The South Lawn Plot (14 page)

H
ER BODY TENSED
, and without opening her eyes, she clenched her right fist. Then she remembered. She was in her own bed and the snoring corpus beside her belonged to Nick Bailey.

Samantha Walsh wasn't quite sure how she felt about her night out, the dinner at the Thai restaurant and the invitation from a man she barely knew. Mostly, however, it was occurring to her that she might have to make a whopping breakfast, bacon, oozing eggs and all the rest.

Then she remembered, and it prompted some relief, that despite it being Saturday morning she was expected in the office first thing. Bailey would have to look after himself. He had muttered something about a shift of his own beginning in the late afternoon. That he was still sleeping soundly was, then, no surprise.

The alarm was ten minutes from going off and with a flick of a finger Walsh made sure it would keep its peace.

Bailey was lying on his back. Walsh lifted the covers a bit and inspected the man. A bit skinny and a bit pale perhaps, but overall not too bad. And he had been unexpectedly romantic and attentive over dinner, not at all what she had expected from a jaded hack from the likes of the
Post
.

Whatever his work habits, Bailey had been anything but jaded a few hours previously when they had returned to Walsh's pin neat flat.

“Rise and shine, sunshine. I don't suppose so,” she said in a whisper. Walsh didn't want to awaken him just yet. She needed a few minutes to get her thoughts in order.

At the beginning of the week she had been due Saturday off. But that had changed by Friday evening. The phone message from Plaice had not supplied any details, but the urgency in his tone was clear. A break in the case of the dead priests was a possibility, but at the end of the message Plaice had hinted at something more personal.

“A bit of an opportunity for you,” is how he put it, without elaboration.

Walsh, now sitting upright, regarded her own body. She stretched to a respectable five feet seven inches. Not bad for her age, she thought, not bad at all. But of course she was a copper, and one who had taken every opportunity for physical fitness that the job allowed. Nevertheless, she felt more than a little self-conscious. Whatever about the throes of passion in the darkness of night, she was not quite ready to present herself full frontal to Bailey in the light of day, or what would be the light of day when she pulled back the heavy drapes.

She reached over to the bedside chair and grabbed the extra large tee shirt with San Francisco inscribed in beg red letters on the front. She pulled the garment over her head and yawned. There was still no movement from Bailey, so she swung out of the bed and tiptoed towards the bathroom.

She only got half way.

“Morning, all,” said Bailey, his voice giving no hint of a man emerging from deep slumber.

“You were awake,” said Walsh, sounding not exactly unpleased. “You sneak.”

“I was daydreaming,” Bailey replied. “Nice one, too. All about how I got arrested and dragged into the scratcher by this super sleuth with a sexy voice.”

“Stoppit,” Walsh said. She turned her head away to hide the smile.

“I'm sorry but you're going to have to get your own breakfast. I have to go into the office. I'll manage a quick shower and that's about it.”

“Room for two?” Bailey said.

“You stay where you are or I will indeed arrest you.”

But of course he didn't.

Walsh was still trying to figure out why she found Bailey so attractive when she knocked on Plaice's door. She had a foot in before Plaice had time to say anything.

“Come in. Good morning,” said Plaice. “Thanks for being so punctual, not that I would have expected anything less from you.”

“Morning, guv,” Walsh replied.

“Take a seat,” said Plaice. “Tea? Coffee?”

Walsh shook her head. She went straight at it. “News about the priests?”

“Well, some but not much. I think the inquest on Blackfriars is heading
towards a suicide after all. Your Cornwall business is as was. We've asked the locals to ask a few more questions, but I wouldn't bet my last pound on a result. The other couple, well…” Plaice allowed his voice to trail away.

“That said,” he quickly added, “I am still not fully convinced that the Blackfriars death was self administered. I have been looking into the man a little more. From what we have uncovered he just seems too private an individual for such a…,” Plaice paused for a moment, “display.”

Walsh felt a little frustration creeping in but it was just as quickly pushed aside by fresh thoughts of Nick Bailey. Her parents would never approve. A journalist was bad enough, but a reporter for a paper like the
Post
would be met with scornful dismissal.

She was conscious of Plaice talking, and then conscious of his silence.

“Sorry, guv. I've been a bit distracted. A family matter.”

“Nothing serious I hope,” said Plaice.

“No, not really. But, guv, I was sure that there was something really odd about the Cornwall business. Shouldn't we have a longer look ourselves before turning it back to the locals?”

“Of course, Sam,” Plaice replied, leaning over his desk and clasping his hands in that ‘I want to be perfectly frank with you' pose that Walsh well knew was a precursor to an entirely different tack.

“But there are other matters to attend to. Matters that concern your career and advancement.”

