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“And you didn’t have to sleep with her to get that information?” Phyllis asked. They were in the lift to the canteen, heading towards a working breakfast. Annabel was already up there with Tariq.
“I’m not allowed to have sex with anyone we’re investigating,” Mordred replied. “I don’t know how many times I’ve explained that to I don’t know how many people in this building. Everyone pretends not to get it.”
“You think people are making fun of you?”
“If they’re that hard up for amusement, good luck to them.”
“To be fair, it’s why most men probably joined MI7. The opportunity to sleep with binders full of women, as the phrase goes.”
“I grew up in a family of females. I know a thing or two about them.”
“Such as?”
“They’re human.”
She laughed. “No wonder people find you incomprehensible.”
The lift doors opened and they walked along the corridor to the canteen. A large serving area in zinc with what looked like an industrial size kitchen behind it. In front, rows of padded benches enclosing Formica tables, everything fixed to the floor in the style of an American diner. A mingled smell of fried bacon and eggs and fresh coffee. Annabel and Tariq had already annexed a seat where they could talk in privacy, plus a muffin each and some orange juice. They registered their friends’ entry, but didn’t wave.
“What are you getting?” Phyllis asked when she and Mordred had picked up a tray. “Don’t drag it out. I want to make this quick.”
“How could I drag it out? It’s not like I can place a bespoke order. It’s the works canteen.”
She laughed. “You could order black pudding.”
“You’re in a funny mood this morning. Bowl of Rice Krispies, please,” he told the serving lady. “And a cup of tea, stirred not shaken.”
The serving lady laughed like she’d heard that one at least fifty times since seven-thirty.
“An orange juice and a piece of toast, please,” Phyllis said.
They paid, walked over to their two colleagues, and sat down facing each other, Mordred next to Tariq, Phyllis next to Annabel.
“I heard you made an important discovery last night,” Annabel said. “I hope you didn’t breach your ‘no sex’ commandment.”
Mordred rolled his eyes. He stood up, clapped his hands and asked if everyone could just stop eating for a moment, he had an announcement to make. In the time it took to put a knife, a fork and a spoon down, everyone in the canteen stopped what they were doing and looked blankly at him, leaving only the humming of the ovens and the faint sound of frying.
“I discovered some very important information from a member of the public last night,” he said, “and at no point did I sleep with her.”
The silence continued. A few people exchanged quizzical looks.
“Thank you, that’ll be all.” He sat down.
A light smattering of applause, a few more perplexed expressions, six or seven looks of irritation, and a sardonic groan or two. When he resumed his Rice Krispies, he noticed Phyllis was blushing. Annabel looked completely oblivious, as if it was what she’d been expecting all along.
“So Frances Holland and Pierre Durand have been meeting,” she said.
“Looks that way,” Mordred said. “Which is a very good outcome.”
“I don’t see how,” Phyllis said gloomily. “You realise you’ve got a reputation in this place?” she said, raising her voice to change the subject. “See how people reacted? That’s bloody John Mordred, that is; he’s a facetious git.”
He sipped his tea. “Jealousy. In my defence, I’m never unpleasant to anyone. People don’t like me because I undermine the James Bond thing, that’s all.”
Tariq laughed. “Personally, I admire the way you’ve got the canteen staff behind you, especially Cilla.”
“Inverted snobbery,” Phyllis said. She seemed genuinely annoyed.
“Much as it would fit your view of me that I should want us to sit here all morning talking about me,” Mordred said, “I really think we ought to concentrate on Ashbaugh. You’re in charge of this investigation. Don’t you want to brief me?”
“Sorry,” Phyllis said, softening. “I’m frustrated, that’s all. Frustrated with myself and I’m taking it out on you. You’re right. You’re never unpleasant to anyone. What’s it matter if all the little hobgoblins in here resent you?”
“Thanks,” Mordred said. He could guess what was upsetting her. He hoped someone would change the subject back to Ashbaugh in such a way that it would stay there.
“Why are you frustrated with yourself?” Tariq asked.
“If it’s any consolation,” Annabel told her. “I actually agreed with you at the time, Phyllis. I only stayed on because the alternative was more desk-work.”
“Yes, but I’m supposed to be in charge,” Phyllis said. “I should have known something useful might come of it.”
“You had a look at her medical record,” Mordred said, “and you had no reason to think that yesterday would be the last we’d ever see of her. It wasn’t a bad decision. At worst, it was an insignificant gamble with money you could afford to lose.”
