The Loyal Servant (17 page)

23

This time it was Caroline’s turn to be late. She’d watched the train pull away from the platform at Catford Bridge, missing it by a matter of seconds. Sunday service on Southeastern Trains being what it was, she then had to wait half an hour for the next one. She arrived at Charing Cross station sweaty and flushed and 35 minutes later than expected to find Tate browsing through a copy of the
Sunday Telegraph
near the entrance of WHSmith’s.

Caroline tapped her on the shoulder and Tate jumped as if she’d been poked with a cattle prod.

‘I don’t have long, shall we just get on with it?’ Caroline said.

Tate looked at her watch and raised her eyebrows.

‘All right. I’m sorry I’m late. I’ve had domestic issues to deal with. Mum’s holding the fort at the moment when she should be in bed.’

‘How is Jean?’ Tate carelessly refolded the paper and stuffed it back on the rack.

‘She’ll survive.’

The journalist held out her hand. ‘I’m pressed for time too, as it goes.’

‘Not here.’ Caroline looked around the busy concourse.

‘Where?’

‘Let’s walk.’

‘If we’re walking I need more cigarettes. I won’t be a sec.’

Caroline watched as Tate inched closer to the front of the queue, her thoughts returning inevitably to the events of the last two days.

Dan had refused even to set foot outside his room since locking himself in. Reynolds, the grandfather-to-be, had phoned on Friday evening, a little calmer, and grudgingly apologised for his behaviour. Caroline wondered if one of the policewomen had had a quiet word when they escorted him from the house.

According to her father, Kylie was two months gone and had pointed an accusing finger in Dan’s direction. But as Dan wasn’t confirming or denying the charge, and hadn’t even explained where he’d been all night, the only thing Caroline could do was agree to meet with the Reynolds clan later in the week and promise Dan’s attendance. If he ever emerged from his room.

Tate stomped out of Smith’s ripping the cellophane from the cigarette packet with her teeth. She followed Caroline out of the station and into bright sunshine. She dropped her sunglasses over her eyes.

‘You do have the documents?’

They were 50 yards down Villiers Street before Caroline replied.

‘I’ve got the memory stick.’ She looked down at the journalist’s neat handbag tucked under her arm. ‘Where’s your laptop?’

‘Laptop?’

‘To copy the information onto.’ They’d reached Embankment tube, Caroline led the way straight through to an almost traffic-free Victoria Embankment the other side.

‘I don’t have a laptop.’ Tate unhooked her bag from her arm and peered inside. ‘Or a bloody lighter, it would seem.’

Caroline stopped. ‘You don’t have a laptop? Well that makes it a bit difficult then.’

‘Christ – just give me the bloody stick.’

‘The memory stick’s not mine. I can’t just hand it over.’

‘Oh please.’ Tate held out her hand.

Caroline ignored it and started wearily up the steps leading to Hungerford Bridge, grabbing hold of the handrail and hauling herself up. When she reached the top she navigated around a noisy group of French teenagers and waited for Tate to catch up. Tate had decided to push her way right into the middle of them. She hollered something in French and immediately half a dozen adolescent boys waved cigarette lighters at her.

‘Merci, merci.’ Tate took a long hard pull on her cigarette, waved to the boys and finally joined Caroline on the bridge.

‘So this stick,’ she said. ‘Does it have the nominations stuff on it too?’

‘Do you have any idea what kind of risks I took to get that information?’

‘You know how much I appreciate everything you’re doing.’

‘I may have incriminated a colleague.’

‘Sometimes sacrifices have to be made.’ Tate sucked on her cigarette. ‘Can I have the stick now?’

‘I need to talk to you first.’

Tate exhaled and the wind blew a cloud of smoke into Caroline’s face. The journalist’s shoulders seemed to sag. Caroline clutched her handbag to her side.

‘What have you managed to find out about the fake suicide note?’

‘Fake? No one else seems to be questioning its authenticity.’

‘Who? Who have you spoken to about it?’ Caroline stopped and held onto Tate’s arm. ‘What did they tell you?’

Tate puffed out more smoke and tried to bat it away with her hand before it reached Caroline. ‘Obviously I can’t reveal my sources.’

‘But what did they say?’

Tate plucked a speck of ash from her tongue and gazed out over the river. ‘They didn’t tell me anything.’

‘Oh come on – they must have.’

The journalist lifted her sunglasses from her nose onto her head, trapping her flapping hair underneath. She looked into Caroline’s face, started to speak then stopped.

