Disorder (Sam Keddie thriller series Book 1) (7 page)

Chapter 18

Fulham, London

It was just after 10pm when one of the members of Team Kilo reached the front door that Keddie and Scott had exited earlier that evening.

   Frears had seven men in his unit – professionals he already trusted or whose reputations he’d admired while in the private sector – each chosen for their absolute discretion and established skills in distinct areas. There was Team Alpha, which consisted of four surveillance experts, former members of the police and army intelligence. Then there was Team Kilo, made up of three ex-soldiers chosen for their ability to follow orders that required both inventiveness and a certain moral elasticity to carry out.

   The bald, stocky figure in a suit carefully studied the names of the different residents, written on small framed cards next to the buzzers of their flats. Recognising one from a list Frears had furnished him with, he pressed the bell. A moment later, an uncertain voice spoke over the intercom and asked who was there.

   The man told Diana Tennant he was a Government employee, there on urgent business concerning the late Charles Scott.

   ‘How do I know you’re not from the press?’ she asked.

   ‘You don’t,’ he said. ‘But if you refuse to let me in, I can’t give you Philip Stirling’s personal message.’

   As expected, the door opened.

   He found her in a dressing gown, long, grey hair tumbling down both shoulders, standing at the doorway of the flat. He asked if he could come in. She seemed to hesitate, then relented.

   Diana Tennant shut the door behind him and then stood by her mantelpiece. He was not invited to sit.

   The man apologized for visiting at such a late hour, but said that he was here on a matter of national security. He briefly flashed his identification badge. Diana Tennant, used to being close but not privy to such things, jumped to attention at this point. With her fully compliant, the man then asked what Eleanor Scott and Keddie had wanted. For a moment, the older woman seemed torn between her loyalty to the Scott family and to the State. The man smiled, a reassuring gesture that said: ‘You can trust me.’

   Minutes later, he was back on the street.

   Upstairs, Diana Tennant was getting ready for bed again. Her mind briefly grappled with what had happened, how she’d betrayed the family of her former boss. But then she remembered the phrase, ‘a matter of national security’ and the man’s parting words: ‘Philip Stirling wants you to know he values loyalty to the Government very highly’.

   As she pulled the sheets up around her, Diana Tennant felt her cheeks glow.

Chapter 19

Sussex 

Sam woke with a jolt, the room around him unfamiliar. He rubbed his eyes and then realised where he was.

   The room was cold, the small window dripping with condensation. He had a sense that this was a forgotten corner of the house, a place to which he’d been banished by Eleanor to avoid him coming into contact with Wendy Scott, or indeed herself.

   He got out of bed and went to the window, wiping a section clear of moisture. It was an overcast day, the woodland he’d emerged from the day before indistinct in the misty morning light. He felt a sudden twinge in the stomach, a memory of the fear he’d experienced in the cemetery. He breathed in deeply, trying to relax.

   Downstairs, Eleanor was pacing the kitchen.

   ‘There’s coffee over there,’ she said, pointing to a half-filled cafetière. Sam sensed a cooling of relations. This was understandable. Initially deeply mistrustful, then more open, she seemed to have swung back in the original direction. He predicted that today, bar the task in hand, there’d be little in the way of conversation.

   Last night, on the way home, Eleanor had talked about her workplace, an overseas development charity. They then briefly discussed her role there, as head of fundraising. Sam had remarked that the job was a natural choice, given her father’s Ministerial post, and this had gone down really badly, with Eleanor clamming up immediately.

   He understood her reticence. She’d just lost her father. And rather than processing this in a private way, she was being forced to share time with his mind-probing therapist, about whom she was bound to have conflicting feelings. Did Sam, for example, tip her father over the edge?

   Fortunately, thought Sam, as he sipped lukewarm coffee at the table while Eleanor, finally seated, consulted a map, today was not about chatting, but about pursuing their next line of enquiry.

*

An hour and a half later, their near silent journey – punctuated by short exchanges of information about the route they were taking – was nearing its destination. They drove down a street past thatched houses, a cluster of Victorian cottages, a school, hall and shop.

   ‘Where’s this bloody boozer?’ muttered Eleanor impatiently.

   They rounded a corner and there was a sign just ahead for the pub. They turned into the car park. Jane Vyner had said she’d be standing by a silver BMW. They got out and surveyed the car park. There were about fifteen cars but, as they soon realised, no silver BMWs and certainly no-one waiting to meet them.

   ‘Do you think she got cold feet?’ asked Sam.

   ‘I don’t know,’ said Eleanor. ‘But I’m not letting her off this easily. I’ll give her ten minutes, then if she hasn’t turned up, God help her.’

Chapter 20

Reading, Berkshire

Jane Vyner distinctly remembered the moment Charles Scott’s death was announced. The team had been called into the boardroom and told by the Chief Executive. Everyone had gasped, hands were placed over open mouths. The Chief Executive gave them a minute to absorb the news, then ploughed on. Tragic though the Minister’s death was, the project would not be derailed.

   A little later, locked in a cubicle in the ladies toilet, Jane had given into a flood of emotion. She sobbed, the tears accompanied by great heaves of her shoulders. Her nose ran uncontrollably. Waves of nausea swept through her stomach.

   Afterwards, she examined herself in the mirror. Her face was red and puffy, her cheeks stained with mascara-blackened tears. Rooting in her handbag and retrieving her make-up, she set to work to repair the damage.

   It was amazing what a little foundation, lipstick and mascara could achieve. Her eyes were still red but then whose weren’t? They’d all been working incredibly hard to ensure the biggest deal in the company’s history went through. Late nights had become the norm, with meetings either here at head office, or up in London with various mid- and high-level members of the Government.

