Disorder (Sam Keddie thriller series Book 1) (9 page)

Chapter 25

Downing Street 

‘He did what?’

   The generously proportioned private apartment above the Chancellor of the Exchequer’s official residence, 11 Downing Street, had, since Blair’s day, been the home of the Prime Minister. The Chancellor, meanwhile, had been forced to move next door, to the pokey one-bedroom flat above Number 10.

   Stirling hadn’t reversed the tradition, insisting on the larger apartment. As far as he was concerned, the business of Government went on long after you’d shut the front door of your home. If that home happened to be a broom cupboard, surely that affected the quality of the decisions made?

   Right now however, seated at the kitchen table, a rapidly shrinking bottle of single malt on the table before him, the idea of superior decisions being made about the future course of the country seemed fanciful. There was nothing lofty about the conversation taking place – one that was largely conducted in strained whispers. In fact Stirling felt as if he had descended into the ninth circle of hell and was sitting, waist deep in ice, with the big man himself.

   It was the PM who’d called the meeting. That morning another of Frears’ poisonous little messages had appeared on his BlackBerry. It had taken till late in the evening to find a moment to talk. Charlotte and Aidan were in the sitting room, slumped in front of a film. The kitchen door was closed.

   Frears had told him how Eleanor Scott was now with Keddie, what his team had learned from Diana Tennant and what had happened since, including Jane Vyner’s death.

   ‘This is an operation that requires on-the-spot decision-making. I made a call. Or would you rather I had cleared it with you first?’

   ‘But we’re not even sure she knew anything.’ Stirling’s voice was barely a whisper. 

   ‘She was Scott’s lover,’ said Frears.

   According to the information gleaned from Diana Tennant, it was a short-lived affair, a matter of months. This, thought Stirling, might explain why it was news to him.

   ‘We could not afford to have her mouthing off to Eleanor Scott and Keddie.’ The Guardsman enunciated his syllables with nauseating precision.

   ‘But your man smothered her, for Christ’s sake!’ The words caught in Stirling’s throat.

   The Prime Minister could hear the sound of a car chase from the television in the sitting room across the hallway, brakes screeching, accelerating engines, then gunfire.

   He longed, right then, to disappear, to evaporate into thin air. His reality had become, in the blink of an eye, the most terrifying place imaginable. He poured himself another inch of whisky, downing it in one. The peaty liquid burned a passage down his throat to his stomach. A temporary warmth. His body felt icy.

   ‘There were nursing staff and other patients around. He had to act fast.’

   Stirling said nothing.

   ‘He took precautions,’ continued Frears.

   Stirling was still silent, his eyes locked on to a set of breakfast cereal boxes arranged on the granite top opposite him.

   ‘Where did you get this man from,’ muttered Stirling, ‘Broadmoor?’

   ‘Given the task in hand, you should be grateful it’s him doing your work,’ hissed Frears back. ‘You came to me because you had no one else to turn to. I assembled the best team I could, given the difficult circumstances. This man was thinking on his feet – we both were – which is exactly what a rapidly changing situation demands.’

   ‘Couldn’t he have –’

   ‘Have what?’ snapped Frears.

   ‘– acted with a little restraint?’

   Frears said nothing. The answer was obvious.

   Stirling ran the fingers of both hands through his curly hair. He then gripped the locks and pulled till his scalp hurt in the hope that he would wake some dormant brain cells to provide a miraculous route out of this almighty mess. They didn’t.

   Frears was right of course, but he couldn’t help but see a long trail of shit leading all the way to his door. First Scott commits suicide, then his former lover totals her car.

   Think, he thought. Think. An alternate narrative began forming in his head. He felt his blood pressure lowering. Scott had overdosed. There was evidence. Vyner, driving recklessly out of her mind with grief, had been involved in a massive traffic accident. Her injuries had been so severe, she’d died in hospital. There was, if Frears was to be believed, no evidence of foul play.

