The Loyal Servant (18 page)

25

‘So Dan did turn up for registration?’ Caroline hurried towards the back of the queue at the coffee counter on the lower ground floor of the department. ‘You’re sure?’ The signal of her mobile phone was cutting out. ‘And he’s in class now? I’m sorry?’ The violent hiss of the espresso machine drowned out the school secretary’s reply. ‘Hello?’

‘Caroline! Just the person,’ Jeremy Prior barked at her from the head of the line. ‘Let me buy you a coffee.’

Caroline froze then looked left and right, feeling just like a cornered animal. There was no escape. The phone was dead against her ear. She shoved it into her bag.

‘Peppermint tea for me,’ she said, desperate for a double-shot latte and almond croissant, but not wanting Prior to make any judgments about her. She smiled apologetically at the other people in the queue as she walked past them. A cardboard cup appeared on the counter, the soggy paper tab swinging from a string. Caroline picked it up.

‘Thanks, Jeremy. Very kind of you.’ She raised the cup to her lips and pretended to take a sip. It smelled just like toothpaste.

‘Let’s go back upstairs together, shall we?’ He gestured for her to lead the way. ‘Pam tells me you’ve still made no progress.’

‘Progress?’

‘Three weeks now and you’ve not turned up anything.’ Prior lengthened his stride, darted around Caroline and pushed open a set of swing doors. ‘I can’t deny it – I’m disappointed.’ As he let her pass through the doors he peered into her face. ‘Very disappointed.’

It took her a moment to realise he was talking about the missing CD-ROM. ‘I’m not sure what else we could have done. It’s just not here. I’ve spoken to everyone again – got the thumbscrews out, just like you said – and still no one’s admitted to knowing anything about it.’

They reached the lifts. Prior continued to stare at her as they joined a group of young men who looked like they were dressed for the beach rather than a government department. Caroline nodded to one of them, recognising him as one of the external contractors responsible for building the new website. The one who’d told her about cracking password protected files.
Please don’t say anything.
She quickly turned away to discover Prior still hadn’t taken his eyes off her.

‘We could speak to everyone again,’ she said, ‘though I don’t know what good it would do. I think we just have to accept the CD-ROM’s just—’

‘Not here!’ Prior threw up a hand. Caroline instinctively flinched. He raised a finger to his lips and tilted his head towards the group of contractors. The lift doors opened.

‘How are you, anyway?’ Prior asked, smiling at her now, switching with some obvious effort, to small talk mode. ‘Pamela tells me you didn’t get in until lunchtime on Friday.’

Thanks Pam.

‘Is everything all right at home? Is your son quite well? Dan, isn’t it?’

How dare Pam talk to Prior about Dan.

‘Teenage boys must be a dreadful worry.’

‘My son is very well. Thank you for asking. Everything’s fine.’

‘Are you sure?’ He looked into her face and pursed his lips. Was he actually displaying concern? She found herself smiling back at him.

‘Home’s fine, Dan’s fine, I’m fine.’

‘Mmm…’ He looked her up and down. ‘You’re no good to me in the office if you’re distracted by issues at home. I need you at the top of your game.’

Caroline closed her eyes for a moment. How could she have thought even for a second that Prior was showing some genuine sign of human empathy?

Prior said nothing more until they were safely out of the lift and into the academies section. He started back on the subject of the disappearing CD-ROM as if there’d been no interruption.

‘As it has been three weeks, we feel a change of tack is required.’

We?

‘A change of tack?’ Caroline’s throat was parched. She took a sip of her peppermint tea and immediately regretted it.

‘Damage limitation is our top priority from now on. We can’t let this get out. Not during an election. If it did the results could be catastrophic.’

They reached Caroline’s desk.

‘I’m sure you – of all people – will understand the importance of discretion.’ Prior held her gaze.

What was he getting at?

‘I don’t know what you—’

‘After the events of the last few weeks...’

Caroline shrugged.

‘Pam tells me you were hounded by the press. You kept your own counsel. I admire that. I admire your
loyalty
, Caroline.’

She wasn’t sure how to react. Was it a test? There was a teasing, sneering tone to his voice.

