Philip sat up, the smirk wiped off his face.
‘Are you threatening me?’ he asked. He stood up and walked to his desk, perching on the edge. He was a tall man and towered over Miranda. He looked her up and down with a snarl. He’d bedded a hundred women like Miranda Cooper, and he had just signed off her cash cow. Suddenly he didn’t find her attractive any more, and the implants he’d paid for looked sluttish. He studied her face and realised that she was ageing badly. He’d only fancied her because of the thrill of bending her over the desk, watched by screaming primates: it was high risk, and that was the turn-on. The woman who cowered before him now had outgrown her worth.
He used to quite like her temper and her demands for more funding for the primate section, as long as his accounts department could make it work. Now he saw the panic in her eyes as she realised she would have been better off not mentioning blackmail. He could tell that she was trying to find a way to retract what she’d said, at the same time as knowing it was too late.
‘I’ve got meetings, Professor Cooper; put your complaint in an email and send it to my secretary.’
‘But—’
‘That’s all, Professor.’
Her shoulders sagged and she turned and walked to the door, holding her coat around her chest.
Philip buzzed his PA and asked for Professor Cooper to be added to the list of scientists who’d need an appointment in future. Then he walked to the huge window that took up a whole wall and peered across London. He’d told Miranda she’d have to hold her nerve, and that was exactly what was required. If Ravensword was to be implicated in anything illegal, a full-blown lengthy inquiry would have to be launched. Yes, they might have massaged a few figures, but the detectives weren’t looking for numbers that didn’t add up, or exaggerated findings, or expense accounts used to schmooze clients. They were merely after what old George was doing in his garage in Bethnal Green.
The two detectives had played their good cop, bad cop routine earlier this afternoon and Philip had almost laughed out loud. The male wore a cheap suit and fancied himself as some hotshot saving the world, one nasty pharmaceutical at a time. The female, on the other hand: now she was one to watch. She reminded Philip of himself: eagle-eyed, alert to every movement and eye twitch. She was good. He’d seen her studying his hands and his legs, as well as his face. Body language was important for business too, and Philip had learned the art well. He could always tell if one of his juniors was up to something, and DI Kelly Porter had the same nose. He liked her.
But she was batting for the other team, sadly.
‘Why do you think the crimes are connected, Detective?’ he’d asked.
‘Occam’s razor, Mr Tooting. I’m sure you’ve heard of it.’
Philip’s eyes had flicked to his vast book cabinet, where a copy of Professor Nuttall’s tome on problem-solving sat. He had no idea how she’d spotted it, but his secretary did say that she’d been here snooping around before. She shouldn’t have been able to get into his office, but maybe she had.
‘No, I haven’t,’ he lied. He wanted to have a little fun.
‘I’m sure you can google it. Or look in one of your books. Or are they there just for show?’ she’d asked.
‘Yes, they were left here by the last CEO. I think they look nice.’
They detectives had stayed for almost half an hour, asking questions about his staff, procedures, access to research and other files, and if he knew what George Murphy had been up to in his garage.
‘Murphy was formally reminded of his restrictive covenant last year; why was that?’
‘You’d have to ask HR. Ravensword is very much like the police, Miss Porter, we have departments for different jobs. I oversee, and I don’t read everything I sign.’
‘Isn’t that a little remiss?’
‘I think that’s a fairly immature question. I have to trust and delegate. I can’t see everything.’
‘So who did you trust to threaten a valued member of staff?’
‘The name escapes me; again, HR can help.’
‘And who gave you cause to worry that George might be working elsewhere?’
Philip had spread his hands and sat back in his leather recliner at this point, fingers together, groin on display. He’d watched as Kelly Porter’s expression changed imperceptibly from mistrust to disgust.
‘Again, HR will tell you.’
‘Well that’s our problem, Mr Tooting, HR can’t tell us. The signature on the letter is yours, and it was generated in this office by your secretary – her initials are on it – so it must have been dictated by you.’
‘Sometimes letters that are not dictated by me bear my title.’
‘Is that ethical?’
‘Of course. It’s business.’
‘There’s no file in HR that tells us what George Murphy was suspected of doing, and I have to say that my conclusion is that you’re being obstructive.’
The male had joined in at that point, and Philip had realised with a thrill that Porter’s colleague was mesmerised by her too. He looked between them and decided to throw her a bone.
‘Look, George was a much-respected colleague. He was part of the furniture here. I seem to remember some talk – and that was probably all it was – that he was looking to move on. We wanted to keep him. His contract said that he couldn’t work for a competitor for a year after leaving us. It’s standard.’
‘So what about the garage in Bethnal Green?’
‘I had no idea about that, and I’m trying to keep it quiet to preserve George’s reputation. There were rumours that he suffered the same affliction as his daughter. He was a drug addict, and I think he was stealing from his lab to support his habit.’
That had shut her up. From then on in, the meeting had grown tiresome, and the detectives had given him their cards and asked him to call with anything he might remember: all standard stuff. They’d left unhappy, of course; coppers were never anything but. However, something told Philip that he needed to make a few phone calls after they left, because he knew that DI Kelly Porter had only been pushed off the scent in the short term. She’d be back. He’d noticed a tension between the two detectives that was more than professional, and he reckoned that might be something to use.
