The Loyal Servant (11 page)

‘Then why tell me at all?’

Caroline bent down so she was face to face with Tate. ‘Because I thought you might actually start taking me seriously.’ She grabbed her jacket from the back of the chair and picked up her bag. She gestured to the waiter for the bill.

‘Don’t go now.’

‘Why not? You’re obviously not interested in helping me.’

‘I didn’t say that. Please, Caroline – sit down.’

Caroline remained on her feet. ‘So you will help me?’

‘Please.’ Tate pulled the chair from the table. ‘You look like someone’s punched the wind right out of you.

Reluctantly, Caroline sat back down. She felt more like she’d been slapped hard across the face. Her cheeks were burning. The waiter arrived with the card terminal and Tate paid the bill before she spoke again.

‘I was actually hoping we might be able to help each other.’

Caroline pulled her glass towards her. It was empty, but she didn’t remember finishing it.

‘Should I order another bottle?’

Caroline shook her head. ‘Help each other how?’

Tate was scrutinising her again. ‘I won’t lie to you. Especially not after your…’

‘Confession?’

‘I was going to say revelation.’ Tate smiled awkwardly. ‘I didn’t come here this evening because I wanted to hear what you had to say about Martin Fox’s death.’

Caroline started to speak, but Tate held up a hand.

‘I’ve read enough crackpot conspiracy theories online linking his death to the PM’s resignation and the subsequent appointment of King to fill three Dan Brown novels.’ Tate shook her head.

‘Then why—’

‘I came here because you work in the academies division. I need information only someone working inside the department can get access to. My motivation was based on naked self-interest. Pure and simple.’

Caroline stared into Tate’s face, not quite believing what she’d just heard. She laughed. ‘You’re not serious?’

Tate laid her hands palm upwards on the table. ‘Deadly.’

‘You’re asking me to steal confidential information from the DfE?’

Tate nodded, maintaining eye contact.

‘Why would I do that?’

‘To get to the truth.’

‘What has that got to do with Martin’s death?’ Caroline searched Tate’s face.

‘At this stage, I can’t be absolutely sure. But I won’t be able to make a link between my academies investigation and the minister’s death unless I have that information.’

Caroline shook her head. ‘You’re asking too much. You want me to abuse my position, in the vague hope something I give you will be connected to Martin’s death?’ She rose to her feet again. ‘I can’t do it.’

‘I promise you I’ll do whatever I can to find out what happened to him.’

‘You could do that without asking me to jeopardise my career.’

‘Like I said, naked self-interest. If I help you, you have to help me.’

Caroline drew down a long breath and slowly exhaled. ‘I can’t. You’ll have to get your information some other way.’

‘If I don’t help you, who else can you turn to?’

‘I’ll find someone.’

‘Good luck with that.’

‘There are other journalists.’

‘None who have my interest in academies. You have something to offer me. Quid pro quo.’

Caroline shook her head again.

‘Time’s running out,’ Tate said. ‘You said yourself Martin Fox’s office has been emptied – the whole floor has been stripped bare. How long before any remaining evidence disappears?’

‘Are you saying you agree that Martin’s death was suspicious?’

Tate shrugged. ‘I’m saying I need more information.’

Caroline closed her eyes and rubbed a hand across her face. Twenty-three years in the civil service. How could she betray the department?

‘You’re not doing it for me.’ Tate just wouldn’t shut up. ‘You’re doing it for him.’

Caroline started towards the exit.

‘Please Caroline. You can’t just walk away.’ Tate got to her feet and shouted after her. ‘What would Martin want you to do?’

14

The unmade road disappeared into a rocky crater full of rainwater. Angela Tate skirted around the perimeter and leapt over the final lump of rubble, her raincoat flapping open to reveal eight inches of leg between the top of her boots and the bottom of her skirt. A lone wolf-whistle echoed around the muddy yard. She looked up to see a yellow-vested builder balancing precariously on an eight-foot high stack of house bricks. He made a clucking sound through puckered lips and only narrowly missed a palette of bricks swinging towards him on the extended platform of a forklift truck.

‘You want to keep you mind on the job,’ she shouted up at him.

‘Can’t get my mind off it, darlin’,’ he shouted back.

Years ago she would have told him where to shove his ‘darlin’, but these days she tended to save her feminist battles for more worthy causes. The load of bricks crashed onto the stack.

‘Watch it, Roman!’

His voice was carried away by the wind as Angela picked her way through the slalom of breezeblocks and bags of cement to get to the main reception block. The building was really no more than an extended Portakabin. According to the glossy brochure she’d flicked through on the train, the structure in front of her was the ‘international headquarters’ of Larson and Co. But in reality the cab from the station had delivered her to a glorified builders’ yard in an Essex backwater. The only thing remotely international about it was its proximity to Stansted Airport, 30 miles up the M11.

