The Loyal Servant (5 page)

‘I spoke to them this morning.’

‘What?’

‘You want to talk to the permanent secretary – fine, go ahead. She will tell you what I’ve told you. But in the meantime I need to make sure the room is cleaned.’

The cleaner reached out her hand and pointed to the phone. Caroline reluctantly handed it back. The incomprehensible chatter started back up, then the woman looked at Caroline and started to laugh. Caroline felt a wave of intense heat in her chest that started to work its way upwards. Suddenly she couldn’t breathe. She backed out of the room, getting only as far as the door where she collided with someone coming in. She spun on her heels and was confronted with Ed’s sweating face.

‘When you weren’t at your desk, I thought to myself, where’s the one other place she’s likely to be?’ He spread his hands wide, damp patches blooming under his arms. ‘And here you are. I think I should have been a detective.’

Caroline watched as he tried to suck in his stomach and pull his shoulders back. He failed on both counts.

‘Got something to show you.’ He produced a newspaper from his back pocket and waved it in her face.

‘Latest edition – hot off the press.’

It was a copy of the
Evening News
. He proudly held it up, as if he was showing her something he’d personally handcrafted. The headline zoomed out of focus, as he pushed it closer to her face. The words were swimming in front of her eyes. Opposite the headline was a colour photograph of Martin Fox.

‘Well?’ Ed said. ‘I told you I was right. Haven’t you got anything to say for yourself? Maybe you could start with “Sorry, Ed”.’ When Caroline didn’t respond, he shook his head in a mime of disappointment. ‘I haven’t been in this job, man and boy, without picking up a few things, you know.’ He shoved the paper at her. ‘I understand human nature. It’s essential in my line of work. I know what makes people tick.’ He tapped a fat finger against his temple.

Caroline took the newspaper from him and stared down at the headline, too confused to say anything, even to tell Ed to shut up. She looked back at the minister’s office. The cleaner was humming to herself, ineffectually flicking a duster across the shelves of the bookcase. Caroline turned her gaze back to the newspaper. She was distantly aware that Ed was still jabbering away next to her. She stared at the headline, but the words made no sense.

MET RELEASE MINISTER’S SUICIDE NOTE

6

A Saturday morning children’s television show flickered in the corner of the room with the sound down. Caroline sat on the sofa hugging a cushion with the curtains pulled shut and the lights off. She’d given up channel hopping after seeing the smiling face of Martin Fox burning out of the screen on a 24-hour news station. Right now a muted CBeebies was all she could cope with.

The hum of voices from the street filtered through the double-glazing of the living room window. The voices grew suddenly louder, in unison, the mumble building to a fresh wave of shouting. Then the garden gate crashed against its post and Caroline heard the dog let out a protective bark. A few seconds later the front door squealed open and slammed shut. The heavy tread of footsteps trundling up the stairs was closely followed by a scratching and snuffling on the other side of the living room door. Minty whimpered plaintively for a few moments then gave up. Caroline heard the dog’s claws tapping against the wooden floorboards.

Sorry girl.

She buried her face in the cushion and let out a little whine of her own. In less than 24 hours the press had discovered her work phone number and her home address, and had now set up camp on the other side of her front garden. She squeezed the cushion tighter until the noise from outside finally died back down to a low mumble.

If she ever found out who was responsible for leaking her details to the press… she pulled the cushion from her face. Even if she did discover their identity, what could she do? Report them to her boss? Jeremy Prior wouldn’t take much interest in any name-calling. She was yet to discover why he wanted to see her. She shuddered – the thought of spending any time at all with the acting head of the division was bad enough, without worrying what he wanted to speak to her about.

The door leading to her mother’s annexe at the rear of the house opened.

‘My God, Caroline,’ Jean said. ‘It’s like a bloody funeral parlour in here.’ She marched over to the window and reached for the curtains.

‘Don’t, Mum, they’ll all start gawping in again. They’ve taken enough pictures already.’

Her mother hesitated, still clinging on to the curtains.

‘Just leave it, will you?’

Jean let out an impatient sigh and flipped on the overhead light. Caroline lifted the cushion to shield her eyes.

‘You can’t sit in the dark moping all day, Caroline.’

‘Why not?’

‘What good is it doing?’

‘Please, Mum.’ Caroline threw down the cushion. ‘It’s not yet 9:30. I think it’s a bit early to assume I’ve turned into a recluse.’ She saw Jean staring at her baggy dressing gown, and looked down to discover tea stains on her pyjama top.

‘Have the children had their breakfast?’

