The Loyal Servant (8 page)

‘OK – but you’ve got my number, yeah? Don’t hesitate to call me if you need someone to talk to.’

‘Thanks – but I’m absolutely fine. Really.’ She hoped the words didn’t sound as hollow to Tracy as they did to her. ‘Talking of Pam, where is she? And everyone else for that matter?’

‘Oh they’re all still gathered round the telly.’

‘Why?’

‘We had coffee and cake – it’s a shame you missed it. Though there might still be a slice left.’

‘What’s everyone doing watching television in the middle of the afternoon?’ She glanced at her overflowing in tray. ‘Haven’t they got better things to do?’

‘Well it’s quite big news, isn’t it?’

‘What is?’

Caroline’s mobile started to ring, she grabbed it from her bag and checked the little screen: number withheld. She hit the call answer button and held up a restraining finger to Tracy. ‘Hello?’

An urgent voice the other end of the line asked her to confirm her identity.

‘Yes that’s me,’ Caroline said.

‘I’m calling from Catford police station.’

‘What’s happened? Is it one of the children?’ Caroline swallowed back a queasy burn crawling from her stomach into her throat.

‘No, Mrs Barber. I’m calling regarding your mother.’

‘My mother? Has there been an accident?’

Tracy was staring so hard into her face, Caroline had to turn away.

‘Mrs Henderson has been arrested.’

Caroline leaned against the desk. ‘There must be some mistake.’

‘No mistake, Mrs Barber – she’ll be released shortly, but someone needs to collect her.’

‘Have you tried my husband? Only I’m at work at the moment and—’ She looked at her watch.

‘Mrs Henderson has asked for you.’

‘What happened?’

‘We’ll explain when you get here.’

The line went dead. Caroline looked blankly at the phone.

‘I couldn’t help overhearing,’ Tracy said. ‘Is your mum all right? Can I do anything?’

It took a moment for Caroline to respond. ‘What? No, no I don’t think so.’ She picked up her bag and looped the strap over her shoulder.

‘What you were saying before…’

Tracy frowned, and for a moment looked just like her baby.

‘Big news, you said.’ Caroline powered down her computer and monitor.

‘I was hoping they’d bring Stella back… I still miss her, you know. She was the best secretary of state we ever had.’ Tracy stared mournfully into the middle distance.

‘We all miss her, Tracy… Can you just tell me what’s happened?’

‘Fancy foisting that waste of space from the cabinet office on us.’

‘I don’t understand… how is that big news? King’s replacement was announced yesterday.’

‘He’s just trying to prove how popular he his. Making a big gesture. He’s fighting a losing battle if you ask me.’

‘Who are you talking about?’

‘King – that’s why everyone’s glued to the box. We’ve got a personal interest, haven’t we? He was here for nearly two years.’

‘You’re going to have to spell it out for me.’

‘It’s an unprecedented move, apparently. That’s what the reporter on the telly said. He wants to get a mandate from the people. Something like that.’

‘Please Tracy – can you just tell me what’s happened?’

The baby started to mewl, the mewl started to build. ‘I need to get this little one his next feed.’ She bounced the baby up and down, patted a hand on his back.

Caroline grabbed Tracy’s arm. ‘Please Tracy.’

‘All right!’

Caroline let go. The bouncing finally ceased.

‘William King has just called a general election.’

11

The congregation stood for the final hymn and Caroline slipped out of the pew at the rear of the art deco chapel in Chiswick Cemetery. She edged quietly towards the heavy double doors as the assembled dignitaries did their best to sing the first few bars of
I Vow to Thee My Country.

She’d arrived late at Martin Fox’s service of remembrance, just in time to hear the final words of Rachael Oakley’s eulogy. From the little she did catch, it sounded to Caroline as if the former prime minister’s wife hadn’t even met Martin Fox. After two hymns and an awkward psalm reading from Downing Street’s new chief of staff, Caroline was ready to believe she was the only one in attendance who knew anything about the schools minister at all.

In the past week, while the media had become increasingly distracted by the shock general election, the inquest into Martin Fox’s death was quietly opened and adjourned. An interim death certificate was issued by the coroner to allow the funeral to take place, and during a low-key press conference, Detective Inspector Leary announced the toxicology results wouldn’t be returned for another three weeks.

In seven days Caroline had failed to track down either PC Mills or Martin Fox’s PA, and wasn’t sure where else to turn. The press had accepted the official line that the minister had committed suicide, and even the conspiracy websites seemed to have lost interest. She felt so alone in her conviction that Martin Fox’s death was suspicious, that she didn’t feel she could discuss it with anyone.

