be today, wasn’t it? It is Sunday?’

  ‘Shit, boss, you don’t even know what day it is? Things are even worse than I thought.’

  I gestured for her to get on with it.

  ‘I cancelled the meeting with the legal beagles. Thought I’d talk to you first. With what’s happened, do you want to go ahead with this?’

  ‘Why the hell wouldn’t I? The attack on me had nothing to do with – with Bolshy.’

  I saw the funny look on Shiv’s face. ‘What? You think otherwise?’

  ‘You said yourself these people are playing for high stakes. They’ve already killed one person – my friend Barbara Scaife – to keep their secrets safe. Possibly Bill Todd as well. Why would they hesitate in killing another?’

  ‘You’re saying it wasn’t the Martyrs? You think Bolshy was behind this? He murdered Posh?’

  ‘Consider this, Jonno: who has more motive for getting rid of you than Bolshakov or Carlos Macrae? I mean, those guys are merely trying to blackmail a British Prime Minister into helping a foreign country, and a pretty hostile one at that. You stand in the way of Mother Russia being saved from economic collapse. What makes you think they’d hesitate to get rid of you?’

  At that point I felt like giving the morphine drip a hefty squeeze. ‘It’s a possibility but I still think it was the jihadis. I can’t believe Bolshakov would put my family in such danger.’ But I was thinking about what Annie said – that the two assassins hadn’t looked Middle-Eastern. And Posh had also said the two men in the park who accosted her were possibly Eastern European.

  ‘I hope you’re right.’ Shiv shrugged. ‘So, where do we go from here?’

  ‘I don’t go anywhere for at least a few days. But I want you to reconvene the meeting with the beagles ASAP. Tell them I bloody insist. Have you written all the copy?’

  She waved a large envelope. ‘It’s all here. I’ve also got it on a memory stick if you prefer. There’s even a shortened online version for your mate Finkelstein. Now one last thing you ought to know about: with Martha’s departure, there’s a rumour that Carlos Macrae is to be acting MD.’

  ‘Over my bloody dead body!’ I said, more forcefully than I had intended. Given my current situation, it was probably better not to tempt fate. ‘Trust me, that won’t happen.’

  * * *

  About an hour after Shiv left, I had two more visitors – Ray Griffiths and Mike Kelly, the Dangerous Brothers as I’d come to think of them fondly. Both men looked uncomfortable, as if they would rather be up to their elbows in hard news rather than standing in my hospital room.

  ‘Which one of you is going to tell me what’s happening back at the ranch?’

  They looked at each other. Then Mike said: ‘I won’t kid you, boss, it’s a bit chaotic. The troops are feeling twitchy. They’re appalled by what’s happened but glad you’ll make it. But there’s also been another bomb threat.’

  ‘Ah, shit. Tell me more.’

  ‘Came via Finkelstein’s people this morning. Those bloody Martyr people again. Protesting about the Muslim schools story. We evacuated the building and the police and fire people came out but found nothing. Fortunately, being a Sunday, there weren’t the usual numbers in the office.’

  ‘We’ve had a few bomb warnings before but the timing of this one … well, it hasn’t helped morale,’ Griffo said.

  ‘What needs to be done?’

  ‘For starters we need you to appoint an acting editor,’ Griffo said. ‘With Bill Todd gone and no replacement …’

  I pretended to think about it. ‘Right, Mike will stand in for me until I get back. Should be a couple of weeks at most.’ Griffo actually looked relieved, while Mike had a smile on his face. I knew he harboured ambitions to be the big boss one day. The night editor was a spare, compact man with intelligent eyes and a posh accent. Under pressure, he was as cool as a frozen daiquiri. Having served a tough apprenticeship on several nationals, he also had the respect of everyone in the newsroom, including me.

  ‘Thanks, Jonno. I won’t let you down,’ he said.

  ‘Better not. By the way, this was a pretty good effort.’ I waved a copy of that day’s UKT in front of them. ‘But you might have chosen a better picture.’

  ‘Sorry, boss. We thought it made you look almost human.’

  ‘Cheeky bastards,’ I said, shaking my head. But it hurt, so I stopped.

  67

  CARLOS MACRAE had seen his boss pissed off before. Furious even. But this was a whole new category of volcanic rage. The veins were bulging in the oligarch’s sculpted forehead, the grey eyes glinting like shards of ice and his curled lips were covered in spit as he spewed venom at his henchman.

  ‘Those motherfucking Kazakh brothers of yours. Lisus Khristos! Where you find these cocksuckers? Amateur night in karaoke bar?! Fucking useless piz`das, the best part of them ran down their mother’s legs.’

  ‘They were just unlucky,’ Macrae finally ventured in a soothing voice. ‘If Bligh’s driver had not –’

  The Russian slapped the table hard. ‘I do not give a fuck what you think! I ask you to complete simple task and whole thing explodes in my face. Now Bligh is still alive and able to use Banquo story. It is catastrophe! You hear me?’

  ‘Yes. But at least Marvell has finally seen the light. I read the riot act to Cassandra and she’s now forced him over the line. He will announce the government’s new position this afternoon, in time for the six o’clock news.’

  ‘The súka has bigger balls than her stupid husband.’

  ‘I think it had more to do with the fact that she couldn’t face the possibility of being impoverished.’

  ‘Carlos, if that story runs, she will be more than poor – she’ll be wife of convict. And I’ll be rotting in gulag. My papa will give me one-way ticket to labour camp himself. I think now he likes Vava more than me. The goddamned gypsy woman is back in Moscow and they fete her like she is Joan of Arc.’

  ‘I thought the gulags didn’t exist anymore?’

  ‘Don’t be stupid, Carlos. We simply hide from Western eyes. But never mind this, you need to tell me how we stop Bligh. It better be good, and it better be soon. Or else we are both fucked. We need him and stupid story to disappear. Pfft,’ He chopped his hand in th
e air. ‘You hear me, man?’

  Macrae did indeed hear him. Loud and clear. They were again sitting in the main salon in the Knightsbridge penthouse apartment. The PR fixer knew things were beginning to unravel. If the story came out, Bolshakov would have him killed. He did not doubt that for a second. To add to his worries, he knew the cops had already linked the gun that killed the nanny to one of the brothers. His fingerprints were in the system because he had once been arrested for assaulting his girlfriend.

  And, he reasoned, if they caught one or both of the Kazakhs, they might well give him up to get a better deal for themselves. The trouble is, I may still need the two idiot brothers one more time. I need a Plan B if this all goes pear-shaped. He could kick himself … the idea of pinning the murder of Bligh on the Martyr mob had seemed like a good wheeze at the time.

  ‘Look boss, Bligh has a police guard at the hospital. If we attack him there, we would probably have to kill the cop too. That would make things even trickier. But the reporter, O’Shea, is more vulnerable. One of the lawyers I pay to keep me informed tells me that O’Shea is meeting them this afternoon with the Banquo copy. If we take her out, we’d have some breathing space until I find a way to finish Bligh off once and for all.’

  ‘It is not ideal but perhaps better than nothing.’ The Russian suddenly reached out and took Macrae’s elbow with a steely grip. He pulled his underling forward until their two noses were just an inch apart. Macrae could almost taste Bolshy’s breakfast. Scrambled eggs with caviar, if I’m not mistaken, he thought to himself. He almost giggled insanely. Black Mac was not scared of much, but he was piss-wet scared of the Russian.

  The oligarch said in a menacing tone: ‘Promise me this, Carlos – no more botch. Otherwise I need to think seriously about our future business together. Understand?’