‘But the election doesn’t really concern us, does it?’ She stared right back at him, determined not to look away first. ‘Not as civil servants – we are meant to be completely neutral, after all.’

‘Don’t be so naïve, Caroline. How long have you been in the job?’ He glanced away and ran his fingers through his lank hair. ‘Whoever’s fault this was,’ he said, gazing around the office at her colleagues. ‘Whichever member of staff was careless enough to misplace all of that sensitive information… well… the buck will inevitably stop with the new secretary of state.’

‘But how can she be responsible for something that happened before she even started working here?’

The pay-as-you-go mobile started to ring in Caroline’s bag. She ignored it.

‘Don’t let me stop you,’ Prior said and pointed at her bag.

‘It’s OK – they’ll leave a message.’

Prior waited for the ringing to cease before he continued. ‘That’s not the way it works – surely you know that? The press would demand a scapegoat. The current secretary of state would have to be sacrificed. That’s just the way things are.’

He was making it sound like the outcome had already been decided.

‘But if the story never gets out—’

‘It can’t. I’m going to call the whole team together.’ He sighed, as if communicating with the academies division was a particularly irksome task. ‘I will not tolerate leaks, Caroline. We must ensure everyone understands that.’ He was staring at her again, his eyes burning into hers. He glanced towards his office. ‘I have to go.’

Greg, the IT man, was standing outside Prior’s door, chatting to Lisa. Caroline felt her heart thud against her chest. What if he mentioned the phone conversation? Lisa wouldn’t have a clue what he was talking about. She probably didn’t even know about the computer surveillance. Caroline stood rigid at her desk, half inclined to make a bolt for the door.

‘I’m sure I don’t need to impress upon you the importance of confidentiality.’ Prior was still there, watching Caroline as she stared at Greg and Lisa. ‘Caroline?’

‘No – of course not.’

Prior turned away and marched the length of the office. He grabbed Greg by the elbow and steered him through the door.

The pay-as-you-go mobile started to ring again in her bag. She dragged it out and stabbed the answer button.

‘Before you even go there, forget it. I just can’t risk getting anything else for you.’ She heard an inhalation of breath at the other end of the line. ‘What about your digging? Have you discovered anything new?’

Caroline looked up to see Greg leaving Prior’s room, head hanging low, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his combats. Prior followed him out.

‘Well?’

‘I just wanted to touch base.’

‘Call me when you’ve actually got something to say.’

Prior had stopped at Pam’s desk. He lifted a file from her in tray and let it drop, then scanned the office.

‘I’ve got to go.’ Caroline hung up and threw the phone back into her bag.

‘Not more domestic problems, I hope?’ Prior walked straight past her and sat on the edge of the desk next to hers. ‘Is it your son?’ He ran his fingers lightly over Tracy’s keyboard.

‘Nope – sales call.’

‘Have you seen Pamela?’

Caroline shook her head. What had Greg told him?

‘Well then perhaps you can tell me.’

Caroline braced herself.

‘When was the last time Tracy Clarke was in the office? Do you remember?’

She took a breath, determined to keep her voice steady. ‘Tracy? Why?’

‘Do you remember when she was last here?’

‘Well, she was in with the baby. A little while ago.’

‘And since then?’

Caroline could clearly see Tracy’s box under the desk, just inches away from Prior’s feet. ‘I couldn’t really say.’ She smiled, her top lip stuck to her teeth. ‘Is it something important?’

Prior got to his feet. ‘I’ll ask Pamela. Perhaps her memory is more reliable than yours.’ He walked away, then after a few steps, he stopped and turned back. ‘Are you sure your… difficulties at home aren’t… impairing your performance?’

He made her sound like a highly trained athlete, or a highly-strung racehorse.

‘Quite sure.’

‘Perhaps you should box up your things early. Take a couple of days off until the dust has settled.’

‘Dust?’

‘The removal crates are due to be delivered this afternoon. Pamela’s organising it.’

‘I’m sorry, Jeremy, you’ve completely lost me.’

‘The office move.’

She shook her head.

‘Your mind really isn’t on the job, is it?’

