The Loyal Servant (29 page)

Angela left a five-pound note on the table and joined him at the door. ‘I can help you get some medicine.’ She said.

He jerked away from her. ‘Fuck – you shouldn’t creep up on people like that.’

‘Still expecting to be abducted?’ She was in danger of losing her patience with him.

‘Are you laughing at me? I’m not fucking paranoid.’ He hugged himself again. ‘Doesn’t mean they’re not out to get me,’ he muttered under his breath.

‘Who – the
God botherers
?’

‘No. Fuck – not that bunch of amateurs. These people are serious. They’ve been watching my place.’

‘Are you saying you’re under surveillance?’

‘I’m going to get busted any day – I just know it. Put me away to shut me up. If I’m lucky.’

‘What are you saying Freddie?’

‘Mr Larson!’

‘All right!’ Angela threw up her hands.

‘Are you getting me that money or what?’

‘It’s a two way deal.’

His cheek twitched. ‘Something’s going to happen. Soon. I can feel it. I don’t feel safe.’ He stepped out onto the street, still checking up and down. ‘Even at the fucking clinic.’

‘Because they refused you your treatment?’

‘They wouldn’t even give me the results of my blood test.’

‘Blood test?’

‘Hep C, they said. Now suddenly they know nothing about any fucking blood test.’ He dragged a sleeve across his nose and sniffed. ‘It was a new nurse, but fuck – they can’t even keep track of something as simple as that. It’s shit. I should find a new fucking clinic.’

‘My paper could help you do that.’

He turned to face her, his eyes darting about. ‘Yeah?’

‘I’ve told you – I want to help.’ She started walking south down Bishopsgate, towards Liverpool Street station. ‘Let’s find a bank right now – prove how serious I am.’

‘I’m still not talking about King. I wouldn’t be in this fucking mess now if it wasn’t for him.’

‘I think a lot of people share your opinion of him.’

‘Yeah, well… And they don’t even know him like I do.’ He grabbed her arm and pulled her round to face him. ‘There’s an HSBC just up here. Five hundred is good. Might take off somewhere. Somewhere they can’t find me.’

‘Sorry, I don’t have that much in my account.’

‘What? Haven’t you got a company credit card?’ He speeded up again and Angela had to jog to keep up.

‘I wish I had. This is my personal account.’

They reached the bank. Angela shoved a debit card into the machine, shielded her hand as she punched in her PIN, and selected the £50 option. Freddie Larson glanced at the screen.

‘Fifty will get me fuck all.’

‘It would get you a train ticket somewhere, if you’re so desperate to get away.’ She dragged the notes from the machine, wrapped them around her business card and shoved the bundle at him. ‘You haven’t actually told me anything I couldn’t find out somewhere else. This is just a token of good faith.’

He stuck the cash in a pocket.

‘There’s more,’ she said. ‘Potentially much more – if you actually tell me something I don’t know.’

Freddie sniffed and checked up and down the street. ‘How much more money?’

‘I’d need to discuss that with my editor.’

‘Call him, then.’

‘I can’t waste his time if you’re just pissing me about. Answer some more questions first.’

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. ‘Fucking clinic.’

‘Tell you what, why don’t we take a walk around the block, you can answer a few more of my questions and we finish up back here for more cash. But only if you tell me something new.’

Freddie Larson chewed his lip, looked up and down the street again. ‘OK,’ he said eventually. ‘But then you phone your paper to get me some proper money.’

‘Let’s just see how we go, shall we? Take it one step at a time.’

He started walking away.

‘Tell me about Cambridge.’

‘What about it?’ He lengthened his stride.

Angela did her best to keep up, but at this rate they would have circumnavigated the block before he answered a single question.

‘Did you enjoy your time there? Make any friends?’

He shrugged. ‘Bunch of fucking wankers, most of them.’

‘But some were OK?’

‘Why do you want to know? What fucking story are you writing anyway?’

‘I’m trying to build a picture of Martin Fox. I’m doing a major profile.’

‘You mean a hatchet job?’

‘Not at all.’

‘What have my friends at college got to do with your profile?’

He was proving to be more suspicious than his mother.

