Disorder (Sam Keddie thriller series Book 1) (2 page)

Chapter 2

Downing Street 

The breakfast meeting with the Chinese foreign minister had been successful. Despite the man’s chronic English, Philip Stirling, the British Prime Minister, had managed, through an interpreter, to politely repeat the UK’s objection to the recent incarceration of a well-known dissident – an unavoidable yet pointless task required of him by the British media – before he moved on to easier topics – welcome Chinese investment in a steel works in Wales and a festival of Chinese culture in Manchester, which the foreign minister was due to open.

   The delegation had now left Downing Street and Stirling was in the Cabinet Room having a private meeting with an adviser. Out of habit, the Prime Minister had sat at his usual seat in the middle of the table. Behind him was a white marble fireplace and above it, the only painting in the room, a portrait of Sir Robert Walpole. Britain’s first Prime Minister had served for twenty years. Stirling suspected that, with the current shit storm raging about him, his tenure would be over in a fraction of that time.

   The adviser standing opposite him was Frears, a former officer in the Coldstream Guards. Frears had once been a minor celebrity thanks to his eloquent, reasoned dispatches from Afghanistan, published in
The Telegraph
. The officer had written with surprising empathy about the Taliban, helping to soften their bogeyman status and, in turn, create a useful inroad into negotiations. When Stirling had appointed him, the PR had been excellent. ‘Military intellectual to advise Stirling on terror’; ‘Army’s measured voice to shape Government’s fight against extremists.’

   Stirling was, like most decent heads of Government, a master at masking his emotions. But now, with no one but Frears to observe him, he could feel the tension releasing – and his temper rising.

   The former soldier stood across the table from him, a tall figure in a pin-striped suit sporting the Brigade tie of blue and maroon diagonal stripes.

   ‘Correct me if I’m wrong,’ said Stirling, his hands gripping the arms of his chair, ‘but this isn’t going very well, is it?’

    Frears, ram-rod straight, smoothed back his already immaculately combed hair.

   ‘I don’t agree, sir,’ he said, with clipped vowels that, even in the midst of this hideous mess, amused Stirling. The officer’s diction suggested order and authority, but of course Stirling knew better. The man had a messy secret, which the PM had used to his advantage when engaging Frears for the extra-curricular work they were discussing.

   ‘In situations like these,’ the officer continued, ‘there are always unexpected developments. We merely adapt.’

   ‘“Situations like these?”,’ snapped the PM. ‘“Unexpected developments?” We haven’t gone to Tesco and discovered that they’re out of milk.’

   Frears said nothing.

   ‘This morning’s events are going to shine a very big light on Charles Scott,’ continued Stirling. ‘And if that wasn’t bad enough, now you’re telling me that he’s had two sessions with a psychotherapist.’

   When Frears spoke again, his tone was more conciliatory. ‘I admit that the actual issue at stake is rather unusual, but the work involved – containment – is what my men do for a living. They’re professionals.’

   ‘You think they can sniff out this shrink – what’s his name?’

   ‘Keddie.’

   ‘And find out what he knows?’

   Frears nodded.

   ‘And we’re not talking water-boarding, are we?’

   The Guardsman managed a sly smile. ‘Just a chat.’

   Stirling appeared to relax. ‘Good, good. Because this thing has to stay contained. We’re not just talking about my job and yours. We’re talking about the country’s reputation. If this Marrakesh business were to leak, the impact would be fucking cataclysmic.’

   If Frears was shaken by the implications, he didn’t show it. Stirling observed the Guardsman’s impassive face and drew comfort from it. Emotional chaos had created this whole mess. He was hoping to God military detachment would contain it.

*

A little later, as Frears left 10 Downing Street, two figures appeared at a window above Number 11. One was Charlotte Stirling, the PM’s wife. Her dark hair was cut in a severe bob and she wore one of her trademark peasant-style long-sleeved smocks, a look the fashion press loved to deride. The second figure was Aidan Stirling, Charlotte and Philip’s twenty-five-year-old son, his face framed in a mop of curly locks. Had anyone been able to see Aidan clearly, they’d have noticed a face devoid of expression, as if a shock had reduced him to an android state. They’d have then seen his mother wrapping a protective arm around her son’s shoulder. 

