Authors: James Craig
‘Fine.’ Edgar lifted the heavy crystal glass to his lips and drank deeply. He should have known this day would come. That was the thing about politics: all of your people fall by the wayside sooner or later. Then, when you – the chief! – are the last man standing, someone steps up to take you out as well. The actual circumstances might come as a surprise, but the narrative was as inevitable as it was predictable.
In the PM’s book, Trevor Miller had always seemed solid, dependable. Obviously, the guy had flipped. Something must have short-circuited in his brain. This was what his spin doctors liked to call ‘a game changer’. Edgar had never known what exactly the term meant until now.
Out of the corner of his eye, the PM saw Sir Gavin O’Dowd slip into the room. Waiting until the Cabinet Secretary was within discreet earshot, he asked: ‘Is it done?’
‘Yes,’ Sir Gavin nodded. ‘Your new interim Head of Security has been appointed as of,’ he looked at his cheap-looking watch, ‘twelve minutes ago.’ He mentioned a name but Edgar swatted it away. At this moment, the precise details of Trevor Miller’s replacement were irrelevant.
‘Good. And what are you going to say about Mr Miller himself?’
‘When the calls start coming in, the Press Office has been told to adopt a strict “no comment” policy. We will hold to that for as long as possible.’
Sighing theatrically, Edgar looked under-impressed.
O’Dowd gave an apologetic shrug. ‘I know that it is less than satisfactory.’
‘Even by your exalted standards of insight,’ the Prime Minister said drily, ‘that is something of an understatement.’
‘It is far from satisfactory,’ Sir Gavin repeated, the rictus grin
on his face looking like it was about to crack. ‘But we are where we are. The press team will hold to the line for as long as they can.’
Which will be about six seconds, Sir Chester estimated grimly.
‘Only if someone starts running a story about Miller being suspected of murder and on the run will we go to a line against inquiry saying that this is a police matter and that he has been relieved of his duties pending their enquiries.’
A look of extreme annoyance crossed Sir Chester’s face as he noticed the large G&T that had just been placed in the Cabinet Secretary’s hand. ‘What do you want me to do?’ he asked.
‘You?’ Sir Gavin shot the police chief a patronizing smile. ‘I think it’s probably best if you try to do nothing.’
‘Nothing?’
‘Just do what you can to stop the information from leaking out. When it eventually does, get your guy to give the press something suitably bland that doesn’t make things even worse.’
‘You think you can manage that?’ Edgar demanded.
‘Of course,’ said the Commissioner stiffly. Privately, he wondered if even that much was achievable. The whereabouts of ‘his guy’ was currently a mystery. Much to his boss’s annoyance, Simon Shelbourne’s mobile had been switched off for the last hour. This was easily the biggest crisis of Sir Chester’s career and the stupid little bugger had gone incommunicado.
‘Good.’ Sir Gavin tasted his gin and gave a small grunt of approval. ‘How long do you think it will take to place the . . . er . . . suspect in custody?’
‘Impossible to say.’ Suffering from the chronic lack of alcohol in his bloodstream, Sir Chester wasn’t going to stand there and try to pretend that they had any clue as to Miller’s location. ‘We are trying to track him down at this very moment, but we have yet to pick up his trail.’
‘Pick up his trail?’ Edgar complained. ‘This is not a bloody fox hunt. He can’t have gone far, so get your officers off their arses and damn well find him!’
Sir Gavin shot his boss a look that said
Calm down
. ‘I am sure that the Commissioner is making this his number-one priority at the present time.’
‘That is absolutely the case,’ Sir Chester confirmed. ‘Yes.’
‘And, as this is a police matter,’ Sir Gavin continued, ‘we should be doing nothing more than assisting the police in dealing with this most serious and grave situation.’
‘Miller’s clearly gone totally crazy,’ Edgar mused. ‘With a bit of luck, he’ll do the decent thing and top himself. Save us all a lot of time and trouble, as well as a bundle of taxpayers’ money.’
The Commissioner’s face brightened slightly. ‘Maybe that’s what’s happened. Maybe he’s lying face down in a pool of his own blood somewhere, which explains why he’s proving so difficult to find.’
The PM tried to shoot his underling a meaningful look. ‘That would be a
result
, as they say.’
Not responding, Sir Gavin stared into his drink.
‘Yes, well . . .’ Uncomfortably aware of his latest orders, Sir Chester began retreating towards the door. ‘I will let you know of any developments.’
