Catalyst (39 page)

Over breakfast, Tom watched the outrage unfold on the morning television news programmes. He left early for Westminster, his first meeting with Jackie timed for 8.30 am. He wondered just how productive it would be given the inevitable discussion on what was being described as the ‘Meadow Village Massacre'.

As he opened the front door to leave, his personal paper-boy arrived at the gates with the morning delivery. Tom left a couple of the dailies for Mags, and piled the rest on the passenger seat of the R8. As he pulled away, he noted the imposing headline on the top paper, the
Daily Mail:

‘BROTHERS IN ARMS!'

That's pretty good, he thought, in spite of the seriousness of the event. It captures the essence perfectly; like the Earps and the Clantons in probably the most famous gunfight of all.

Parking under New Palace Yard, he went along the walkway to Portcullis House and to Jackie's office where they had arranged to meet. She was already there.

“Andrew wants to see us in his office,” she said. “I think it might be about Meadow Village.”

“Everything will be about Meadow Village today, I guess,” said Tom. “I went there with Mags yesterday; private visit to see George Holland.”

“Really? I'm surprised it wasn't picked up by the media,” she said. “I didn't see or read any mention of it.”

“A Thames Plus Radio exclusive,” said Tom, smiling, “in exchange for their helping us to escape the rest of the media. I'll tell you about it later. Better go and see the boss.”

They left Portcullis House and walked to the Norman Shaw Building next door.

“Do sit down,” said Andrew, bounding to his feet and waving to the two chairs in front of his desk. “Coffee? Yes?” He poured two cups from the coffee pot on the table next to the door and carried them across on a tray, with milk and sugar, setting it down on his desk between Tom and Jackie. Then he sat back down in his chair facing them.

“Well, what a weekend,” he said, beaming. “Talk about playing right into our hands.”

“Oh, you mean the brutal slaying of Irene Holland?” said Tom. “Yes, what a stroke of luck that was!”

Andrew seemed to suddenly remember himself, and held up his hands in apology.

“Yes, I'm really sorry, Tom. I know she was close to being a personal friend – through George. That must have seemed very callous; I didn't mean it to sound like that. I guess I'd moved on past the actual incident to look at the ramifications; the fall-out. And, without apology this time, I have to say it will ultimately work in our favour, and… ” – he held up his hand to stop Tom interrupting – “… for the benefit of all those people, at the scene and subsequently hearing about it, who will have been traumatised by this event.”

Andrew looked across at Tom, raising his eyebrows, inviting him to speak. Tom remained silent; not appeased, but unwilling to pursue it.

“All the more reason to get on rapidly with this proposal,” Andrew continued. “Did you two have a chance to meet yet?”

“No, but… ” started Jackie.

“Jackie wanted to get started, but I couldn't make it this weekend,” said Tom.

“We've put time aside over the next three days,” said Jackie.

“Oh, well,” said Andrew. “Shame, but no matter. Possibly my fault for not making it absolutely clear how urgent it is.” He smiled humourlessly across at them. “Well, I won't delay you; you've got some catching up to do.”

Tom stood quickly and walked to the door, holding it open for Jackie, and closing it behind them without another word.

“God, I wish we had a Party boxing competition,” said Tom. “I know who I'd love to get in the first round.”

They walked back to Jackie's office.

Portcullis House was a relatively new addition to the accommodation at Westminster, providing more spacious offices than the limited space in the Palace allowed. The Shadow Home Secretary's office was large and well appointed with matching desk, filing cabinets and bookcases. There was also room for a separate sitting area with a couple of armchairs facing each other over a low table.

“We didn't drink his coffee,” said Tom. “Shall I go back and get it?”

They both laughed.

“I think the stuff out of the machine will taste better,” said Jackie. “The enjoyment depends as much on the company you keep as the quality of the bean.”

“Why, Jackie,” he said, giving her his best smile, “what a lovely thing to say.”

They laughed again and walked down towards the vending machine.

Their meeting went well and they produced the full skeleton of the presentation. With that complete, they set about applying the flesh, and were ahead on their tight schedule by lunchtime. At 1.00 pm they left the building and went in search of food. They strolled along the Embankment, enjoying the warm midsummer sunshine. Tom took off his jacket and carried it over his shoulder.

“By the way, Jackie,” said Tom, after a while, “what exactly did you mean about getting on the wrong side of Andrew?”

“I wish I hadn't said that, actually. It seemed pretty disloyal afterwards. After all, he made me what I am – even if it is only a yes-woman. At least it's a fairly senior yes-woman.”

“You didn't answer the question,” said Tom.

“It's nothing really specific. It's just that he scares me at times. I'm not sure how far he would be prepared to go to get his own way. I think he's dangerous – and I can't believe I'm sharing all this with you. Why do you think that is, Mr Brown?”

“Perhaps we've both found a new friend,” said Tom, seriously.

“I hope so,” said Jackie. They walked on for a while without speaking, checking out the eating places.

“What about here?” said Jackie, indicating a mobile kiosk with a few chairs and tables spread across the wide pavement. “Hot dog?”

“Excellent idea,” said Tom.

“You sit down over there and I'll get them,” said Jackie, pointing to one of the two empty tables. “What do you want?”

Tom looked at the limited menu which comprised hot dogs of various sizes, with or without chips.

“I'll have a Monster-Dog with chips,” said Tom.

