Heaven's Light (23 page)

The door to Barnaby’s office was an inch or two open. Charlie stepped inside. Sitting behind the desk was a woman he recognized. She had a strong, open face with a wide mouth and wonderful cheekbones. Her hair was longer than he’d last seen it and she was wearing big gold earrings that bounced around as she got to her feet.

Charlie extended a hand, introducing himself. ‘We met last year,’ he reminded her, ‘me sitting there, you this side. I can’t remember your name, though.’

‘Kate. Kate Frankham.’

‘Ah, yes, the politician, Red Kate, gotcha.’

‘Who told you that?’

‘Barnaby. Terrible gossip. Tell him something interesting and he’ll share it with anyone, even me. Bit troubling in a lawyer, don’t you think?’

Charlie sat down in front of the desk. Kate did the same, resuming her seat and pulling her coat around her. There was a longish silence. At last, Charlie burst into laughter. ‘So where is he?’ he said. ‘What have you done with him?’

‘Nothing.’ Kate consulted her watch. ‘We were supposed to be having lunch. Half an hour ago.’

‘And he hasn’t turned up?’

‘No.’

‘Typical.’ Charlie got to his feet, crossed the room and opened the door with a flourish. ‘My pleasure,’ he said. ‘Never trust a married man.’

At Kate’s insistence, they went to the pub on the corner. Charlie ordered a pastie and chips but Kate said she didn’t want anything. They sat at a table by the window, Kate’s eyes rarely leaving the door. He might still turn up, she explained, when Charlie asked why.

‘You were going to meet him here?’

‘No, the office, but we come here for lunch,’ she offered him a faint smile, ‘occasionally.’

Charlie laced his pastie with brown sauce and used a paper napkin to pick it up, curious to know why conversation was so difficult. Barnaby had mentioned Kate on a number of occasions. She was active in the Labour Party. She had a talent for getting things done. And she hated the bloody Conservatives.

‘I’m in advertising,’ Charlie mumbled, through a mouthful of mince and carrots. ‘I used to work on some of the privatization campaigns. Fat cat bastard Tory ministers. Unbelievable people.’ For the first time, Charlie thought he detected a flicker of interest in her face, though she was still watching the door.

‘Really?’

‘Yeah, money for old rope, whichever way you cut it. We made a packet. They made a packet. Even Joe Soap wound up with a share or two. Magic, pure magic. Bloke I worked with used to call it the Paul Daniels school of economics. It’s all smoke and mirrors. You wave the wand,
bribe the great unwashed with their own money, and wait for the votes to roll in. Never fails.’

Kate reached for a chip. ‘They’ll be wiped out,’ she said briskly, ‘starting in May.’

‘There’s an election then?’

‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘It’s only local and your lot’ll say they don’t count but they do, believe me they do.’

Charlie tried not to choke on the pastie. He swallowed a mouthful of Guinness.

‘My lot?’ he gasped. ‘Are you serious?’

Kate was looking at him now, the door abandoned. ‘All that money?’ she said. ‘All that work they pushed your way? Surely to God you’re not telling me you’re a socialist.’

‘You’re right.’ Charlie nodded vigorously. ‘I’m not telling you bloody anything. Except I hate the bastards.’

‘What bastards?’

‘Politicians.’

‘Any particular brand?’

‘Yeah, London politicians, the sort I run into. We used to get them round to the agency, vetting the rough cuts on the British Gas ads. Remember all that? Remember Sid? They used to stand there, these clowns, looking at the crap we dished up, wagging their heads, telling each other how clever it all was, how witty.’ He lifted his Guinness again. ‘Here’s to politicians. Clueless bastards.’

‘You’re talking about the Tories. We’re not all like that.’

‘Wrong. I’m talking about power. Power does something to people. Have you ever noticed that? Doesn’t matter which party, that’s irrelevant. It’s power, full stop.’

Kate was looking thoughtful now, toying with her drink.

‘I’m speaking at a selection meeting tonight,’ she said. ‘If I win, I get to be a parliamentary candidate. And if that happens, I might end up an MP.’

‘You kidding?’ Charlie was staring at her.

‘Not at all. It’s a logical progression.’

‘And you’d
want
to be an MP?’

‘I want to make a difference, yes.’

‘And you think that’s the way to do it?’

‘I do, yes. Unless you can think of another.’

Charlie returned to his plate, and began to mop up the pool of brown sauce with his last few chips.

‘MPs are lobby fodder,’ he said. ‘It’s a cliché but it’s true. And by the time they get to be ministers, they’ve lost it anyway.’

‘Lost what?’