She put a thank you hand on his. She seemed on the verge of saying something but changed her mind about what it was. “Back to Ashbaugh,” she said. “What’s your plan? How are you going to avoid giving away the fact that Holland’s disappeared?”
“Simple,” Mordred said. “I’m not going to ask him about Holland. I’m going to ask him about Durand. I wish I’d got hold of those photos last night, but she seemed determined to take them, and I didn’t want to worsen the situation.”
“You think she’ll call you?” Annabel asked.
“She took my number. She must be leaving it open as an option.”
“Let’s hope she doesn’t turn up while you’re with Bill Ashbaugh,” Phyllis said. “What are you going to do if he simply says he’s never clapped eyes on Durand before? Which he might do.”
“I may not have the original photos,” Mordred said, “but I have persuaded Reprographics to mock me up a few counterfeits. Just Durand and Holland together in various places. I’m picking the results up at lunchtime. I don’t suppose they’ll be perfect, but they ought to survive a cursory glance. Ashbaugh may or may not know Durand, but he certainly knows Holland, and that should be sufficient pretext for a useful conversation.”
“You didn’t find out why Planchart was so het up about Riceland?” Phyllis asked.
“Not really,” Mordred said.
“I thought Planchart himself had explained that,” Annabel remarked. “She’s a journalist and she keeps pursuing him. It’s what journalists do. There needn’t be a mystery about everything.”
“The question is,” Phyllis said, “what is she pursuing him for? He’s a backbench nonentity – or was, until The Get Out Clause came along. Now he’s big in Brexit.”
“So there’s your answer,” Tariq said.
Phyllis frowned. “No. That would mean you’d want to interview him once at the most, maybe for a feature. But from what you said, John, I got the impression he thinks she’s after him relentlessly, like she works for Heat and he’s Zayn Malik. And rather than take out a restraining order, he’s decided to grit his teeth and put up with it. Why?”
Mordred nodded. “And then there was her reaction when she saw him. She didn’t look like she wanted an interview. She looked like she couldn’t get away fast enough.”
“The plot thickens,” Tariq said. He stood up. “I’d better get going. IT calls.”
Mordred turned to Phyllis. “With your permission, I’d like to show my mocked-up photos to Planchart once I’m done with Ashbaugh.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Phyllis replied. “Meanwhile, I’m going to put a tail on him. See what it reveals.”
“Bags I that job,” Annabel said. “He doesn’t know me, and I like fresh air.”
Phyllis stood up. “Agreed. I’ve got a meeting with Ruby Parker in five minutes. Everyone keep me updated.”
2.15pm. Mordred stood in the central lobby of the House of Commons. The floor was tiled with what looked like a blue mandala extending outwards into squares. Above it, a vaulted ceiling supported a three-ton chandelier and was ornamented with tracery. Entrants found themselves immediately surrounded by marble statues of patron saints. It was here he hoped to meet Bill Ashbaugh. He’d declined Phyllis’s offer to ring ahead and make an appointment. He wanted the advantage of surprise.
For the second time in two days, he had a photograph of the interviewee on him: in his briefcase this time. Ashbaugh was in his late thirties and looked like a 19th century mill owner. Greying hair down to his shoulders, bushy sideburns and a six-inch chin-only beard. He habitually dressed in three piece suits with a watch-chain but no tie. His views were Blairite and broadly conventional, but his appearance meant the press considered him an eccentric.
There were lots of people around: MPs and peers on their way to one or the other Houses of Parliament, tourists, alone or in packs, and one or two concerned looking people with documents – either journalists or constituents. According to what intelligence he had, the location of Ashbaugh’s office meant the MP had to pass through here every lunchtime to reach the bar. An hour ago, Mordred had registered his journey there; now he awaited his return. He’d be in a better mood then, and perhaps less guarded. That was the theory.
And here he came, thank God alone. Even better: he didn’t look in any hurry to get where he was going. Mordred made eye contact and stepped out to intercept him. “Mr Ashbaugh? I wonder if I could have a word.”
Ashbaugh stopped. His right hand rose an inch from his waist and twitched. He clearly didn’t know whether this was handshake-worthy or not. “Are you – a constituent?”
Mordred produced his card. “DI Eagleton, Special Branch,” he said quietly.
The blood drained from Ashbaugh’s face and collected in his neck. “What do you want?” he asked.
Fear. Mordred knew enough to realise it probably wasn’t connected to Holland. More likely his expense account or something as-yet wholly private.
“You’re not under suspicion of anything. I just need to ask you a few questions.”