Walsh sat back in her chair and stared at Plaice. That she had done something wrong was her first thought, but Plaice did not appear to be heading in that direction. He seemed too relaxed for that.

“You have been a terrific asset to this team, Sam,” Plaice said.

Walsh started at Plaice and slightly beyond him. Plaice had pulled a file from the side of his desk and had opened it. Walsh assumed it was hers.

“You have been very diligent, Sam, when it comes to taking courses and adding to your
curriculum vitae
. Most laudable.”

Plaice paused and shuffled a few papers.

“Most particularly,” he said, “that stint up in Milton with SO19,” he said referring to the Metropolitan Police firearms training facility. “Turns out you're a crack shot, one of the best they have ever seen. A right Annie Oakley.”

“It was very enjoyable and interesting,” Walsh replied allowing herself to inject a little more enthusiasm into her words.

“Well, also revealing,” said Plaice. “You came out tops in the all the
psychological testing, and I see here that you are more than proficient with several weapons.”

Plaice looked at Walsh. He was inviting a further response to what was now a well and truly changed subject

“Yes, guv,” she said. “Glock 17 and Heckler and Koch MP5 carbine.”

“Precisely,” said Plaice. “The only problem is that you didn't complete the course.”

“There was a family matter. You probably remember that my mum wasn't too well.”

“Ah yes,” said Plaice. “I understand. But have you thought about finishing what you started? You are most of the way there as it is and there would be no problem in facilitating the necessary time.”

“Are you trying to get rid of me?” said Walsh, her smile a cover for her rising puzzlement, and the first atoms of annoyance.

“Let me be frank with you,” said Plaice. “The most exciting future in this force, sadly perhaps, is for those officers proficient with firearms. To the public eye we are still an unarmed force. But you know that the number of officers carrying firearms is rising all the time. There will come a day, and it isn't all that far off, when the unarmed bobby is going to go the way of the police whistle.”

Plaice paused to let his words sink in.

“You have a chance to get in ahead of the rush. Most armed officers are still men. You can handle a gun better than most of them according to this file. And I don't have to tell you that this is the sort of orientation and proficiency that will propel you into even higher ranks. And you do want to advance in the ranks?”

“Absolutely, of course, yes,” said Walsh nodding her head. “I wouldn't mind being chief constable for that matter.”

She immediately regretted this, but Plaice didn't seem to take it as facetiousness, or cheek.

“I know you're interested in travel, Sam,” said Plaice. “That time we were doing a course exchange with the Germans you almost took a flying leap into the plane.”

Walsh smiled, this time prompted by memories of going on night patrol with the Frankfurt Polizei, not to mention a little after-hours activity, much of it involving beer and singing.

“Now there's the Special Branch, the various anti-terror units and the
royal and diplomatic protection units. All of them work on a have-gun-will-travel basis,” said Plaice.

“I know your family roots are in Ireland and a Special Branch posting, for example, would have a nice twist to it.”

“How so?” Walsh responded.

“Well, you may or may not know that the branch was formed back in the 1880s to specifically combat your Fenians when they were trying to blow up buildings around here with politicians in them. They called it the Special Irish Branch at the time. It evolved from there, although I dare say the middle name in the title was never too far in the background in the bad days of the troubles in Northern Ireland.”

“That's fascinating, sir, but what guarantees do I have that I could make the transfer to any one of these units. I could apply, yes, but I'm sure there's quite a queue for all of them.”

“Sam, you underestimate yourself. You're top of the line, and I have that from above. I know that you made an inquiry last year about diplomatic protection work. I think that would be an ideal start. You get to be seen, and you meet all sorts of interesting people.”

Before Walsh could reply, Plaice closed her file and stood up.

“What I'm saying is that I know there is a vacancy coming up in the prime minister's protection team. And they want a woman. Not a token woman, but an officer who really could save the man's life.”

The day was not panning out quite as Walsh expected. She stared at her closed file and did not immediately reply.

“Sounds very interesting,” she said after a few moments.

“Listen, Sam,” said Plaice, “I don't want you to rush into a decision, but all I can say is that another visit to Milton will do you a lot of good. Trust me.”

“I do,” Walsh said, rising from her seat.

“I'll let you know by Monday. By the way, am I working on cases today?

“No,” said Plaice. “The day's all yours, and I hope it wasn't inconvenient that you had to rush in this morning.”

“Not at all,” said Walsh, turning towards the door. “All that you said was very interesting. And I appreciate it. It sounds like you put in a good word for me.”

“Don't mention it. On your way out please tell Detective Sergeant Smith that I want to see him for a minute.”

Walsh nodded and stepped into the corridor. She punched the air with
delight and just as quickly folded her arms. It was flattering to be presented with such opportunity. But something was nagging her.

