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Briefing room five was big enough for about ten people and felt like a last-resort seminar room at an underfunded university. The windows were dirty, the paint faded, and the tables functional and slightly rickety. Its sole concession to modernity was a brutal interactive whiteboard at the front: ugliness plonked on top of shabbiness. This was Brian Penford’s realm. He wasn’t here yet. Mordred went in, sat down and read The Guardian on his phone.
Five minutes later, the door opened and Brian entered, carrying a document wallet and a mug with The London Dungeon printed on. A bearded, bespectacled fifty-two year old in a worn tweed jacket and trousers. Mordred put his phone away and stood up.
“Morning, John,” Brian said. “Would you like a coffee? The kettle’s just boiled. Or we’ve also got tea, if you want tea.”
“I’m fine, thanks.”
“So how are you these days?”
“Good. You?”
“Good.”
Verbal pleasantries out of the way, they shook hands and each took a seat. Brian picked up the remote and pointed it at the whiteboard. A posed portrait picture of Frances Holland came up. A slim woman with shoulder length brown hair and a white Alice band. Heavy eyebrows, blue eyes and a thin mouth. She wasn’t smiling. She wore a suit jacket and a scarf.
“The Brexit Queen,” Brian said.
“The what?”
“Brexit. British exit from the European Union, John. Surely you must have heard of bloody Brexit. God help us, there’s a referendum just around the corner!”
“I meant, I’d never heard her called that.”
“By her colleagues, not by the general public.”
“And she’s supposed to have disappeared, right?”
“Gone for seven days now.”
“Who reported her missing?”
Brian put his notes aside. “Her parliamentary colleague, Charles Planchart, Conservative MP for Bromley and Chislehurst. She lives in London during the working week, so her family weren’t aware. By ‘family’, I mean her parents and her brother. Her husband’s out of the picture. They divorced a decade ago, and he re-married, she didn’t. And she doesn’t have any children.”
“This is a police matter, presumably.”
“And a national security one. Her disappearance hasn’t been publicised. It’s been kept under wraps. She’s a rising star in the party, but, well, it’s come to light recently that she’s had mental health issues in the past. That’s not going to be a problem for her if those issues are not seen to be affecting her capacity to do her job. But if the press get the idea she’s likely to go awol at the drop of a hat, she’s probably finished. The party consensus is that she’s worth taking care of. At least, provisionally. Review that when they find her, I suppose.”
“Has she gone missing before?”
“On that particular question, her parents haven’t been very forthcoming. Neither has her brother. Neither has the Conservative party.”
“So yes, in other words.”
“That’s the word on the street.”
“Are we ruling out foul play?”
“So far. Go with the simplest explanation consistent with the facts. Obviously, that may – probably will - change if new evidence is uncovered.”
“What leads are we following?”
“You’ll have to speak to Phyllis about that, John. It’s not my department. I’m just here to bring you up to the starting line.”
“What’s she done to earn her title?”
“The Brexit Queen? She’s one of seven founding members of a Tory campaigning organisation called ‘The Get Out Clause’. She’s been anti-European for quite some time. She was one of the first to insist that the Conservative party could only side-line UKIP by becoming UKIP – or at least requisitioning its title-policy. At the time, just before the last election, she was sticking her neck out big time. Now far more people are behind her.”
“I bet David Cameron loves her.”
“She won him an important seat in 2010. But no, not so much any more.”
“Where was she last seen?”
“King’s Cross Station, by a Network Southeast guard coming off duty. He didn’t see her board a carriage, though. Apparently, she was standing in the middle of the shopping area looking ‘unhappy’. We’ve got CCTV footage that confirms that.”
“You probably don’t go to King’s Cross unless you’ve formed the intention of catching a train.”
“That’s the assumption we’re working on. But of course, that would mean she could be anywhere.”
“And presumably we can’t appeal for sightings, because that would alert the press. Isn’t it quite likely that she’ll just turn up?”
“She’ll have to at some point. The question is, in what sort of condition?”
“Could she have a lover?”
“This is the UK’s most sensible woman. Sensible shoes, hairstyle, facial expression, highly practical bag - ”
Mordred held up his hand. “Sorry to be pedantic, but sensible’s a psychological attitude. It’s not about clothes and accessories. If she’s prone to mental illness, she can hardly have a relatively emotion-free, balanced state of mind. At least not all the time.”