Chapter 3

North London

It was 11am the following day, and Sam was between clients. He allowed himself about twenty minutes to make a coffee, write up notes and attempt to clear his mind of one person’s inner world before he entered another’s. He’d returned from the kitchen with his mug, settled behind the desk in his consulting room and was about to begin writing when there was a loud knock on the door, accompanied by the doorbell ringing.

   Sam leaned back in his seat to look out of the front bay window. There was a short, bald man on the doorstep. Sam tensed. The figure outside, he was sure, was the driver of the car from yesterday – the person who’d so rattled Scott.

   The man had been looking out at the street and turned towards Sam when the door opened, a poor attempt at a smile on his face. He wore an ill-fitting suit that seemed to accentuate his truncated legs and barrel chest.

   ‘Mr Keddie?’

   ‘Yes.’

   ‘I work for the Government,’ said the man. ‘I need to talk to you about one of your clients, Charles Scott.’

   Sam took a moment to register what the man was saying, then instantly became defensive.

   ‘Firstly, I do not discuss my clients with anyone else and secondly –’

   The man raised the palm of his left hand. ‘It’s OK,’ he said. ‘We know Charles Scott is one of your clients. We’re not asking you to reveal whether he was bullied at school.’

   ‘You say you work for the Government,’ said Sam, who was now angry, ‘but you haven’t shown me any identification.’

   The man looked Sam in the eye, as if assessing him. He softened a fraction. ‘I’m sorry.’ He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a leather wallet. He flicked it open for Sam to see. It appeared to be an identity badge – a royal coat of arms sat next to the man’s face above some printed words and numbers – but before Sam had a chance to study it, the badge was whipped away and replaced in the wallet.

   ‘May I come in?’ said the man. ‘I’d rather not discuss this matter outside.’

   ‘No,’ said Sam. ‘I’m expecting another client in a few minutes.’

   The man ignored him and moved past the therapist, turning into the consulting room to sit in Sam’s chair. Sam stood behind the seat his clients normally took. He hoped his stance was clear, but the man was ignoring Sam, his eyes slowly scanning the room.

   ‘I’m afraid Charles Scott is dead,’ he said abruptly. ‘He committed suicide last night.’

    Sam closed his eyes in disbelief, half-hoping that, when he reopened them, the bald man would have evaporated. But when he looked again, he was still there, staring at Sam.

   ‘Obviously this is devastating for Scott’s family,’ said the man, ‘but – and excuse me if I sound a little callous at this point – there are also political implications. We need to ensure that his work within Government is not exposed in an unmanageable way.’

   ‘You said he committed suicide,’ said Sam.

   The man looked distracted, as if he were now the one in a hurry. ‘Yeah.’

   Sam was reeling. He remembered Scott’s phrase: ‘There’s only one way I can move on’. Alarmed at the time, Sam’s response had been therapeutically off-kilter, a comment about Scott’s black-and-white reading of life, a distraction rather than an acknowledgment of the man’s obviously dark feelings. He cursed himself. Had he somehow precipitated this?

   ‘Mr Keddie?’

   Sam re-focused on the bald man, gripping the top of the seat to steady himself.

   ‘We need to know what Scott said about his work.’

    Sam’s brain was spinning. ‘I never divulge what my clients tell me in counselling.’

   ‘You’ve made that clear,’ said the man, struggling to appear patient. ‘Now let me be clear –’

   ‘This is really simple,’ said Sam, who now wanted the man to leave as quickly as possible. ‘Whatever Charles Scott told me stays in this room.’

   The man leaned forward in his seat, a hand raised, the index finger pointing in Sam’s direction. The doorbell went.

   ‘You have to leave,’ said Sam. ‘My next client is here.’

   The bald man stood and moved towards Sam, squaring up to him. He appeared about to say something, but thought better of it.