   At that moment, looking at the mask she’d applied, she realised something. It was all about the face she presented. She had to remain calm and measured. What had happened had to stay secret – unbearably painful though it was. This had the potential not only to destroy her, but the firm as well. A piece of information that could bring a mighty FTSE company to its knees at the very moment when it should have been riding high.

   She’d only recently patted herself on the back for maintaining such a composed demeanour, for so skilfully compartmentalising the sadness she felt.

   And then she’d got the call.

   She’d expected a journalist, or maybe her boss. But Scott’s daughter?

   She’d hardly been able to sleep last night, as her mind went over and over the potential outcomes of today’s lunch. Now, as she walked towards the lifts that would take her to the reception of Future Systems’ huge corporate headquarters, she returned to the same treadmill of thoughts. Denying it – claiming that the two of them had simply been friends – was not an option. The chances were that Eleanor Scott already knew. Why else would she be calling?

   She tried to calm herself. This wasn’t necessarily a disaster. Eleanor Scott had not sounded hostile. She probably just wanted to talk to someone who’d been close to the man she missed.

   Jane reached a bank of lifts and pressed the button. There were a handful of colleagues she knew but she acted as if she were deep in thought – head down, brow furrowed – in the hope she wouldn’t be disturbed.

  What if Eleanor Scott blamed her for her father’s suicide? What lengths would she go to to make her pay? It was something Jane had considered herself numerous times since she’d heard the awful news. She’d repeatedly been over the final moments of their relationship, looking for signs that she had caused the kind of damage that might have tipped Charles over the edge. Sometimes – when she was alone, late, in the office – she wondered whether she should have given him another chance. But when she felt strong, she knew that she couldn’t possibly have acted in any other way. She had not been responsible for pushing a man like Charles – a thick-skinned Cabinet Minister who’d dealt with any number of crises, both personal and work-related – to take his own life. Something else had.

   To explain this to Eleanor, she knew that it was important to establish why she’d ended the relationship. It would be painful for both of them, but give Eleanor an idea of her father’s mental state at the time.

   Charles, the man she’d fallen so spectacularly for, had suddenly changed. Jane could pinpoint exactly when that change had occurred, but had no idea what had caused it. In true politician’s style, Charles had kept that particular card very close to his chest. All she knew was that something poisonous had insinuated itself into Charles’s mind, and his easy, intimate way with her disappeared overnight. Without some guarantee that things would return to how they’d been – and Charles had given none – she knew she could not stay with him.

   The lift doors opened on to a vast reception area. Four storeys above her was the glass roof. To her right was a white wall hung with a huge abstract painting.

   As she moved towards the doors that opened on to the car park, her progress was halted by one of the girls on the front desk, who called out to her.

   ‘Miss Vyner, there’s a gentleman here to see you.’

   Jane had been so deep in thought that she hadn’t noticed the man leaning against the long bank of polished walnut that fronted the reception. He was 40ish, with balding hair shaved close to his scalp and a pot belly hanging over the waistband of his jeans.

   ‘Tony McNess,’ he said, thrusting out a hand. He then said two more words that froze her blood – the name of a British tabloid newspaper.

   ‘Can I have a word?’

   She had to think fast. ‘You should talk to our press office.’

   ‘It’s not about your firm,’ he said. His voice then dropped to a hiss. ‘It’s about you – and Charles Scott.’

   Jane shot a glance at the receptionists. They appeared not to have heard. She smiled weakly. ‘I’m not quite sure what you’re referring to. Whatever it is, I cannot talk now. I urge you to make an appointment.’

   She knew she sounded like a lousy liar, but this was all happening too fast. First Eleanor Scott, now this. She couldn’t think straight. She began moving towards the entrance. McNess quickly caught up.

   ‘We both know you were sleeping with Scott, Miss Vyner,’ he said. ‘Now we can either get your side of the story, or go ahead and print what we know.’

   Jane stopped in her tracks just before the entrance. ‘I would urge you to be very careful what you print,’ she bluffed. ‘Future Systems is a very big company, with a formidable legal resource. You do not want to get on the wrong side of us.’

   McNess smiled. ‘Like I said, Miss Vyner. This is nothing to do with Future Systems. This is about you.’

   Afraid that whatever she said would get her deeper into the shit she was already wading through, Jane walked through the doors, desperate to get away from this viper. She was soon running, sprinting to her car so she could shut him – and the rest of this nightmare – out of her life, even if for just one moment.

   McNess was running after her, obviously not ready to give up yet. As she approached her car, she unlocked the doors with her fob, and was then in, starting the engine. McNess was suddenly in front of the vehicle, arms outstretched in a vain attempt to halt her. Fuck him, she thought, as she put the car in gear and slammed on the accelerator. The journalist leapt out of the way just in time, as Jane, with a skid of tyres, headed for the exit.

   At the barrier, which seemed to rise agonisingly slowly, she looked in the rear-view mirror and saw a dark car approaching in her wake. She had to get away.

   Finally she was out. Turning left and putting her foot down, she glanced backwards again. The dark car had somehow managed to gain on her, and was now just metres behind. She slammed her foot down without realising that the lights ahead had changed.

   Her car shot forward as traffic from both sides began to move into her path. As she crossed the first lane, she missed, by a whisker, the back end of a white van. A split-second later, as she moved into the second lane of vehicles, her good fortune ran out, and a large shape, which was all she saw in her peripheral vision, smashed into the passenger side of her car. Before Jane lost consciousness, she had the distinct sensation that her BMW was flying through the air in slow motion. As the ground came towards the window at her side and she began to lift up, she realised that, in the rush to escape McNess, she’d forgotten to put her seatbelt on.