The Loyal Servant (16 page)

21

‘… well anyway, as I say, give me a call ASAP and we’ll arrange a time for the handover. Later today would be good.’

Angela Tate threw the mobile phone onto the large oak table in the corner of her living room. She ran her fingers through her uncombed hair and let out a grunt.

‘Bloody amateurs. Want a job done right… Honestly Kinnock…’ She blinked and opened her eyes wide. How could she keep forgetting the cat had died? She’d dug the hole under the apple tree herself less than a month ago. And how was it perfectly acceptable to think out loud when a mangy ginger tom was padding around the house, entirely ignoring her, but talking to herself now felt as if she was one short step from the Maudesly? She looked out of the window. She could just make out the wooden cross she’d hammered into the ground at the end of the garden. When did her eyesight get so bad? She shoved the heel of her hand in her eye and rubbed, then remembered she hadn’t taken her make-up off the night before. She blinked again and hooked out a congealed lump of eye shadow from the corner of her eye.

Caroline Barber had been ignoring her calls for nearly 24 hours. The jibe Angela had made outside the hospital about her affair with Fox was a stupid knee-jerk response. She hadn’t been thinking. As if a woman like Caroline Barber would succumb to an empty threat like that. That thought stopped in her tracks. A woman like what? She was so used to making snap judgements about people she hadn’t taken any time to think about what Caroline Barber was really like at all. She looked at the phone and considered leaving Barber a conciliatory message. Maybe even an apology… A shiver ran up her spine and she wrapped her dressing gown a little tighter. Apologising was more likely to make things worse.

She peered into what was left of her lukewarm coffee. Her hand hovered for a moment over a half bottle of Three Barrels sitting next to the mug on the table. She checked the clock on the shelf.
Sod the bloody yardarm.
She emptied a couple of healthy measures into the mug and knocked back the fortified coffee in one. She’d never been sure what a yardarm was anyway.

The surface of the table was covered with copies of the photographs Frank had taken at Martin Fox’s funeral. He didn’t manage to capture all the main players, so Angela had supplemented the collection with a selection of standard publicity shots. Where she didn’t have a picture she’d written a name on an index card and added that to the random collage of smiling or grim faces staring up at her. She pushed the photos across the table, creating little groups of twos or threes.

One group featured William King and Martin Fox, together with an index card with the words
Cambridge
and
DfE
scribbled on it. She thought for a moment: what else did they have in common? Both were public schoolboys, both had master’s degrees… What else? Both got into politics at roughly the same time. She added notes to the card and moved on. Sir Fred and Lady Larson. Apart from running the business together and being married to one another, she could think of nothing else that linked them. But then that was probably enough. She scribbled down the year of their marriage – 1971 – and left a gap for the annual turnover of the company. She stopped. That was one piece of information Caroline Barber had to come through with. If she ever answered her bloody phone.

Floating on its own, right in the middle of the table, was a photograph of deputy assistant commissioner Sir Barry Flowers, the man in full dress uniform at the funeral who Frank hadn’t been able to identify. What was his connection to Martin Fox? She pushed the photo closer to the one of the deceased schools minister but left a gap of a good six inches. On an index card she wrote
Knife Amnesty, London Schools
.

The first two-week amnesty had been a big success. Angela had written a feature about it herself. She remembered standing in the crowded assembly hall of a Brixton comprehensive when Fox launched the scheme four years ago. Barry Flowers had been standing beside him throughout. The amnesty had been so successful it was now part of every London schools’ academic year, like sports day or the nativity play might once have been. She stared at the policeman’s thin face, a tightly cropped grey beard covering most of it. Did William King have any connection to the deputy assistant commissioner? Angela placed a tentative finger on Flowers’ photo, pressing very lightly, waiting for it to move by itself, like a Ouija glass. It remained perfectly still. She left it where it was and stood back to study her handy work.

What a bloody mess
.

She reached for the photograph of Susan King and put it next to her husband’s, just inches away from the picture of Fox. How well had the prime minister’s wife known the honourable member for Cambridge East? Angela drew a large question mark on another card and inserted it between Fox’s photo and Susan King’s. Then she did the same thing with the photograph of the former prime minister’s wife. On the day on the funeral, Rachael Oakley had won the Jackie O competition by a whisker – the huge dark glasses just swinging the vote in her favour. How close had she been to Martin Fox? Maybe Angela could ask Caroline Barber the next time she saw her. Whenever that would be. She glanced down at the lifeless mobile phone lying on the table. Maybe she should try her again. She really needed those documents. She had to have something concrete to show Evans. Convince him she wasn’t wasting her time or the paper’s money on the academies investigation. She had to prove to him and the board that the
Evening News
was better with her on staff than not. She sat down with a thud, the antique dining chair creaking under the sudden strain.