‘Did you and Martin Fox have any mutual friends?’

‘I’m not talking about King – I’ve already said.’

‘Not King.’ He was really starting to piss her off now. ‘Other students.’

He shrugged. ‘We went to a few of the same bars – shagged a few of the same blokes.’

Angela raised her eyebrows.

‘Don’t look so disgusted – I didn’t have any of his sloppy seconds, if that’s what you’re thinking. It was the other way round if anything.’

Freddie Larson was gay. Of course he was. How had she not made the connection before?

‘Can you remember any of their names?’

‘Why?’

‘I’d like to speak to them.’

‘You don’t need to speak to them. You are getting me that money?’ He grabbed her arm.

They’d turned down a quiet street. Angela looked left and right. There was no one about. His grip tightened.

‘You’re my main source – of course. But I need a bit of the flavour of Fox’s student days to get the full picture.’ She tried to pull her arm away. He held firm. ‘You know – adventures the pair of you might have had… sexual conquests… any wild parties you went to…’

He twisted her arm and pushed his face closer to hers. ‘What have you heard?’

She pulled back her head.
Heard
? It felt as if her arm would break at any moment. ‘Oh – you know…’ She quickly considered her options. She should be as vague as possible. ‘Rumours hang around newsrooms for years. They start off as gossip, but they never really go away.’

‘Well, whatever it is you think you know, you’re wrong. It had nothing to do with me.’

He let go of her arm and set off again at a jogging pace. When he realised she hadn’t followed him he ran back at her. ‘Come on – we’ve got to get that money.’ He started jogging on the spot and tugged at her sleeve like an overactive child demanding an ice cream. Rather than a man in his late 40s itching for his next fix.

Angela wasn’t prepared to hand over any more of her own money without getting something substantial in return.

‘That’s not what I’ve heard,’ she said, feet still firmly rooted to the pavement.

‘What?’

‘I’ve heard it was
everything
to do with you.’

‘Who told you that?’

He grabbed her arm again and squeezed hard.

‘I can’t remember who first came to us with the story.’

‘They’re lying fucking bastards.’ He started walking and pulled Angela behind him, his fingers gripping tighter. ‘I need that money.’

He dragged her along the street for another 50 yards until they turned a corner onto the main road. Then he fell into step with her, making his hand on her arm look less like a threat and more like a display of affection. She considered shouting for help, but as they neared the ATM she could feel his grip slackening.

‘How much can you get out in one go?’

‘You’re not getting a penny more until you tell me exactly what happened.’

‘Fuck you!’

‘How much do you need my money?’

He grabbed her jacket and pulled her close. ‘Fucking bitch.’

‘Who was involved, Freddie?’

‘My name’s
Mr Larson
.’

This approach really wasn’t working. She pushed his hands from her lapel and started to walk away. She waved an arm at a passing taxi.

‘Wait!’ Freddie joined her at the kerb. ‘It wasn’t my fault.’

‘Whose fault was it?’

‘Get me the money and I swear I’ll give you a name.’

‘Give me the name and I promise to hand over the cash.’

He wrapped his thin arms around his ribs and started rocking backwards and forwards. ‘Shit. None of it was ever meant to get out.’ He stopped rocking and looked at her. ‘How much do you know already?’

‘If you want the money, I think we should stick to me asking the questions, don’t you?’

‘If you know so much why has your paper never printed anything about it before?’

She sucked in a deep breath. ‘What? And get our arses sued?’

‘At least he was good for something then.’ He was half talking to himself.

‘Who? Good for what?’

‘Forget it.’

She pulled her debit card from her handbag and started to walk towards the cashpoint machine. ‘Name, Freddie. Whose fault was it if it wasn’t yours?’

He scurried after her, dragging the back of his hand across his nose. He let out a short breath. ‘Then you’ll give me the cash?’

She nodded.

‘William King.’

Her heart sank. It felt like he was plucking King’s name out of the air, just because he’d mentioned him earlier.

‘Come on. Give me the cash.’

‘I already knew about King.’

‘Give me the cash and I’ll give you the other name. They were both there when it actually happened. They were both as guilty as one another.’