Why did he keep saying that?
Bloody Pam
. What had she been saying?

‘The whole floor is being refurbished. We’re moving down to the second floor in the interim. The memo was circulated last Friday.’

‘I didn’t get a memo.’

‘Perhaps it arrived while you were busy dealing with your domestic issues.’

‘Why is the office being refurbished?’

‘Why not?’

First the ministers’ floor, now the academies division. Someone really was determined to eradicate any lingering trace of Martin Fox from the building. What could there possibly be on this floor that needed to be expunged?

‘When is this happening?’

‘Thursday and Friday.’

‘During the week?’

Prior nodded.

‘They usually organise moves for the weekend.’

Prior shrugged. ‘Ours is not to reason why, Caroline.’ He looked into her eyes and held her gaze for a good few seconds before he spoke again. ‘We just need to obey orders.’

26

As soon as she walked through the archway and started to climb the stairs, the sounds and smells of Angela Tate’s childhood not so much flooded back as seeped into her clothes and crawled under her skin. The stink of vomit and dog piss made her eyes water. She trudged up the concrete steps, hesitating at each turn of the stair, fully expecting a shadowy threat to emerge from every dark corner. On the second floor landing she picked her way through crushed beer cans and empty takeaway trays, ducked under another arch and back into daylight.

She walked slowly along the narrow walkway, peering through metal-barred security gates to check the number on each front door. Betty Larson lived at number 29.

It had taken Angela three days to track down Fred Larson’s first wife. She’d eventually discovered an Elizabeth Mary Larson on the electoral register for Tower Hamlets. It turned out Betty had been born, raised and married without venturing outside Bethnal Green. She tied the knot with Fred in a civil ceremony at the town hall in April 1958. They got divorced in 1971, only a couple of months before Fred Larson married the 21-year-old Valerie.

Angela passed number 28 and reached a metal gate spanning the width of the walkway. Betty Larson’s door was tucked into the corner of the landing on the other side. Angela stretched an arm between the bars, but the bell was well beyond her reach.

‘Mrs Larson?’ she shouted. ‘Hello – anyone home?’ She rattled the gate.

‘Whatever it is you’re selling, I can’t afford it.’

Angela spun round to see a grey-haired woman in a petrol blue raincoat and thick support stockings struggling slowly along the landing towards her. Jumbo-framed spectacles covered most of the top half of her face; a rictus grimace spread across the bottom half. She was gripping the handle of a tartan shopping trolley, using it for support like a Zimmer frame on wheels.

‘And if you’re on a recruitment drive for the local church, you’re wasting your time. I’m adequately catered for in that department.’ She gestured towards a silver crucifix hanging from her neck.

‘Mrs Larson?’ Angela tried her best to switch on an electric smile.

‘Who wants her?’ The woman scanned Angela from head to toe. ‘The gas board? Or our Saviour?’

‘Neither, Mrs Larson. Can I call you Betty?’

‘No you certainly can’t. Who are you?’

Angela extended a hand as the woman reached the gate. ‘My name’s Angela Tate.’

The woman ignored the hand and dipped her fingers into the knitted bag strapped across her chest. ‘Do I know you?’

‘No…’ Angela glanced down at the crucifix and considered making up some story about being sent on an outreach mission from the local diocese, but wasn’t sure she could pull it off. ‘I’m a journalist, Mrs Larson. From the
Evening News
.’

The old woman’s expression tightened, her glasses slipped down her nose a fraction. ‘What do you want with me?’

Angela broadened her smile. ‘I’d like to speak to you… to get your opinion.’ She glanced over Betty Larson’s shoulder at the front door beyond the gate. ‘Can I come in?’

‘Is it about the gangs coming onto the estate?’

Again, it seemed the easiest thing in the world to just say yes and inveigle her way into the old woman’s flat with a lie. But Angela hesitated, letting the woman’s gaze penetrate hers for a moment too long, and she found herself compelled to tell Betty Larson the truth.

‘No, Mrs Larson… it’s something else.’ She looked towards the front door again. The paint was flaking from the wood, the mortar crumbling between the brickwork surrounding it. How could a multi-millionaire knight of the realm let his first wife live out her days in a shithole like this? ‘I’d like to talk to you about your husband.’ Angela braced herself for the fallout.

