UKT UNCOVERS RUSSIAN PLOT TO BLACKMAIL PM OVER EU SANCTIONS
‘It’s a good start. The only missing bit is the fact that Marvell, or his family firm, actually got money from the Russians. Let’s play around with it a bit more.’
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Ray Griffiths answer the phone on his nearby desk. Then I saw something on his face change and he looked back at me before holding out the receiver. ‘Downing Street,’ he mouthed.
Ah, shit, I thought. Here it comes – the demand to spike the story.
‘Jonno Bligh speaking,’ I said. ‘Who is this?’ I expected some Secret Service bigwig, or a government law officer, or perhaps a party grandee pleading for mercy on behalf of the PM. But it was Barry Townend.
‘If this is some eleventh-hour attempt to quash the story, Barry, you can bugger off.’
There was a big sigh in my ear. The man sounded drained, depressed. ‘Not exactly, Jonno, I have other news. Grave news, I’m afraid. It’s the Prime Minister – he’s dead. Mrs Marvell also.’
It did not register at first. The idea of it was so alien, so bizarre, that I assumed it was some crass joke. ‘You’re shitting me, Barry. I just saw him a few hours ago, remember? He was all right then. Well, a bit stunned, obviously, but still alive and kicking. Cassandra too.’
‘Unfortunately, I’m absolutely serious.’
‘A heart attack?’ I felt a slight twinge of guilt.
‘Not exactly. Off the record, we think it was suicide. After you left, Mrs Marvell cancelled the trip to Davos and took him upstairs to their private apartments. He was, as you say, still stunned and in shock, virtually catatonic; I thought he might have some sort of stroke. She made it clear they did not want to be disturbed under any circumstance.’
‘Jesus God, mate, then what happened?’
‘Obviously we – that is his chief of staff, the Deputy PM and others, including the Attorney General and the party chairman – held an emergency meeting to identify a strategy to deal with the likely impact of your story. We even considered a so-called “super injunction”, but knew that would only create even more media interest. We concluded that the only decent thing for him to do was resign. Eventually the party chairman went to their rooms to break the news and found them both dead. In their bed, apparently.’
‘But how? Why?’
‘The “why” is obvious – you were about to tear their lives apart. There is no sugar-coating this: Jim knew the story would destroy his reputation and trash his legacy. The “how” is less certain. Pills, we think. It’s possible – and again I stress that this is still all off the record – that they had planned it. A suicide pact, if you like, in the event they were ever rumbled. You might scoff at this, but James Marvell was an honourable man in his way; he probably felt this would be the best solution rather than put the country through protracted legal proceedings that would make Britain a laughing stock in the eyes of the world.’
‘There’s a quote from Macbeth – “Nothing in his life became him like the leaving it” – is that what you’re saying?’ I was quite proud of being able to dredge that one up. Another gem from tenth grade at St Jude’s.
‘I guess.’
‘What about her?’
Townend laughed bitterly. ‘Cassandra? Well, we both know what she was like. Any idea that she could face up to a life in poverty, the wife of a disgraced convict, would have been unacceptable to her. Again, she would have felt this was the only way out.’
‘Was there a note?’
There was a pause before the press secretary answered. ‘Yes, a lengthy one as you might expect. But I doubt whether its contents will ever be revealed. One thing – and you did not get this from me – your boss was mentioned.’
‘Bolshakov’s name was in the note?’
‘You might very well think that but I couldn’t possibly comment.’ He deliberately echoed the quote I had used at the Christmas lunch. ‘You presumably still intend to publish the details of the whole sordid saga?’
‘Absolutely. You were a newspaper man once … you know the score.’
‘Indeed. In fact, I’ll be out of a job now. Perhaps I’ll give you a call in due course. In the meantime, a brief statement about the Marvells will be going out via the Press Association in, let’s see, ten minutes.’
When I handed the phone back to Griffo, the entire newsroom was hushed. I could hear a few whispers and the odd phone ringing but otherwise everybody was standing or sitting in stunned silence.
Mike Kelly helped me stand on a chair, and I gave the staff a quick summary of the conversation. When I finished, there was a shocked silence. I got down gingerly and went over to Shiv.