Angela punched in her PIN and withdrew another £200 pounds. Freddie tried to snatch it from her but she was too fast. She shoved the cash deep into a pocket and kept her hand wrapped tight around the notes. The street was too busy for Freddie to try anything.

‘Name.’ she said.

‘It’s been too many years. You won’t be able to prove anything. And you’d still get your arses sued if you tried.’

‘Name!’

Fat beads of sweat had started to appear like dew drops on his bald head. He wiped a hand over them.

‘Come on, Freddie.’

He stared her straight in the eye. ‘Rachael Fellows.’

‘Is that name supposed to mean something to me?’

‘It’s what she was called back then, before she got married.’ His gaze shifted to the hand Angela had shoved in her pocket.

‘What’s her married name?’

‘Rachael Oakley.’

40

‘The prime minister’s wife?’ Caroline stared into Angela Tate’s face, expecting to see some sign of doubt. She couldn’t detect even the slightest flicker.

‘
Ex
-prime minister’s wife.’

‘And you believed him?’

They were sitting on a bench at the western end of Embankment Gardens. Caroline grabbed the edge of the wooden seat with both hands and shook her head.

‘Why shouldn’t I believe him?’

‘I would have expected you to know when someone is bullshitting you.’

‘I do – he wasn’t. It was too random a choice for him to make up. He would have plucked some other, more credible name out of the air if he was lying.’

‘He was a drug addict desperate for his next fix – he would have told you anything he thought you wanted to hear.’ Caroline lifted her feet so that a street cleaner could get to a crisp packet that had fluttered under the bench.

‘He knew her maiden name,’ Tate said after the cleaner had moved away. ‘How would he know something like that unless he knew her when she was single? Rachael Fellows married Duncan Oakley in 1980.’

‘OK – what exactly happened? What was this ‘thing’ that Freddie Larson said was her fault?’

Tate looked away. Her face twitched into a grimace. ‘He hasn’t told me that yet.’

‘What?’

‘I’ve got to rustle up some more money first.’

‘Oh come on, Angela. He’s playing you. You must see that.’

Tate reached into her bag and withdrew a packet of Marlboro Lights and a lighter. She lit a cigarette and sucked down a long first drag before she spoke again.

‘I’ve checked it out. Assuming the ‘thing’ happened while Freddie Larson was in Cambridge—’

‘You’re basing that assumption on what?’

‘We were talking about his time there when he brought up the ‘thing’.’

‘Do you know how ridiculous you sound right now? You’re practically helping to invent the story for him.’

Tate smiled. ‘It wasn’t that long ago I was accusing you of having an over-active imagination.’

Caroline blew out her cheeks. ‘Yes – I’ve got a whole new perspective now. Unemployment can do that for you.’

‘You haven’t lost your job.’

‘Not yet, not officially.’ Caroline stared blankly at the tourists strolling along the path through the gardens. ‘Give it a few more days.’ She turned back to Tate who was staring at the glowing end of her cigarette. ‘What did your editor say about bumping the CD-ROM story off the front page?’

‘I still haven’t spoken to him. I haven’t been back to the office. I’m keeping my head down.’ She flicked the ash from her cigarette.

‘I don’t understand. Assuming someone leaned on your editor to downplay the story, why didn’t he bury it completely? Why print any story at all?’

Tate sucked more smoke into her lungs. ‘I suppose too many people knew that the CD-ROM was missing. Better to make the whole thing into a smaller story and control it than risk it coming out some other way.’ She exhaled slowly. ‘Damage limitation.’ She turned to Caroline. ‘Have the police questioned you about it yet?’

‘I would imagine a visit is imminent.’

‘Admit nothing – I’m going to stick to the story we agreed. The CD-ROM came in the post from the late minister, just days before his death. Let them try to prove otherwise.’

Caroline sighed. Her breath came out in a ragged stutter. She closed her eyes for a moment. ‘It’s all been for nothing,’ she said. ‘I thought going public with the CD-ROM would stir things up a bit. Start people asking questions… about the department… about Martin. But nothing’s changed. We’re no nearer discovering the reason for Martin’s death.’

‘I think Freddie’s story might help us with that.’