‘Fred? What makes you think I’d want to talk about him?’ She slotted a chunky key into the lock and pushed open the gate.

‘I’m doing a profile on him.’

Betty Larson narrowed her eyes. ‘He’s not dead is he?’

‘No! It’s not an obituary.’

Angela thought she heard a little sigh of disappointment issue from Betty’s mouth.

‘I’ve got nothing to say.’ The old woman retrieved the key and struggled to manoeuvre the tartan trolley through the gate.

‘Let me help you with that.’ Angela grabbed the handle and started pushing.

‘I can manage!’ Betty Larson yanked the bag back and shoved it down the landing. ‘Just like I manage every other day.’ She slipped through the gap and pushed the key back into the lock.

‘Please, Mrs Larson. Just a quick chat. Ten minutes, that’s all.’

‘I have nothing to say about him.’

With the gate closing in her face, Angela’s journalistic survival instinct finally kicked in. ‘He has plenty to say about you.’ She couldn’t help herself.

Betty Larson’s hand was still on the key, she’d turned it only halfway in the lock. ‘Does he?’

Angela nodded, hoping to achieve the right mix of sincerity and sympathy in her expression.

‘What, exactly?’

Angela glanced back down the landing. ‘I think perhaps we should go inside to discuss it.’

She was through the front door, down the hall and into the living room in a matter of seconds. Betty Larson sat her on an uncomfortable settee and told her wait while she ‘put away her perishables’.

Angela perched on the edge of the 1950s-style three-seater, the hard wood frame pressing against her thighs through the thin cushions. She scanned the sparsely furnished room looking for clues to Betty Larson’s personality. Apart from a crucifix on the opposite wall and a couple of framed photographs sitting at the far end of a dark brown sideboard, there was nothing to betray the woman’s secrets. She was beginning to doubt Betty even had any. The room was scrubbed as clean as a nun’s cell, the faint aroma of mothballs permeating everything, as if the upholstery on the settee and the grim velvet curtains at the window had been sitting in a charity shop for too long.

Betty Larson reappeared five minutes later wearing a drab beige coverall, a tray of tea things in her hand. She shuffled to the coffee table next to the settee in a pair of old-fashioned carpet slippers that looked two sizes too big. Once she’d deposited the tray, she slowly made her way to the window and opened it wide.

‘You’ve brought in the smell of cigarettes with you.’

Angela smiled apologetically.

‘I can’t abide them.’ She thumped a hand against her chest and let out a cough thick with congestion. She lowered herself into an armchair next to the settee.

‘It’s a terrible vice, I know. I’ve been trying to give up.’

‘Sometimes it takes more than will power alone to resist temptation.’ Betty glanced towards the crucifix on the wall.

‘Indeed.’ Angela reached for the teapot.

A scrawny hand slipped over hers. ‘It needs to brew.’

Angela shifted position, trying to get comfortable, and failed. She got to her feet.

‘What’s Fred been saying?’ The old woman peered up at her, the thick lenses of her glasses enlarging her eyes alarmingly.

Angela sucked in a breath and walked towards the window. Two storeys below a handful of children were chasing one another across a tired-looking playground. She exhaled and turned back to Betty.

‘He’s been telling me all about…’ She groped desperately for a subject. ‘About your divorce. The reasons your marriage ended.’ All Angela knew for sure was that they were divorced by mutual consent.

‘He told you about that?’ Betty Larson sat very upright, her hands clasped tight in her lap. ‘He had no right to.’

Angela wandered across the room, hoping desperately Betty Larson wouldn’t press her on the details. ‘I’d like to hear your version of events. For the sake of balance.’

Betty Larson was staring into space, gripping her hands together even tighter.

Angela had a sudden flash of inspiration. ‘He’s writing his memoirs, you see. If you speak to me now, you can make your side of the story public before he does.’

The old woman’s head had started to shake, as if she’d developed a sudden tremor. ‘Story? My private life isn’t part of some story.’

‘That’s not how most people will see it.’

