Disorder (Sam Keddie thriller series Book 1) (26 page)

Chapter 79

Sussex 

The guests had departed. The caterers were busy clearing plates and empty glasses from the Scott family home. To Sam, the silence was deafening.

   He watched Eleanor struggle with well-wishers all afternoon. Friends, family and Scott’s colleagues – some of whom were household names – circled around her for the chance to pay their respects. He thought she coped admirably well. Looking at her, no one would have been able to tell that the expression on her face wasn’t just the strain of a family funeral, but the added anger and frustration he knew was bubbling away inside her.

   Sam had drifted from one conversation to another, telling anyone who asked that he was a friend of Eleanor’s and that he hadn’t known Charles Scott well. The one guest who knew better was Scott’s old neighbour, Donald. He pressed Sam for an explanation of what had happened that night at the apartment block, and Sam promised to explain at a later date.

   ‘But you’re both safe now?’ asked Donald.

   ‘Yes,’ replied Sam, though he was far from convinced.

   Eleanor was now nursing a glass of luke-warm white wine in the sitting room, the caterers moving quietly around her. It was clear she needed to be on her own so Sam moved into the kitchen – where Wendy Scott was refusing the drink she was being offered by Jill – and out into the garden.

   The light of the day was dimming. Sam wandered among flowerbeds, many of the plants cut back in preparation for the oncoming chill of winter. Beyond the beds was a stretch of lawn and then the dense dark wall of woodland that he had emerged from days before.

   Sam was watching the woodland – thinking about his encounter with Stirling after the funeral, how he’d all but admitted his guilt with that mocking denial – when he heard a twig snap from within it. It meant nothing of course. There were animals that could easily have made the noise. And yet Sam had the distinct impression he was being watched. 

   He turned to head swiftly back towards the house, tired of feeling frightened.

Chapter 80

Esher, Surrey

The Abbey Clinic was based in a large Georgian property on the outskirts of Esher. It was separated from its nearest neighbours by expansive gardens that surrounded the building. Unlike the more famous clinics near London that specialised in drug and alcohol addictions, the Abbey treated mental health problems only. Accommodation ranged from tastefully decorated bedrooms that looked out over the gardens to more basically furnished secure units.

   Once patients had been assessed and their drug and treatment regimen established, they were often encouraged, if weather permitted, to take a walk in the afternoon. The strength of their medication often meant patients slowed down, suffered muscle weakening and put on weight. In many cases, a walk was the only exercise they got.

   Aidan was being led by a male nurse through the lower end of the garden. Beyond the fence, the land belonged to a golf course. Other than the sound of planes overhead, it was quiet.

   The nurse had noticed that Aidan had a film of sweat on his upper lip and concluded that he needed to rest. He sat him down on a bench. Aidan sighed heavily. The nurse had read all about his patient in the papers and felt sorry for him. Another staff member had leaked his presence at the clinic to the press and now everyone knew who he was. He only hoped he’d be left alone enough to fully recover.

*

Hiding behind a hedge just yards away was one of Frears’ team, the narrow-eyed man. He watched as Aidan’s nurse prattled away to his patient. Aidan appeared to be utterly out of it. Which was good. If you were extracting an unwilling target, and they began resisting, it made the job twice as hard.

   He’d made two preparatory visits already that week. He knew the routine, had assessed the nurse and what physical threat he presented. Of course he was hoping that it wouldn’t come to that but right now, with time pressing, he was beginning to wonder whether some engagement would in fact be necessary.

   But just then the nurse got up. He muttered something to Aidan, then nipped round the side of a large shrub. The narrow-eyed man chuckled to himself. The call of Nature. How often people failed to factor that into situations.

   The man was by Aidan in seconds. The PM’s son looked up but seemed incapable of forming the facial expression that spelt out surprise. The man grabbed him by the waist and slung him over his shoulders with a slight groan, before turning and moving back in the direction he’d come. When he reached the fence at the end of the garden, he opened a gate and walked out on to a slip road to the side of the 14
th
hole. There, a grey people-carrier awaited, its number plates thick with dirt.