She skipped up the concrete steps and pushed open the door to find a vinegar-faced receptionist sitting at a low desk on one side of a shabby little room. The woman continued to tap noisily on a computer keyboard, eventually glancing up when Angela was leaning over her desk.

‘I’m—’

‘Late,’ the woman said, barely opening her mouth.

‘The cab got lost on the way here.’

‘It’s highly unlikely Lady Larson will be able to squeeze you into her schedule now, Miss Tate.’

‘But I’m only ten minutes late.’

‘You can take a seat and wait – but you might be wasting your time.’ The woman vaguely gestured to a row of vinyl-covered chairs lined up against a wall.

Angela peered through an archway opposite the entrance. ‘Valerie Larson’s office just down here, is it?’ She took a step towards the long corridor.

‘Please! Just take a seat.’

Angela hesitated in the middle of the room, contemplating a reckless dash down the corridor, bursting into the acting CEO’s office and persuading her to ‘squeeze’ her in right now. The receptionist cleared her throat theatrically. Angela decided to give it ten minutes then reassess her doorstepping options. She grabbed a magazine from a chipped laminate coffee table and sat down.

After five minutes of flicking through a dog-eared copy of
Construction News
Angela’s phone rang. Relieved to have something to do, she snatched the white Sony Ericsson from her bag.

‘It’s me.’

Angela peered at the number on the screen, worked out who ‘me’ was and held a hand over her mouth.

‘What can you tell me?’ Angela kept her eyes on the receptionist, who seemed to be glancing at her every few seconds.

‘Nothing you want to hear. No one’s admitting evidence has gone walkabout. They counted 32 boxes in, and there’s still 32 boxes in storage.’

‘What about the two disappearing police officers?’

‘PC Mills’ transfer to CID had been in the pipeline for a while and there’s a medical report confirming the female officer slipped a disc.’

Angela sighed.

‘Anything else you want me to check?’

‘I’ll let you know.’ Angela turned away from the receptionist’s prying eyes. ‘Have you been paid this month?’

‘Yep – no problems. Your paper’s regular as clockwork. Wish I could say the same for my other clients.’ He hung up.

Angela put her phone away, aware the receptionist was still looking at her. She got up and stood over the woman’s desk.

‘Could you buzz through to Lady Larson? Remind her I’m still here?’

‘I can’t do that,’ she said. ‘Lady Larson is expecting an important phone call. I have to keep the line free.’

‘You’re telling me there’s only one phone line? Can’t you just call her mobile?’

‘Please take a seat.’

‘How much longer will I have to wait?’

‘I can reschedule for another day.’ The suggestion of a smile flickered across the receptionist’s lips. ‘Lady Larson may have a window some time next month.’

‘This is ridiculous.’

‘Here at Larson’s we take punctuality very seriously.’

‘Not to mention your own self-importance,’ Angela muttered under her breath. She was just turning back to her seat when the main entrance door flew open. A construction worker rushed in and almost knocked her off her feet.

‘Jesus!’ He looked her up and down accusingly, as if she’d just crashed into him, then promptly ignored her. ‘We need a hand, Shirley. Can you come out to the yard? It’s bloody awful this time…’ He glanced over his shoulder at Angela and lowered his voice. ‘We’ve got a… situation. Be good to have your…’

‘Input?’ the receptionist offered.

‘That’s it – yeah. Can you come right now?’

Shirley looked up at Angela, who was still on her feet.

‘Don’t mind me,’ she said, backing away towards the line of chairs. ‘There’s at least three issues of
Builders’ Monthly
I haven’t had chance to read.’

The receptionist logged off of her computer and locked the first of three filing cabinets behind her desk. She grabbed a hard hat and yellow vest from a coat stand, and threw Angela a warning look before disappearing through the door.

Angela sat patiently on the uncomfortable vinyl seat for a minute or so before jumping up. She peered out into the yard and saw no sign of Shirley or the construction worker. The ‘situation’ must have been happening somewhere else on the site. She made her way to the filing cabinets and tugged on the top drawers of the second and third cabinets – they were both locked, just like the first. She scanned the desk. A neat pen pot stuffed with biros and perfectly sharpened pencils was the obvious hiding place for a spare key. Angela shook the contents of the pot onto the desk. No key tumbled out. She shoved back the pens and pencils, but couldn’t manage to fit everything in, so scooped up the excess and dropped it into the bin under the desk. She tested the desk drawers. They too were locked. Shirley the receptionist was extraordinarily security conscious, which could only mean she had something worth hiding.