   But what about Keddie and Eleanor Scott? Perhaps a fresh approach was necessary. Perhaps the dogs needed to be put back on the leash. Perhaps they could negotiate, avoid a pile-up of corpses. He reached for the whisky bottle, then pulled his hand back. He couldn’t think straight and the malt wasn’t going to help. Whenever decision-making was required of him in Government, there was always an Oxbridge cleverdick around to sound ideas against. But now all he had was a murderous soldier. 

   ‘It’s like I said the other day, Prime Minister,’ said Frears, as if hearing Stirling’s thoughts. ‘Right now, we’re in the containment business.’

   ‘If we’re really in the “containment” business,’ snapped Stirling, ‘then how come my son managed to slip out?’

   ‘We were very stretched,’ countered Frears. ‘Besides, he was unmedicated, which wasn’t our fault.’ 

   Fair point, thought the PM. That was Charlotte’s department, and she’d screwed up. Another thought, one that made Stirling feel even colder, suddenly entered his mind. What if Frears himself needed ‘containing’? If, even with the considerable payments he received from a trust buried deep in Charlotte’s family’s accounts, he decided to blackmail him?

   Stirling shook the thought from his head. Too much. This had to be taken one day at a time. One hour at a time.

   ‘Where are they now?’ he asked, his voice still quiet.

   ‘We’re not sure. We lost them outside Reading.’

   Stirling groaned. ‘You “lost them”.’

   Frears titled his head a fraction. Stirling sensed that sarcasm was on its way. ‘We don’t have the resources of MI5 at our disposal to track calls or monitor CCTV. Unless you’d like to ask them to give us a helping hand.’ Frears smirked. ‘But we do have people at all the base points – the family home in Sussex, Eleanor Scott’s place in London, Keddie’s house, Charles Scott’s flat. They will show up.’

   Stirling let his head fall backwards, the weight of it suddenly unbearable. He had to assume the Guardsman was right. That Keddie and Eleanor Scott would reappear. And they weren’t right now heading for a
tête-à-têt
e
with some hack from the
Guardian
.

   He sighed, then brought his head forward, looking Frears squarely in the eye. Directness. That would help, he thought. The Guardsman clearly felt that he was not taking enough responsibility for this.

   ‘When you do catch up with them, I’m wondering whether a new approach might be helpful? Maybe attempt to negotiate. Avoid any more bodies.’

   Frears frowned. ‘My man at the hospital is certain they recognised him. They know we’re active. That, without doubt, we have a secret that we will kill to keep hidden. The time for conversation – for discovering what they may or may not know – is over.’

   ‘And you think you can make it look like an accident?’ He felt his stomach drop, his bowels loosen. He’d known Eleanor Scott since she was a baby. Smart child. Always asking bloody questions.

   ‘All we require is the right opportunity.’

    Stirling swallowed hard, barely able to believe he was speaking the words. ‘Then let’s hope such an opportunity presents itself.’

   As the Guardsman exited the flat, it occurred to Stirling that, despite being Prime Minister of the United Kingdom, he was barely in control of this little operation.

Chapter 26

Reading, Berkshire

Sam and Eleanor sat in the Mini by the side of a country lane somewhere outside the town. Sam hadn’t thought hard about where they were going. He simply drove, as fast as he could, out of Reading and into the surrounding countryside, his eye constantly darting to the rearview mirror. When he was confident they weren’t being followed, he pulled up. It was a quiet lane, the only sound Sam could hear their rapid breathing.

   ‘We should call the police,’ said Eleanor. ‘Tell them about that man.’

   ‘Tell them what?’ 

   ‘What we know.’

   Sam recalled his previous frustrating experience with the police. ‘What do we know? Right now, it’s that your father was haunted by something and probably having an affair.’     

   ‘But you spotted that man.’

