The Dying Light (29 page)
‘We’ll see: the real question is whether the police made the same identification as my man did. I suspect they did because that would explain why they folded in there so quickly.’ He stooped and whispered. ‘But they don’t know we know. That’s my ace. So let’s keep it that way.’
He let go of her hand.
‘A bientôt d’avoir de tes nouvelles,
as the French say, Miss Lockhart: I look forward to hearing your news.’
‘A bientôt d’avoir de tes nouvelles,
as the French say, Miss Lockhart: I look forward to hearing your news.’
She got into the Bristol and started the engine. John Turvey gave a little royal flick of the hand and then moved with the purpose of a locomotive engine to the waiting car.
For much of the next twelve hours she slept. Nock insisted on bedding down for the night in the sitting room, having told her again that he had not moved
The Story of a Shipwrecked Sailor
. She waved his protestations away and apologised for being grumpy and obsessive. The book didn’t matter, she said. Again she was aware that Nock would make a move if he knew how, or was bold enough. He looked at her with an odd, rather amateurish hunger and once laid his hand on hers but quickly withdrew it and looked away. Another time she might have allowed things to progress, but there was too much on her mind just now and Eyam’s tape, which she had retrieved from the car, had warned her about Nock. She left him downstairs with a duvet she had found in the airing cupboard.
The Story of a Shipwrecked Sailor
. She waved his protestations away and apologised for being grumpy and obsessive. The book didn’t matter, she said. Again she was aware that Nock would make a move if he knew how, or was bold enough. He looked at her with an odd, rather amateurish hunger and once laid his hand on hers but quickly withdrew it and looked away. Another time she might have allowed things to progress, but there was too much on her mind just now and Eyam’s tape, which she had retrieved from the car, had warned her about Nock. She left him downstairs with a duvet she had found in the airing cupboard.
Next morning he rose early and to her amazement baked a loaf of bread, which he left outside her room with butter, marmalade and coffee. He called out to her that he’d be back later to do some work.
Sitting cross-legged on the bed in Eyam’s bathrobe, she breakfasted with a new clarity. As the beneficiary of a faked death, she was now absolved of responsibility for Dove Cottage. And with that also lifted the weight of guilt about her failure as a friend, which seemed quite absurd to her now. Eyam had cold-bloodedly used her, but worse he had made a fool of her. Of all the people he knew he had chosen her to be his patsy, and that made her very angry indeed.
She put the tray aside and began to write with a fluent objectivity in a notepad that Eyam kept on his bedside table. She must assume firstly that Eyam’s cover was blown or at least that his story would not hold for very much longer, because the clues would be picked up by others. The call he made to her a week after his supposed death would probably have been revealed during an examination of her phone and its records while she was in police custody. Even though the message had been deleted, it probably existed somewhere in the phone company’s system and a record of the call from Colombia - or thereabouts - would remain. And once that had been discovered, they would go back into the inquest and the whole fraud would be exposed. That call was a problem because it would inevitably lead those investigating Eyam’s case to conclude she was involved, but there was very little she could do about that.
She must also assume that every call she made on her phone and all internet use would now be monitored. Moreover it would be a folly to believe that the people working with Halliday - the Special Branch officer who sat mute throughout her interviews - had not discovered and listened to the cassette when examining Eyam’s car. Yes, it might serve to show she hadn’t been involved from the start, but that would make no difference. Hugh Russell appeared to have been murdered merely on the suspicion that he had seen Eyam’s dossier.
As a lawyer she was in the habit of sharing her distillation of a case with colleagues - Ralph Betts and Ted Schultz, particularly - and she missed them now because, despite her reputation as a loner, the truth was that she functioned best in a group. So did Eyam, which was what made her think of the way he had planned this daring fraud and who else might be involved. Were all those people in the pub part of it? She thought not. But what about Tony Swift, who had organised the interview in Colombia, led the coroner by the nose through the film and arranged for the fraudulent matching of Eyam’s DNA? It had been a huge risk to send the remains back to Britain, where they might be examined again, but they were only tested for drugs and then Swift had made sure they were delivered to the coroner’s office before sending them on to the funeral director. Eyam and his collaborators had thought of everything, right down to the dressings worn by Detective Bautista in the film. She wondered how much he had accepted from Eyam; whether Swift was also being paid or if he was doing it all from conviction.
