Disorder (Sam Keddie thriller series Book 1) (12 page)

Chapter 33

Downing Street 

It was over. A short text from Frears – ‘problem solved’ – confirmed that Keddie and Eleanor Scott were no longer part of the picture.

   Stirling was in his office on the first floor of 10 Downing Street, a generous room with windows that looked out on the rose garden below. The scene of many a press conference and reception, the garden looked empty and bleak today, most of the roses pruned back for the coming autumn, the lawn, so perfectly emerald in summer, now looking the colour of mushy peas under the gloomy September skies. Outside the office door, the machinery of high office hummed away, manned by a large team of civil servants and advisers.

   The never-ending nature of Government meant that Stirling was rarely alone in the room designed for his sole use. There was always someone wanting a piece of him. In fact the only time he was on his own was when he was on the phone and confidentiality was required.

   Bizarrely though, the door had just closed on his Permanent Secretary and, if he ignored the pile of documents he was meant to be working through, he was finally able to think without interruption.

   For the past days Stirling had been feeling certain that, at any moment, the door would burst open and he’d be dragged from the room by the police on charges of murder.

   He was, he knew, giving into paranoia. There was nothing to connect him to the killings that Frears’ men had carried out. As far as the hospital was concerned, Jane Vyner had died from her injuries and, while he awaited the exact details from the Guardsman, he was sure Eleanor Scott and Sam Keddie’s deaths would be explained easily enough. ‘Accident’ was the word Frears had used.

   Of course, that wouldn’t stop the journalists digging. Sooner or later someone would discover that Vyner had been Scott’s lover. And that the man who died by Eleanor Scott’s side was his psychotherapist. And what if Keddie and Eleanor Scott had already set that process in motion? Spoken to a hack?

   He breathed in, held the air in his lungs, then exhaled noisily. Yes, there would be discoveries. Connections made. But these deaths were not proof of conspiracy. Look at the bloody Kennedys, for God’s sake. Assassinations, plane and car crashes, drug overdoses. The Scotts had nothing on them.

   No, he had to concentrate on the original issue – the job he’d first hired Frears for. From now on, they would double the surveillance – and keep an eye on the medication. If doses were skipped again, the implications were bloody disastrous.

   He paused for a moment to consider the leap he’d made giving Frears that more direct instruction, the deaths that he’d all but ordered. He shuddered briefly. But then he thought of the soldiers who’d died in action fighting conflicts at his behest. He simply had to place Eleanor and Keddie in the same category. Some deaths were necessary. He straightened his back. This was not a time for harsh self-reflection.

   Besides, there were other worries. Such continuous scrutiny might simply not be sustainable in the long term. Would he have to exit early from the job? The very thought was too painful for him to consider. But surely it was better to leave on his own terms, than be driven by another drama like the one he’d just escaped?

  He shook the possibility from his mind.

   And then there was the Moroccan business. If things escalated in Marrakesh, and the authorities chose to react brutally out there – and that scuppered the deal they’d all been working on – then, frankly, it was a small price to pay. They’d all had a narrow escape – and been bloody lucky.

   The phone rang.

   ‘Gillian Mayer is here, Prime Minister,’ said one of his secretaries. ‘Wondering if she can have a quick word?’

   The last thing he felt like was another meeting, but he knew that acting normal was imperative. ‘Show her in.’

   In any Cabinet there were always a handful of ministers who coveted the PM’s role. Stirling accepted that as part of the job. What he liked about Mayer, the Foreign Secretary, was that, when the moment came for her to make her move, she could be trusted to plunge her dagger into his chest, and not between the shoulder blades.

   The door opened and in walked Mayer, a small, steely woman who, while not loved by either the media or public, was admired as smart and capable.

   ‘Gillian,’ said Stirling, rising from his seat to come round the desk and plant a kiss on the Foreign Secretary’s cheek. God, he was good at this.

   ‘You’re in a good mood,’ said the Foreign Secretary. ‘Hope I’m not about to change that.’

   ‘I’m sure that won’t be the case. Sit down, sit down.’

   The Foreign Secretary sat in a chair in front of the desk and Stirling returned to his seat.