‘You need to go rewrite the splash. You’ve got ten minutes.’
Then I turned to Eve and Mike. ‘Okay guys, we need to make a few changes.’
As Eve started working on a new front page, I saw that the television screens above the News Hub were already indicating a serious announcement from Downing Street was imminent. Wait until they see what we’ve got, I said to myself.
By nine-thirty the first copies off the press had arrived back at Canary Wharf by motorcycle messenger. I picked one up and read:
PM, WIFE DEAD AS UKT PROBES CASH LINKS TO RUSSIAN SPIES
76
NEV DROVE us to Heathrow the following morning. A specialist firm recommended by the police had made all the arrangements for Posh’s body to be flown home. Not surprisingly there had been a blizzard of documents required, including death and embalming certificates. The whole process was costing the thick end of twelve grand. I knew Posh’s family didn’t have that sort of money to spare so I was happy to take care of it. And anyway, I felt a large degree of responsibility.
Annie and Percy were going back on the same flight to Brisbane. I had promised to join them in less than a week, once I’d had another medical check-up and the dust had settled a bit on the Marvell affair. After the funeral, I would have a couple of weeks’ R&R in Sydney. Then we’d decide what our future held.
It was good to be out of the office. The story had exploded around the world like a neutron bomb. Old and new media alike were going bonkers over it and I’d been inundated with requests to give interviews about our investigation and the likely outcomes. There had even been a large press posse waiting in the street outside our flat in Kensington when we left that morning. It was like a replay of the time Annie and I had left the Jakarta jail after being cleared of drug smuggling charges. That had been her first experience of the media pack. Right now, my phone was on mute but the screen indicated I’d had scores of calls and voicemails. But there was only one caller I was interested in: DCI Titmus.
Annie was subdued in the car. To be expected. This was a sad affair, escorting the nanny’s coffin back to Oz. ‘Repatriation of the deceased’s remains,’ the funeral people had called it. She was still sleeping badly. She’d hoped to see Maddie before leaving for home but the therapist was holidaying in the Caribbean. And, of course, if all that wasn’t enough, she was carrying our new baby.
‘You think it’s all finally over?” Annie said eventually.
‘Not quite. Macrae is still in custody but I don’t know if he’s coughed up anything yet. I’m sure Titmus will call me if he does.’
‘What about Bolshy?’
‘Someone from the Russian Embassy sprang him – turns out he does have immunity. No one seems to know where he is now. He’ll be well aware that the game is up as far as he’s concerned. Marvell’s suicide note will have guaranteed that. And if Macrae talks, as I’m sure he will …’
‘I hope you’re right. But you won’t be in any danger?’
‘None. I told you – the Islamic death threats were part of Black Mac’s scheme. He and his assassins are all locked up, so there’s nothing to fear.’
‘What about Bolshy? He might –’
‘Might what? Have another go at me out of spite?’
She nodded.
‘No way,’ I lied. �
�I figure he’s gone. And he’ll have enough to worry about when he gets to wherever he’s going. Probably back to Russia. His daddy will not be a happy chappy. And his business empire will be falling apart.’ I decided to change the subject. ‘What happens when you get to Brisbane?’
Tumbulgum, where the Nesbitts lived, was about 130 kilometres south of Queensland’s capital city; less than a two-hour drive through the Gold Coast to the north edge of New South Wales.
‘Her family will be at the airport to meet us. Can’t say I’m looking forward to it. I feel so bad.’
I saw Neville’s strained eyes in the rearview mirror and knew that he too was hurting. But there was nothing I could say to make him feel better. ‘And then what?’
‘They’ve arranged for Posh’s body to be taken to a funeral home in Tumbulgum. Percy and I will stay in Brisbane for a few days until you get there. The funeral service will be early next week. They want one of us to speak at it, by the way. I’m not sure I’ll be able to.’ Her eyes suddenly filled up. Nev passed back a small sachet of tissues and she wiped the tears away. ‘Sorry, love, must be my hormones,’ she said with a bleak smile. I noticed her hands were shaking slightly.