What mattered to her was that she was now free of any obligation to Eyam or his cause. If he had wanted to enlist her help he should have been straight with her instead of attempting a kind of entrapment. She certainly wanted to see Eyam again, if only to give him a piece of her mind, but it would have to be on her terms and she could not allow herself to be used any more. Her raging curiosity about Eyam’s plans must not get the better of her or give the impression that she was part of the conspiracy. She didn’t have much on her side except the DVD of the two men leaving the offices of Russell, Spring & Co. That was worth some leverage with the authorities, at least for the time being.
She put on jeans, and a pullover, an old suede jacket and Wellington boots she found by the back door, and set off into the woods behind the cottage with Kilmartin’s phone, which she had retrieved from the flowerpot. She considered the possibility that, like the tape cassette, it had been discovered and left in place for her to use, but instinct told her not.
The morning was bright and sweetened with the smell of new leaves and flowering willow. She walked a couple of miles through the woods that ran along the ridge above the valley and then dropped down on the other side to find a bank of violets, whose scent released sudden vivid memories of her childhood. Staring down at a clump of purple and white flowers, she called Kilmartin. Even if he was working for the other side, she could use him as a conduit to explain she had no part in Eyam’s disappearance or his crusade.
‘Are we still meeting?’ she asked.
‘Yes, I think that would be a good idea, but I’m not sure when. Maybe tomorrow; certainly Monday. I’m tied up at the moment.’
‘Tell me when and where and I’ll be there.’
‘In the country; I’ll come to you.’
‘Is that wise?’
‘We’ll arrange something. I’ll let you know.’
She waited a beat. ‘You do know, don’t you?’
There was a silence at the other end. At length he replied, ‘Yes, I believe I do. How long have you . . . ?
‘A day or so,’ she cut in.
‘The phone is encrypted - it’ll last a few days - until they know you’re using it.’
‘Still . . .’
‘Yes, you’re quite right. We’ll be in touch.’
She hung up and walked back to Dove Cottage where she used her own phone to call and thank her mother, who told her that she was coming to London to see her sometime over the next week. Kate held off committing herself but clearly there was no escaping the reunion. Her mother closed with, ‘Do ring Oliver Mermagen.’
This she did immediately, because Mermagen represented another line into the other side. He was in his car. ‘Is this a bad time?’ she asked.
‘No, it’s fine; actually I’m just on my way to Chequers.’
‘You move in high circles, Oliver,’ she said, wondering why the prime minister would want Mermagen at his country residence.
‘To tell the truth it’s a bit of a bore. I had something fixed for the day - a client of mine was taking me to Deauville. Still, it’s important that I’m there.’
‘My mother said you rang, but I imagine that any interest you had in my legal career has waned after my night in custody.’
‘Not in the least: I knew the police were being idiotic. These things happen - no blame attaches to you, Kate.’
‘Tell that to the newspapers.’
‘Our cross to bear in this country: they get worse as they get more desperate for sales. Look, I rang because Eden White wants to meet you for a longer session. He’s interested in acquiring your services.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That seems rather surprising.’
‘I’ll see him at Chequers and—’
‘At Chequers!’
‘Yes, he’ll be there and I’d like to be able to say that you’d be willing to have a chat with him next week, while he’s still in London. He leaves on Thursday.’
‘That sounds fine,’ she said.
‘Great news! I know he’ll be pleased.’
‘Oliver, do you mind me asking what you’re doing at Chequers?’
‘The election, Kate! Temple is taking soundings before making his decision when to go to the country. It’s one of the great advantages of a political system without fixed terms.’
‘For the man that calls the election, yes.’
‘A finely balanced judgement, as you say.’
She smiled at the vintage Mermagen return, which typically failed to acknowledge her point; a technique that always provided Mermagen with the account of the world that suited him best. ‘Then I’ll expect to hear from you,’ she said.
There was just one more communication with the world outside Dove Cottage that morning. A postman arrived, parked his van at the track and delivered a bundle of letters, bills and mail-shots held together by two red rubber bands. When she took it from him in the garden, he said: ‘Good to see the old place being used again. You will be wanting to look at the first one now - it’s special delivery.’
On top of the pile was a plain white envelope without a name or address.
‘The issue is this,’ said Temple, looking round the Great Hall at Chequers. ‘Should we wait for better signs in the economic indicators, or play our hand now?’
