Disorder (Sam Keddie thriller series Book 1) (22 page)

Chapter 61

King’s Cross, London

‘He was a little taken aback at first,’ said Eleanor, ‘but then full of sympathy.’

   Sam stood staring at the cheap brick of the building opposite, the windows with their bubbled, opaque glass, a stain of algae below a leaking pipe. Eleanor’s description of the man she’d just spoken to – and his ‘normal’ reactions – did nothing to reassure him. Nor did the meet he’d suggested that very evening, in a pub in St James’s. It all seemed too quick. Too convenient.

   He turned and went over to the bed, where Eleanor was still sitting. ‘You don’t have to go through with this, you know.’

   Eleanor looked into his eyes. ‘I do, Sam,’ she said. ‘You know I do. And it will be fine, I promise. ’

   ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘I’ll be in the pub. Any problems, I’ll be right by your side.’

   She nodded, her smile uncertain.

   As a distraction, Sam suggested they plan their next steps.

   Shortly after 5.30pm they’d take the Tube to St James’s, giving them both a chance to check out the pub and layout of the streets around it before Aidan turned up at 6.30pm. Sam would then find himself a discreet place to sit, a little way from Eleanor. If, for whatever reason, Eleanor failed to remove the glass before she left the pub, then it was up to Sam.

   It was, as plans went, flimsy as hell. But as Eleanor had said, all they needed was a glass. And as soon as Sam could deliver that to the Moroccan embassy, the dynamics would soon shift. He hoped to God she was right.

   ‘I can’t talk about this any more,’ said Eleanor. She lay back on the bed, breathing out deeply.

   Sam felt a hand on his back and turned to see Eleanor looking straight at him, her eyes beckoning. He lay down next to her. They kissed again, hands slowly exploring each others’ bodies. He began to unbutton her shirt, reaching inside to touch her breasts, her hardened nipples. Eleanor sighed with pleasure.

   Sam felt the moment take over, the dark thoughts that had occupied his brain for days, finally evaporate.

Chapter 62

St James’s, London

The pub was a narrow building in a one-way street of Georgian townhouses that seemed, for the most part, to be divided into offices. Sam saw brass plaques for solicitors, recruitment consultants, accountancy firms and what appeared to be a private bank. There would be people around, and quite probably plenty of employees having an after-work drink in the pub. He couldn’t decide whether this was a good thing or not.

   Sam and Eleanor took a few minutes to explore the area immediately around the pub. The streets were laid out in grid fashion, giving them a quick sense of the neighbourhood.

   In front of the pub itself, underneath hanging baskets overflowing with brightly coloured flowers, were a couple of tables for drinkers. Behind was a bay window of dark glass that afforded a murky view of the interior. Inside, the pub was long and narrow, with seating spread along both interior walls, and a small beer garden at the rear. Eleanor planned to sit near the front, Sam in the middle.

   The pub was already busy, most of the tables occupied and people beginning to throng at the bar. A group of men with loosened ties stood at a gaming machine, laughing as a colleague clumsily attempted to steer a Formula One car round a course. Beneath the hubbub of voices, Sam could hear
Paint It Black
by the Rolling Stones. In the far corner, a music video – a rap star gesticulating with his hands as he sat on the bonnet of a Jeep, two busty women in swimsuits writhing around him – silently competed for attention. While all this commotion and activity seemed comforting to Eleanor, Sam couldn’t help worrying that Aidan might suggest another, quieter venue, one that was beyond Sam’s control.

   They bought drinks, a mineral water for Sam and a gin & tonic for Eleanor, who’d admitted to raging nerves. By 6.15pm, they were seated in position, Sam getting one of the last tables in the middle of the pub.

   A discarded newspaper lay on the table and Sam opened it, while keeping an eye on the door. Eleanor sat with her back to him. The pub was filling, people now frequently blocking Sam’s view.

   About ten minutes later, as Sam was about to go over to Eleanor and call the whole thing off because his view of her was getting too obstructed, he saw a solitary figure walk in.

   Aidan Stirling wasn’t a regular in the media, so Sam was unsure if it was him. But he watched the man slowly look round the room, lock on to the spot where Eleanor sat, smile, and walk over to her.

   It was Aidan Stirling. Sam saw Eleanor stand and receive a kiss on the cheek.

   It was too late. Their amateur operation was in motion.