‘Really? A middle-aged junkie pointing the finger at Rachael Oakley? Blaming her for something – you don’t even know what – that happened, what – 30 years ago?’

Tate took another long drag on her cigarette.

‘Was Rachael Oakley even at Cambridge then?’

The journalist shifted in her seat. She ran a tongue over her teeth. ‘She went to Oxford University.’

‘Well then!’

‘But her family’s country pile is in Cambridgeshire. Not ten miles outside the city.’

‘And you’ve decided, with very little help from Freddie himself, that there’s a connection between William King—’

‘There’s some seriously bad blood between Freddie and King. He wasn’t faking that.’

‘A connection between King, Freddie and Rachael Oakley?’

Tate nodded. ‘And Martin Fox. He seemed to be the one Freddie was closest to.’ She threw her cigarette to the ground, stubbed it out with her boot and took a very deep breath. ‘There’s something I haven’t told you.’ She ran her fingers through her hair. ‘About Martin.’

Caroline held up a hand. ‘It’s OK – save your breath. I already know.’

‘Are we talking about the same thing?’

‘He was gay. There – I’ve said it for you.’ She looked at Tate who was carefully avoiding making eye contact.

‘How long have you known?’

‘Since about lunchtime.’

‘Christ! You seem to be handling it very well.’

If you only knew what my insides were doing right now
.

‘I’m still convinced the suicide note was a fake,’ Caroline said. ‘I’ve spoken to someone close to Martin who agrees. Categorically.’

‘Who?’ Tate was staring intently into her face now.

‘It doesn’t matter who – no one for you to get your claws into.’ A drop of rain fell on her cheek. The clouds were darkening. She got to her feet. ‘Good luck with Freddie Larson. When are you seeing him?’

‘Tomorrow night – why?’

‘That should give him plenty of time to cook up a nice juicy story for you.’

Another fat raindrop hit Caroline’s face. The gardens started to empty as tourists ran for cover. Caroline headed in the direction of the entrance gate. Tate followed.

‘He’s telling the truth,’ Tate shouted after her.

‘Even if he is, you won’t be able to corroborate any of it. Any evidence will have been destroyed years ago.’

They passed through the gate just as a loud crack ripped through the sky. A second later the clouds unleashed a torrent of water. Caroline and Tate skirted round a flower stall and dived into the entrance of Embankment tube.

Caroline’s head and shoulders were drenched. She opened her bag and fished out a packet of tissues. When she’d finished blotting the rain from her face she turned to Tate. ‘With no corroboration, do you really think your editor will be happy to publish Freddie’s story? Judging by his recent track record, I can’t imagine he’d let it get anywhere near the
Evening News
.’ She shoved the ball of soggy tissues back into her bag. ‘Admit it – it’s hopeless.’

Tate seemed to deflate. Her shoulders sagged. ‘You’re beginning to sound like a woman who’s given up.’

‘What more can we do, realistically?’

‘I haven’t worked that out yet. But we can’t just throw in the towel.’

The rain was thundering down, splashing high off the pavements.

‘Let’s look at the sequence of events… you find Martin Fox at his desk, at around the same time Duncan Oakley resigns as prime minister, then later that evening William King becomes interim PM.’

‘But you said there was no connection before – you practically ridiculed my suggestion that there might be.’

‘I didn’t have Freddie Larson linking all the main players together before.’ Tate grabbed Caroline’s arm. ‘We can’t give up now – we just need to dig a little deeper.’

Caroline stared at the puddle rapidly forming into a lake in the gutter outside. She shook her head.

‘Come on! We still have those dodgy companies linking Larson and King. The answers are somewhere in all those documents you got for me. It wasn’t in vain, Caroline, believe me.’ She shook Caroline’s arm. ‘I can’t do this on my own. We’ve both been cast out, one way or another. We need to fend for ourselves.’

A black cab pulled into the kerb, sending up a spray of dirty rainwater. The passengers jumped out and ran towards the entrance to the tube station. Before they got there, Tate yanked at Caroline’s arm and dragged her into the downpour and across the pavement. She threw open the cab door, shouted at the driver and bundled Caroline inside. The taxi did a quick U-turn and before Caroline could get her breath back, they were heading south towards the river down Northumberland Avenue.

