A Sentimental Traitor (27 page)

First Sloppy, then Emily. It made sense to Harry. Keep digging. But he had one significant problem. He had no idea where Emily was. And it was clear that she was hiding, and had
gone to considerable lengths to cover her tracks. Her mobile number was no longer operational, she’d moved out of her apartment, and he didn’t need to call her old place of employment
to know she’d left there, too. So he asked Jemma to do it. A woman’s voice was so much less threatening.

‘Hello, is it possible to speak with Emily Keane, please?’

‘Who’s calling?’

‘Oh, my name’s Sally. We met a couple of months ago, said we’d meet up for a girls’ night out. But I’ve been working up in Scotland, only just got back.’

‘I’m sorry, Emily no longer works here.’

‘Oh, that’s a pity. She said she liked her job.’

‘And we liked her, but she got headhunted. A very nice offer, so she said.’

‘Can you tell me where she’s gone?’

‘I’m sorry, we’re not allowed to give out those details. She had a little trouble, you know.’

‘Yes, wasn’t that just dreadful? I understand. I was just wondering if we could get together this evening, that’s all.’

The receptionist laughed. ‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible. She’s gone abroad, you see.’

‘Abroad? You know, she mentioned she might do something like that. No, don’t tell me, I think I can guess where. It’s Brussels, isn’t it? Any chance you could, you know,
let me have an address where I can write to her?’

Emily Keane had been in Brussels since a fortnight after the attack. Move on, move away, protect her from trouble, that had been part of the deal. It had never been intended that she would go
through with the charges against Harry, even if the CPS had believed they might stick. Distract him, disgrace him, then destroy him. There was no need to take matters further, so Patricia Vaine had
said. They could forget about Harry Jones.

It was a rare and catastrophic lapse of judgement.

Place du Luxembourg – or Luxemburgplein, as more than half the population in that bitterly divided nation would have it – is a modest square of pavement bars and
eating places in the part of Brussels that is known as the European Quarter. The quarter is said to be the heart of Europe; locals jest that it has yet to find its head. Place du Luxembourg is of
no particular architectural merit, indeed it is something of a stylistic mess with its mixture of ancient and modern. Its significance derives entirely from its position, for it squats on the
doorstep of the European Parliament, which looms behind it like the spaceship of some alien life form that has landed from a distant world. At the centre of the square, protected by an expanse of
grass, is the statue of John Cockerill, a hugely inventive Anglo-Belgian industrialist of the Victorian era. He was noted for his integrity and stands on a plinth engraved with his motto:
‘Work and Intelligence’. For some reason, he has his back turned towards the Parliament. But that may not be the case for long, for there are plans to wipe out Place du Luxembourg, to
flatten it and use the space to construct a triumphal avenue or boulevard that will reach out from central Brussels to the place of the Parliament, yet in the meantime, while the planners plot and
the construction companies sharpen their shovels, the good burghers get on with their lives, dodging between the Mercedes limousines that clog the cobbled square during rush hour, finding ways of
making their own buck from the growing bureaucracy.

Emily was sitting at one of the restaurants that line the broad pavements of the square, drinking an afternoon coffee. She had plenty of time to finish it, because she had found little pressure
on her since arriving in Brussels. The job that had been arranged by Patricia Vaine had a fine title and pleasingly substantial salary, along with all the usual perks, but as yet it had few duties.
She rather thought that the job had been created by Patricia in something of a hurry, with the details to be worked out at leisure after the long summer. So Emily sat in the afternoon sun, content
with her new life, browsing through a lifestyle brochure. She needed new furniture – the rents here were so accommodating compared with London that she had far more space to fill than in
Clapham, and she was wondering whether a new sleigh bed might fit in with the rest of her bedroom pieces when she glanced up and found instant terror. There, no more than a handful of yards in
front of her, map in hand, gazing around him like any innocent tourist, was Harry.

She wanted to cry out, to flee, but did neither. She sat frozen in fear and bewilderment, praying that he wouldn’t turn, look her way, recognize her. And when, after what seemed like the
passing of several lifetimes, he moved slowly on, disappearing in the direction of the train station, she found herself trembling, still holding her cup of coffee, which had spilled over the
tablecloth and was spreading into a dark and embarrassing stain. The waiter was quick to see her predicament and provide consolation in the form of a new tablecloth and fresh coffee, while Emily
reached for her phone.

The call was hurried, whispered. As soon as it was finished she jumped up from her table, leaving her fresh coffee untouched, and ran towards the taxi stand at the side of the square. She was
agitated, didn’t see another woman approaching on a path that would intercept her, and almost beat her to the door of the taxi.

‘
Oh, pardon,
’ the other woman said as they both bent for the driver’s ear.

Emily was flustered, and evidently in a hurry. ‘I’m sorry,’ she panted, ‘but I think I was—’

‘
Mais pas de probleme
,’ the other woman said. ‘There are many others,’ she added in accented English. ‘
S’il vous plaît, après
vous.
’

Emily nodded in thanks. ‘The Avenue de Cortenbergh. You know it?’

‘But of course,
mademoiselle
,’ the driver said as Emily jumped into the back seat. She didn’t look up as they drove away across the cobbles, her eyes fixed in
concentration.