She was too young for the scrapheap, and definitely too old to start a new career freelancing. The thought of hustling for commissions sent a chill up her spine. Competing with hungry hacks half her age was not a prospect to dwell on. Her journalistic instincts were still as sharp as her elbows, but there was no way she could compete on price. The mortgage still had to be paid.

She sat back and scanned the collection of photos, then drew a line with an arrow at either end on another card and pushed it between the Larsons and Martin Fox, the academies programme being the obvious link. William King was also an advocate of academies, so she shuffled his toothy-smiled portrait closer to the Larsons. She focussed on the imperious expression on Valerie Larson’s face, standing stoically next to her withered husband in his wheelchair. Angela knew she wouldn’t get another chance to see either of them, not after what happened at Larson’s headquarters. She reached for her notebook and skimmed through the few words she’d scribbled after the aborted interview. The words
favours
,
Bill
,
fob off
,
promise
and
running out of time
had all been underlined. Why was Valerie Larson running out of time? Was Fred Larson that close to death? Angela studied the photograph of him. He certainly looked as if he could shuffle off at any moment. She grabbed a pen and wrote
‘Bill?’
across King’s photograph. She sat back and stared at his picture.

Really
?

Was it possible Valerie Larson could have been shouting down the phone at William King himself? What kind of demands could she have been making? The general election was less than three weeks away. Surely King had more important things to think about. Not one to rule out any possibility too soon, she wrote
Party Funding
in big letters on another card and centred it between all the major players. Sir Fred had made a generous contribution way back in ’96, but hadn’t donated anything since then. In fact he’d made no gifts to any of the major parties. Maybe he’d decided fence sitting was the safest way to prosper in business. She picked up the card again, staring as the ink seeped into it. Perhaps the donation wasn’t even relevant. She felt as if she was running round in circles, endlessly speculating, with no real evidence to come to any proper conclusions.

She gazed at the index card linking the Larsons. Fred and Valerie had got married in 1971, when Valerie was just 21 and Fred was already approaching middle age. That meant that Valerie had spent the best part of 40 years, all of her prime, at the heart of the Larson empire. No wonder she was such a tough nut to crack. She would never say anything to damage her husband’s reputation. Especially now she was running the whole operation.

Angela stared at the couple in the photograph. Valerie in her black skirt suit and neat pillbox hat and poor old Fred looking like some creature from a science fiction horror film – a gruesome vision of the future. Angela had seen photographs of Fred Larson from the 1960s. He’d been handsome once – he must have been quite a catch even before he’d made his first million.

She grabbed a fresh index card and sat with pen poised, not quite believing she hadn’t thought of the idea before. She tried hard to remember the name she was after, but it stubbornly remained just out of reach, somewhere in the murky depths of her memory. Perhaps she’d never even known the woman’s first name. In lieu of further research, she quickly scrawled across the blank card in big bold capitals:

THE 1ST MRS DeWINTER

A mobile phone ringtone started warbling on the other side of the room. Angela padded over to the bookshelf above the mantelpiece and peered at the half dozen mobiles lined up along the edge. She plucked the white Sony Ericsson from the collection.

‘You’re really earning your money this month, Sherlock,’ she said and wandered back to the table, trying to work out what it was she’d asked her contact at the Met to find out.

‘You haven’t heard what I’ve got to say yet.’

‘That bad, is it?’ She glanced at the photograph of Martin Fox and remembered.

‘I can’t tell you anything about the suicide note.’

‘What? You leaked it to us in the first place, you must be able to tell me something.’

‘My source can’t get access to the computer records. There’s no way of checking when the note was logged onto the system.’

‘Why not? You’ve never had any trouble before.’ She started doodling on a blank index card.

‘This is different.’

‘It is?’

‘All the case files on the system are inaccessible to anyone below chief superintendent level. They’ve been classified.’

‘You’re telling me their top secret?’

‘If you want to put it like that – yes.’

‘And how often does that happen?’

The line went very quiet.

‘Well?’

‘In my experience? Never.’

‘And who decides to block access?’

‘Someone much higher up the food chain.’

‘And you’re telling me your network of helpers doesn’t include an amenable chief super?’

‘Even if it did I wouldn’t ask. Those files are toxic.’