‘You do that,’ said Edgar sternly, signalling to the waiter that his glass needed refilling.
Once the Commissioner had slunk off into the night, the Cabinet Secretary pulled a letter from the inside pocket of his jacket and handed it to Edgar.
The PM took the envelope but didn’t open it. ‘What’s this?’
Sir Gavin O’Dowd cleared his throat. ‘I’ve decided that it is time for me to retire.’
Edgar angrily stomped on the carpet. ‘Bloody hell, Gavin, not tonight.’
Sir Gavin stood his ground. ‘The letter is undated. We can action it in due course, once this problem is out of the way.’
‘So
you
are bailing out on me, too?’
‘Not at all.’ Sir Gavin smiled. ‘It’s simply time for me to do some other things.’
‘Lucrative non-executive directorships,’ Edgar grumped.
‘I was thinking more along the lines of some travel and a bit of birdwatching.’
‘Mm.’
‘I’m planning a trip to the Mahananda Wildlife Sanctuary to try to spot the Lesser Adjutant stork.’
‘For God’s sake, Gavin.’
The Cabinet Secretary shrugged. ‘The bottom line is that my heart’s simply not in it any more. We all reach our sell-by date and I’ve now reached mine.’
Nodding sadly, Edgar held out his glass for the hovering waiter to add some more cognac. He was already feeling a little drunk, but now was most definitely not the time to stop drinking. Where the hell
is
the Mahananda Sanctuary? he wondered. Maybe I should consider a trip there myself.
Crawling on to his Jensen Ophelia Continental bed, Simon Shelbourne placed the cool glass of the Jack Daniel’s bottle against his fevered brow, in the hope that it could relieve his bastard migraine. He’d been suffering from raging headaches and nausea for hours now – ever since he’d clocked the story in the
Standard
about the dead policewoman.
A youthful Jenny Southerton had smiled up at him from the front page. Only her name wasn’t Jenny, it was . . . somebody else. Simon almost dropped the newspaper in shock. He couldn’t believe it. He could feel his heart-rate accelerating as he read through the story of the woman’s violent death. Thinking back to their meeting in the Balmoral Club, he realized that everything the little tease had told him was a lie. She hadn’t worked on the
Sunday Witness
. She was a cop.
An undercover cop, who had been spying on
him
. And now she was dead. There was no doubt about it: he was totally fucked.
Dealing with this calamitous situation in time-honoured fashion, Shelbourne had decamped to Wade’s Wine Bar and promptly done three lines of charlie in the bog before settling in for an extended session of continuous drinking. Five (or was it six?) hours later, having somehow made it back to his Wapping flat, he bounced on the patented Hourglass Zoned Spring System – which, mercifully, provides consistent support to your ever-changing position and weight distribution – while trying to wriggle out of his Citizens of Humanity Adonis slim jeans.
‘Have you got any more coke?’ The bottle blonde he’d dragged home with him – Rebekah or Rachel or something – dropped her bag on the floor. Shrugging off her denim jacket, she jumped on to the bed, pulling her Mumford & Sons T-shirt over her head as she did so.
‘Fucking first,’ declared Shelbourne, ‘drugs second.’ Eyeing her sheer lime-green bra he was relieved to feel a comforting twitch in his groin. The stress of recent events had been impacting on his ability to perform of late, but hopefully tonight he would be okay. The girl reached behind her back to unclasp the bra but he gestured for her to stop. ‘Leave it on.’ The anticipation, he reckoned, was always better than the reality. Shrugging, she did as she was told. Kicking off his jeans, he pulled down his Spanx boxers with his free hand while unscrewing the top of the whiskey bottle with the other. ‘Suck me off.’
‘Gimme some Jack,’ said the girl, grabbing the bottle. Before he had time to react, she poured half the contents of the bottle over his crotch.
‘Hey!’ Shelbourne objected.
The girl gave him a sly grin. ‘If I’m gonna eat it, I want it to taste good.’ She took two long slugs.
Seems reasonable, Shelbourne thought, falling back on to the mattress.
He couldn’t have been asleep for long. Slowly, slowly, slowly, the room came into focus. Shelbourne found himself staring at the
crown of the girl’s head as she vigorously worked on his whiskey-flavoured member. Her roots need doing, he thought. Gingerly, he reached out to grab her hair.