   By the time the nurse had discovered that the padlock was no longer on the gate at the rear of the garden but lying in the grass, its loop cut through with a hacksaw, the people-carrier was on the M25, heading east.

Chapter 81

Sussex 

The house became a cocoon. Small windows set in thick walls let in subdued autumnal light, giving the building a womb-like feel they both craved.

   They slept together repeatedly. At first the sex seemed like a wave of relief, a celebration of their emergence from the darkest of periods. But latterly a cloud seemed to hang over them in bed – a sense that, without a genuine resolution to the whole mess, they would never be a couple.
 

  
Soon they were almost constantly glued to the internet or television, hunting like news junkies for some developments.

   On the third day after the funeral, Sam and Eleanor were slumped on the sofa watching the BBC news at 10pm – the Scotts’ elderly Labrador, Baker, sleeping at their feet – when a story broke that made them sit bolt upright.

   A major investment project in the south of Morocco had been announced by the British Prime Minister, Philip Stirling. Sam, who’d been dozing off, rubbed his face. He felt his body tense.

   ‘Let’s go now to Downing Street,’ the news reader was saying.

   Sam and Eleanor, now sitting on the edge of the sofa, watched the journalist, positioned outside the glossy front door Eleanor had escaped from just days before, as he explained the significance of the deal.

   ‘This is a gamble,’ said the reporter, ‘in a region that’s had more than its fair share of unrest in recent years. But Philip Stirling is clearly confident that the time is right to invest on this scale in Morocco.’

   The screen then jumped to an image of Stirling talking to the press in Number 10. He looked, Sam had to admit, years younger, beaming with self-confidence, his face alive with expression as if he were adoring every minute.

   ‘– so I am delighted,’ the Prime Minister was saying, ‘to announce that a major partnership between our own Office for International Development, the Moroccan Government and British renewables firm, Future Systems, is to deliver a ground-breaking project in the south of the country.’ Stirling paused, the great communicator teasing his audience. ‘The photo-voltaic solar vineyard planned, which will be one of the world’s largest, is about a lot of things. The exporting of British engineering and technological expertise, thousands of jobs in a very poor region of Morocco, and the provision of dramatically subsidised electricity in this area.’

   The news reader interjected.

   ‘Stirling has been criticised by some organisations – Amnesty International among them – for getting into bed with a country whose human rights record is far from spotless.’

   The reporter in Downing Street smiled wryly. ‘For years we conducted business with the Egyptians under Mubarak. We continue to do business with the Saudi and Bahraini authorities. We now exchange intelligence with the Algerians. Morocco is by no means the only tough government in the region. Besides, you’ll notice how Stirling is diverting our attention – stressing the fact that this project brings jobs and cheap electricity to one of the country’s poorest regions. It’s a very canny mix of overseas development and business deal.’

   Sam remembered a moment in the security services building in Marrakesh. When Maalouf had abruptly silenced Badaoui as he’d talked about intense discussions taking place. This had been a big secret on both sides.

   The mention of Future Systems brought another figure into Sam’s mind. Jane Vyner. The woman who’d become so close to Charles Scott – and now Sam knew why. She’d been at the heart of these negotiations.

   Eleanor, meanwhile, was only concerned with one person.

   ‘What about Aidan Stirling?’ she said, her voice strained with incredulity. ‘What the hell has happened to the fingerprints?’

   The news had moved on. A gunman breaking into a school in Vienna and killing thirteen pupils.

   Sam began to realise what had happened. The announcement today was no coincidence. Something both Governments had been working on for months had been hurried through. These negotiations would have been stalled when the riots broke out. But now,
suddenly, everything was calm again. What had the Berbers been fobbed off with – besides subsidised electricity?

   Sam got up from the sofa and went to a desk in the corner of the room, firing up a MacBook. As he waited for the computer to warm up he looked at the photo hanging on the wall above him. Charles Scott with Eleanor on his shoulders. She must have been about five or six then.

   The screen settled and Sam opened the internet, typing ‘Berber girl murdered Marrakesh’ into Google.