‘Don’t exaggerate.’

‘I’m serious, Ange. If you want my advice…’

Angela stopped doodling.

‘Don’t ask any more questions. Turn right around and run as fast as you can in the opposite direction.’

22

The red-faced man continued to rage incomprehensibly on Caroline’s doorstep for a good five minutes, spitting as he spoke, flecks of saliva collecting in the corners of his mouth. Net curtains had started to twitch across the road by the time he’d run out of steam. In the moment of calm that followed, while he was still getting his breath back, Caroline eased him over the front step and into the hall, deciding it would be easier to control him inside the house with two police officers on hand.

Jean stood in the kitchen doorway, Ben peeking from behind her dressing gown and Claire peering over her shoulder.

‘Keep them out of the way, will you, Mum?’

‘Who is he?’ Jean whispered.

‘I’m expecting him to get on to formal introductions at some point. Can you sort out breakfast? Claire – you’re taking your brother to school this morning.’

Caroline turned back to the shivering girl still standing on her front step.

‘Are you coming in?’ Caroline asked. The girl shrugged. ‘For God’s sake.’ Caroline wrapped her hand around one of the girl’s bony wrists and tugged her into the house. ‘Just through there.’

The man had positioned himself in the bay window. The girl shuffled over and stood behind him. He scanned the room. The red mist finally seemed to lift from his eyes as he noticed the two uniformed police officers standing at the far end of the sofa for the first time.

‘Are they here to arrest him? No more than he deserves – dirty little sod.’

Caroline took a breath and glanced at Pete, who was pushing up his sleeves.

‘Can we all take a moment to calm down?’ Caroline said. She extended a hand to the strange middle-aged man standing in her living room. ‘I presume by ‘him’ you’re referring to Dan? I’m his mother, Caroline.’

The man looked at her hand, but didn’t take it.

‘The name’s Reynolds,’ he said. ‘This is my daughter Kylie.’ He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder at the cowering girl. ‘As I’m sure you already know.’

Caroline smiled at her. She’d never seen the girl before in her life.

‘Dan’s not here Mr Reynolds. The police have come to help us find him.’

‘He’s done a runner? That’s very convenient, isn’t it?’

Claire appeared at the living room door.

‘Go back to the kitchen.’ Caroline made a shooing gesture with her hand.

‘What? And miss all the fun?’ She slipped past her father and squeezed between the two policewomen.

‘Do you have some information that might help us locate Dan, Mr Reynolds?’ The thin policewoman stepped forward.

‘Oh I’ve got information all right.’ He turned and snatched Kylie’s thin arm in a hairy fist and dragged her in front of him. ‘Tell them. Go on. Tell them what he did to you.’

‘Oh my God!’ Claire’s voice went up an octave.

The young girl bit her lip and stared at the floor.

‘Kylie! Tell them.’

Kylie swallowed and opened her mouth, but before she could speak her father jumped in.

‘The filthy little bastard’s got her pregnant.’

‘What?’ Caroline stepped forward and stared into the girl’s face. ‘Is this true, Kylie? You can tell us. We won’t be angry.’ She scowled at the quivering girl’s father. ‘Is it true?’

‘Hah! This I have to hear.’ Claire started laughing.

‘This isn’t a joke,’ Reynolds said, pointing an accusing finger at her. ‘You’re as bad as your brother, you stupid little bitch.’

‘No one speaks to my daughter like that.’ Pete marched across the room and stood nose to nose with Reynolds. ‘Apologise, right now.’

‘Make me.’

Both police officers darted round the sofa and separated the two men.

‘Come on lads, let’s not make matters worse than they already are,’ the chunky one said.

‘For God’s sake – all of you!’ Everyone looked at Caroline. ‘Dan is God knows where, anything could have happened to him and you’re scrapping as if you’re still in the bloody playground.’

There was a knock on the front door.

‘Is that him?’ Reynolds shoved the tall policewoman and got as far as the living room door before Pete grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and hauled him back. Caroline ran into the hall and flung open the front door. Ralph Mills was standing on her doorstep. He was dressed in the same brown suit he’d been wearing at the funeral.

‘It’s you,’ she said and breathed a disappointed sigh.

‘Oh… I take it that means he hasn’t turned up yet.’ Mills laid a hand on her arm. ‘I’m sure he’ll be back soon.’

Caroline shouted into the living room, ‘It’s not Dan.’ Her voice cracked partway through. She turned back to Mills and sniffed. ‘You don’t have any news?’

Mills shook his head.

‘Why are you here then?’