‘We had a deal,’ Caroline said. ‘You investigate Martin’s death and I give you information.’ Caroline squeezed her bag even tighter.

‘We’ve still got a deal.’ Tate eyed the bag. ‘I don’t want you reading anything into this. It might be standard procedure.’

‘Please just tell me what you know.’

‘The files have been classified with a high security rating. One of the highest. My source can’t get access to them.’

Caroline took a moment to digest the information. She grabbed the side of the bridge and stared out at the horizon, her gaze settling on the dome of St Paul’s.

‘Who can – get access to them?’

‘Only high ranking officers.’

‘And you expect me to believe that’s just normal procedure?’

‘I’m not expecting anything – I’m just telling you what my guy told me.’

‘He said it was normal?’

Tate hesitated, pulling on her cigarette. ‘He’s never come across it before. But then a government minister has never been found dead at his desk before either.’

Caroline grabbed Tate’s arm and pulled her round so she was looking into her face. ‘Do you truly still believe there isn’t a massive cover-up going on?’

Tate shook her head and flicked what was left of her cigarette over the rail. The wind picked it up and it hovered in the air for a moment before falling. She watched it drop. Finally she turned back to Caroline. ‘I don’t know what to believe. Something about it is starting to make me feel uncomfortable.’

‘Uncomfortable? The whole bloody thing stinks. You can’t still think Martin committed suicide?’

Tate shrugged. ‘It’s still the most logical explanation. He died at his desk, for God’s sake. If someone killed him, wouldn’t they choose a dark alley somewhere? Or a quiet country lane?’

‘The location doesn’t make any sense either way. You could quite easily argue if Martin had been planning suicide he would have chosen somewhere he wouldn’t be discovered so easily. His house… or… I don’t know… a deserted beach or a remote hilltop. He didn’t kill himself. How many more times do I have to—’

‘All right. Let’s say he didn’t. Let’s say he was murdered.’

Caroline flinched.

‘But that is what you’re suggesting, isn’t it? So… who do you think would want to kill him?’

Caroline squeezed her hands together. ‘I have thought about it. I’ve thought about it a lot.’

‘And?’

‘Someone who wanted him out of the way, obviously.’

‘And that someone managed to get into the department undetected, force a bottle of pills and half a litre of whisky down his throat then disappear again without a trace. You really think that’s possible?’

‘If they were well enough connected, yes.’

‘And have you come up with any likely assassins?’

Caroline inhaled before she spoke, anticipating Tate’s response. ‘The obvious candidate is William King.’ She screwed up her face, waiting for the flack. It didn’t come. Tate just raised her eyebrows and shook her head.

‘Look at the sequence of events.’ Caroline couldn’t stop now. ‘Oakley resigns – for personal reasons – Martin dies then King is made prime minister.’

‘Listen to yourself. Do you know how much you’re sounding like those bonkers conspiracy theorists? We’ve been through this already.’

‘Yes, but it’s different now.’

‘Is it?’

‘Now what’s happened is starting to make you feel uncomfortable.’

Tate blew out an impatient sigh. ‘I need another cigarette. Let’s get off this bloody bridge.’ She turned back the way they’d just come and headed towards the steps.

Caroline ran after her. ‘Does it at least mean you’ll do some more digging?’

Tate bit her lip. ‘If someone somewhere is determined to cover this up, there’s not a lot more digging I can do.’

Caroline pulled her handbag from her shoulder. ‘Promise me you’ll try.’ She retrieved the memory stick, gripping it tightly, still reluctant to hand it over. ‘Promise me.’

‘I’ll do whatever I can. There might be something on that stick that helps.’ She reached out a hand. ‘Have you looked at the documents yourself?’

Finally Caroline relinquished the stick and watched Tate shove it into her handbag. ‘I’ve had a brief look at the public ones.’

‘Public? What do you mean?’

‘Some of the files I can’t open, they’re password protected. I’ve tried all the passwords we generally use in the division – the obvious ones like
password
,
admin
,
academies
. But nothing seems to work.’

‘How am I expected to read them then?’

‘I spoke to a techie at work about it.’

‘What? I thought you didn’t trust anyone at the department.’

‘It was one of the external contractors working on the new website. He doesn’t know me from Adam. Anyway, he told me they’re usually pretty easy to get into. You just need some IT whiz to crack them open. They’ve got special software to do it, apparently.’

‘Oh – and there was I thinking it might be difficult.’ Tate shook her head and reached back into her bag. She pulled out a folded sheet of paper and handed it to Caroline.

