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IN AN UPSTAIRS OFFICE hastily tidied to accommodate two transatlantic VIPs, Ross Henshall and five of his staff sat with Miss Demure, Ruby Parker and Gavin watching the election results come in. The chaos of the Unite blockade had occupied newsreaders for an hour, then it became clear the election was going to proceed as it always did, with Presiding Officers making their way to the count centres by their own means. Then the fire in Bedford. At ten-fifty, the first results began to arrive and the celebrities were wheeled out in their best clothes to town halls, campaign headquarters and TV studios.
At two in the morning, all channels switched to Hertfordshire South West. The Returning Officer, a woman in her late fifties in a trouser suit, stood on a town hall stage before a microphone, with the candidates lined up behind her looking impassive. She read out the results in alphabetical order. There were jeers for the BNP candidate then mounting cheers and applause and she ended by saying:
“And I hereby declare that the said Anthony Hartley-Brown is elected to serve as Member of Parliament for this constituency.”
The cheers reached a crescendo. The other candidates looked glum. Sir Anthony came forward and thanked the Returning Officer and her team then the police, and the screen cut back to the studio where David Dimbleby sat looking impassive.
“Not unexpected there for Hertfordshire South West. A safe Conservative seat since it was created in 1950. We’ll do a little more analysis in a moment, see again how the country’s shaping up, but, er, right now I believe we’re about to get the result for Bolton North East. Adam.”
“I guess we’re looking at a hung parliament,” Henshall said.
“It’s what most of the newspapers have been predicting,” Miss Demure remarked, to break the silence.
More silence. Ruby Parker stood up. “I think we’d better be leaving now, Mr Henshall. Thank you again for such an enjoyable evening.”
“You sure you won’t have some more Earl Grey? Or another shandy?”
“We’ve a plane to catch,” Gavin said. “And a meeting with Anna Wintour to discuss how we Brits are going to conquer New York.”
“It’s amazing how they seem to like the English accent over there,” Henshall said. “I’ve never understood that. But I suppose the grass is always greener.”
When Ruby Parker left 35 King Street, she got Gavin to drop Miss Demure off at home then went straight back to Thames House. Mahtab met her in reception. Ten of Kramski’s men, she reported, had been captured en route to the coast.
“Where are they?”
“They’re bringing them to Waterloo Bridge,” Mahtab said.
“Assemble an interrogation team. I shouldn’t think we’ll get anything out of them, but we have to try. Keep me informed.”
She collected a folder of documents, photocopied them and put them in a briefcase. She dismissed Gavin and called Reception to provide a driver to take her to Hertford. She gambled that neither Joy nor Sir Anthony would be sleeping until all the results were declared – probably not till well after the working day began.
She arrived outside Mannersby at 5am. It was well lit and crowded with cars of all makes and conditions. Inside a party was obviously in progress, but there was very little noise, just gentle strings, and heads and shoulders with glasses of champagne, framed in illuminated casements. She rang the doorbell and waited.
A middle-aged balding man in a plum waistcoat and smart black trousers answered. “Good morning, madam. How can I help?”
She showed her card. “I’m here to see Sir Anthony and Joy Hartley-Brown about a personal matter. I’d like speak to them in private, please, at their discretion. I’m happy to wait if they’re busy, but I need to be back in London by eight.”
He took her to the study and asked her to sit down, closing the doors on her as he left. A moment later, Sir Anthony entered, his expression a blend of anxiety and indignation.
“My name’s Ruby Parker,” she said. “I’m - ”
“Yes, yes, I know who you are. I used to be Shadow Foreign Secretary. What’s the matter? Has there been some sort of irregularity? Because I’m guessing if there has it must be pretty serious - ”
The door opened again and a small woman in a dressing gown and a hairnet entered with bare feet and sleepy eyes. She looked indignantly from Sir Anthony to Ruby Parker and back again. “Are you going to introduce us then, Anthony, or not?” she said, at last.
“Very well, this is my wife, Joy. Joy this is Ruby Parker, head of MI5, or one of them. Now look here, Ms Parker, we’re in the middle of a quiet celebration here and I can assure that if there have been cock-ups of any kind - ”
“It’s about your son, Jonathan.”