Jackie gave a little laugh and walked over to the kiosk, which sported the sign ‘Top Dog' over the serving hatch. Tom watched her go, appreciating what a good-looking woman she was; trim figure, shapely legs, nice swing of the hips, and a pleasant face. As always, she was immaculately and fashionably dressed; today in a dark suit with a short straight skirt and double breasted jacket. The same age as himself or thereabouts, he guessed; she was someone you would like to be seen with, be proud of, but without pub landlords and sound technicians drooling and fantasising over her.

She headed back towards their table balancing three items, a Midi-Dog, a Monster-Dog and a very large polystyrene tray full of chips.

“If we eat all this,” she said, “we won't have room for any pudding and we can convince ourselves we declined through self-control.”

Tom laughed.

“Good spin, Jackie. You should be in politics.”

They spoke very little for a while, mainly due to incapacity born of the eating challenge in front of them. When they had done the most damage they could to the dogs and chips, Tom got them two coffees from the same kiosk and they sat relaxed and comfortable with each other's company.

“What's your afternoon looking like?” asked Tom.

“Cross-party group meeting with His Highness the Mayor on City of London congestion charges; a review there-of,” she answered. “Thinking of reducing them, believe it or not. Traffic wardens up in arms about potential job losses if we don't do something to entice motorists back onto the double yellow lines.”

Tom threw his head back and laughed.

“What about you?” she asked.

“I'm going over to the constituency office,” he said. “As you know, I cancelled Saturday's surgery and I might just pick up a few people this afternoon. They know my car; I'll stick it outside and they'll see it and some will no doubt pop in. Actually, the reason for the cancellation was the Lorimar-Deverall thing. I assume you got the whole story – of course you did. I actually know John Deverall really well… we served together, he was a very close friend. My kids call him ‘uncle' for Christ's sake.”

“Wow, what a shock that must have been.” She thought for a moment, and then went on. “Listen, Tom, I don't know whether you intend telling Andrew this, but if you do, I can only imagine he's going to want to exploit it somehow. Try to display you as carrying on your friend's work or something. I know how his mind works. It could get a bit tacky for you. Just a thought; I'm not trying to interfere.”

“No, it's a good point. I never thought of it, but the job's done anyway, I'm afraid. He was there when I found out and I just blurted it out. I mean I was really shocked, like you say. Interesting that Andrew never mentioned anything about it this morning. Or saw it as a reason I might not be working over the weekend.”

“Interesting, but not surprising. I'm not sure in which part of the brain the facility for empathising is located, but I'd bet my life Andrew has that part missing.”

Tom laughed. “Anyway, it might be exactly what Jad – John Deverall – would want. Someone acting as his representative on the right side of the law. I guess it will all come out about our friendship anyway whether Andrew takes a hand or not.”

“Yes, I guess it will,” she said. “Anyway, I'd best get going. I've enjoyed today, Tom. I didn't think I would but I really have. Until tomorrow then.”

They stood up. Jackie hesitated before leaving. Tom leant across and kissed her gently on the cheek.

“I've enjoyed it, too, Jackie.”

John Alexander Deverall sifted through the selection of Monday's dailies on the small dining table in front of him, checking that he had read them all. He had followed the Meadow Village story as it was breaking on the local radio the previous day with an increasing sense of shock and remorse. It was an absolute fact, he told himself, that Irene Holland had died as a direct result of his killing the Bradys. The links in the chain connecting the two events might be numerous, but they were laid out in a straight line from one to the other.

He got up from the table and checked his watch – 11.15 am. His visitor was late, but he guessed that punctuality wasn't a problem for them any more. He looked round his new home. He had to admit, it was a lot closer to an upmarket studio apartment than a prison cell. Although it comprised just one room, which included living, sleeping and dining accommodation, the room itself was a reasonable size and in the shape of a long rectangle, so the three areas were naturally separated. The bathroom off the bedroom was large and more than adequate.

The feeling of incarceration was real enough, however. The three windows were not much more than horizontal slits well above head height designed to let light in, not to let him look out. This was because most of the room was below ground level, and the windows were only just above the height of the ground outside.

He moved across to where a three-seater sofa faced a large wall-mounted TV screen and clicked the remote. The channel was Thames Plus Radio 192. What had shaken him just as much as Irene's death was hearing yesterday the voices of Tom and Mags being interviewed as they left the Hollands' house. More guilt consumed him; just as intense. He remembered how he'd discretely watched them both at his funeral service, beside themselves with grief, and how he'd cried himself at their pain. Now his secret was out, he craved the opportunity to see them again; to grovel for forgiveness.

At 11.25, the door opened and his personal warden stepped inside. “Mr Granville,” he said, then immediately withdrew.

“John,” said the solicitor extending his hand limply.

Jad shook his hand, or rather his fingers, and they sat down at the table.

Clive opened a document case and removed some papers. “Some stuff here for you to sign; and some information about what happens next. I have to tell you, the Brigadier is not well pleased.”

“Really,” said Jad. “I thought he'd be delighted.”

The solicitor looked at him over the top of his glasses and raised his eyebrows.

“It was a joke, Clive. You know – sarcasm. I do realise I'm in disgrace; I don't need you or anybody else to tell me.”

“It's not killing the Bradys, John. It's getting caught that's the issue. I'm not saying that it was okay to do it, of course. It was wrong. An abuse of trust… ”

“If you're here just to tell me stuff I already know, Clive, than perhaps I can be signing whatever you've got there while you're doing it; seeing as it won't be necessary for me to listen.”

Clive looked at him and shook his head.

“We're still on the same side, John – and that's the same side as Henshaw as well. Don't lose sight of who your friends are.”