‘Don’t fuss, Mum.’

Caroline would gladly have locked herself away in the bedroom, but when she left him, Pete was still dead to the world, snoring like a bear in a coma.

Jean sat down next to her and grabbed her hand. ‘Are you looking after yourself?’ she said.

‘I’m all right. The kids are all right…’ Caroline dragged her hand away and gripped the cushion again. ‘Ben’s at football practice, Dan’s upstairs, no doubt exceeding our broadband limit, and Claire’s just come back from walking the dog. I haven’t given up parental responsibilities, I’m just not dressed yet. Is that suddenly a crime?’

‘All right. Sorry I spoke. I’m just trying to help.’

Jean lifted a hand to Caroline’s hair and started to drag strands across the parting, first one way then the other. ‘You know, you should get a few highlights, disguise the grey.’

Caroline batted her hand away. ‘Mum!’

‘I’m only saying.’

‘What? What are you
only
saying? And exactly how is it meant to help?’

‘You can talk to me you know.’

Caroline squeezed the cushion in her fists, the foam inside forming hard ridges between her fingers.

‘I know you always preferred to speak to your dad about things, but… well, all I’m saying is… I can listen too. Your father didn’t have a monopoly on sympathy.’

Caroline bit her lip and felt a rawness in her throat. In that moment she missed her dad more than she could remember. She squeezed her eyes tight and tried to swallow.

‘If you don’t want to talk to me – what about speaking to your sister? I could give a call now.’

‘It’s the middle of the night in New Zealand.’

‘It’s 8:30 in the evening.’

‘I don’t want to worry Michelle with all this.’

‘You’ve got to speak to someone. I know what you’re like, bottling things up. It’ll all come out one way or the other.’

‘I… I just…’ Caroline searched Jean’s face. She knew her mother meant well, but there were some subjects she just couldn’t broach. ‘I’m fine,’ she said eventually.

‘You don’t have to put on a brave face with me, love.’ Jean squeezed her hand. ‘Why don’t I make us a nice cup of tea and you can tell me all about it.’

‘Not right now.’

‘I realise how difficult it must be when you think you know someone and they do something so unexpected, so… out of character—‘

‘Oh, Mum! You have no idea what it’s like.’

‘Tell me, then.’

‘No!’ Caroline unhooked her hand. ‘I can’t.’ She leapt up from the sofa and made it as far as the door and turned back. ‘I’m going to have a bath.’

Jean opened her mouth, but Caroline put up a hand to stop her. ‘I just need to be on my own for a while. If Pete’s not up in half an hour, give him a prod, will you?’

Her mother frowned at her.

‘He’s picking Ben up from football practice.’

Jean pulled a face. ‘Will he be able to?’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Won’t Pete still be, you know—’

‘What?’ Caroline glanced towards the front door – the noise of the journalists was getting louder.

‘Won’t he be over the limit?’

Caroline was about to defend Pete but stopped herself. Her mother was probably right. He wouldn’t be safe to drive. ‘OK then – you pick Ben up.’

Jean raised her eyebrows.

‘What have I said now?’

‘A bit of gratitude wouldn’t go amiss.’

Caroline dropped her shoulders and sighed. ‘Thanks, Mum. I really appreciate it.’ Each word was excruciating.

‘When does Ben’s football finish? Only I’ve got a campaign meeting at lunchtime. The whole gang’s coming round.’

‘Round here?’

‘Make sure either you or Pete is in the land of the living by then.’ She looked Caroline up and down. ‘Or at least dressed.’

‘With that lot outside?’

‘We could do with a bit of publicity.’

‘God, Mum – you can’t.’

Jean folded her arms across her chest.

‘I work in the academies division. Martin was a pro-academies minister. Do you think talking to the press about your campaign to stop the academy being built down the road is likely to save me from redundancy? I’m hanging onto my job by the fingernails as it is.’

‘It’s not all about you, Caroline.’

Caroline rolled her eyes. ‘I’m asking you nicely. Please have your meeting somewhere else. You can have as many meetings as you like when the press have lost interest in me.’

Jean harrumphed and pulled a mobile phone from her cardigan pocket. ‘Last minute changes do not go down well.’ She moved her thumbs deftly over the tiny keypad. ‘They might find themselves another chairman.’ She finished tapping out her message. ‘The things I do for you.’

Caroline turned away and trudged up the stairs. On the landing she pulled open the airing cupboard door, reached behind a stack of folded towels and dug out the West End Final edition of the
Evening News
she’d hidden there the night before. She slipped into the bathroom and locked the door behind her.