She couldn't quite let go of the idea that the higher ups that Plaice had been speaking with were less interested in her progress through the ranks as they were in diverting her from the Blackfriars case and the other, quite possibly connected, cases involving dead Roman Catholic priests.

Something was up, she thought as she went in search of Tony Smith.

T
HE STORM WAS VENTING
its full fury over Taipei, the flashes lighting up Henry Lau's office almost overlapping.

More than one bolt had struck the antennae atop the Taipei 101 building, which, for a brief time, had been the world's tallest structure.

Lau preferred low light in his office so the contrast between the dim glow and the flashes was both startling and stimulating. The light within came from five lamps distributed around his sanctum, each with a shade illustrating a scene from imperial Chinese history. There were, additionally, inset lights in the ceiling in one corner of the room, but they were switched off. In the relative darkness, the effect of each lightning bolt was all the more dramatic.

Lau covered the few strides to a drinks cabinet big enough to entertain half the town. He opened the doors and lifted a tray already laden with a bottle of wine and two glasses and made his way cautiously back to the desk.

Another flash and a bang, but it didn't entirely drown out the firm tapping on the office door.

“Come right on in, Roger,” Lau said into an intercom speaker that relayed his command to the hallway outside the office.

The door opened to reveal a man who was clearly a little worse for the weather. In his right hand he was holding a leather briefcase.

“Quite a show. Far more exhilarating than what we are used to in England, even with global warming,” Roger Burdin said with mock cheeriness.

“I grew up with loud bangs and explosions,” Lau replied. “You get used to them. Step in, Roger, take your coat off and sit down. A glass of wine perhaps.”

“Delighted,” said Burdin.

The man who enjoyed mountain walks stepped firmly across the carpeted floor and sat down heavily in a swivel chair on the far side of the desk from his host.

“Not English rain at all. I was only in the open for a few seconds, but that's all it took. Cats and dogs has nothing on it. I'm drenched,” Burdin said.

“Yes, I imagine you come from a corner of the world where it rains frequently, but never with such ferocity. You never have told me exactly where you hail from, Roger,” Lau said.

Burdin was staring intently at the label on the wine bottle. It was, astonishingly, a Chateau Lafitte ‘61.

“Kent. By the sea,” he said, still mesmerized by his host's offering.

“I have never been to Kent. Never have been outside London on my visits to your country. It's nice there, in Kent, I mean?” Lau said.

“Oh splendid,” said Burdin. “But I didn't dally, as you are aware. It must have been growing up by the sea, but I always wanted to travel the world. So the Foreign and Commonwealth Office seemed the cheapest and most sensible way of doing it.”

“You English are so sensible,” Lau said. He smiled as he expertly attacked the bottle with a corkscrew topped with a dragon's head.

“So,” Lau continued, “Sir Percy was here earlier this afternoon. It was straightforward FCO business. Not with the MI6 twist that you bring to the table, Roger.”

Burdin did not immediately reply. Instead, and by long habit, he half glanced over his shoulder.

“Don't worry, Roger. First of all I know you were not followed here tonight. I made sure of it, just as I'm sure you did. And this office, indeed this entire floor, is completely bug proof. Nothing is recorded, unless I desire it.”

“I never doubted,” Burdin replied. He had folded one leg over the other and his foot had been tapping at the air in an agitated fashion. Now, Lau noticed, it had stopped.

“You have the documentation, Roger?”

Burdin nodded towards the briefcase. He had set it down on the floor beside his chair.

“Excellent,” said Lau. “But before business we should relax a little over a glass. It probably should breathe a little longer, but life is too short, and we have work to do.”

“I agree,” said Burdin.

Lau poured a glass of the vintage for his guest and then one for himself. It had noticeably less wine in it. Henry Lau had a high tolerance for pain but a low one for alcohol, so although his wine collection was one of the best in the world, it was mostly enjoyed by others.

“What do you think I'll have to do and how much will I have to spend to
drum up interest in this Northern Ireland trade conference?” he asked his guest.

And without waiting for a reply, “It hardly seems to be that important with Taiwan about to go down faster than the Titanic, but Percy is most enthusiastic about it,” Lau said as he raised his glass.

“Well, actually, that might help you a bit,” Burdin replied, raising his drink in return.

“The Americans are clearly going to be embarrassed by what's going to happen next no matter what way they try to explain it. All those years of standing by Taipei and, poof, they cut and run as soon as the Chinese threaten to take to their landing craft.”

“But why, Roger? Why after all these years? How could the Americans betray us?”

Burdin shifted in his chair.