‘Where are we going?’

‘Home,’ Tate said. ‘I think we’ve got some planning to do.’

*

Caroline waited on the kerb while Angela Tate argued with the cab driver about how much he should write on the receipt.

The rain had stopped and the late April sun was doing its best to dry the roads and pavements. Caroline closed her eyes for a moment and lifted her face towards the sky. Her tangled shoulder muscles loosened just a fraction. Tate joined her on the pavement.

‘This is me, here.’ She pushed open a black metal gate and hurried down a flight of steps, pulling a set of keys from her handbag. She froze when she reached the door.

‘Shit.’

Caroline was right behind her. She saw what Tate saw. The door was open a couple of inches, the wood of the doorframe splintered around the lock. Tate eased the door open and stepped inside. Caroline reached out a hand and grabbed the sleeve of Tate’s raincoat.

‘Shouldn’t we call the police?’ she said.

Tate answered with a grunt and pushed through into the hall. She was looking at the walls as she went, then down at the rucked rug beneath her feet. ‘Can you smell shit?’ she said quietly.

Caroline sniffed. ‘No. Can you?’

‘Not yet.’ She carried on up the hall and paused at the first doorway. She stood there for a moment and took a deep breath.

‘Wait.’ Caroline stood beside her. ‘Someone could still be in there.’

Tate nudged her foot against the bottom of the door. It creaked open. The room beyond contained a brass bed, an enormous wardrobe and a dressing table. Everything appeared to be intact. Tate peered behind the door.

‘No one lurking there,’ she said. Her voice had picked up a slight quiver.

‘Anything missing?’

‘Hard to say, but if there is, I’ve been robbed by the neatest burglars ever.’ She tried a smile and failed. ‘Shall we move on?’

Caroline nodded and sidestepped out of the way. She followed Tate down the hall and they repeated the process at the next two doors. Like the master bedroom, the narrow box room and windowless bathroom seemed to have been left unmolested.

At the end of the hall an archway led into a galley kitchen. Even from where she was standing, Caroline could see undisturbed work surfaces and closed wall cabinets. Which left only the final door on the right.

‘Brace yourself, pet.’ Tate pulled a face, her attempt at lightening the mood falling flat. She turned the handle and pushed open the door, but remained firmly on the threshold.

Caroline tried to peer over her shoulder. ‘What’s the damage?’

Tate rushed in and scanned the room. ‘I say again – tidy burglars.’ She turned towards a window at the rear. ‘Ah… much as I feared.’

Caroline followed her gaze. A small wooden desk, not much bigger than a child’s school desk, sat in a corner, a white and transparent keyboard on top, attached to a mouse. ‘They’ve taken your monitor?’ She leaned her hands on her knees and peered beneath the desk. A power cable was plugged into the wall at one end and thin air at the other. ‘And your PC.’

‘It was an iMac.’ Tate screwed up her face and sucked in a breath through gritted teeth. She strode towards a tall cupboard next to the desk and yanked open the doors. The shelves inside were empty. ‘Well, at least they haven’t tried to make it look like an opportunistic break-in by a passing junkie. I’m not sure if that’s a mark of incompetence or breathtaking arrogance.’

Caroline grabbed her phone from her bag as Tate opened the row of drawers inside the cupboard.

‘I’m afraid your son won’t be getting his memory stick back.’ Tate shook her head.

‘Where did you leave the CD-ROM?’

‘In the office.’ She shook her head. ‘My editor asked me for it.’

‘What about back-ups?’

‘Also in the office.’ Tate stared into the empty drawers. ‘I think we’re missing something here.’ She stuck a hand in her hair and glanced around the room. ‘There was nothing truly damaging on the CD-ROM. Highly embarrassing that personal details were lost in the first place, but the information was innocuous enough.’

‘What are you saying?’

‘If this was just about the CD-ROM, you’d think it would have happened yesterday. Detectives were sent to my office to question me yesterday afternoon. Presumably they recovered the disc from my editor. If they were just after any copies I’d made, they would have come here with a warrant, wouldn’t they?’

‘So you think this is about something else?’

‘If my editor let them go through all my stuff—’