Never mind R&R for me, I thought to myself, Annie needs it more than I do. She’d been suffering from morning sickness along with the stress of recent events. The funeral next week would be another bump in the road for her. I resolved to do everything I could to take care of her when we were home.
* * *
On the way back to the office from the airport, I got the long-awaited call from DCI Titmus.
‘Looks like you’ve been a bit busy,’ he said with a chuckle. ‘Quite a front page.’
‘Never mind me, what about Macrae? Has he talked?’
‘Couldn’t stop him. After this morning’s performance he could blab for Britain in the Olympics! The scumbag demanded a deal in return for a full, signed confession.’
‘Go on then, tell me,’ I urged.
‘He confirmed everything you’ve said. The PM, the bank loan, the sanctions stuff. And you’ll be interested to hear that he admits involvement in the attack on you. ’Course, he claims it was all the Russian’s idea: “I was merely following orders. I was in fear of my life”. The usual bollocks.’
‘What about Bolshakov? Any decision on him?’
‘Not yet. My bosses are arguing that very matter with some rather sinister looking people as we speak. MI6 big shots, I believe.’
I had no doubt there would be frantic talks going on between the Met, the Crown Prosecution Service and Her Majesty’s Government. My erstwhile boss was a foreign national who also happened to be a billionaire and who had allegedly tried to extort a sitting British Prime Minister. Then there was the small matter of instigating at least two murders. I could hardly get my head around it all despite having more inside knowledge than most. It was a bloody legal labyrinth.
‘If his diplomatic immunity bullshit stands up, at the very least he’ll be deported,’ Titmus continued. ‘After that, who knows? One thing I do know: you, sir, will not be on Mr Bolshakov’s Christmas card list! By the way, I should warn you that Macrae believes his former master will seek retribution on you some time in the future. He looked mightily pleased when he said it.’
Ah, shit. Better not mention that to Annie. ‘What happens next?’
Titmus sighed. ‘Even with a deal, Macrae will go away for a very long time. He’ll need some degree of protection. Like you, he may be at risk from a revenge attack from his former master.’
‘Polonium poisoning would be too good for that bastard. I’d happily volunteer to put it in his prison tea.’
The DCI laughed. ‘I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that, sir.’
77
MAYBE IT had been the Meerkat’s words of warning but a lingering sense of unease had haunted me for days, so Annie’s departure took a weight off my shoulders. Now that she and Percy were safely thousands of miles away from any potential danger I could finally relax.
When I arrived at the office just ahead of the morning news conference, I was in an upbeat mood. Earlier, as I munched my Vegemite on toast, I’d cut the blue tape on the brown paper wrapped package without a worry. That was because I already knew what I would find. Every paper had a variation of the same theme: SCANDAL-HIT GOVERNMENT IMPLODES
All our rivals reported that the leader of Her Majesty’s Opposition would make her way to the Palace that morning to seek permission from the Queen to form a new government. But only UKT had the exclusive secondary line that the Right Honourable Marcus Devereux would be putting his hand up for the leadership of his disgraced party.
‘The man’s an idiot to stick his head up above the parapet,’ I’d said to Shiv earlier. ‘We’ll honour our pledge not to run the story about his sleazy escapades in that dungeon but some other redtop will do the dirty on him before long.’
Overall, I was feeling in better shape, physically and mentally. Sure, there were still some aches and the odd embarrassing leakage of bodily fluids from my wounds but the fatigue and breathlessness had mostly gone. More importantly, the fear and anxiety I had felt over the Marvell saga had seeped away like those fluids now that it was all out in the public domain.
The British media were still going apeshit over the whole scandalous affair. But with the Marvells both dead and Downing Street saying very little, they were starved of oxygen. They were forced to make UKT the story, reporting the details of what we had published and attributing them to us. In revenge, being the ruthless, vicious vipers that they are, many news outlets tried to suggest that UK Today was complicit in the conspiracy; that I, as the editor, must have aided Bolshakov in his dirty dealings somehow. They did it subtly, of course, knowing they would face lawsuits otherwise. But the nasty nuances were there.
So, to set the record straight, I did two interviews – one we used on the UKT website and the other on the BBC. Thankfully, Francesca Walker was nowhere to be seen.
