Malcolm Gregory drummed his fingers on the desk, then reached to his lips, extracted the dying cigarette, and stubbed it out in the ashtray in front of him.
The day’s events had been troubling.
They had been caught out when the reporter had first called last week and insisted on a meeting at short notice. The office had descended into a frenzy, trying to fathom what she might have uncovered, wrongly assuming it was the usual tabloid dirt that circled Westminster in the weeks leading up to an election.
Despite advertising a partisan outlook to their readers, the lower market newspapers could always be relied upon to assist where necessary, and it was with this in mind that Gregory had agreed to the meeting, although he’d pulled rank and insisted it take place on neutral territory.
The reporter had agreed, a little too eagerly, and the appropriate arrangements had been made.
He tapped the delicately embossed cigarette lighter on the mahogany surface.
In hindsight, his insistence that the meeting not take place immediately had been prescient. With less than a week to prepare, he’d used his most trusted people to follow the woman, track her movements, and attempt to pre-empt the contents of her investigation.
She’d been clever, though, hiding information, avoiding emailing anything to her editor. For all Gregory and his team could find, she’d been working alone on her story.
What his team did uncover at the last minute, only a day away from the scheduled interview, led to one of the most gruelling twenty-four hours he’d ever known.
He’d instructed Rossiter to send all but the most trusted staff home, then sealed off his room and explained to the man what was going to happen if they didn’t control the situation immediately.
Rossiter had reacted exactly as he’d anticipated.
He raised his eyes to the stain on the wall, a chunk of plaster missing where the man had thrown his brandy glass at the surface, shards of glass exploding across the leather sofa underneath.
Gregory had stood sentinel in the middle of the room, unmoving, his hands clasped behind his back as Rossiter had shouted, cursed, and paced, until eventually he had calmed down, sunk into one of the chairs beside the desk, and held his head in his hands, asking Gregory for his advice.
As he always had.
His eyes moved to the chess board on the small table in front of the sofa. Of course, he’d been planning. Had been since the reporter’s initial request. Contingencies, strategies, counter-strategies. It was a skill he’d honed over the years, plotting and coercing people like the pieces on the board.
Rossiter had listened to his plan as he’d calmly described it and remained silent while his colleague had talked.
Gregory had paused halfway through his narrative to take a delicate sip from his own brandy and ignored the man in front of him who had obviously wished he hadn’t thrown his own against the wall by the way he licked his lips then looked away. Gregory had managed to contain the shudder of pleasure that worked its way through him at the man’s discomfort, before continuing to set out what would need to take place the next day.
A silence had fallen over the room when he’d finished, and he’d wondered for a moment whether he’d gone too far, tested the party leader’s resolve too much.
He needn’t have worried.
Rossiter had rubbed his hand over his face, and then stalked across the room to the decanter and poured himself a large measure into a fresh glass. He’d thrown half of it down his throat before making his decision.
Gregory exhaled and ran his hand over his head.
It was his job to protect Rossiter, to make sure the man’s ambitions were realised. The reporter’s investigation had warranted extreme measures; he had to believe that. He did believe it.
His hand hovered above the mobile phone, before he snatched it back and took a deep breath, chastising himself. More than one phone call a day to the hospital to discuss her condition would seem strange.
He had to remain calm, at least until his security team returned with the computer hard drive and its contents assessed.
He shook his head and cursed their incompetence. The man was an archivist, for goodness’ sake, not a spy. Yet, somehow, he’d managed to evade them since dropping off the hard drive as instructed.
He rubbed his chin, then lifted the receiver for the internal phone and dialled a number. The recipient answered within two rings. Gregory didn’t wait for a greeting.
‘Have you got it yet?’
‘Yes. There’s a lot of data here to go through.’
‘I don’t need excuses. I need results. Today.’
‘It’ll be much later than that. There’s no logical order to how the files have been saved. It’ll be tomorrow at the earliest. We should have an idea what we’ve got here by then.’
‘Make sure you do.’
Gregory slammed the phone down and slumped in his chair, then pulled a piece of paper across the desk towards him and unfolded it. The name and address of a nursing home had been scrawled across the page.
At the moment, Rossiter wasn’t aware of the details, but Gregory felt that a contingency plan should be in place, just in case.
He glanced up at a knock at his door, folded the page, and tucked it into the inside pocket of his jacket as a woman entered.
‘Excuse me, sir? Mr Rossiter would like to speak with you now. The secure line in the private meeting room.’ She grasped the leather-bound briefing folder in one hand and used an expensive-looking pen to scribble notes as she spoke.
‘Can’t it wait?’
The woman stared at him incredulously, as if he’d suggested sleeping with her. Rossiter didn’t wait for anyone and was well known for his short temper amongst the staff.
‘He said it was urgent.’
Gregory sighed. ‘Very well. Lead the way, Alison.’