   ‘I know I did, but what does that prove? If no one saw him in Jane Vyner’s room committing the act – and you can be certain he made sure he wasn’t seen – then all the police have is my word that I was threatened in London by a man who looked very like someone walking through that ward.’

   ‘But while we do nothing, he’s going around killing people.’

   ‘The police will not protect us – or anyone else, for that matter. These people work for the Government. They’re above the bloody law.’

  
Eleanor was quiet. Sam hadn’t meant to direct his anger at her.

   ‘I’m sorry for dragging you into this,’ Sam said.

   Eleanor shook her head, dismissing his apology. ‘This is about my father,’ she said. ‘I need to know what he was involved in. What the hell happened to him. Whether he even committed suicide.’

   She suddenly let out a howl of pain and slammed the steering wheel with her hands. Sam waited for her to calm, then placed a hand on her shoulder.

   ‘Is there any way we can retrace your father’s footsteps? Find the event that might explain his sudden change in mood. A diary, maybe?’

   ‘In his office at Westminster,’ said Eleanor, her voice now hushed. ‘Diana Tennant would know.’

   ‘Not sure we should talk to her again.’

   Eleanor shot him a look. ‘Do you think she told these people where we were going?’

   ‘It’s possible.’

   ‘You don’t think they hurt her?’ Eleanor’s voice had gathered pitch again.

   Sam reached for one of Eleanor’s hands, which were still clasping the steering wheel. He encircled it, felt how cold it was, the icy fear in her.

   ‘Let’s not get carried away.’

   There was a pause, then Eleanor spoke again. ‘Dad’s flat,’ she said. ‘I’ve got keys. There’ll be credit card statements. Receipts maybe. It’s worth a try.’

   In truth, Sam wanted to find a place to hide, to go underground and never re-surface. He sensed that they were running out of time. That the team that had followed them so far would, sooner or later, catch up with them. And then what chance did they have of surviving?

   He glanced at Eleanor. She was looking ahead into the darkness of the night, a steely calm returning to her face. She seemed to have a tough reserve she could draw on, however upset she got. He took heart from it.

   Right now, they had no choice but to carry on. Their survival depended on them discovering Scott’s secret.

Chapter 27

London 

Just before 9.30pm, they parked the Mini in a side street near Richmond Underground station. Sam watched as Eleanor read the parking information on a sign nearby. He could see she was going through the motions of normality, possibly about to text her number plate and credit card details. But then she shrugged, locked the car, and joined him.

   ‘Hardly worth worrying about, is it?’ she said.

   The Tube was half-filled, a group of well-heeled teenagers standing by the doors, joshing and loudly taking the piss out of each other; sitting opposite, a young couple poring over a holiday brochure.

   They took the District Line to Sloane Square, then weaved their way through affluent backstreets towards Albert Bridge. As they moved along grand Georgian terraces, Sam sensed a world of cosseted wealth around him, of security systems and alarmed cars, of lives fortified against crime and danger. He wondered whether anyone, if they crossed the invisible line he and Eleanor had, could ever be truly safe.

   On the other side of the bridge, Eleanor led him down the west of Battersea Park and then, minutes later, along its south side. He recognised the mansion blocks from that first news report on Charles Scott’s death.

   ‘We’re here,’ said Eleanor, who hadn’t spoken since leaving the Tube station. Sam could see this was an enormous step for her. In addition to being hounded by murderers, she was now having to confront the space in which her father had died.

   Eleanor unlocked the front door and strode into the lobby area. There was a lift ahead but Eleanor took the stairs to the side of it, leaping the steps two at a time.

   The flat was on the third floor and it was here, as Eleanor fumbled with her keys, that he had an inkling of the terror she was now experiencing. The landing and stairwell were near silent, a distant sound of a television and, even more muted, laughter. Strange, thought Sam, how a building could soak up so much tragedy and then, within days, present as if nothing had ever happened.

   Inside, Sam was struck by the cold. Eleanor lifted a pile of mail from the hallway.