A plain-clothes policeman nodded as she approached and opened one of the large wooden doors just enough for her to squeeze through. She stepped into blinding sunlight and held up a hand to shield her eyes. As she adjusted to the glare, she could just make out a stirring in a small huddle of men gathered on the other side of the wide gravel path. The grey-suited chauffeurs all looked over at her, seemed to decide as a group she was no one important, and went back to their newspapers and cigarettes. For the first time since she was pregnant with Claire, Caroline suddenly craved nicotine, and for a moment seriously considered cadging a smoke from one of the drivers. She glanced along the line of dark limousines, shining in the sun like enormous black beetles. There had to be at least half a dozen, all ready to dispatch the great and the good just as soon as Martin Fox’s body had been lowered into the ground.

A loud squawking started up in her handbag. She wrenched out her mobile and jabbed the answer key. She glanced left and right, unsure of cemetery etiquette, and hesitated before putting the phone to her ear.

‘What is it, Mum?’ She was whispering, but still her voice seemed disrespectfully loud. ‘I can’t really speak right now.’ She hurried away from the entrance of the chapel and turned down a side path.

‘I can see that for myself.’

Caroline reached the far side of the red brick building and stopped. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘Look towards the gates.’

Beyond the scrum of reporters and photographers hemmed in behind a rigid wall of police officers, Caroline saw a raggedy bunch of white-haired men and women. Her mother was right at the front, waving cheerfully at her.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Caroline said.

‘We heard a rumour His Holiness Frederick Larson has turned up. We missed him on the way in, but we’ve got three dozen Tesco Value eggs to pelt at his car when he leaves.’

‘For God’s sake, Mum – you can’t do that.’

‘It’s all right – Marge gets them cheap. Some of them are already cracked.’

Caroline tried to keep her voice down. ‘It’s not funny, Mum. You were lucky to be let off with a caution last week. If you get arrested again—’

Mourners had started to make their way out of the chapel.

‘Look I’ve got to go,’ Caroline said. ‘Promise me you won’t do anything stupid.’ The line went dead and she saw her mother make an exaggerated shrugging gesture before turning away.

At the head of the line emerging from the small brick building, Caroline saw a tall woman walking on her own behind the coffin. A curtain of black gauze obscured her face, but Caroline was almost sure it was the same woman she’d seen visiting Martin Fox’s house in Barons Court. The other mourners maintained a respectful distance, presumably not wanting to intrude on the woman’s private grief.

Caroline waited for the bulk of the cortege to slowly make its way down the path leading to the gravesite before she joined the tail end. She spotted Martin Fox’s PA emerging from the chapel, dabbing her face with a black lace handkerchief. Consuela’s face was pale and gaunt, the rims of her eyes and outline of her mouth looked as if they’d been drawn on with a thick red crayon. Caroline reached out and squeezed her hand. Consuela managed the dimmest of smiles.

‘It was a beautiful service.’ Consuela was whispering. She hooked her arm around Caroline’s and they started up the path towards the grave. ‘I thought the speeches were very touching.’

Caroline didn’t want to disagree, so she nodded and kept her opinions to herself.

‘It’s a terrible tragedy.’ Consuela’s nose twitched and she dragged her arm back. ‘Excuse me.’ She grabbed her handkerchief from her sleeve, blew her nose and shoved the sodden square of lace in her handbag. She sniffed again. ‘I can’t believe what’s happened.’

‘Neither can I.’

‘Of course – it must be even worse for you.’

Caroline flinched.

‘Finding Martin like that.’ Consuela stopped and lifted a crucifix to her lips and kissed the little silver cross. ‘A terrible, terrible thing.’ She tucked the cross under her sweater. ‘I can’t help thinking, if I hadn’t left early that day… I might have been able to…’ She shuddered and turned to face Caroline. ‘You know, I’ve had nightmares.’

Caroline nodded and took a deep breath. ‘I’ve been trying to speak to you.’

‘You have?’

‘You didn’t reply to my emails.’

‘I’ve been away – the doctor has given me something for my nerves.’

Can he give me something too?

‘I wanted to talk to you about Martin,’ Caroline said.

Consuela started walking again, this time more quickly. ‘I haven’t spoken to anyone about him.’

‘Neither have I, not really. I just needed to ask you something.’

Consuela kept her head down as they approached the mourners gathering around the grave.

Caroline stepped in front of her on the path and laid a hand gently on her arm. ‘Please.’

‘I’m too upset to speak about it.’

‘Can you just tell me how he seemed to you, before… before…’ She screwed up her face. ‘Had you noticed anything different about him?’

‘Different?’

Don’t make me spell it out.

‘In his mood.’

She looked into Caroline’s eyes and nodded.

‘You did?’

‘He seemed a little… irritable.’

Martin
?

‘He’d started snapping at me.’

‘Did you tell the police?’

‘I haven’t spoken to the police. They arranged an interview, but then the day before, they just cancelled. They said they didn’t need to see me anymore.’

‘Did they say why?’ Caroline had raised her voice.

Consuela frowned at her and held a finger to her lips. She gestured towards the group of mourners ahead of them. The vicar had taken up his position at the head of the grave, clutching a prayer book tightly in his hands.

The two women walked on in silence and joined an outer circle of mourners. Consuela clasped her hands together and closed her eyes.