“No mystery, really. Not in my trade anyway. After the Islamic fundamentalist attacks a few years back, Washington cut a secret deal with Beijing, or perhaps it might be more accurate to say that Beijing cut the deal and Washington acquiesced.

“In return for Chinese support, or more to the point, little or no Chinese opposition at the United Nations or anywhere else, Washington would attempt to persuade Taipei to move towards integration with the mainland. China, in turn, would use its influence with South Asia to help pave the way into Afghanistan, allow over-flights by U.S. aircraft and so forth. There was also a fair bit of intelligence swapping on Muslim radicals in Malaya, Indonesia and the Philippines, that sort of thing. The Chinese have their tentacles out a long way these days, you know.”

“And, of course, there's North Korea and Korean unification,” Lau interjected.

“Correct,” Burdin replied. “And there are other factors as well. I don't have to tell you that the differences between Beijing and Taipei on the matter of capitalism versus communism have dwindled to almost nothing. It's old enmities versus global power politics, Henry. The Chinese are too important to piss off indefinitely, so Taiwan is toast, at least in the way we have known it.

“The rich on both sides of the strait will make as much money as they ever did, even more in some cases, although I suppose there are one or two who feel betrayed on a more principled level. You being one of them.”

“The world if full of deceit,” said Lau as he took a sip from his glass.

Lau appeared to be talking to himself, and Burdin was looking at him with a quizzical expression on his face.

“Bet your life on it, Henry,” he said.

“But as I was saying,” Burdin continued, “the Americans are eager for any distraction. They want to give Northern Ireland's economy one more roll of the dice and will likely make a big fuss about the conference. It's all a smoke screen, of course. All part of merely throwing up legitimate escape routes for those in Taipei who want nothing to do with Beijing. In this case it will be your opportunity.

“There will be other such outlets, for you and for others: trade and tax deals, incentives to move assets, all that sort of thing. And Beijing will not complain too loudly. After all, they are about to claim the biggest prize of all.”

Lau held up his glass and stared at it. “The biggest prize of all,” he said softly.

There was a flash and a bang. The storm was right overhead.

“Good heavens,” said Burdin. “It's like something straight out of Shakespeare; storms and stormy intrigue. But before we continue, Henry, I do have to ask you something. You don't have to answer, but you do know that I am nothing if not discreet.”

“By all means, ask,” Lau replied.

“I'm curious as to who found whom. Did we find you, or was it the other way around?”

Lau said nothing for a moment. He clasped his hands together and brought them to his face, seemingly hesitating.

“It was quite simple, really,” he said. “My family escaped the mainland with the help of an English missionary priest. He belonged to a small order that even some of the Catholics in our city had never heard of. I am not a Catholic, not much of anything really, though I do veer towards the Asian idea of venerating one's ancestors. And repaying one's friends and benefactors.”

Lau allowed a moment for his guest to digest his words.

“Over time, I began to make money, a lot of money. I sought out the order that the old priest belonged to. Funny, I can't even remember his name or the order. Saint something. Anyway, to cut a tedious story short I gave them some money, quite a lot of money in fact. In repayment you see. And there it rested for a time. Indeed years.”

Lau went silent.

“But it didn't finally rest there,” Burdin said by way of prompting more.

“No, it did not,” Lau replied.

“A few years ago, a priest from that same order, a Father John, came to visit me. A quite extraordinary man. I entertained him, of course. He was able to tell me things about my family, my parents. It was information that I did not possess. I was only a boy when much of all this had taken place, you understand.

“He was privy to a great deal of additional information that could never be described as spiritual. I have my connections around the world, some in very high and influential places, but what this man told me was extraordinarily revealing, indeed shocking to a degree I did not think possible. He changed my view of a world I thought I knew, as you say, inside out and upside down.

“It was evident to me, as I am sure it has been to you, that this man of God did not inhabit either a worldly or a spiritual realm. Rather he seemed to hover between both, in this time, in the past and, by virtue of the information at his fingertips, the future.

“Much of what he predicted came to pass in the months that followed our first meeting. And I have no reason to believe that more of what he foretold will not soon come to pass.”

“Like the fall of an independent Taiwan,” said Burdin.

“That and more,” said Lau.

“Yes,” Burdin continued, “our Father John is a singular individual. I concur with everything you have just said. But there is more as you might rightly suspect. Knowledge has its price, and he gives nothing for free.”

“Nothing is for free,” Lau quickly agreed. “I have made a decision as to how I will pay for the information that Father John, you, and your organization, whatever it is, will supply next. Obviously I know the kernel of it but lack a proper understanding of the surrounding shell. It is all contained in your briefcase, yes?”

“As much as we know thus far, Henry,” Burdin replied.

“Then let's have a look at it. Let me see what kind of treachery demands the end of a president's life.”