Angela grabbed her handbag from the chair, checked outside the main entrance again, then ventured down the long corridor. She ignored a series of closed plywood doors on either and headed straight for the wide oak one at the far end. At head height the door was decorated with a large gold plaque, the words
CEO, Lady Valerie Larson
engraved in large letters. According to a company press release, Valerie Larson had officially taken over the reins from her ailing husband only last week. She certainly hadn’t wasted any time making herself at home. Angela held her breath, listening for movement on the other side of the door. She reached for the handle and stopped. A loud ringtone erupted from inside the room.

‘About bloody time!’ The shrill voice of Valerie Larson permeated the thick oak.

Angela hesitated. If she pressed her ear against the wood, she’d be turning her back on the reception at the other end of the corridor. Her position would be completely exposed.

‘For God’s sake!’ The voice rang out again.

Angela leaned her cheek gently against the door.

‘This isn’t good enough, Bill.’ Valerie Larson sounded decidedly irritable.

‘How many more favours are you expecting?’ Her voice was getting louder.

Angela could hear castors rolling over the wooden floor, then heavy footsteps as Valerie Larson stamped around the room.

‘You can’t fob us off with that promise anymore. We’ve gone beyond that now. A line has been crossed. Do you understand me?’

The sound of footsteps got louder; Valerie Larson was just the other side of the door. Angela tensed and pulled away. She held her breath then heard the footsteps retreating.

‘But can’t you see?’ Valerie Larson said. ‘We’re running out of time.’

Angela waited, five, ten seconds without breathing. There wasn’t a sound. She risked leaning against the door again, but all she could hear was an occasional muttered ‘yes’, ‘no’, and the odd ‘hmm’. Whoever was on the other end of the line had managed to cool Valerie Larson’s temper. Angela took the opportunity to snatch a few breaths and relax her clenched fists.

A loud creak, followed by bang, echoed down the corridor. Angela turned to see the reception door swinging open, Shirley standing in the doorway, facing away from her, looking out into the yard. Angela stepped away from Valerie Larson’s door, backing up a few feet towards the reception, keeping her eyes fixed on the woman coming in. Shirley started to turn. Angela looked left and right at the closed doors on either side of the corridor.

‘What do you think you’re doing down there?’

There was nowhere to run. Angela swiftly turned and marched back towards Valerie Larson’s office. She thumped the thick panel door with one hand and turned the handle with the other and flung open the door. Valerie Larson spun around, her mobile phone still fixed to her ear.

‘What the…?’

The room was lined with large wooden filing cabinets. A bank of CCTV monitors filled the wall space opposite the large desk at the far end. It looked more like a military control centre than the headquarters of a construction company.

‘Lady Larson.’ Angela moved swiftly into the room. ‘I’m your 2.30!’

‘Who let you in here?’

‘Shirley had to leave – an emergency, I gather – she told me to come straight through.’

‘Look, I’ve got to go.’ Valerie Larson threw the phone onto the desk and glared at Angela. ‘I don’t have time for this now – we’ll have to reschedule Ms…’

‘Tate. Please, call me Angela.’ She skipped neatly around the desk and held out her hand just as Shirley arrived at the door, trailing a security guard behind her.

‘I’m so sorry, Lady Larson. She had no right to come—’

‘Get her out of here,’ Valerie Larson snapped at her.

‘Surely you’ve got a moment? Angela edged sideways, putting the sturdy desk between her and the approaching guard. ‘Or perhaps Sir Fred could give me a few minutes of his time?’

‘Out of the question!’

The lumbering guard was only a few feet away.

‘How about a brief comment on your husband’s plans for a radical new curriculum at his new academy?’

A thick-fingered hand landed on Angela’s arm. She tried to pull away, but the grip tightened. ‘Unless you want to be up to your eyeballs in litigation, I suggest you call your thug off.’

Valerie Larson glared at her.

‘Do you really want to worry your husband with legal action when he’s so ill?’

Valerie Larson gave the briefest of nods to the guard. He removed his hand.

‘Where was I?’ Angela said, rubbing her arm. ‘Oh yes – a comment on how creationism fits into the curriculum, for the good people of Lewisham, Lady Larson.’

‘My husband’s beliefs are nothing to do with you.’

A moaning siren started up in the distance.

‘But they do concern a number of anxious parents.’

The siren wail intensified.

‘I have nothing to say to you. If you don’t leave right now… Shirley – call the police.’

Angela stared right into Larson’s face, not budging an inch. ‘Sounds as if someone has beaten you to it.’