Philip Cannon surveyed the prime minister’s group of political intimates - the men and women he relied on to keep him in power. Each served a distinct purpose in Temple’s life, though this seemed to be rarely appreciated by the individual. He had scooped up and shed individuals over the last two decades, gradually refining the inner circle with a cold certainty that he would one day be holding court at the Elizabethan manor that had been left by Arthur Lee to the nation for the sole use of the prime minister. There were the stalwarts from the beginning of his political career like his constituency agent and chief whip; the admen, media strategists and pollsters; and the people from Number Ten, Temple’s chief of staff and head of strategy and his chief economic adviser, the head of his Policy Unit and Temple’s principal private secretary Dawn Gruppo. There was no overlap, no repetition and little love lost between them.
Set apart both physically and in status from this group, which had gathered on the sofas at the centre of the room, were Eden White, sitting by the great window that looked out on the remains of the Tudor courtyard, and the press baron Bryant Maclean, who had sunk into a chair underneath the portraits of Charles I and Queen Henrietta Maria in the corner of the room, and watched the proceedings with a look of rubbery, wrinkled impatience.
No one heard Temple’s opening remark because June, his second wife, a former weather girl and latterly television cook and author of the bestselling
Discreet Charm
, a study of modern etiquette, had allowed the business of welcoming the guests to spill into the meeting. She moved around the room, lightly touching people’s shoulders with the end of her splayed fingertips. Tall and athletically trim with a helmet of blonde hair and a particle-beam smile, she possessed a glamour that was both remote and neighbourly. As one of the junior press officers in Cannon’s department had observed, she was one of Temple’s key assets, because women wanted to be like her and men wanted to have her. Whatever they thought of Temple, they admired him for laying siege and winning the hand of his Teutonic beauty. And of course June Temple had totally erased the memory of poor Judith Temple in her dowdy suburb near Leeds, her problem children and her career in sociology.
Discreet Charm
, a study of modern etiquette, had allowed the business of welcoming the guests to spill into the meeting. She moved around the room, lightly touching people’s shoulders with the end of her splayed fingertips. Tall and athletically trim with a helmet of blonde hair and a particle-beam smile, she possessed a glamour that was both remote and neighbourly. As one of the junior press officers in Cannon’s department had observed, she was one of Temple’s key assets, because women wanted to be like her and men wanted to have her. Whatever they thought of Temple, they admired him for laying siege and winning the hand of his Teutonic beauty. And of course June Temple had totally erased the memory of poor Judith Temple in her dowdy suburb near Leeds, her problem children and her career in sociology.
‘Thank you so much, dear,’ Temple said, the parentheses spreading wider than usual to emphasise that the glow of a newly married couple had not dimmed. June clasped her hands in an expression of hospitable satisfaction and took herself off. ‘The election,’ he said, ‘is upon us.’
Cannon’s heart sank. Weekends at Chequers were like the bonding sessions for the BBC’s management he used to attend in hotels that always seemed to be near Watford. In fact this great square room with its chandelier, heavy table lamps and June’s flower arrangements very much reminded him of the lobby of one of the posher country hotels. At Chequers he was reduced to an inmate, at the beck and call of the prime minister, unable to take a walk when he wanted, go for a pint without permission, have a nap or flick a fly over some unsuspecting trout. But he stayed in the job and put up with Chequers because of a straightforward fascination with Temple, who was in many ways the weirdest human being he had ever encountered. And at the end of it all would be a damned good memoir, a pension and the speaking circuit, where he would reveal John Temple, the man who took time off from the affairs of state to watch a daytime TV chat show, who once went missing at a G20 summit and was found - by the US Secret Service - in a railway museum, who wanted nothing more than to turn Britain into a republic and replace the monarchy with a president, presumably with an eye to his own retirement.
He drained the lukewarm coffee and withdrew into himself. Everyone in the room would have their say and to a man and woman they would opt for an October election. It was the orthodoxy, the unchallenged product of group-think: you couldn’t find anyone in the media or political establishment who favoured an election now, although six months before the spring offensive had been all anyone talked about. Cannon knew that, the prime minister knew that, but still they had to sit there on a beautiful morning as the bloody economic adviser went through his predictions for lending activity and interest rates, food and oil prices, public spending, growth and employment in the second half of the year.
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