   ‘Before I start,’ said Mayer, ‘may I just congratulate you on that speech on multi-culturalism, Prime Minister. Very refreshing.’

   ‘Thank you, Gillian,’ he said, placing his hands behind his head. ‘Now, what’s on your mind?’

   ‘In a word, Morocco.’

   Stirling felt his bowels shift and the colour drain from his face. He hoped to God it wouldn’t show.

   ‘Go on.’

   ‘These riots –’

   ‘I wouldn’t call them riots exactly,’ interrupted Stirling, already on the defensive. The hands slowly returned to the desk.

   ‘In this part of the world,’ Mayer corrected, ‘as you of course know, any dissent is significant. Right now, we need their friendship more than ever. Obviously our recent activity could help safeguard that. But that could all be pissed away if we don’t react to these riots – and the State’s response to them – in the most sensitive manner.’

   ‘Gillian, Gillian,’ Stirling soothed, as much to calm her, as his own, frayed nerves.

‘What’s going on out there doesn’t amount to much, certainly compared to what we’ve seen elsewhere.’

   ‘You honestly think this won’t escalate?’ Mayer said, barely able to contain her irritation.

  ‘If and when it does we will be ready.’

  ‘With what, exactly? If these skirmishes do turn into full scale riots – and the Moroccans react with force, as we expect them to – we are caught between a rock and a hard place. We can’t condone what they do. Equally, we cannot afford to condemn. If we do that, we risk losing everything.’

   Stirling smiled a cat-like grin. ‘Perhaps you can order your thoughts in a memo, Gillian. Get them to me this evening. I’ll take a look and then we can meet again to shape it into something we’re both happy to use in the event things go pear-shaped.’

   Touché, you bitch, he thought.

   He watched as the Foreign Secretary opened her mouth, then shut it.

   ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Thank you, Prime Minister.’

*

Just before midnight Stirling was upstairs in his apartment, heading down the hallway to the kitchen following a visit to the loo. A meeting with his Chief of Staff – lubricated by a couple of thimbles of single malt – had been ensuing. They were hammering out their strategy for dealing with the volcano of bad press that had erupted following the death of a comedian. The man, who the press called ‘an 80s comic legend’, had, it was alleged, lain on a trolley at his local NHS hospital for three hours unattended. That time, it was claimed, had proved fatal to the man’s already weakened heart.

   The fact that the comic had never been particularly funny – something Stirling and his Chief of Staff had chuckled over – was neither here nor there. His death had rallied Middle England around the oldest chestnut in the book – that the NHS wasn’t working and it was the Government’s fault.

   As the Prime Minister moved past the sitting room and its open door, he glanced in to see Aidan sitting on the sofa. A movie was on – Stirling recognised a battered-looking Bruce Willis but couldn’t name the film; he’d never watched much tv – and Aidan was staring at the screen, slack jawed and dull eyed.

   Stirling knew that the medication had that effect, of deadening everything. And for that he was grateful. The boy’s emotional make-up was a bloody mess. Like a lot of people the PM knew – he could think of several sociopathic world leaders – Aidan could have saved himself and everyone else a great deal of trouble by developing empathy. Had that been the case, they’d never have faced the disaster that so nearly derailed his leadership.

   Aidan’s eyes shifted sluggishly in his father’s direction. It was, the Prime Minister thought at first, a blank look. But then Stirling caught something else in the gaze. The eyes seemed to narrow, to laser in on him with a look of utter contempt.

   He could feel his blood suddenly boiling and marched into the room, heading straight for the sofa with his arm outstretched. Suddenly a hand grabbed his wrist and Stirling turned to see Charlotte. Although she’d come out of nowhere, he somehow wasn’t surprised to find her lurking silently there. She was never far from her child. Now, with the added role of medication-giver, that proximity had a new legitimacy.

   ‘Don’t you dare,’ she said.

   Stirling shook off her grip. ‘How can you defend him?’ he said. ‘After all he’s put us through?’

   ‘“He’s put us through”?’ she snapped back. ‘What about you?’

   Stirling groaned. ‘Let’s not go over that tired old ground again, for fuck’s sake. The dreary therapy speak. I’m not responsible for him. And neither are you, for that matter. He’s an adult, for God’s sake. A fucked-up, train crash of an adult.’