   ‘Odd how the concierge feels it necessary to put pizza take-away flyers through the letterbox of a dead man,’ she said, her voice full of irritation.

   She moved into the sitting room, a generous space that looked, through large windows, on to the street and the darkness of the park beyond. She flicked a switch to her left and a series of table lamps flickered on, bathing the room in a soft light.

   The place shared the lived-in feel of the Scott family home. Worn, much-loved furniture; books everywhere; a mantelpiece choked with photographs of Eleanor and Wendy.

   But then there was the temperature. And the ghost in the room. Was this, wondered Sam, where Scott had been found? Or did he lie down in his bed and slowly fall asleep?

   Clearly Eleanor was not hanging around to weigh such questions up. She had headed over to an old wooden desk, its top inset with ink-spattered leather, and was slowly going through its drawers.

   ‘God knows how my father managed a Government department,’ she muttered. ‘This is bloody chaos.’

   Sam could hear her frustration as she rummaged through office junk – the sound of pens, paper-clips and other small objects being pushed around impatiently.

   Eleanor had opened the bottom drawer on the desk’s right hand when she paused.

   ‘Oh,’ she said.

   Sam had moved to the window where he was casting an anxious eye on the street below. He turned to her. ‘What is it?’

   ‘It’s empty. And I mean completely empty. Strange, given that the other drawers are crammed.’   

  
Sam noticed a movement just within the park, a figure emerging for a moment from the shadows cast by trees and streetlights. He squinted. Had his eyes deceived him? But then, as quickly, the figure retreated.

   He felt that all-too-familiar grip of fear, the pounding in his chest. The horrible sense of life-threatening danger again.

   ‘It may be nothing,’ said Sam, ‘but I’m not sure we should hang around for long.’

   He turned to look at Eleanor. She was still rooting through the drawers. She raised a hand in assent to him, then continued.

   Sam was unsure of the time that had elapsed since the figure had appeared, but he sensed that it was only minutes later when he heard the engine. In contrast to the usual sound of London traffic, this was a vehicle driven with serious intent. Sam looked in the direction of the noise, saw a dark saloon heading towards the mansion block from the east. It then halted abruptly outside. At that point, he saw the figure re-emerge at the edge of the park, climb and then vault the railings to join four others who’d got out of the car.

   ‘Fuck,’ muttered Sam. It was as if he’d seen it but couldn’t register it. A spilt-second passed. ‘We need to get out of here,’ he barked. ‘Now!’

   He turned to Eleanor. She had laid out a pile of papers and receipts on the desk’s surface and was going through them, one by one.

   ‘We don’t have time!’ he said, rushing to her. ‘Just grab them all.’

   Eleanor snapped to attention. She swept the desk with an arm, pulling the paperwork into a wad. She then began searching frantically for something to put the papers in, settling for an old padded envelope from another drawer.

   Sam grabbed her arm and ran to the door. He opened it halfway, standing on the threshold to listen. In between Eleanor’s rapid breaths, he could hear a loud rattling sound from downstairs. The noise of a lock being tampered with, he was sure of it. They had, he reckoned, a minute before the door was opened and the men came charging up the stairs.

   He shut the door. ‘Is there a fire escape?’

   ‘The kitchen. The back door leads on to an outside staircase.’

   Sam followed Eleanor as she ran down a short corridor into the kitchen. She then began fumbling with her keys, trying to find the one that would unlock the back door.

   ‘There’s no time,’ said Sam.

   He grabbed the nearest object, a metal bread bin, and used it to batter the glass above the lock. The glass was reinforced. It wouldn’t break.

   ‘Fuck!’

   He looked round the room feverishly, searching for a heavier object, some other way out of their rapidly shrinking prison.

   He felt a hand tightly grip his arm.

   ‘With me, now,’ said Eleanor.

   She led him back to the front door, which she opened a fraction. They both heard the noise. The door below had been opened. There were people on the stairs. Sam could hear the sounds of clothing rustling, hushed instructions, getting fractionally louder.