Chapter 29
Christopher Slater entered the headquarters of the Department for Environment, Food & Rural Affairs shortly after ten o’clock in the morning. His role as a respected non-executive director was keenly sought after in business circles, and to the civil servants coming and going through the foyer, this particular adviser always wore a smug grin. His duties brought him to London perhaps two days a week, where he was expected to sit at his desk, review documents, check and challenge. It was a dry affair, and sometimes he longed for something meaty to get his teeth into. Everybody remembered the colantropine scandal, of course, even though it was over twenty years ago. He didn’t necessarily want something on that scale – heavens, nobody wanted breakfast cereal to cause brain damage; no, something just a little controversial would suffice.
The job paid, not well, but enough to maintain his six-bedroom pad in Surrey, keep his wife happy, and allow him to have the odd Arturo Fuente cigar at the Montague Club. More importantly, it afforded him status. It was the natural order of things that the further one climbed up the slippery pole of success, the wealthier one became. He hardly paid for a thing these days, with people falling over themselves to take him to lunch or fly him out to their villa. Nowadays, it had to all be above board, with every receipt ticked off by the Permanent Under-Secretary, but she was easily circumnavigated. Proof and accountability: it just got harder, that was all.
His evening at the club had been thoroughly enjoyable, and so had his one-night stay. His favourite doorman turned a blind eye to young ladies arriving in the early hours, staying a mere hour or so and tipping generously. Reflecting to himself on his walk to the lift, Christopher decided that he had pretty much everything he needed. Life hadn’t turned out badly. Of course, it wa
s only when one embarked on one’s second half-century that the awful realisation dawned that this was it: no trial run, no serum to resurrect youth, and no pause button. Yesterday would never come around again. He’d learned to say fuck it to just about everything, and found that it was a pleasing way to exist. If he could do it all again, he’d make different choices, but then so would everyone. All those conformities and goals that humans strived for in their little organised cages of propriety would go out of the window, and he’d be the first in the queue. He rather fancied living naked on an island with a tall Texan blonde, fishing, fucking and frolicking. He knew that was never going to happen. Even with all the billions invested in reversing ageing, eternal youth was a pipe dream.
He had a fairly full timetable today, and he took the lift up to the third floor, striding through yet more busy offices (damn open plan) and finally reaching his own (enclosed). He shut the door. He hadn’t been inside two minutes when his secretary poked her head in asking if he’d like his coffee. He’d attended enough meetings on equal rights, the gender pay gap and throwing jobs at anyone not male, over forty and white that he could recite every policy going. But his secretary still made him coffee in the morning. Gone were the days when he could pat her bottom for it, but all good things came to an end eventually.
‘PUS is pissed and after your head,’ she said, and went to make the coffee.
Christopher realised that Charlotte must have seen Philip and grassed him up to his boss, Robyn Hastings. Being a non-executive director of several companies had its uses. If one wanted to gather sensitive information and sit on it, one could make a tidy fortune. As a NED over ten years ago to The World Cares, a children’s charitable organisation in Nairobi, he’d met Charlotte Cross, then a young thruster hoping to get her hands on a decoration or three. Kids’ charities were the easiest screens to hide behind, especially in countries like Kenya, where money flooded in and disappeared. Charlotte’s world was catching up with her. He chuckled to himself. He couldn’t wait to see Robyn’s face.
He turned on his computer and waited for the shit to hit the fan. He was untouchable. They couldn’t sack him: he knew too much.
He creased his brow. When he was at the office, he made a point of only attending to DEFRA business. He had his own Mac at home, and any other affairs were dealt with there. So he was puzzled, and a little perturbed, that the Colonel had emailed his work address. He sighed and forwarded the message to his home email.
After opening various drawers, arranging pens and switching on his iPad, he settled down to read. Most of his work here was spent looking for the devil in the detail. That was what caught everyone out. Whole departments were employed to sift through millions of pages of information looking for mistakes, liabilities and inaccuracies. His background as CEO of a large multinational made him perfect for the job, and it was a way to keep his mind active, as well as get away from his wife and pop into London occasionally. His reputation meant that he was a NED for three different departments.
Another new email from the Colonel popped into his inbox, and he tutted. He forwarded that one too and contemplated calling his friend. Then he considered that it might be important. Once was a mistake; twice was a warning. He retrieved the message and opened it. It read, simply: Dinner venue located.
Instinctively he looked up and around his office. He was verging on irritation now. He grabbed his mobile phone, intending to leave the office and head back downstairs. One never knew if government offices were bugged. He had two very important tenets in life, which he’d learned in his forties: trust no one; and if something is plausible, it’s been done already. He liked the Colonel very much, but he couldn’t trust a man who was capable of ordering bombs the size of a small caravan to be dropped on children in Iraq. Before he allowed anybody into his life, he found out what their limits were, so he knew what he was dealing with. If he accepted a person’s failures, anything more was a bonus.
People always let you down.
Before he got to his door, it opened and Robyn Hastings strode in.