   The hand that had, moments before, held his own violent strike in check, lashed out, smacking him across the face.

   Stirling would have liked nothing better than to punch his wife in the face at that point. Thinking of his Chief of Staff overhearing their fight or Charlotte sporting a black eye or broken nose, he managed to hold his clenched fist still by his side.

   ‘Do what you do best, Philip,’ she hissed. ‘Leave us alone.’ 

Part II

Chapter 34

Penrith, Lake District

Sam woke with a jolt, unsure of where he was. He was lying on a bed, dressed in a surgical gown, a blanket draped over him. The curtain around the bed was drawn. He’d dozed off, and that worried him. He had to find Eleanor.

   He tried to sit up, then felt an intense pain in his forehead, as if he’d just walked into a steel girder. He winced, his head dropping back on the pillow.

   He remembered arriving here, brought by ambulance. Their wet clothes had been removed – Sam’s jeans cut from his legs – and they’d been wrapped in blankets and given some warming intravenous fluids. A handful of cuts and bruises had been cleaned and bandaged, as well as the leg wound Sam had sustained exiting the Peugeot. They’d been lucky, they were told. Nothing worse than mild hypothermia. Sam was given painkillers and then Eleanor was led off to another bed. The doctor said the police would be by later, interested in knowing just how their car had ended up in the lake.

   The imminent arrival of the police was not worrying Sam. It was their assailants. Once they discovered the car crash had failed to kill them, they’d be back. And he knew a hospital presented no obstacle.

   Sam lifted his head again, more slowly. The pain was still there, but not as bad as before. He lowered his feet to the ground, feeling an agonising twinge shoot up his left leg.

   He opened the cupboard by his bed. Inside were his wallet and keys, but no clothes. He drew the curtain back. Occupying the bed next door was an older man, fast asleep. Sam was no thief, but a surgical gown, open at the rear, was not the ideal outfit for escaping a hospital. He gently opened the cupboard next to the man’s bed. There was a washbag on the top shelf and below, a plaid shirt, dark trousers and a pair of trainers. He pulled them out slowly, then returned to his bed, drawing the curtain again.

   He’d just buttoned up the shirt when he heard footsteps. He froze. The curtain began to peel back. And then he saw Eleanor, her brow furrowed with concern. She was dressed.   

   ‘The nurse told me you were here. How are you? Can you walk?’ she asked.

   ‘I’m fine. I can shuffle.’

   ‘I’m scared.’

   ‘Me too,’ said Sam.

   ‘What if they come back?’

   ‘Let’s make sure they don’t find us.’

   Eleanor nodded, Sam’s direct talk clearly comforting. She slipped an arm around his waist and they began to move through the ward. Aside from the sleeping man, the other beds were empty.   

   ‘How come your clothes are dry?’ asked Sam.

   ‘A nurse took pity on my sob story of a romantic weekend ruined. She had them dried. By the way,’ Eleanor said. ‘I owe you an apology, Sam. I nearly killed you today.’

   He gently removed Eleanor’s arm. He could walk independently, albeit with difficulty, and if they were going to leave the hospital without interference, he couldn’t afford to look like a patient in need of care.

   He felt the sweat break out on his face, as the pain in his leg pulsed. ‘You were right to be angry. I should have shown you those notes.’

   They’d reached the end of the ward. Across the corridor was the nurses’ station. A large family – a mother and father, and four squabbling children – was blocking the nurses’ view of them. Sam and Eleanor slipped by. 

   ‘You and I both know it wasn’t that simple,’ said Eleanor. ‘They were my father’s words to you, not me. You knew they could have upset me more – which they did. You weren’t concealing them from me. You were protecting me.’

   Sam swallowed hard. It was easier looking ahead – at the corridor in front, at hospital staff and patients moving by – than at Eleanor. ‘I was also trying to help myself. I was worried that if you got upset or started jumping to conclusions, I’d never find out why those people were on my back.’

   ‘Everything I hear about my father is upsetting, Sam – particularly reading that he’d done something terrible, something he believed he couldn’t burden me with.’

   She reached out and squeezed his hand. ‘But I don’t blame you. I can see why you asked for my help – and why you needed me to be focused. Besides,’ she said, turning to him with a slight grin, ‘having nearly killed you today, I think we’re quits.’