The interviewer, a bloke whose name I can’t remember, played nice to start with in his deep, authoritative voice: ‘Mr Bligh, congratulations to you and your paper on the scoop of the year, if not the decade.’ Smarmy bastard, I thought, but then he reverted to type: ‘Do you feel any responsibility for the deaths of James and Cassandra Marvell?’
Actually, no. The corrupt pair of dishonourable, double-dealing traitors brought it on themselves when they decided to sell out their country for thirty pieces of silver. They played Russian roulette with Britain’s standing in the world.
Of course, I didn’t say all that exactly, but I was thinking it as I reminded him that it had been a premeditated act; that the Prime Minister and his wife had pre-planned their deaths in the event that their nasty secret was ever exposed. And I reminded him, and the millions of viewers, that their actions had resulted in the death of a young Aussie woman, as well as damn near my own, not to mention Shiv and Juggs. Furthermore, the West Yorkshire police were opening a new line of inquiry about the deaths of a Leeds reporter and my former deputy.
The rest of the BBC interview settled down after that and I was able to explain that UK Today had, in fact, acted nobly in exposing its own proprietor in the best traditions of investigative journalism. Blah, blah, blah. When I left the studios, I was almost euphoric; for possibly the first time since I had arrived in London, I felt in complete control of things.
On my way to the conference room, I stood in the newsroom next to Clickbait Corner and savoured the bright and buoyant atmosphere in my big and beautiful news factory. Even grizzled veterans with red-veined noses and a mandatory early morning hangover were smiling. I smiled back. There was a swagger about the place. Our record of recent scoops had made circulation soar. Our rivals were reeling. I believed that we had turned a corner; the paper had climbed to a new level of quality and the troops were proud of its newfound power and influence.
A short time later, I sat sipping the coffee Mrs H had brought to me in the conference room while watching the
news execs gather for the morning meeting. There was some good-natured banter about my latest television performance. And then a punfest ensued about the ‘torture’ that the ambitious Marcus Devereux would enjoy when a rival paper finally outed him for his kinky appetite. Ray Griffiths had the best line: ‘Devereux’s bid for power smacks of opportunism!’ We all roared with laughter.
Then there was a loud series of forceful raps on the door. We looked over as it opened. I was stunned to see a baleful black-clad figure standing there. Borya Bolshakov – the last person in the world I expected or desired to see. Framed in the doorway, uncharacteristically unkempt and unshaven and wearing a deranged, demented expression, he reminded me of Jack Nicholson in The Shining.
Fuck, I thought. What the bloody hell does he want? In the sudden shocked silence, I stood up and went over to the door, closing it behind me.
I didn’t mince my words. ‘What the fuck are you doing here?’
His face contorted into a terrible imitation of a smile. ‘You forget I still own this piece of shit newspaper.’
‘I thought you’d be locked up or on a fast plane back to Mother Russia by now.’
‘Da, thanks to you, it seems British authorities no longer want my presence, or my money. But I could not leave without coming here to tell you something.’
‘And that is?’
The Russian’s lips curled in an angry sneer. ‘I want you to know that one day soon, I will exact payment for your fucking treachery. We have saying in Russia: when Anger and Revenge get married, their daughter is called Cruelty.’
‘And that means?’
‘It means no one is safe. Not you, not your wife, not your son. No one.’ He leaned in close to me and hissed: ‘I promise you all will die horrible death. Mother and child first. Right in front of your eyes.’
I am not by nature a violent man but the bastard’s sick threat made me reach out to take hold of him. An eerie calm settled over me as I grabbed the oligarch’s neck in both my hands and looked into his cold, grey eyes, which suddenly looked fearful. I clenched my teeth in concentration as my grip tightened and his face screwed up in shock and pain; I was dead-set on killing this malignant man who posed such a deadly threat to my family. Then his hands found my face and I felt him try to gouge out my eyeballs. I pressed harder despite the pain in my chest from my bullet wound. The sounds of the newsroom in the background receded, replaced by his gasps and groans, and the rasp of my heavy breathing as I strained to throttle the life out of him.
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