Chapter 63

Downing Street 

Frears had taken the call in the small first-floor office he used whenever he was in Downing Street. It was shared by a variety of advisers who could plug in their laptops and make it their temporary home. Today he was alone save for a new drugs adviser, an articulate ex-addict the PM had met on a visit to a community centre in Sheffield. The adviser called everyone ‘man’, including women and Frears.

   The Guardsman had felt his body go cold as his surveillance man, based outside Downing Street to the west, relayed the news. He was now trying to process it, despite the best efforts of the old junkie next to him tapping away incredibly loudly at his keyboard. Aidan was un-medicated and with Eleanor Scott. It was like the perfect storm.

   He thought of the basic tenets of his military training. How it was about following orders but also about using initiative when a situation demanded more flexible thinking. Christ, was this such a situation. Whatever happened now, it was, he knew, probably over for him. This could not end neatly.

   He began to shut down his laptop, not out of any desire to protect the secrecy of his work – that hardly mattered given the nature of his extra-curricular activities – but to give him some extra time to think. He then got up and walked briskly out of the office.

   ‘Later, man,’ said the drugs adviser.

Chapter 64

St James’s, London

Eleanor had almost finished her gin & tonic when Aidan strode into the pub.  

   A gap of almost twenty years might have passed since they’d last met but he was instantly recognisable. Despite the height he’d acquired in the intervening years, he still had the same round face and curly hair, now a mop that fell in front of his eyes. She watched him scan the room and then, when he spotted her, break into a broad grin.

   She was acutely aware of her mission – of the need to stay focused – but for a moment it was all too easy to imagine that sweet but rather troubled little boy from Cornwall heading towards her.

   He stood before her rather awkwardly. Eleanor got up and then Aidan leaned forward to plant a kiss on her cheek.

   ‘I’m sorry about your dad,’ he said, his voice raised against the din of the pub.

   ‘Thank you,’ she replied, realising that she too was talking loudly to be heard.

   They sat down, Aidan brushing the hair from his face. ‘Your dad was very kind to me,’ he said. ‘Fatherly,’ he added.

   Eleanor, despite her nerves, sensed that this was entirely sincere on Aidan’s part.

   ‘Listen,’ he then said, ‘do you want a drink?’

   ‘Thank you,’ said Eleanor. ‘A gin & tonic would be great.’

   Aidan moved towards the bar and stood waiting to be served. Eleanor knew that more alcohol probably wasn’t the best idea but she felt it was the only way to calm her nerves. She watched Aidan’s back as he leaned against the bar. There were about ten other people waiting to be served.

   A tall man in a suit appeared at Aidan’s side and leaned into him, whispering in his ear. Aidan turned and gave the man a look of utter contempt, spitting some words back at him. The man smiled slyly, and then said something else.

   As Aidan looked back to the bar, as if trying to ignore the man, Eleanor heard a voice in her ear.

   ‘Miss Scott.’

   Eleanor turned round sharply and found a bald man leaning down towards her.

   ‘Do I know you?’ she said, although she had already guessed. As her heart leapt, her mind began rapidly processing her options. Could she run from here? Probably not. Could she start screaming?

   ‘Before you do anything rash,’ the man said, his voice quietly loaded with threat, ‘I want you to know there’s a man outside your mother’s house in Sussex. If you become uncooperative, he will go inside and kill her.’

   Eleanor turned away from the man to stare at the table top before her, its surface covered with pale, ghostly rings where wet glasses had stained the varnish. She felt her stomach drop, the blood drain from her face. She thought she was going to pass out.

   ‘Now when Aidan gets back from the bar,’ the voice continued, ‘he’s going to suggest a drink back in Downing Street. You’re going to accept. Understood?’

   Eleanor felt paralysed, numb from the tip of her head to her toes.

   ‘Understood?’ repeated the man, with more vehemence.

   Eleanor managed a nod.

   She then turned again. The man had disappeared.

   She closed her eyes, grappling for something solid to hold on to. Could she text Sam? Of course not. She was still being watched. She thought of her Mum, vulnerable, unprotected. These people were monsters.

   Aidan was coming back to the table. Had this been a trap all along? Was he in on it? The man’s sudden appearance at his side suggested otherwise. As if this sudden change had been sprung on him as much as her. Aidan’s expression seemed to confirm this. He looked rattled.