‘I’ve just started my shift; I got your message from last night. I just wanted to check up on you.’

Caroline stood to one side and Mills eased into the hall.

‘Are the Janes still here?’ he asked.

It took Caroline a moment to register what he meant. She’d been thinking of them as thin cop and fat cop for the last hour.

‘You know them?’

‘Not really.’ He took a step down the hall.

‘They are. Before you go in, I should warn you… there’s been another development.’ She glanced over her shoulder at the living room door. ‘In fact, why don’t we go back outside?’ She led him into the front garden and closed the door to behind them. ‘It seems my son has been busy proving how fertile he is.’

‘What?’

‘We’ve had an unexpected visit from the mum-to-be and her angry father.’

‘Blimey.’

‘Exactly.’ Caroline rubbed her eyes. ‘I really don’t know what to think now. Maybe Dan’s run away. But he wouldn’t do that. I’m sure he wouldn’t.’

‘How long’s he been seeing the girl?’

‘That’s just it – I never even knew he had a girlfriend. He’s always been into his computer games and sci-fi programmes. I thought he was too nerdy to attract girls. Seems he’s been doing a lot more than that.’ She craned forward and glanced through the living room window. It didn’t look like any punches had been thrown. ‘I suppose I should go back in there. I’m hoping I might be able to get some sense out of the girl. There’s just a chance she knows where Dan is.’

Mills nodded and started back down the garden path.

‘You didn’t mind me calling you, last night?’

‘Course not.’

‘I suppose I just wanted to get a friendly voice on the other end of the line, rather than some faceless operator. I wasn’t sure whether to call 999 or not.’

‘That’s absolutely fine – I’m just sorry I wasn’t around. I’m pretty much working office hours at the moment.’

‘Thanks for com—’ She was stopped by a sudden movement out of the corner of her eye, just the other side of the garden hedge. ‘Is that you?’

Dan appeared at the garden gate. Caroline ran to him and held her hands to his face. ‘What happened to you?’

His hair was matted with dirt and grease. A long graze ran across his right cheek from nose to ear. His jeans were ripped and his trainers caked in mud. He wriggled his face free and ducked around her and Mills and ran into the house. Caroline ran after him but he was up the stairs and on the landing by the time she reached the bottom step. She heard his door slam and the bolt slide across. Pete joined her in the hall, closely followed by Reynolds. The two policewomen grabbed an arm each and dragged him back.

‘He’s locked himself in his room,’ Caroline said. ‘I think we should let him stew for a few minutes, then maybe one of you should try and coax him out.’

The policewomen looked at one another and the fat one glanced at her watch. ‘Actually, Mrs Barber, we probably need to be getting along now. Your son’s back home. That’s the main thing. Safe and well.’

‘Safe and well? You didn’t see the state of him. He looked as if he’d been attacked. You’ll need to take his statement.’

‘Why don’t you speak to him when he’s ready and he can come into the station to report any crime that might have been committed?’

‘Might have been? His face was cut.’

The police officer turned to Reynolds. ‘I think this may not be the best time for an adult conversation about your daughter’s… condition, sir. Why don’t you leave now and contact Mr and Mrs Barber later? When the dust has settled.’

‘Just give me five minutes with him!’

She and her colleague gripped Reynolds tighter as he strained to pull away. They managed somehow to manoeuvre him down the hall and through the front door.

‘Don’t think you’ve heard the last of me, Barber!’

Pete raised his hands. ‘Any time you like.’

‘Kylie!’ Reynolds shouted.

The girl kept her eyes on the floor and scurried after her father.

‘Unbelievable!’ Claire was punching a text into her phone as she ran up the stairs.

‘Leave your brother alone!’ Caroline hollered after her.

‘I’ve got no intention of getting anywhere near him.’

Caroline was suddenly aware of a tugging on her sleeve.

‘Is Dan all right?’ Ben looked up at her, his big eyes close to tears again.

‘Course he is!’ Pete roared. He scooped Ben off his feet. ‘Where are those pancakes your gran was making?’

Ben started to giggle, which made Pete tickle him even more. Caroline put a hand on Pete’s arm. He twisted Ben over, threw him in the air and caught him by his ankles.

‘I’m sorry about before,’ Pete said. ‘You were right – I should have taken it more seriously. I was a prat.’

‘Again, again!’ Ben’s face was scarlet.

Pete swung him slowly from side to side like the pendulum in a grandfather clock. Ben giggled even harder.

Caroline smiled. ‘I’m sorry too.’