‘Any clue about the real world. The lot I’ve come across could have been on another planet.’ He looked up. ‘You serious about this meeting? Tonight?’

‘Yes, why?’

‘Sounds a laugh, that’s all.’ He pushed away his plate. ‘Can anyone come? Or is it ticket only?’

‘Ticket only, I’m afraid. You have to have been a member for a year. House rules.’

‘A year? That’s absurd. Why a year?’

Kate looked briefly uncomfortable. Finally she explained how the rule was supposed to prevent the candidates from packing the meeting with their own supporters.

Charlie was sitting back in his chair, his hands clasped behind his head, delighted. ‘See?’ he said. ‘See what it does? Power?’

Owens said yes to the offer of a second cup of tea. For the first time in weeks, he felt half normal. No pains in his sinuses. No thickness in his head. No little curls of foil wrap from the endless tubes of Strepsils in his pocket.

He reached across the table for the plastic bag again, double-checking the despatch numbers on the consignment note against the figures he’d passed on to TNT Express. The package had been handed in to their Brentford depot late yesterday afternoon. The sender’s name was listed as Arthur Hengist, and under ‘Address’, the clerk had scribbled 245 Hankisson Road. Owens had phoned the address through to Special Branch at the Yard and the reply had come back within minutes: 245 Hankisson Road didn’t exist. Not, at any rate, within the Greater London area.

The lawyer, Barnaby, passed Owens the tea. The little Chinese guy was still at the back of the hotel’s restaurant, supervising his staff as they put up decorations. Tomorrow, in keeping with some tradition or other, he’d be celebrating the hotel’s opening with fireworks and a snake dance.

Owens glanced at his watch. ‘We should talk about tomorrow. We’ve been getting intelligence from London.’ He nodded at the banner, neatly folded on a neighbouring table. ‘This may be starters. Main course to come.’

‘I’m not with you.’

‘It’s nothing specific. I can’t give you names, numbers, times, nothing like that. All we’ve got is smoke in the wind.’

‘I see.’ Barnaby sat back, looking at Zhu again. ‘And what are you planning to do about it?’

‘The superintendent will be down within the hour.’

‘Bairstow?’

‘Yes.’

Barnaby frowned. He knew Bairstow well, a bluff, bad-tempered Yorkshireman with a brilliant clear-up rate and absolutely no talent for public relations. Giving him the run of the hotel during the opening banquet would be a nightmare.

‘Are you serious?’ he said slowly. ‘You think there’s a real threat?’

‘We think there may be. Mr Bairstow gets possessive about his city. You’ve probably noticed.’

Barnaby nodded. Coachloads of visiting football supporters were routinely hauled off the motorway on the edge of the city for body searches and a brisk lecture. Down here we like it nice and quiet, went the official line, so behave your fucking selves.

‘So what are we saying? Vehicle checks? Riot police? The works?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘But will he tell me? Mr Bairstow?’

‘Depends if he knows. Intelligence is saying National Front.’ His eyes returned to the banner. ‘Does that ring any bells?’

Ellis was already examining the cake trolley when Louise Carlton stepped into the Palm Court restaurant at the Ritz Hotel. A uniformed waiter led her to his table, pulling back the chair to let her sit down. Beneath the huge chandelier, refugees from Harrods and Harvey Nichols were locked in conversation over plates heaped with scones and teacakes. Ellis, by contrast, was settling for two thick slices of chocolate gateau.

Louise let the waiter take her plate, ordering a pot of Lapsang. Then she turned to Ellis, waving away his apologies for having started. He had to be back at Victoria Street by five at the latest. The possibility of a bid for Portsmouth’s naval dockyard had triggered a classic Whitehall stand-off, and there was some imprecision on the line the DTI should take.

Louise smiled. She liked Ellis’s use of the word ‘imprecision’. In fact she liked Ellis. Very much indeed.

‘You think he’s serious? Our Mr Zhu?’

‘I don’t know. He can raise the money, certainly.’

‘How much are we talking about?’

‘Two hundred and fifty million. That’s ballpark, DTI figures. Nothing’s agreed.’

Louise used her fork to carve herself a fat wedge of gateau. As ever, it was delicious, one of life’s more dependable pleasures. She looked up. In a phone call to her office before lunch, Ellis had outlined Zhu’s interest in buying the dockyard. Given MI5’s responsibility for protecting UK economic interests, there was, for once, no interdepartmental clash. Selling off the nation’s premier naval port had profound security implications.

‘What are the MoD saying?’

‘The Navy Board are horrified. They think it’s a joke in extremely poor taste. The Army brass will be gloating, of course. Until it’s their turn.’

‘What about the politicians?’