For once the bath didn’t look like a team of muddy rugby players had been using it for a fortnight. She put the plug in and turned on the hot tap. The water spluttered out in a trickle, Caroline watched it for a moment and collapsed onto the toilet seat. She looked down at the newspaper on her lap. Her eyes were stinging now. She blinked and a few drips of salty water sprang onto her cheeks. Just as quickly as the prickle in her bottom lids came, so it dissipated again. She looked down at the main headline. Martin Fox’s death had finally made it onto the front page. The
Evening News
had reproduced the typewritten suicide note in full colour. She skimmed over it again – she’d read it so many times now she knew the lines by heart.

To whom it may concern
I cannot find the words to describe the shame I feel. Not for committing this final act, but for the one that drove me to it.

Caroline rubbed the heel of a hand into her eye. The inside of her nose was fizzing. She re-read the next few lines.

To my friends and family, I apologise. For any hurt or embarrassment these revelations may cause you. I’m sorry I have not been man enough to face my tormentors.

She took a deep breath before moving on to the next paragraph.

I have therefore decided to take the coward’s way out. The easy road. And I leave you to make your own way along life’s rocky path.

Hard as she tried, Caroline couldn’t imagine Martin Fox writing those words. The longer she stared at them the more alien they seemed. It just didn’t sound like him. But it was the next section that really convinced her the note couldn’t have been written by the man she’d got to know over the last few years.

To my tormentors – worse than bullies in the school playground – I deny you your weapons of blackmail and extortion. I admit it here in black and white, for all the world to read.

Yes, I am a homosexual.

Caroline read the line again. She’d lost count of the number of times she’d stared down at those words. Martin Fox wasn’t gay. She would have known. She read the last few lines.

Yes, I have hidden the fact from my family, friends and colleagues.

Yes, I have been living my life as a lie.

There, I have ‘outed’ myself. So whoever you are, do not trouble yourself with this matter a moment longer. I have taken away your power. You cannot hurt me now.

I only wish there was some sense of triumph to be gained by thwarting your grubby little plan. In my final moments, all I feel is shame.
M.T.F. 31 March

The only other story on the front page was an editorial piece speculating on William King’s new cabinet appointments. The piece on Martin Fox’s death continued inside, but up until now Caroline hadn’t managed to read beyond the contents of the note. She swallowed hard, peeled away the rapidly moistening top sheet and forced herself to look at the article on page three. The first line rocked her so hard she felt as if she’d been punched in the stomach.

There was a thump on the bathroom door, then another.

‘Are you all right?’ Jean said.

When Caroline didn’t answer straightaway her mother banged on the door again.

‘Caroline?’

Caroline leaned on the side of the bath and tried to breathe. ‘What is it?’

‘Are you crying again?’

‘Please! Can’t you just leave me alone?’

‘You haven’t told me what time I should pick up Ben.’

‘Half eleven.’

Jean muttered something as she walked away. Caroline waited to hear her mother’s footsteps on the stairs before she turned back to the newspaper.

Schools minister Martin Fox’s suicide note was found unceremoniously stuck to the screen of his computer monitor with a lump of Blutak.

She blinked and read the sentence again. She stared at the words until they blurred into a thick smudge of ink on the page. She closed her eyes and forced herself to picture Martin Fox’s office, the way it was when she found him. There was no note attached to the monitor. There was no note anywhere. What was it the police constable had said to her? She could see his sympathetic face, his big sad eyes staring into hers. Hadn’t he asked her if she’d seen a note, or a letter? She tried to remember his exact words. He’d asked her if she’d moved a note or taken one away. Surely that could only mean the police hadn’t found one. How could a room of forensics experts miss something like that?

Ever since Ed Wallis had waved his newspaper in her face, Caroline had assumed the note had been found in Martin Fox’s desk drawer, or maybe even sitting in a printer tray somewhere on the seventh floor. The journalist must have made a mistake about its location. Someone should let them know. The
Evening News
would have to print a correction.

She threw back the bolt on the bathroom door and hurried into the bedroom. Pete shifted his position; a ripple ran across the muscles in his back. His head was turned to one side and his sleeping face looked peaceful and untroubled. He reached out a hand towards her side of the bed and groaned. She watched him for a moment longer, expecting him to wake. But his eyes stayed firmly closed and he let out a snuffling grunt. Caroline turned quickly to her bedside table and grabbed the phone. She scanned the first couple of pages of the newspaper and found the number for the newsdesk halfway down page two.