   Eleanor was out first. Sam was gripped with a terror that somehow she meant to confront them, let loose her anger on a group of men she held responsible for her father’s death. But she was moving left, away from the stairs down, and towards the next flight up. She then darted upwards. Sam leapt the steps in Eleanor’s wake to where she’d halted, outside the flat directly above Charles Scott’s.

   Eleanor looked Sam straight in the eye. ‘Let’s hope to God this works,’ she whispered, the words punctuated by heavy breaths. She then rapped gently on the door.

   Sam reckoned the men were now on the second floor. He and Eleanor had a matter of seconds before they reached the third and Scott’s front door which, he now realised, they’d left ajar. And then barely a minute before they discovered the flat was empty and came looking for them elsewhere.

   There was no answer. Eleanor knocked harder now, but with the side of her fist not her knuckles, in an attempt to muffle the noise. Sam listened below for any sign that the men had heard. They’d reached the third floor. Eleanor’s hand was raised to knock again and Sam rapidly put a finger to his lips. Eleanor stopped, her hand frozen.

   On the floor below, words were being spoken in muted tones. There was a creak of hinges. They were in the flat.

   Sam nodded. Eleanor hammered on the door one last time, again with the side of her fist. The door opened almost immediately, an older man’s face appearing in a chink of opening restrained by a chain.

   ‘Eleanor,’ a voice boomed.

   ‘Sssshh,’ hissed Eleanor. ‘Just let us in.’

   The man looked affronted and pushed the door shut. Sam wondered whether Eleanor had upset the man but then he heard the chain being pulled and the door re-opened.

   ‘What the hell’s going on?’ said the man before them, a lean figure in a check shirt and corduroys.

   ‘In a minute,’ whispered Eleanor, pushing past him and pulling Sam in behind her. She shut the door quietly.

   ‘Donald,’ Eleanor said. ‘I cannot explain right now, but I’m in trouble. Something to do with Dad. There are men in his flat right now. Men who mean to do me harm.’

   ‘Then we must call the police,’ said the man.

   ‘No,’ said Eleanor. The man reached for a phone on a table behind him. Eleanor’s arm shot out, grabbing the old man’s hand. ‘No, Donald.’

   It was then they all heard the unmistakable sound of glass breaking. Where Sam had failed, these men had succeeded. They were out on the fire escape. There was a clatter of footsteps on metal. But then another noise, words being grunted. An order being given.

   ‘Please,’ said Sam, ‘turn your lights out.’

   ‘Who is this man, Eleanor?’ muttered Donald. ‘Your father and I may have been old friends but this is quite intolerable.’

   Eleanor still held the old man’s hand. ‘Please Donald,’ she pleaded, ‘I can’t explain now. But the police won’t help me.’

  How long had this old man known Charles Scott, his wife and daughter, wondered Sam? What kind of friendship had existed between them? Sam saw the old man’s face melt, the hand reaching for the phone drop, another hand extend towards a light switch.

   They stood motionless in the dark. Could Sam hear a man rising on the stairs outside, or was it just the sound of his pulse thudding in his ears? He couldn’t be sure. But then the narrow slit of light at the bottom of the door was interrupted by two shadows. Someone was standing inches from them.

   The figure stayed there for what seemed like minutes, before moving away. In the gloom next to him, Sam could see Donald opening his mouth to speak before one of Eleanor’s hands darted out to clamp it shut.

   Sam moved into the sitting room. Here, mercifully, the lights weren’t on to draw attention from the street below. Sam opened a curtain an inch, saw the car. The men – four, then five – re-grouped. There was a brief meeting, a leader directing his team with arm movements. Three of the men dispersed in opposite directions on foot, while the other two got back in the car, which moved off at a more sedate pace.

   ‘They’ve gone,’ said Sam. His throat was dry and he had to say the words again before Eleanor and the old man heard.