‘What’s this?’ Caroline started to unfold the sheet, careful not to let the wind catch it.

‘The next batch of documents I’ll be needing from you.’

24

Caroline tapped very lightly on Dan’s door. ‘Come on, love. Why don’t you let me in and we can have a quiet little chat, just you and me. Like we used to.’

No response.

‘Or maybe you could come downstairs and I can make some brownies. Do you fancy that? You can lick the spoon.’

Caroline had tried every other kind of inducement, appealing to his stomach was the only one left. She wasn’t even sure she still had the recipe for brownies, let alone the ingredients. She heard a chair scrape across the floor.

‘I’m not seven years old, Mum.’

His voice was quiet but close. He must have been standing just the other side of the door. Caroline pressed her hand against the wood. What had happened to her carefree little boy?

‘You’re never too old to lick the spoon,’ she said. ‘In fact you’ll probably have to arm-wrestle your dad for it. That’s if Gran doesn’t get there first.’ She tried to inject a note of light-heartedness into her voice, but only managed to add an edge of mild desperation. She could hear him breathing.

‘We can sort all this out, Dan. It might seem impossible right now, but believe me, it won’t seem nearly so bad when you get a bit of perspective. Nothing’s too big a problem that we can’t fix it for you.’

‘You can’t fix this.’ His voice was even quieter.

‘Help
you
to fix it then.’

Dan made a noise deep in his throat, was it a laugh?

‘Open the door and we can make a start. I can’t fix anything talking through an inch and a half of wood.’

The door moved slightly, creaking against the doorframe, as if Dan was leaning against it.

‘You don’t understand,’ he said.

‘I will if you explain it to me.’ She ran her hand along the grain of wood. ‘Talk to me, Dan. It’ll make things better – I promise.’ She heard him sniff. ‘We can sort it out together. The first step is telling me about it.’ She leaned closer to the door. ‘Dan?’ He sniffed again. ‘Would you rather speak to your dad?’

He made another indecipherable noise.

‘Shall I get him to come and see you?’

‘No!’

‘OK… OK, love. Just you and me then. How about you open the door?’

‘Talking won’t fix it.’

‘It’s a start. We can come up with the answers together.’

‘There aren’t any.’

‘Course there are. We love you Dan. Please let us help.’

She held her breath and listened again for signs of movement on the other side of the door.

‘Did you talk to that bloke at work?’

‘What bloke, sweetheart?’

‘Don’t call me that!’

Caroline puffed out her cheeks. ‘Who do you mean?’

‘He knew his problem couldn’t be fixed.’

‘Who are you talking about?’

‘The one who killed himself. No one helped him, did they?’

‘Martin?’ She swallowed. ‘But he didn’t…’ How much could she tell him?

‘Why didn’t you sit down with him and come up with some answers?’

‘I didn’t… no one expected—’

‘He must have been so unhappy. Didn’t you even notice?’

The door banged against the frame again and Caroline heard a thud on the floor.

‘Dan? Are you OK?’

‘Just leave me alone.’

‘Are you OK? Dan? Tell me you’re all right.’

‘Go away.’ He let out a sob.

‘Dan? Open the door.’ She turned the handle. ‘You’re not going to…?

She rattled the door, turning the handle one way then the other.

‘Dan – have you hurt yourself?’

He didn’t reply.

‘Unlock the door, Dan. Or I’ll have to get your dad to break it down.’

‘Leave me alone!’

‘Dan I mean it!’ She leaned over the banister and hollered down the stairs. ‘Pete! Can you get up here?’ She glanced back at the door. ‘Now!’

A squeal of scraping metal was followed by a loud thunk and the door opened a crack. From the sliver of her son that was visible, she could just make out a red-rimmed eye and a moist cheek.

‘Open it right up.’

He pulled the door wider.

‘Show me your wrists,’ she said.

He waved both arms in her face. ‘Satisfied?’

She poked her head through the door and scanned the room, looking for sharp objects. ‘Let me in.’

Dan stepped away from the door and hung his head low as Caroline checked shelves and window ledges, peering under the bed and across his desk. ‘I don’t want you locking yourself in again.’ She backed slowly out of the room.

Dan slammed the door. Caroline heard the bolt slide across.

‘Dan!’

Pete appeared at the top of the stairs. ‘Where’s the fire?’

‘It’s a bloody good job there wasn’t one, the time it’s taken you to get up here.’

‘What’s going on?’

‘Your son’s locked himself in his room.’