   He then shoved past Sam, sending him backwards into the wall. Sam was stunned by the man’s aggression and straightened, ready to say something before the man left. But it was too late. By the time the therapist made it to the door, the man was exiting, storming out past Sam’s next client, an elderly man who was almost knocked to the ground.

Chapter 4

North London

During the sessions that followed the man’s visit, Sam struggled to concentrate on what his clients were saying. He spent every break scouring the internet for signs of the story in the news.

   It broke at lunchtime on the BBC and was the lead story. The news reader announced that the body of the Secretary of State for International Development, Charles Scott, had been found at his London flat. The screen then switched to a street in Battersea. It was a sunny autumnal day – the cheery, optimistic light quite at odds with the unravelling tragedy. The reporter was positioned across the road from a mansion block, the area immediately around the entrance ringed off by police. Two officers were standing guard.

   The reporter claimed that the body had been found at around 10am by a cleaner who had keys to the flat. Little was known of the exact circumstances of the Minister’s death but a police spokesman had stated that they were not treating it as suspicious. At this point the news reader interjected, asking if they thought it was natural causes. The reporter on the street replied that this had not been mentioned, but that it was probably too early to say.

   The hint had been dropped. If it wasn’t suspicious and didn’t turn out to be natural causes, there was only one other possibility – suicide.

   The news reader thanked the reporter and then began talking about Scott’s career. Sam watched footage of the Minister during a recent trip to Africa, standing in a field of maize talking to a farmer, before older images appeared – him walking the streets of his constituency, then a still of Scott as a much younger man with his arm around the shoulder of another – a beaming, tanned individual instantly recognisable as the man who was now Prime Minister. To the right of the PM was his wife and a young boy, the PM’s son – Scott’s godchild.

   The news reader promised to return to the story when more details became available. He then turned to Marrakesh, where police had broken up a large street protest with tear gas.

   Sam kept his eye on the news throughout the afternoon. At around 3pm, there was a press conference from Downing Street that was relayed live on the BBC news website.

   A podium had been positioned outside Number 10. The famous door opened and Stirling, his wife, Charlotte, and son, Aidan, walked slowly out. They all looked shell-shocked.

   Stirling stood at the podium, Charlotte and Aidan to one side, a couple of steps behind. The PM was in his late 50s, a man of average height whose most distinguishing feature was his wavy and slightly unruly grey hair. That and the fact that, unlike other, more immaculately turned out leaders, Stirling always looked as if he’d dressed in a hurry. The tie was often off-centre, the suit jacket slightly crumpled. These elements added up to an impression of someone who’d found himself in power by accident, when it was never his intention.

   Today, his face looked tired and sad. His eyes lacked their usual animation, his skin seemed paler and looser. He pulled a pair of glasses from a jacket pocket and, from another, a piece of paper. This was unusual. He was known for speaking without notes. When he glanced up at the assembled media, he looked fragile, the tough politician beaten down by tragedy.

   ‘Most of you will by now know that Charles Scott, the Secretary of State for International Development, was found dead this morning,’ said the PM, his voice, with its slight Yorkshire lilt, quiet and soft. It was a tone Sam had heard before, the one the man adopted for sensitive statements – the death of a soldier in action, a natural disaster overseas – but this time it came with an apparent choke, as if the PM were struggling with each word.

   ‘Charles was a very able minister who did so much to help countries who needed the expertise and resources of the UK. I know his energy and enthusiasm will be missed across the globe. Charles was also a close friend of mine. He and I had known each other since we were at university together. He had been an integral part of my family’s life ever since. Naturally, I cannot expect you to refrain from reporting this story – or making enquiries of your own – but I politely implore you all to show respect to his widow, Wendy, and daughter, Eleanor. Thank you.’

   There’d been no mention of suicide, and Sam briefly wondered whether the Government employee had got it all wrong. But then he checked himself. The law required a coroner to sign off the death in unusual circumstances like this, which often meant an autopsy, and even an inquest. The PM was hardly likely to pre-empt a coroner’s findings, let alone talk about it at such a sensitive time.

   No, Sam knew he was merely trying to comfort himself. The bald man and his grim tidings reappeared in his mind. His client had committed suicide.