‘Under-Secretary, I’m just popping out—’
‘No you’re not. I know exactly what you’ve done.’ She glared at him.
‘With respect, I have no idea what you mean. I have a job to do.’
‘Blackmail, that’s what it is.’
‘You must be mistaken, Under-Secretary.’ He held her scowl.
‘I’ll tell you now, Slater, I’m on to you.’
‘No you’re not.’ He smiled and saw a tiny muscle in her neck throb. ‘Shut the door on your way out, will you.’
His secretary stared at him as he strode towards the lift. She went to say something, but, reading his expression, thought better of it. It was well known that Robyn Hastings was gay, but few knew that she’d been seeing Charlotte Cross for five years. The love-struck bitch was defending her mate, and it touched him momentarily. Charlotte Cross had been on the take from The World Cares for years, and back in the day, when no one checked expenses, she’d lived a lavish life as an expat. She’d got the taste for it and moved on to other charitable organisations, which was how she’d wound up on the Queen’s Birthday Honours list three years ago. There’d been a distinct shift in wind direction recently, however, and scandals like this were becoming more prominent. An ambassador in South Africa could barely chuck a few diamonds onto his household expenditure these days without someone snooping around.
Christopher’s own record was clean: Philip had taken care of that.
He took the lift back downstairs and walked lightly out into the sunshine to find a bench in the square. It was a beautiful day. He jabbed the Colonel’s number into his phone and listened to the ringtone.
The Colonel answered quickly and began to gush joyous greetings.
‘Benjamin, why the hell are you emailing me at work?’ Christopher listened impatiently to the reply. ‘I don’t give a monkey’s arse. I’ve told you enough times that’s completely out of the question. You, more than anyone, should appreciate what some nerdy little civil servant can do with a computer. Remember that sergeant who retrieved deleted emails from you to some corporal about bending her over your desk?’ He listened again before interrupting. ‘Benji, I’m going to have to wipe my whole hard drive clean. Can you please keep to your side of the bargain?’
Finally Christopher got an apology, and they briefly discussed the meaning of the email. Time was of the essence, but the officer who had led over a thousand men through one of the most brutal campaigns of the whole Afghan war needed bloody reassurance. He was losing his edge.
‘Benji, why are you even asking me this, man? Get a bloody grip. And make sure you tidy up as well.’
But Christopher had noted something else in his friend’s voice.
‘There’s an article about to break in the tabloids,’ the Colonel admitted. ‘It comes out tomorrow. I’ve been accused of raping two female soldiers. One in Bosnia in 1999, and the other in Iraq in 2005.’
‘Christ, man. Can’t you pay someone to shut up?’
‘The wife’s just bought a villa in Barbados, and I’m strapped.’
‘Strapped? What the hell do you do with it all?’
‘I don’t know.’
Christopher did know. The Colonel was an alcoholic, and very generous when intoxicated, which was most of the time.
‘How the hell can you be prosecuted so long after the event? And which publications have got the story? I’ll see if I can have a word with someone my end.’
It was possible to stop stories from going to press, but usually only when a member of the royal family was involved. However, the editor of the Herald was an old pal of Christopher’s, and he’d been obliging in the past.
‘Look, one thing at a time. Get this other business sorted out and let him know. Keep a low profile tomorrow, and for God’s sake, Benji, if you get pissed, don’t talk to the press. It won’t end well.’
The fall of a decorated senior officer was juicy news indeed, and
to get it buried would take the pulling of some very long strings. Christopher hung up and shook his head. The Colonel had just ruined a perfectly good day.
Chapter 30
Tilly woke up and rolled over, straight into the tanned back of Graeme Millar. She recoiled and put her hand over her mouth. It wasn’t that she’d forgotten what had happened. It was just that, in her dreams, she’d been elsewhere; that, as well as the fact that she hadn’t woken up with a man for a long time. She took her hand away from her mouth and thought carefully about how to play the situation.
After they’d parted company with Graeme’s very suspicious friend, they’d spent the afternoon together and he’d asked her out for dinner. She figured that being with the man who’d found George’s body was about the best place to be for her research. When he drove her home – probably over the limit, but she guessed that was what people did in tiny towns up here – she’d invited him in. It had happened naturally, and she told herself she hadn’t done it for her work. But now she felt a bit uneasy. She’d created a whole fake identity, and every minute she spent with this lovely man, who’d been so generous and great fun, was another minute lying. She’d thought initially that a man his age must have a wife and kids, but she’d been wrong, about the wife at least: she’d left him five years ago for a local builder who Graeme drank with in the pub. It was all very cosy. He did have two daughters with his ex, and their arrangement was amicable. He hadn’t had a relationship since though and that surprised her, because he was extremely good-looking, funny and fit.
She watched his back move as he breathed and considered her next move. She actually liked the guy. She loved how laid-back he was, and she’d been pleasantly surprised by how much she’d enjoyed the end of the evening as well. He was confident in bed, and took everything slowly, making sure he pleased her as well as himself. It was, in her limited experience, a rarity.
He rolled over. To begin with he seemed to suffer the same disorientation, but when he realised where he was, he smiled and drew her close.
Bold Lies Page 15