Sir Anthony took a step back as if he’d been burned. Joy let out a whimper and seemed to shrink in the act of sitting down.
“Wh – what about him?” Joy croaked. Sir Anthony put his arm around her.
“I’m here to talk to you about the manner of his death. I need you to listen very carefully, and I won’t beat about the bush. I happen to know you’re labouring under a serious misapprehension.”
Sir Anthony looked at the carpet. “Go ahead, then.”
Ruby Parker drew herself up. “I might as well tell you everything. Jonathan wasn’t working for the Met when he died, he was working for MI5, spearheading an investigation into an attempt by foreign nationals to rig tonight’s election. For the usual reasons we had to conduct that investigation in secret. He was murdered in an attempt to save the life of Jilly Bestwick and to pass critical information about the criminals’ agenda to the proper authorities.
“The killer worked hard to create the false impression that Jonathan killed Miss Bestwick and Mr Cruse, then committed suicide, but every scrap of forensic evidence – described in detail in the documents in that briefcase, should you have difficulty believing me – shows that none of that is possible. In short, he was framed by the perpetrator to stall the enquiry.
“Because publication of the bare facts of his death would have led the media to the conclusion the murderer wished it to reach, MI5 chose to suppress them with a fabricated report that he died in a car chase. We didn’t have much time to consider the details, but we wanted to convey the notion that he died obeying the call of duty - although in fact his actions went far beyond that. Whatever you may think you know to the contrary, he behaved with exemplary courage.
“In a recent conversation I had with your daughter, Marciella - whom Jonathan recommended to us as a recruit - it came to my attention that you’d succumbed to the murderer’s deception after a visit to Beachy Head Chaplaincy. I can only say that I am very, very sorry for the distress this must have caused. I came here almost as soon as I found out.”
Joy stood up and looked for a moment as if she was going to have a seizure. Then she went to the mantelpiece where five portrait photographs of the family stood in a row. Jonathan’s had been turned to the wall slightly. She picked it up, trembling, and looked at it. She hugged it. Then she looked at it again, as if she were seeing it anew, and left the room.
Sir Anthony looked thunderstruck. His expression hadn’t changed since Ruby Parker began speaking. “I would – I’d - ”
Joy screamed.
“Could – could you come back tomorrow?” Sir Anthony said. “We – I’m sure my wife – and I – we’d like to ask ...”
“I’m at your disposal.”
“I’d better go and see Joy.”
Ruby Parker left the briefcase on the table and went to her car. As she was driven away, she saw the couple on the grass. Joy knelt in the mud with her head on the soil, clutching the photograph and rocking. Sir Anthony was trying to comfort her. The guests emerged onto the front steps with expressions of consternation.
The man in the plum waistcoat ran out at speed.
Marcie took a taxi to Hertford to be with her father, then on to London as soon as she heard the result. Bronstein and Fleming went straight back to London and got off the train at King’s Cross.
“Fancy a drink before we turn in?” Fleming said. “There won’t be any pubs open now, but there should be a few clubs.”
Bronstein remembered Nichole. “It’s a great thought, Nick, but I think I’d better be getting home. I’m beat.”
“Sure?”
He remembered Nichole’s grandma. “On the other hand, why not?”
They drank two pints of Theakston at Madrigals, while people hoorayed the election results on large screen TVs, booing the BNP and anyone well-known. This was the most glamorous election anyone had ever seen, with celebrities popping out all over the country and rumours of assassinations abounding. At ten past one, Soraya from Fully Magic Coal Tar Lounge fired a cork from a pop-gun at the Independent candidate for Hastings and Rye and was wrestled to the ground by policemen with Tasers. Ten minutes later there was another deafening cheer.
“What’s happened now?” Bronstein said.
“The Greens have just won a seat. Somewhere in Brighton.”
“When will Marcie’s old man be on?”
“Could be any time. Depending on how long it takes to count.”
“Will they put it on YouTube afterwards?”
Fleming laughed. “I think YouTube has to draw the line somewhere.”
They drank for a few moments.
Fleming sighed. “She’s going to leave me, you know.”
“I hear her heart’s set on Afghanistan. What’s she want to go there for?”