‘But that isn’t right.’

Angela leaned a hand against the sideboard and glanced down at the framed photographs.

‘I’m afraid private lives sell newspapers,’ she said, and looked more closely at the two pictures. An old sepia image featured a man and a woman in Edwardian dress. The woman was seated in front of the man, holding a baby wrapped in a long lace shawl. The other photograph was much more recent. Judging by the fashion, it must have been taken in the early 80s. It was a head and shoulders shot of a young man with a prematurely receding hairline and perfect white teeth.

‘It’s better to get the truth out there first. Believe me.’ Angela picked up the picture frame. ‘Who’s this?’

‘Be careful with that.’

‘He’s very handsome.’ She angled the photo towards the window.

Betty was struggling to lift herself out of her armchair. ‘Put it down!’

Angela returned the frame to its spot on the sideboard and held up her hands.

‘I’m sorry – I didn’t mean to upset you.’

The old woman made it to her feet and shuffled towards her. She pulled a handkerchief from the pocket in her apron, snatched up the frame and polished the glass.

‘Freddie always took a good picture.’ She stared down at the smiling face. ‘The only thing he inherited from his father.’

Angela swallowed, temporarily lost for words.

Fred Larson Jr
? How had he never come to light in her research? Fred and Valerie Larson were childless. Recently, in the light of his ill health, there had been much speculation about who would inherit the Fred Larson fortune when he finally died. If that photo was taken in the early 1980s, young Freddie would be in his mid to late 40s by now. Yet never had there been any public acknowledgment that he even existed. Was Fred Larson
ashamed
of him?

‘This is your son?’

The old woman nodded, her gaze distant again. She opened a drawer in the sideboard and took out another portrait of the same man. He was much younger in this one, a teenager dressed in a smart blazer and school tie.

‘His teachers were so proud of him.’

‘I expect you are too. He’s a credit to you.’

‘Fred left us before Freddie was even born.’

‘It must have been very difficult for you at the time.’

‘We weren’t alone – my faith gave me strength.’

Angela studied both photographs of Freddie Jr. He looked nothing like his father, or even his mother, but still there was something vaguely familiar about him.

‘And Freddie still lives in the area?’ She struggled to keep the excitement out of her voice.

Betty Larson’s shoulders sagged, she seemed to visibly shrink.

‘How often does he visit?’

The old woman laid both photographs face down on the sideboard. ‘I don’t see him as much as I’d like.’

Behind the thick lenses of Betty’s glasses Angela thought she saw the suggestion of a tear. The old woman turned away.

‘I think it’s time for you to leave.’

God, not now, we’re only just scraping the surface.

‘Don’t you want to tell me your side of events – just how difficult it was for you – bringing up a child on your own in the 60s?’

‘I’ve already told you – I had my faith.’ She shuffled across the room and stood to one side of the living room door.

Don’t shut up shop, come on, Betty.

‘What about Freddie?’ Angela reluctantly joined her at the door. ‘Shouldn’t he have the chance to speak out?’ Angela frowned, realising in that instant that Freddie Larson Jr could have spoken out at any time in the last quarter of a century. Why hadn’t he?

‘What did Fred tell you about him?’ Betty was scrutinising her with those enormous eyes again. Angela hesitated, unsure which way to spin the next fabrication.

‘To be honest,’ she swallowed. ‘Sir Fred didn’t say an awful lot about him.’ She snatched a breath. ‘I got the impression he was…’

‘What?’

‘It seemed to me as if he’s ashamed of his son.’

Betty’s mouth dropped open. She leaned her weight against the wall.

‘Are you OK – can I get you anything? A glass of water?’ Angela hooked an arm under Betty’s and forcibly guided her towards the settee. She sat her down, poured out a cup of inky tea and added three sugars to it. She handed it to Betty. The old woman took a sip then, with trembling hands, put it back on the table.

‘He promised Freddie he wouldn’t mention the problem to anyone.’

Problem
?

Angela pulled a face and nodded as sagely as she could. ‘Actually, I think he was relieved to be able to talk about it.’

‘To a journalist?’

Angela shrugged. ‘People like to confide in me.’