As she watched Emily disappear into the distance, Jemma took off the sunglasses and hat that she had been wearing, and looked forward to wiping off the heavy make-up that was caked across her
face. During the election she’d been upset about being able to spend so little time in the constituency, jealous of all the others who had a slice of Harry, but now she gave thanks. It meant
that a distracted Emily had little chance of recognizing her, and none at all in her disguise. What was more, she’d discovered where Emily was heading. Harry’s plan had worked well.

He had decided not to confront her, try to rip the truth from her. He knew he was unlikely to succeed where the Metropolitan Police had spectacularly failed, and even trying might leave him
stuck in even more accusatory mud. Instead he had been more subtle. Had scared her. Encouraged her to reach out for reassurance to someone who would understand, someone who knew – someone who
had conspired with her. It was a fair assumption that she was headed for that person right now. Someone in the Avenue de Cortenbergh.

They were getting closer. And they got closer still when, later that evening, he and Jemma took a stroll down the avenue. It was a broad street that led from one of Brussels’ main railway
stations to the Schuman roundabout at the very heart of the European Quarter. It was lined with a clutter of commercial offices and several embassies, along with a very strong presence of EU
Commission buildings. One of them was the headquarters of EATA. Discreet, nondescript, modest. But with very tight security.

‘This is it,’ he whispered to Jemma, almost in awe.

‘But why?’ she asked.

He took her arm and hurried her on in case the CCTV picked them up dawdling and took a closer look, knowing that their every step was taking them further away from the answer.

Patricia Vaine knew she had underestimated Harry. It was a weakness she would never indulge again.

When Emily turned up in a state of panic, burbling about having seen him, they came to a rapid conclusion. Coincidence. It could be nothing more. Nothing surprising in such a thing, for Brussels
was getting to be like the streets of Westminster. They even suspected that Harry might be searching for a job, pastures new, in a place where his reputation hadn’t yet been ruined. It was a
supposition that would be confirmed in their minds when Patricia later ascertained that Harry had arrived, and left, on a cheap day ticket on Eurostar booked with an offer in the
Daily
Telegraph
. It was precisely what Harry had hoped they would think.

Yet Patricia didn’t have the luxury of dealing with a world of certainties, there were always doubts, suspicions, and she wasn’t a woman to take things for granted. Harry Jones had
been stupid enough to stumble onto her turf. Her vengeance was swift and utterly remorseless.

Less than a week after Harry’s return from Brussels, his accountant asked him to visit her offices in Holborn. He took the bus. She was waiting for him at the reception area and took him
straight through to a conference room, where she closed the door and sat him down. She seemed distracted, no offer of tea or coffee.

‘There’s no easy way of telling you this, Harry,’ she said, two crimson discs of distress standing high on her cheeks. ‘You know we’d been hopeful of coming to an
understanding with your creditors – an Individual Voluntary Arrangement, in the language of the debt business.’

He nodded.

‘I’m sorry, but that’s not going to happen. If it’s to work, we need most of your creditors to agree – and one of them seems to have changed his mind. It was all on
track, making progress, but suddenly he’s pulled out. One rotten apple that’s turned the rest of the barrel sour. So frustrating, I’m sorry, particularly as he’s one of the
smaller creditors. Just a few thousand.’

He found it difficult to find words, his mouth run dry. ‘Who is it, Jilly?’

‘The printers you use, Maundy’s. Says he won’t accept pence when he’s owed pounds.’ She looked at him sharply. ‘Suddenly changed his mind. Yet you told me
you’d been doing business with them for years.’

‘I have.’

‘It’s such a surprise, out of the blue.’

‘Nothing surprises me much any more.’

‘We can’t move forward without him, and he simply won’t budge.’

‘So what do we do now, Jilly?’

The red spots on her cheek flared still more brightly. ‘There’s nothing we can do. He says he’s going to bring a bankruptcy petition against you.’

‘I see.’ His voice sounded dull, as if it came from a distance, from another mouth. ‘If I’m declared bankrupt I seem to remember that the court will take almost
everything – my house, pension, piano. Even the plasma telly.’

‘You can keep the tools of your trade.’

‘But I don’t have a trade any longer, Jilly. Perhaps they will let me keep the back copies of
Hansard
.’

‘I’m so very sorry, Harry.’

‘I assume this will be a very public spectacle.’

‘I’m afraid so.’

Harry’s humiliation was about to be complete.

The premises of George Maundy & Sons, Designers & Printers, was located in the Hertfordshire countryside at the end of a long gravel drive, which wound through laurel
bushes and at its end was guarded by a five-bar gate. On the other side of the gate was an elegant Georgian farmhouse surrounded by a substantial swathe of carefully mown lawn, while Maundy’s
business was housed in a converted red-brick dairy. A new BMW with alloy wheels and a personalized number plate was parked at the side. This was Home Counties commercialism at its most elegant. As
Harry walked up the drive, his shoes crunching on the gravel, a small terrier darted out from the door of the small office and scurried around before disappearing back inside, but Harry
didn’t follow. He knew from his previous visits that the office would be manned by the elder Maundy’s daughter-in-law, while the father and son would be busy in the back, from where
Harry could hear the humming of machinery. He found the son bent over a drawing board, studying the proof of his latest commission. The printer looked up, startled to see Harry at his elbow.