   ‘I suspect tampered brakes and bright lights had more to do with it, but thank you.’

   Sam felt a wave of relief, as if he’d been absolved by Eleanor. But a small niggling knot in his stomach reminded him of the calculation he’d made concealing the notes, and where such behaviour might stem from. Suddenly something else was concerning him, the sight of the doctor who’d treated them turning into the corridor ahead.

   Sam pulled on Eleanor’s arm, dragging her left down another passage. Up ahead was a set of swing doors. Sam turned and saw the doctor walk past. His shoulders dropped.

   They moved through the doors and were now on a main corridor, a series of signs hung from the ceiling. Sam spotted one for the main entrance, pointing right. They headed in that direction, past the X-Ray Department and then Paediatrics.

   Eleanor was fumbling in her coat pocket. She drew out a damp white ball.

   ‘At least the notes are no use to anyone else now,’ she said.

   ‘I’m sorry you’ve lost them though.’

   A repetitive beeping sound made Sam jump. He turned to see an elderly lady in a pink dressing gown being driven in a silent electric buggy towards them. They moved out of the way, prompting a sluggish thumbs-up from the porter at the wheel.

   Eleanor then spoke. ‘The sight of that man at the window really scared my father, didn’t it?’

   ‘Given what we’ve experienced since,’ said Sam, ‘it’s understandable.’

   They had reached the hospital entrance. There was a help desk to their left and glass doors in front of them opening on to a drop-off area.

  Sam’s eyes scanned the foyer for signs of the narrow-eyed man, or the bulky bald figure who’d visited him at the house. The coast appeared clear. They moved towards the doors, which opened automatically, and were blasted with cold air. Sam felt the stabs of pain in his head and leg dull. The pills were kicking in.

   They walked on, finally stopping when they were well clear of the main building, by the hospital laundry. Steam billowed from an extractor above their heads. Blue containers on wheels, piled high with white sheets, were being dragged up a ramp by a man in grey overalls, who seemed indifferent to the two figures standing against a nearby wall.

   ‘What do you think that man had on my father?’ asked Eleanor, her breath turning to vapour in the cold air.

   ‘I’ve no idea,’ said Sam. ‘All I know is that, once he’d seen him, he didn’t want to talk any more.’

   Eleanor’s head dropped, as if she were hiding her distress.

   Sam remembered how she’d been as they left the hotel earlier in the day, her frosty manner, the barely contained rage. She was experiencing the full gamut of emotions right now.

   As he thought of their departure that morning, another memory began to emerge from the fog induced by his painkillers – his final conversation with Fay, the manageress.

   ‘It didn’t seem the right moment to mention it in the car, but just before we left, the manageress at the hotel said something else about your father’s exchange with Jane Vyner. Something significant.’

   ‘Oh God,’ sighed Eleanor, ‘not more ranting I hope.’

   ‘No,’ said Sam. ‘According to her, Jane Vyner named the place that had so changed your father.’

   ‘And?’

   ‘Marrakesh.’

   Eleanor paused in thought. ‘I remember Dad mentioning he’d been there.’

   ‘Do you remember the last time he went?’

   She shook her head. ‘Mum and I struggled to keep tabs on him from one day to the next. It was the nature of his work. He was always travelling. And while some of his trips were public knowledge, openly available on the DFID website, other visits he made were kept more secret, I guess to protect sensitive work.’

   ‘We should try and find the date, but I bet anything we’ve found the place where it all happened – whatever “it” is.’

   Eleanor seemed to be thinking through a series of options, her eyes rapidly moving from side to side. She then looked up, the determination Sam was familiar with back on her face.

   ‘We need to finish this.’

   There was a small spasm of pain in Sam’s head, a reminder of the near-death experience they’d recently escaped. Of the lengths their pursuers were willing to go to.

   ‘I hate to be the voice of reason,’ he said, ‘but our odds of success are narrowing by the day. They won’t make another mistake.’

   ‘If that’s the case,’ said Eleanor, ‘then we need to be even more careful.’ Her eyes bore into Sam’s. ‘I’m not giving up,’ she said. ‘These bastards need punishing.’