Brian shrugged. “Fair point.”
“It might be in her interests to disguise herself as a sensible woman by adopting the outward trappings.”
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t you see? She’s aware of the beast lurking within and knows she has to adopt fairly rigorous measures to keep it down. Attempt to fool herself every time she looks in the mirror. If that’s the case, then, on her own assessment, there’s a constant danger of her ‘other’ side breaking out.”
“Possibly,” Brian said. “I think you’re over-thinking the matter. And I’m not sure where it gets us.”
“If she sees it, someone else might have.”
“Okay ... And ...?”
“Let’s say I’m a predator of some kind. Not necessarily sexual. Someone already known to her, not necessarily well. I tag her as vulnerable and I start subtly pestering her to give me what I want. Not in an unpleasant way, although, for the sake of argument, let’s assume I have all of my own interests at heart, and none of hers.”
“Go on.”
“She knows she’s being harassed; she’s half-tempted to report it, but being ‘sensible’ implies being independent, being in charge, so she doesn’t. And the less well-balanced side of her feels drawn to whatever it is that’s on offer. One day, she just cracks.”
“Maybe after a few drinks.”
“Possibly.”
“Or blackmail.”
“Or both. Or neither.”
“You know what this reminds me of?” Brian said. “The disappearance of Agatha Christie. Eleven days in December 1926. When they finally found her, she was in a hotel in Harrogate. She’d lost her memory. Hang on, I’ve got something here from the BBC website. Let me read it to you. ‘According to biographer Andrew Norman, the novelist may well have been in what’s known as a “fugue” state or, more technically, a psychogenic trance. It’s a rare condition brought on by trauma or depression’. She never spoke about it afterwards. But she was perfectly normal.”
There was a knock at the door. Phyllis entered wearing a red suit and no expression. Probably here to complain about him muscling in on her investigation. He sat up.
“I understand you’re joining us, John,” she said noncommittally. “Good morning, Brian.”
“Would you like a coffee, Phyllis?” Brian asked. “The kettle’s only just boiled. We’ve also got tea, if you want tea.”
“Nothing for me, thank you,” she said. “Well, John?”
“I’ll, er, take this opportunity to go and refill my mug,” Brian said in a tone that suggested he foresaw a row. “If you want me, I’ll be in the kitchen. Otherwise, I’ll be back in a minute.” He shot a ‘here’s hoping you survive’ look at Mordred and left.
Phyllis didn’t sit down. She put her fists on the table and leaned over him.
“Well,” Mordred began, “I was attacked last night right after we parted. Two bruisers who claimed to be pally with the Lord Mayor. Later, I realised Chester had looked frightened all the way through our tête-à-tête. Then Pierre Durand got a Get Out of Jail card courtesy of the Lord Mayor’s own law firm, name of Simpson, Musgrave and De Groot. Stop me when you’ve had enough of the Chandler-esque euphemisms.”
She said nothing. Not, obviously, because she couldn’t think of anything, but because she was processing a heap of fresh information and mentally filing it for later use.
“And all that relates to you joining us – how, exactly?” she said eventually.
“If you don’t want me to join, just say. It’s your investigation.”
She softened and laughed. “You’d better not start bloody solving things, that’s all. Has Brian given you the lowdown yet, or is he still going? I notice you’re only on slide one of his Powerpoint.”
“What are the other slides?”
“You say you were attacked?”
“An awful lot’s happened since last night.”
She sat down. “I heard about Durand getting out. And, for what it’s worth, I didn’t think Willie looked at all frightened, although I concede you’re more of an expert than me. But the attack, I didn’t know about. So tell me. And let me ask you again, more sympathetically this time: what’s it got to do with my investigation?”
“I’ll answer that last one first. I don’t know. But something big’s going on. And the only other big thing in town is Frances Holland. Statistically, it seems unlikely that two such big things are going down at exactly the same time, ergo it’s possible they’re part of a single whole.”
He told her about the two men and explained matters roughly as he’d relayed them earlier to Ruby Parker. Then he told her about his discussion with Brian. “It’s only speculation,” he said, “but I think some third party may have compromised her.”