   ‘Listen, Eleanor,’ he said. ‘I’ve been up at the bar for ages and I’m nowhere near being served. It’s also getting really noisy in here.’ It was as if he were reading from a script. ‘So I had a thought. How about a drink back in Downing Street? Mum and Dad are out at some engagement. I could show you round.’ He attempted a grin.

   Eleanor thought of her mother at home. It was her suppertime. Jill would be feeding her right now. No doubt she would also be killed.

   ‘OK,’ she said, offering what she hoped was a reasonably enthusiastic smile.

   She downed her gin & tonic then followed Aidan out of the pub.

   ‘Hope you’re OK walking,’ said Aidan. ‘It’s only five minutes away.’

   Eleanor shrugged. ‘Sure.’

   As they walked, Eleanor cast a look over her shoulder, worrying that, if Sam saw her, he would try to intervene, when she knew, with a certainty that sat like undigested poison in the pit of her stomach, that this would be a disaster. She had to comply with the request made of her.

   There was no sign of Sam. Eleanor felt no relief, just a sense of utter desolation at the impossibility of her situation.

   At the end of the road, they crossed Bird Cage Walk to the south-west corner of St James’s Park. It was a sunny evening with a slight bite to the air, the sky a magnificent deep-blue backdrop for the leaves, which were just beginning to turn orange as autumn approached. As a couple jogged along the pavement past them – each lost in their own iPod soundtrack – Aidan and Eleanor turned left, walking up the east side of the park.

   ‘So what are you up to these days?’ asked Eleanor. It was all she could think of to maintain an air of normality. She also wanted to keep the man by her side calm, as well as her.

   Aidan paused a moment, as if contemplating the right answer. ‘Training to be an architect,’ he said.

   ‘That takes a while, doesn’t it?’

   ‘Seven or eight years,’ Aidan said. ‘But I’m totally committed. I’m going to open my own practice, build some really innovative stuff.’

   Moments later, they crossed to a small green at Downing Street’s western end, just south of Horse Guards Parade Ground. To their right was a set of tall black gates guarded by a couple of policemen clutching machine guns.

   ‘You can drive a truck at them and they won’t budge,’ Aidan said, as if he’d been studying her gaze. He then explained how the gates had been installed in Mrs Thatcher’s time, when the threat from the IRA was at its highest.

   Eleanor smiled feebly, the street’s impregnability hardly comforting. If getting in was this difficult, getting out would be just as hard.

   She inhaled deeply. She wanted to encourage more conversation from Aidan. He seemed to enjoy the sound of his own voice.

   Aidan approached the policemen who were standing at the gates and explained that Eleanor was with him. After her bag was checked and she was frisked, a small pedestrian entrance within the gates was opened. They then passed into Downing Street itself.

   The tall building on their right – the Foreign Office, declared Aidan, when Eleanor asked – cast a long evening shadow over the houses opposite but even in the gathering gloom, the one they were heading for was instantly recognisable: the last in a terrace of dark brick houses, with an iconic, glossy black front door.

   Eleanor could feel her heart hammering away.

   ‘Nothing is what it seems here,’ Aidan said.

   Eleanor stiffened at the comment, unsure of his meaning.   

   ‘The bricks are yellow underneath,’ he said, as if enjoying the momentary confusion he’d created in her, ‘but when the house was renovated in the 50s, they discovered that soot and pollution had stained them this colour. After cleaning, they decided to paint them black to retain the look.’

   ‘Guess what?’ he then said. Eleanor sensed another of his little tour guide revelations on its way.

   Aidan pointed to the famous door ahead of them. ‘It’s not wood, but solid steel.’

   ‘Wow,’ said Eleanor, now playing the role of fascinated guest, despite the rising panic she was trying to quell. ‘I’ve always wondered how they know when to open it from the inside,’ she said. ‘You see people approaching it and then the door opens up like magic.’

   They were now standing on the front porch.

   ‘Look up,’ said Aidan.

   She saw a small CCTV camera tucked in beside the fanlight beneath the hood of the doorway. Her entry into Downing Street recorded. And surely anyone who entered Downing Street had to come out? But Eleanor then thought of the forces that had brought her here – and how powerless she now was – and her optimism swiftly faded.