“This is very irregular,” he said angrily. “Just come in here and flash a card. Why didn’t you ring ahead if you simply wanted to talk to me? Are you a journalist of some kind? A card doesn’t mean anything. Anyone with a colour photocopier can make one of those.” He took out his phone and took a photo of Mordred’s face. “What did you say your name was, again?”
“DI Eagleton.”
“First name?”
“Jonas.”
“Wait there. If I find you’re anyone other than precisely who you say you are, you’ll be the one who’s on the receiving end of the full weight of the law.”
He strode off, full of the anticipation of righteous indignation. Mordred had half-expected this, and he’d made the necessary arrangements. He calculated Ashbaugh would be back within ten minutes at the outside.
In fact, it was eight. Whether deliberately or not, he crept up on Mordred from behind and laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. Mordred turned round to a face not exactly filled with righteous indignation, but not entirely devoid of it either.
“You check out,” Ashbaugh said. “I’m not going to apologise, though. You’re at fault, not me. You can’t just ambush a person like this. I’m at work. It’s a bloody busy life here, contrary to what people think. What do you want? No, no, don’t answer that,” he said, apparently conscious that people were beginning to stare. He began to walk. “Follow me. We might as well go to my office. Don’t expect a cup of tea or coffee, though.”
“I thought it would be easier if I kept it informal. I assumed that way, I wouldn’t alarm you.”
“Well, you were wrong. It had the opposite effect. Remember that, in future.”
“I wouldn’t have been able to tell you what it was over the phone, and that would have placed you in limbo.”
“You’re assuming I’ve a guilty conscience.” They were climbing a set of stone steps now. “Look, let’s just put this conversation on hold till we reach my office, shall we? People are going to overhear. Then talk.”
They walked along a corridor and into a small office with a desk, Edwardian in décor except that it was hung with gilt-framed pictures of Pink Floyd. It was much smaller than Planchart’s, but somehow more overawing. Ashbaugh gestured for Mordred to sit down before the desk. He sat down behind it.
Mordred reached down and opened his briefcase. “I’m just here to ask you some questions,” he said. “You’re not under suspicion of anything.”
“So ... I could see you anytime I like. I don’t necessarily have to see you now. If I’m, say, busy ...”
“That’s correct. But you can’t put it off indefinitely. Even if you could, it probably wouldn’t be good for your reputation.”
Ashbaugh laughed incredulously. “Is that meant to be a threat? May I remind you, you’re talking to a Member of Parliament here.”
“I meant, it wouldn’t be good for your reputation as a Member of Parliament.”
“I probably know your boss,” Ashbaugh countered. He grinned. “You see, two can play the threat game.”
Mordred stopped what he was doing and looked at the MP. Ashbaugh met his gaze. Just like being children again. Planchart had warned him - in vague terms, but even so.
“Might as well get it over with, I suppose,” Ashbaugh said suddenly, rolling his eyes. “Go on, give it your best shot.”
“As I said, this isn’t meant to be a confrontation.” He passed the mocked-up photos over.
Ashbaugh flipped through them cursorily, grinned sardonically and put them down on the desk. “So what was I meant to see?”
“I want to know if you recognise anyone.”
“You mean Frances Holland?”
“Anyone else? Take another look.”
He picked them up again and again went through them at speed. “No.”
Mordred stood up. He’d come prepared for this. Ashbaugh was almost certainly expecting him to argue, insist on a third look, express frustration. Instead, he picked up his briefcase and stood up quickly, looking as if this was the best outcome he could have expected. “That’s very useful,” he said. “Thank you, that was all I needed to know. Sorry to have interrupted your busy schedule, Mr Ashbaugh. I will ring ahead next time.”
He left without a backwards glance and walked briskly along the corridor as if he had to get somewhere fast. He heard the door open and close behind him and hurried footsteps, then Ashbaugh’s voice, only half-commanding:
“Detective Inspector!”
Mordred stopped and turned with an expression of mild indignation. “Er, yes?”
“I – sorry, what’s going to happen next? Could you give me a bit of background?”
He turned to face the MP. “Mr Ashbaugh, you weren’t very cooperative, if you don’t mind me saying so. I’m quite happy to discuss my case with you, but it’s a two-way process. As I’m sure you’re right in saying, you probably know my boss. I’d rather not leave you to find out about it that way, but that’s really up to you.”
Ashbaugh looked like there was trouble at the mill. He wasn’t prepared to apologise, but he certainly wasn’t going to beg. And he couldn’t think of any intermediate course. “I, er ...”
“Shall we press re-set?” Mordred asked.
“That would be good, yes. I’ll ask Maureen to put the kettle on. Tea or coffee?”