“Like who?”
“I don’t know yet. I’d like to start by speaking to someone who knew her.”
“Who do you have in mind?”
“I’d like to see the rest of Brian’s Powerpoint before I decide that.”
She gave a wry smile and made to get up. “See if any of her acquaintances looks particularly shifty? They all do.”
“Phyllis, stop,” he said.
She turned a puzzled frown on him. “Stop what?”
“Just stay there. Only for a minute. Please. I want to ask you something.”
She sat down again, looking concerned. “Anything you like.”
He hadn’t prepared this and ‘Phyllis, stop’ wasn’t exactly an auspicious beginning. It sounded like a command. Luckily, they’d been colleagues long enough for her to know it wasn’t. She put her head patiently on one side.
“You remember yesterday,” he said, “when we parted at Mansion House, and I called the Lord Mayor ‘the king of crooks’? You didn’t mention it to anyone, did you?”
“What do you mean? You can’t think I had anything to do with those two - ”
“Not them.”
“Then what?”
“I’ve been flagged up to Ruby Parker as ‘vulnerable to radicalisation’. Obviously, I know it wasn’t you. That’s not what I’m asking. I just wondered whether you’d, say, mentioned it in passing to anyone?”
She hooted. “‘Vulnerable to radicalisation’? You?”
“Me.”
“Oh my God, someone’s put their jobsworth’s hat on! Bloody hell, we all know you’re a muesli-eating, sandal-wearing hippy, John, but no one in his right mind thinks you’re a threat to the organisation!”
“Okay, well - ”
“I can’t believe it,” she went on. “What the hell’s society come to? Don’t get me wrong, I’m a fully paid-up member of the Conservative Party and, for what it’s worth, I happen to think most of your ideas are completely barmy, but at least you bloody think about the world we live in!”
“In that case - ”
“I don’t suppose anybody would flag you up if all you did with your life was what all the other bloody zombies nowadays do. Post picture after picture after picture of yourself on bloody Facebook and Instagram. It’s incredible!”
He counted four bloodies and two hells and, to her credit, she seemed a lot more upset about it than he did. He began to regret mentioning it.
“What’s going to happen now?” she asked. “I mean, what are the faceless ones intending to do about it?”
“I’ve got to be interviewed.”
“When?”
“To be announced.”
“Who reported you?”
“Someone in Grey, apparently.”
“We’ve got to find out who. Annabel can probably help with that. She’s - ”
He held his hands up. “Ruby Parker says she’ll take care of it. It’s not in my interests for any of us to go probing. My friends especially. That may be exactly what they want. The pretext for a war.”
“You make it sound like gangland. Mind you, that’s what it is, sometimes. It’s what all workplaces are. Anyway, don’t worry. If anyone talks to me, I’ll give you a glowing reference. And don’t worry about Annabel, Edna, Alec, Tariq, even Young Ian. I’ll give them a heads-up.”
“Thanks.”
“It’ll be fine. Meanwhile, welcome to my investigation. Our investigation.”
“Thanks.”
A knock at the door. Brian. He and his London Dungeon mug put their heads round. “Is it okay to come in?” he asked.
“I’ll stay and watch the rest,” Phyllis said. “Everyone needs a refresher from time to time. Then you can tell me who you want to interview, John, and I can arrange the necessary paperwork. Save you having to find me.”
So she was being nice to him now. She probably felt sorry for him. He definitely shouldn’t have told her. What a mess.
The rest of the Powerpoint consisted of four more photos of Frances Holland from different angles, the CCTV footage of her at King’s Cross, plus two embedded videos of her doing interviews on BBC South West, one outdoors, one in the studio. She seemed severe but well-informed, and no one’s fool. Probably headed for great things before she collided with Cameron, and before this. However, nothing was decided yet. There had been more astonishing comebacks.
The other slides consisted of the remaining six members of The Get Out Clause, including its nominal leader, Charles Planchart, MP, a ghoulish looking man with a long, pale face, dark rings under his eyes and black hair swept back from a widow’s peak. Then the three members of her family: mum, dad and younger brother.
“I’ll begin with Planchart,” Mordred said, when Brian switched the whiteboard off. “Might as well start with numero uno.”
“I’ll let him know you’re coming,” Phyllis said.