Caroline scanned the group of mourners standing immediately next to the grave. Most of them she recognised from television news reports, but she couldn’t put a name to every one of the faces. Just as her gaze rested on Jeremy Prior he looked towards her then quickly away. The head of the academies division was standing between the tall woman in the veil and William King’s chief of staff. Prior muttered something to the prime minister’s aide then dropped his head, his hands gripped tight together.

Brought up as a card-carrying atheist, Caroline was unable to say a silent prayer of her own. Instead, she closed her eyes and made Martin Fox a promise. Whatever it took, she was determined to find out what really happened to him.

She opened her eyes, grabbed a tissue from her bag and quickly dispatched the few tears that had escaped down her cheeks. She blinked hard and stared at the pale wooden casket lying next to the grave.

I won’t let you down, Martin.

She took a step back and glanced around the graveyard. There couldn’t have been more than 50 or so mourners. It seemed a pitifully low turnout. Martin Fox had devoted over 25 years of his life to public service and only a handful of dignitaries and a few dozen colleagues had bothered to pay their last respects. Had any of his hard work really made a difference?

Caroline shook the thought from her head and continued to scan the meagre congregation, looking for people she recognised from the department. Right at the fringes of the scattered groups of twos and threes she noticed a man standing on his own. His hands were shoved deep into his trouser pockets and he was rocking backwards and forwards on his heels. There was something vaguely familiar about the way he moved. She continued to stare, trying to make out his features. He shifted his weight from foot to foot and pulled his hands from his pockets. Caroline breathed in sharply. It was the dark brown suit that had thrown her; she’d only seen him in uniform before.

The vanishing PC Mills had rematerialised.

*

‘Are you sure this is a good idea, Ange?’ Frank Carter stood on a collapsed stretch of chain-link fence, trying to hold it flat against the ground.

‘You said yourself you weren’t getting any clear head shots.’ Angela Tate, clutching a bedraggled bunch of daffodils, picked her way through the grid of wire diamonds, the pointy toes of her boots snagging in the mesh every couple of steps. ‘Think of this as a practical demonstration of the right to a free press.’

‘We got great head shots at the demo and sod all good it did us. Bumped right off the front page.’ Frank held out his hand, Angela ignored it. ‘And clean out of the paper.’

‘That was just unfortunate timing. A snap election pretty much trumps everything else.’ She stepped onto the safety of the manicured grass beyond the broken fence and peered at the group of mourners assembled around the grave on the other side of the cemetery. ‘We’ll go the long way round and approach them from behind. Take as many photos as you can. I want to see which of these cynical old buggers actually sheds a tear.’

She pushed Frank in front of her as they traipsed over the damp grass, weaving in and out of stone angels and dark marble headstones. They stopped when they reached a tree less than 50 yards from Fox’s grave.

‘This is me, then.’ Angela leaned a shoulder against the tree trunk, just wide enough to obscure her.

‘You’re not coming with?’

‘Photographs first and questions later.’ She looked down at the wilting daffodils and chucked them onto the nearest grave. ‘Now if I lose track of you, we’ll meet at the front gate, after the convoy has swept back out again.’ She tapped a number into her mobile and the light on Frank’s Bluetooth headset started to flash. Frank tapped the earpiece.

‘Are you receiving me?’ she said.

Frank nodded and rolled his eyes.

‘I want a blow-by-blow account of everyone who’s there. Just in case something happens to you. Or the camera.’

‘What’s likely to happen? What are you getting me into, Ange?’

‘It’s not war-torn Beirut. I’m sure you can handle yourself with a few security spods.’ She shoved him in the chest. ‘Well go on then!’

Frank broke into a stuttering shuffle, his camera bag swinging around his neck.

‘Is that as fast as you go?’ Angela hissed into her phone.

The photographer waved two fingers at her and carried on. She slipped behind the tree trunk, peering out every few seconds to check on his progress, her phone pressed against her ear.

‘Who’s turned up? Can you make them out yet?’ she said.

‘I can see King’s missus, but there’s no sign of the man himself.’ Frank took a gulping breath. ‘So the rumours of a surprise appearance were unfounded.’

‘That’s probably because I started them. Who else?’

‘The former PM’s other half is here too. Looks like the pair of them are trying to out Jackie O one another.’

‘Who’s looking the most tragic?’

It took a moment before Frank replied. ‘That prize goes to a leggy woman wearing a veil – you can’t get more tragic than a veil. She’s being propped up by the vicar on one side and King’s attack dog on the other. Any ideas who she is?’

‘Might be Fox’s cousin. His only surviving relative. Apparently she stands to inherit his fortune. Can’t find out anything about her. Trail goes cold just over 12 months ago.’ Angela reached into her bag for a notepad. ‘Who else?’

‘Your favourite academy sponsor Fred Larson’s sitting in his wheelchair, right next to the gaping hole, Lady Larson behind. I hope she’s put the bloody brake on – could be a double burial otherwise. Were you expecting him to turn up?’