   The top result was an Al Jazeera story. The teaser read ‘Man held on suspicion...’

   Eleanor had now joined Sam. She stood behind him, the weight of her expectation hanging in the air. Sam opened the story and read aloud.

   ‘The Moroccan authorities have arrested a suspect in the hunt for the murderer of a Berber girl, killed in Marrakesh on 9 September. The man, a Tunisian national – ’

   ‘Oh Christ,’ whispered Eleanor behind him, interrupting his reading. ‘They’ve nailed that man, haven’t they? The assassin who came after us.’

   ‘Looks like it,’ said Sam. He abandoned the rest of the article, resting his head on his arms on the desk.

   He could see it now. The fingerprints confirming Aidan’s guilt. Some hastily convened meetings between the Moroccan ambassador and Stirling. Perhaps the Moroccans had won some vital new concession from the British. All Sam could be sure of was that Stirling, faced with the prospect of his son being accused of murder, would have bent over backwards to please. So then all that was needed was a convenient scapegoat.

   It was as if their quest for the truth had been for nothing. A girl had died and her murderer was walking free. Sam and Eleanor had been hounded, nearly killed. All so that the inconvenient truth they’d uncovered could be twisted to achieve a political end.

   ‘I need a cigarette,’ said Eleanor.

    It was a full moon, the garden bathed in a ghostly light that cast long shadows across the lawn.

   They retreated to the shed. The small building creaked a greeting as they entered. Sam sat on an old wooden chair while Eleanor reached up to a top shelf for the cigarettes.

   Around them the walls were hung with rakes, shovels and forks, the work surfaces strewn with loose earth and pots of all sizes. Sam imagined the gardener in here, sheltering from storms, seeding his pots, sharpening tools.

   There was a musty, fungal smell to the space. Sam noticed that the timber to his side had a creeping patch of dark mould. The shed was slowly being consumed by the very land the gardener spent so much time keeping under control. Death and decay winning, yet again.

   Sam brushed the loose earth from the work surface, then accepted a cigarette from the proffered pack. Eleanor sat on a stool by him and lit up, passing the still flaming match to Sam. 

   They smoked in silence for a few minutes. Sam noticed that Eleanor’s hand was shaking.

   ‘You OK?’

   Eleanor nodded rapidly, sucking hungrily on the cigarette. She was staring ahead through the open door of the shed at the soft, eerie shapes in the garden. Suddenly she froze.

   Sam, who’d been watching Eleanor, now followed her gaze out into the garden. At first he thought it was a trick of the light. But then he realised it wasn’t. A figure had emerged out of the grey haze, and was walking towards them.

Chapter 82

Sussex 

It was instantly obvious to Sam who the man was. Eleanor’s reaction was animal-like. She stood, pressing backwards against the flimsy rotten wall of the shed, as if cornered. This wasn’t about an intruder on her land, but something much more frightening.

   But, as he entered the shed, the man made his intent very clear.

   ‘I’m not here to hurt you.’

   ‘Then what the fuck are you doing here?’ said Eleanor, her voice struggling to register.

   Sam knew that the tall man before them, a figure dressed in combat jacket, jeans and trainers, was the same man who’d so terrified Eleanor in the apartment in Downing Street. One of their pursuers, a man who’d only recently been trying to hunt and kill them. And now, despite his words, he had them trapped. Sam’s hand reached across the work surface for something to attack with, gripping a piece of broken clay pot.

   ‘Put it down,’ snapped the man. ‘That won’t be necessary.’

   ‘How dare you come here,’ hissed Eleanor, a small trace of her steeliness beneath the fear.

   The man leaned against the open doorway, dismissing her anger with a wave of a hand.

   ‘You can get all angry and righteous, or you can listen,’ he said.

   ‘I don’t want to hear anything from you,’ she snapped.

   ‘You’ll want to hear this,’ the man replied. ‘It’s about something we both want.’ His face was lit from the side by the moonlight, giving his features a hard, etched quality. ‘Stirling’s head on a plate.’