   As they waited for the door to open, she stole another quick glance at the man next to her, as if his face might offer some clue as to his make-up; some tell-tale sign, if not of psychosis, then at least his current motivations. He was, despite the years that had passed, still boyish looking, with a face that was, without worry or laughter lines, very hard to read.

   At that moment the door was eased open by a policeman.

   ‘Hi John,’ said Aidan cheerfully.

   ‘Hello Aidan,’ said the policeman. ‘And who’s this?’

   Aidan introduced Eleanor and the policeman shook her hand with a slight nod of his head, as if the mention of her name had prompted a small gesture of sympathy.

   They were now in a large entrance hall, dominated by black and white floor tiles and, stretching upwards to their left, a staircase Eleanor had seen countless images of. Hanging on the yellow wall up the stairs were photos and, towards the top, engravings, of past Prime Ministers.

   Aidan was talking about ‘a ghastly architect’ who’d helped rebuild the house in Macmillan’s day, giving it all the fake antiquity that she saw today.

   ‘It’s all façade,’ he said, with a real sense of disgust in his voice.

   ‘But rather amazing, all the same.’

   Aidan seemed to readjust his mood, smiling again. ‘Yes,’ he acknowledged. ‘I suppose you’re right.’

   They moved on through one big room after another, Aidan’s commentary now flowing over her as she tried simply to remain attentive. She noticed a vast Persian carpet in one room, a terracotta wall colouring in another, and then she was through a door and down a rather non-descript staircase and into a huge kitchen of brushed steel cookers and work surfaces sitting beneath a vaulted ceiling. A handful of staff were chopping vegetables and Aidan offered them a wave, which was reciprocated.

   Finally, the tour was proclaimed over and Aidan moved to a lift just outside the kitchen.

   ‘This takes us up to the apartment,’ he said. ‘It’s actually above Number 11. Blair swapped with Brown when he lived here because this one is bigger. Every Prime Minister since has done that too. Mum still complains it’s small though.’

   They travelled upwards in silence, Eleanor now rigid with fear. At that moment the thought of the men who’d forced her here – and the man next to her and what he might have done in Marrakesh – gripped Eleanor with such ferocity that she had to lean back against the lift’s wall to stop her knees buckling.

   The lift opened into a small hallway. Aidan opened the door in front of them, ushering Eleanor inside. There was a large, modern kitchen off to her right, a spacious sitting room to her left. Attempting again to appear interested, she paused at the entrance to take it in. There was a mish-mash of unstuffy furniture, a huge flat-screen television, houseplants dotted around the room and a vase of roses on a dresser between two windows that looked out on to Downing Street.

   The lived-in, homely look of the apartment reminded Eleanor suddenly of the farmhouse in Sussex. She felt her eyes well at the thought of her parents – her father dead, her mother lost in another way. She knew the tears were for herself too, her imminent death a possibility she couldn’t shake from her head.

   Aidan was moving down the corridor, pointing out rooms – his, a rather cramped single room with a poster of a Frank Lloyd Wright building on one wall; his parents’ bedroom, a more expansive one with a huge double bed; his father’s dressing room; a spare room with a bed that was, Eleanor noticed, still unmade from its last inhabitant.

   ‘Would you like a drink?’ asked Aidan, who was now heading back in the direction of the kitchen. ‘I thought we could chat up here instead of downstairs. It’s a bit cosier. We’ve got some white wine in the fridge.’

   ‘Sounds good,’ said Eleanor. What could be more normal, after all? Two childhood acquaintances reminiscing over a glass of wine. She felt her body tense again.

*

Aidan had never expected Eleanor Scott to get in touch. He’d not seen her in – what? – nearly twenty years. It had caught him unawares and before he’d had a chance to think things through, he’d agreed to meet. As the evening approached, he’d felt himself get more and more agitated.

   But then he’d seen her and, for the first time in a very long period, he’d experienced a sense of calm in the presence of a woman. As if he’d been transported back to a more peaceful period. Before everything had gone wrong.

   But that sense of calm – comparable to the stillness he felt contemplating the balance and simplicity of Falling Water – was then shattered with the arrival of one of his demons, summoning him home like a naughty child. At least the man hadn’t humiliated him, but instead given him the chance to carry on the conversation with Eleanor back at Downing Street.

   Since then he’d managed to calm down again. Being with Eleanor had helped. She seemed, despite her loss, to be happy in his company. She was interested in architecture – a real bonus – and was, more importantly, a clear communicator.