‘How is that an emergency?’

‘He’s depressed. I’m worried what he might do.’ She walked across the landing and started down the stairs. ‘Is your toolbox still in the van?’

‘It’s in the shed. What do you want it for?’ He followed behind her.

‘I’m going to get that bloody bolt off his door.’

‘The lad needs his privacy. Let him be.’

‘You haven’t seen the state of him. He could be doing anything in there.’

They’d both reached the hall. Pete grabbed her.

‘Caz, wait! What are you saying?’

‘I’m frightened he might hurt himself.’ She plucked his hand from her arm.

‘You don’t seriously believe he’d do something like that?’

‘I don’t know what to think.’

‘What did he say?’

‘Do you really care?’

‘Come on, Caz. I don’t deserve that.’

Caroline marched into the kitchen and started rummaging in a drawer for the spare key to the garden shed. ‘Have you even tried talking to him?’

‘I’m the last person he’d want to speak to. We’re not exactly the best mates.’ Pete rubbed both hands across his face.

‘When did you two have such a major falling out? And how did I miss it?’

‘He’s a teenager, Caz. He’s meant to hate his parents.’

‘Speak for yourself.’

‘He’s growing up, that’s all. Testing boundaries. It’s natural.’

‘Impregnating an underage schoolgirl is more than testing boundaries, Pete.’ She slammed the drawer shut.

‘Accidents happen. We know that better than most people.’

Caroline froze.
Please don’t bring that up now.
She flung open the next drawer, scooped up handfuls of the contents and threw them on the work surface. ‘Where is that bloody key?’

Pete put his huge hands round her waist and pulled her backwards, pressing her into him. ‘He’ll be all right, Caz. We were.’

‘History doesn’t have to repeat itself. We weren’t still at school when it happened.’

Pete pressed his cheek against hers, his lips brushing her mouth. She closed her eyes. It would have been a relief to have someone else take charge for a change. She took a deep breath and tried to relax into his embrace. She couldn’t. She twisted round and wriggled out of his arms. ‘Not now.’

‘When, Caz?’ He held her hands in his, staring into her eyes for a moment, searching. What was he looking for? Whatever it was, he didn’t find it. He let go of her hands and turned away. ‘I’m going to the pub.’

Caroline watched him hurry into the hall and grab his battered leather jacket from the coat rack. ‘The pub?’

‘I need to get out.’

‘Not today. Please. Pete.’

‘Do you actually give a toss, where I am?’

She followed him into the hall. ‘I thought today, after everything that’s happened, we could sit down as a family. Have a proper lunch together.’

‘That would involve some effort on your part.’

‘What?’

‘I can’t remember the last time you cooked Sunday dinner. We just don’t do that any more.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Maybe if you were around a bit more Dan wouldn’t be acting up.’

‘What?’

‘You heard.’

‘Are you blaming me?’

‘You’re never here.’ Pete struggled to get his arm in the other sleeve of his jacket.

‘Do you think I want to be in the department all hours?’

He shrugged.

‘God, Pete – you know how many times they’ve threatened us with compulsory redundancy. Would you rather I stayed at home all day and became the perfect housewife? I’d like to see us pay the mortgage then!’ She leaned a hand against the wall, suddenly unsteady. She hadn’t meant to shout.

‘You know, I wouldn’t mind giving that a try, see if the woman I married is still lurking in there somewhere.’

‘And if I did, do you think you might be able to stay sober for more than a couple of hours a day?’ She stepped between Pete and the front door. ‘I suppose that’s all my fault too.’ She let out a breath.

‘You don’t know anything about it.’ Pete reached round Caroline and grabbed the latch on the front door, pulling it open as far as it would go without hitting her.

‘You can’t keep running away, Pete – pretend things aren’t happening.’

‘Well it’s the best strategy I’ve come up with.’

‘I mean it Pete. I’m asking you – please don’t go now. Stay and help me with Dan.’

‘He won’t talk to me – you’re better off on your own with him.’

He squeezed between Caroline and the wall without making contact with either and slipped through the gap.

‘Pete!’

The door slammed shut. Caroline yanked it open again.

‘Don’t expect to get back in!’ she hollered after him. But he was already through the gate. She closed the door quietly and let out a long, low sigh. How had they come to this? She closed her eyes and sank back against the door.

She heard a tiny snuffling noise. She opened her eyes wide and peered up the stairs, towards the sound. The snuffle broke into a sob. Ben was standing at the top of the stairs, tears streaming down his cheeks.