‘Fuck off,’ was the muffled reply as she slapped his hand away, digging her teeth ever so slightly into his skin as a gentle reminder of who was in charge.
‘Maybe we should just fuck,’ he grumbled.
Her response was to pitch forward on to his chest, before sliding off the bed.
‘Jesus,’ Shelbourne laughed, ‘you’re even more fucked than I am!’
‘Not for long,’ interjected another voice. Standing in the doorway, Trevor Miller took in the sordid scene.
Simon Shelbourne sobered up in an instant once he registered the silenced gun in Miller’s left hand.
‘What are you doing here?’ he asked. Forcing himself into a sitting position, he could now see the two bloody holes in the girl’s back. He tried to scream, but only succeeded in vomiting into his own lap.
Trevor shook his head. ‘This isn’t going to look good when the police get here.’
‘Hold on,’ Shelbourne whimpered, trying to shuffle off the bed. ‘You can’t do this. I didn’t tell that girl anything.’
‘I can’t hold on any longer,’ Miller said grimly. Then he lifted the gun and fired four shots into the naked man’s chest.
Yawning, Carlyle stepped into the R6 newsagent on Drury Lane, nodding at Suraj behind the counter, who was patiently waiting for one of the local drunks to count out sufficient copper coins to pay for a can of Red Stripe.
Easy like Sunday morning . . . Covent Garden style.
It’s 9:30 a.m., Carlyle thought groggily, a bit early to be hitting the booze. Sucking on a latte from the Ecco café up the road, he scanned the front covers of the newspapers laid out by the till. It was the usual mix of celebrities, sex, drugs and disaster. As he did every weekend, Carlyle wondered why his family bothered purchasing newspapers any more. In his book, they were just a waste of time and effort – a bloated mix of no news and the noxious opinions of ridiculous columnists that you would happily cross the road to avoid if they ever came walking down your street. It was Helen who insisted that they keep buying them; more out of habit than anything else. Somehow, he still managed to waste an hour or so of his free time restlessly flicking through pages brimming with bile and manufactured outrages in a vain search for something that might catch his interest.
Finally coming up with the right cash, the dosser grabbed his lager and shuffled towards the door, giving off a rather nasty niff as he did so.
‘The usual?’ Suraj pulled a
Sunday Times
and
Sunday Mirror
from their respective piles and set them in front of the inspector.
‘Thanks,’ Carlyle smiled, handing over a fiver. Waiting for his change, his gaze fell on the front page of the
Sunday Witness
.
HANNAH PARENTS
:
‘
CALL US
’
Carlyle’s heart sank as he reached for a copy. ‘I’d better have one of those as well.’
‘What did you get that for?’ Helen asked, as he dropped the pile of newspapers on the living-room floor. Sitting on the sofa with a cup of green tea, she carefully considered which bit of which paper she wanted to read first.
‘Work,’ Carlyle grumped, annoyed that his wife would think he would have bought the
Witness
through choice. Grabbing the tabloid, he slumped into an armchair and began reading. Under an ‘Exclusive’ tag, the front page was dominated by a picture of a smiling Hannah Gillespie, along with a strapline that said: Full story, pages 4, 5 and 6. ‘Jesus,’ he mumbled, ‘misery sells.’
‘Nothing new in that,’ sniffed Helen, as she tore open the plastic wrapper containing the
Sunday Times
magazines.
‘Thank you for that stunning insight,’ said Carlyle, flicking to page four and starting to read:
The parents of a missing schoolgirl yesterday begged her to come home as the police admitted they didn’t have enough men available to find her
.
Fuck
, Carlyle thought, Simpson isn’t going to like that comment. He quickly scanned down through the article.
Accused of being slow to react, police have admitted that they are no closer to finding Hannah. Despite listening in to her phone messages, they still have no idea where she is. One said: ‘We are just not getting anywhere on this. There’s simply not enough officers deployed on it. At this rate, we’re not going to find her – and we’ll end up getting sued by the parents
.’
Carlyle frowned as he reread the quote. ‘You have
got
to be kidding me.’
‘What?’ Helen asked, looking up from her article on winter soups.
Carlyle gestured at the phone sitting on the arm of the sofa.
‘Throw me my mobile, will you?’
Reaching over, Helen grabbed the phone and handed it to him.
‘Ta.’ Carlyle pulled up 901 and hit call.
You have no new messages and twelve old messages
.
Quickly deleting the first three, he came to the one that Joe had left for him a couple of days earlier.