‘They’re taking the Treasury line, or at least the ultras are. These guys all sing from the same hymn sheet. Anything that reduces the PSBR. Anything that lowers the wage bill. You know the way it goes …’

Louise helped herself to another forkful of gateau. Thanks to some inspired rearguard actions, MI5 had managed so far to avoid the worst of the cultural revolution that had swept through Whitehall. Unlike the other security agencies, MI6 and GCHQ, Five was outside the direct control of the powerful Joint Intelligence Committee. This ensured a degree of immunity from ministerial diktat, an invaluable dispensation that dug a moat around the daily grind of intelligence work.

Ellis was still musing about Portsmouth dockyard. Evidently, Zhu had come up with a scheme to lease some of the key facilities back to the MoD.

‘The politicians would buy that?’

‘It’s cheaper, they’re bound to. It gets them off the hook as well. They can say that nothing’s really changed.’

‘Except ownership.’

‘Sure, but the warships still get serviced. The place looks the same. The mateys are still in jobs, some of them. Who’s going to worry about the small print?’

‘We might, if it came to a war.’

‘Quite. But you know the way it is with politicos. They’re permanently at war. And two hundred and fifty million’s a tidy windfall if it happened to coincide with an election.’

‘Has Zhu got a date in mind?’

‘Nothing specific. I get the impression he’d buy the place tomorrow if he could.’

Louise moistened her fingertip and picked up tiny flakes of chocolate from her plate.

‘Why does he want it?’ she asked. ‘Why bother? If the Navy can’t make it pay, what’s he got up his sleeve?’

The waiter arrived with a plate of warm scones for Ellis, who cut one in half, and freighted it with strawberry jam and a big dollop of cream before passing it to Louise. Louise beamed at him, still waiting for an answer.

‘I don’t know,’ he said at last. ‘The place is huge, hundreds of acres. There’s a lot of fixed plant, some of it quite modern. He’s got shipbuilding and repair interests in Singapore. I imagine he might fancy the same thing here. Maybe he’ll put work our way. Construction? Maintenance? Oil rigs? It’s an opportunity. We should grab it. That’ll be the DTI line, at any rate.’

‘And you? What do you think?’

‘I think we should be careful.’

‘Why?’

‘Because…’ Ellis frowned, gazing out at the traffic, inching down Piccadilly ‘… there’s a hole in his past. What we know, genuinely
know
about him, goes back to the sixties. Before that, if we’re honest, it’s a mystery. He says Fukien province but he could have come from anywhere.’

‘Does that matter?’

‘It might. Depending where you’re sat at the time.’

Louise looked amused. ‘I don’t want to risk a compliment,’ she said lightly, ‘but you’re talking like one of us.’

‘I know. And you can imagine how popular that makes me at Victoria Street. My guys are in it for the money. Find them a customer and they’ll sell him anything. Zhu could be Saddam Hussein’s brother for all they care.’

Louise’s eyes shone behind the enormous glasses. ‘You realize Six should be doing the legwork?’

‘Yes.’

‘But you’ve decided to talk to me? Is that it?’

‘Obviously.’

Louise signalled the waiter. When he’d written out the bill, she produced a twenty-pound note from her purse, telling him to keep the change and complimenting him on the gateau. Only when they were outside, flagging down an approaching taxi, did she take the conversation further.

‘Do you know it at all?’ she said. ‘Singapore?’

Labour Party headquarters for the constituency of Portsmouth West comprised four ground-floor rooms in a property that had once served as a fruit and veg shop. Kate Frankham found a parking spot half a block away from the premises. A small typed notice on the door directed the
membership to the nearby Baptist church hall. Meetings to select the constituency candidate traditionally attracted a biggish turnout, far too many for the converted corner shop, and Kate could hear the clatter of chairs through the open door across the road. She pulled her coat around her and checked her watch. The meeting was due to begin at eight. Ideally, she wanted a full house before she made her entrance.

She returned to her car and got in. She’d spent most of the afternoon rehearsing her speech, pacing up and down her living room, trying to shut out every other distraction. In the first place, she’d handwritten it, drawing on a checklist of what the ex-poly lecturer on the executive committee liked to call ‘bullet points’. This list included items from the Walworth Road menu that she knew she couldn’t afford to ignore, but as the speech began to take shape on paper, she’d done her best to fashion it into a personal statement of beliefs. Why it was right to acknowledge the free market. Why the old abuses of union power could never return. Why the party had to shed its reputation for high spending and high taxation. Why the Tory quango state was an insult to democracy. Why education and jobs should be the priorities for anyone interested in creating a half-decent society. Why the Social Chapter belonged at the very heart of Labour’s first Queen’s Speech.