“I don’t know. I wish she loved me a bit more. But she doesn’t.”
“It’s probably more complex than that.”
“Maybe.”
“In my experience, some people feel they’ve got to prove themselves. You never know why. It’s no use persuading them they don’t have to either. You’ve just got to let them get it out of their system and ... and wait.”
“Have you got a wife or girlfriend?”
“My mum keeps pestering me to get hitched, but luckily me and Kurt Russell escaped from New York. It’s easier to keep a low profile here. I’ve only got to speak to her twice a day.”
“So it’s only a matter of time, eh?”
“She’s a very determined lady.”
They parted just after the appearance of Hertforshire South West, and Bronstein walked home. Nichole and her grandma were probably in bed by now, but they might just be the kind who liked to watch the results district by district. He hoped not. He was tired.
The sky was cloudless but there was no moon he could see. Fireworks went off in the distance. He climbed the stairs to his flat and couldn’t help noticing that the closer he came, the stronger the smell of cooking and perfume. He hoped to God they hadn’t found out, but he had a feeling Nichole’s grandma was the sort of woman from whom nothing was secret. She’d probably been through his mail.
He opened the door to find the flat full of candles. Nichole and her grandma were dressed in expensive skirts and full make-up. Nichole’s hair was black. They stood up when he came in and looked at him with an admiration bordering on awe. It was the same look he’d seen a thousand times before. It was one reason he’d crossed the Atlantic.
“I’d have brought some flowers if I’d known you’d be up,” he said.
“Nichole cooked you a meal,” the grandma said. “This is her natural hair colour, what do you think? We’ve tidied your flat a bit, not that that’s a criticism, it isn’t. Nichole, ainikle, go and get the casserole out of the oven. I spoke to your mother on the phone, David, I hope you don’t mind. It rang, I was going to ignore it, but she left a message on the answer phone. She sounded so worried, poor thing. I told her about you and Nichole, I hope you don’t mind. Not that you’re getting married or anything, I didn’t tell her that. Obviously.”
Bronstein took his coat off and sat down. “I don’t suppose she told you anything about my father?”
“Now why would that make any difference if she had?”
“So she did?”
“Look, Nichole’s last boyfriend, he was a nebbish. All the time she was missing, he was round at mine asking, have you seen her, have you seen her. In the end I said, Why don’t you cast one of your spells and find her yourself, you shmuck? She’s much better off with you. And now we know your father’s a rabbi, my mind’s at rest. And not just any rabbi.”
“No.”
“There can’t be many rabbis who make two hundred men burst into songs of praise when they enter the synagogue. And they say that when Rev Jacob Bronstein goes back to Israel, that will be the beginning of the Messianic age. Of course, I’m only an old woman - ”
“Grandma, leave it,” Nichole said. “Please, just shut up.”
There was a long silence.
“Can’t you see you’re embarrassing him? This is exactly why I left home in the first place. You don’t know when to stop.”
“I’ll just go to bed, shall I?” her grandma said.
“That might be a good idea,” Nichole said. “Yes.”
“Without any supper?”
“You could have had the bloody casserole at ten o’clock. That’s when it was ready.”
The grandma retracted into her shell then peeped out as if she might still get her feelers bitten off. They expected her to mutter something about wanting to watch the election.
“I just wanted to stay up and see David,” she said.
Nichole melted and hugged her. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. You’re just so ... I don’t know what the bloody Yiddish is. Full on. I don’t need a matchmaker. I need a walk. The casserole’s in the oven. Eat it up and get some sleep.”
“Where are you going?” her grandma said.
“Just - out. To get some air.”
Bronstein met her as she opened the door. “Mind if I tag along?”
She looked at him, her eyes searching.
“I’ve run three and a half thousand miles to get air,” he said. “I know how it feels, believe me.”
“What about the casserole?”
“Have you eaten yet?”
“No.”
“I’ve got some Tupperware,” he said. “We could go on the roof for a picnic and watch the fireworks. And you could point out the sights. And I could show you the constellations and if it doesn’t get too cold we could watch the sun come up – it won’t be long now - and listen to the birds and we can guess their names ... I mean, if you like that sort of thing.”
She swallowed, smiled and nodded. “That sounds really nice, yes.”
