| |
“It’s all getting very complicated,” Alec said, as he and Mordred breakfasted in the canteen two days later. “Tell me again: who is she, and what’s she doing in the middle of our investigation?”
“Her real name’s Marciella Fleming,” Mordred said. “She used to work in this building. For Blue. Then she retired. I don’t know the circumstances or what she did while she was here. Ruby Parker met her a few times, but her brother also used to work here. A ‘Jonathan Hartley-Brown’.”
“Bloody hell. She’s Jonathan Hartley-Brown’s sister?”
“The name did ring a bell. I recall you mentioning him before once.”
“He was the old you. Heart first, then head. Died an avoidable death in the line of duty. Hero in some ways, complete berk in another.”
“That does sound a lot like me. Thanks.”
“So she once worked for Blue? Who’s she working for now?”
“White. And herself. This is where it does get complicated. Her father’s Sir Anthony Hartley-Brown, the former cabinet minister, now distinguished backbencher. He and a few of his colleagues don’t trust Charles Planchart, and they wanted him watching. Since his daughter’s a former spy, it seemed like a good idea to hire her. After all, you can always trust family, and in the espionage business, trust is a valuable commodity. They got together with White department, and agreed an in-the-interests-of-national-security deal where White would take care of the false documentation and set the parameters and the Party would provide the finance and Marciella. Of course, White wouldn’t have looked twice at her had it not been for her MI7 record.”
“Must be pretty impressive.”
“Her friend, Cara, from Canvey Island, was also a White agent.”
Alec gave his tea a single stir and put the spoon back on the saucer. “Figures.”
“Her husband used to work here too. Marciella’s, not Cara’s.”
“Which department?”
“Ours,” Mordred said. “Red.”
“So they both left together. Presumably, to get married. Nothing suspect then.”
“Probably not. Ruby Parker seems to think highly of them.”
“What’s happening now?” Alec asked. “Are they off the case?”
“I doubt it. Two highly trained former intelligence officers who’ve already got further than us? We need all the help we can get.”
Alec chortled. “I bet Phyllis is over the moon.”
“It’s not a fiefdom. It’s an investigation. The sooner it gets solved, the better she looks. Like The Apprentice. It’s not how you do it, it’s whether.”
“Does ‘Marciella’ know you’ve been flagged up as a possible radical?”
“I don’t know and I don’t care.”
“How’s that going, incidentally? Heard anything yet? Like ‘you’re fired’?”
“Very funny,” Mordred said.
“Just trying to continue the Alan Sugar theme. Sorry, insensitive.”
“Apology accepted. No, I’ve heard zilch.”
“I can’t speak from personal experience, but there probably comes a point at which you just want it to be over with. Even if it does mean being fired.”
“True, and I’m only young. The world’s my oyster.”
“You could go and live in an Ashram, like a true hippy.”
“I was thinking more about getting a dog.”
“You could get married,” Alec said. “You could call Naomi Klein and propose.”
“Naomi Klein?”
“The writer. You told me last year she was your ideal woman.”
“Right. What I find interesting is that you’d remember that.”
“We’re supposed to be friends. Of course I would. Why wouldn’t I?”
“When’s my birthday?”
Alec shrugged. “September? May? Sometime in June?”
“You see, that’s why it’s so interesting. Anyway, she’s married. And abroad. And it’d probably be difficult to engineer an introduction.”
“There are other women in the world. So I’ve heard.”
“On another subject entirely, do you know how Annabel and Edna got on last night at One Canada Square?”
“Complete success, apparently.”
“Meaning what, in this context?”
“They both got out safely; Annabel downloaded all their files. We now know Simpson, Musgrave and De Groot are linked to Charles Planchart and The Get Out Clause.”
“And what about the Lord Mayor, William Chester?”
“The full analysis won’t be complete until midday, but nothing yet. Surely, you should know that? You shouldn’t be asking me.”
“I’m effectively off the investigation. At least, as a foot soldier.”
Alec nearly swallowed his bacon the wrong way. “What are you talking about?”
“I had a very brief conversation with Ruby Parker yesterday afternoon. Brief because she’s still interviewing the Flemings. In her view, I’m better off in Thames House. Since this investigation began, there have been two attempts on my life – three if you count the City incident. She thinks we can’t allow another. Either Grey are implicated or they aren’t. Whichever way, I’m safer here. They wouldn’t dare strike in this building. They’d be hanging themselves up naked by the feet.”
“What about at night? Are you allowed to go home?”
“I’ve orders to sleep in the pods in the basement.”
“What about the odd cocktail? What about Netflix? What about having a friend round to watch Godzilla?”
“We must do that sometime.”
“Bloody hell, John. What about your human rights?”
“Her idea is that I’m mainly a linguist and a detective. Those skills can be as easily practised here as outside.”
“So how long does she intend keeping you under house arrest?”
“She didn’t say. Until the investigation’s over. Or more likely, the war with Grey’s reached a satisfactory conclusion.”
“Could be forever then.”
“Don’t worry, I’ve got a plan.”
Alec laughed. “You’re going to tie your sheets together and get out through the window.”
“Even more cunning than that. I’m going to see her this morning and persuade her she’s wrong.”
“To be fair to her, she does tend to listen to reason. She’s not the ‘I’m the boss and you’ll do as I say and like it’ type. How are you going to persuade her?”
“I’m going to tell her I’ve got a plan.”
“A further plan? Plan to the power of plan? I thought your plan was to go and see her? Anyway, you’d better make sure it’s not anything someone else can carry out. One problem I’ve always found with telling someone in authority my ‘plan’, is that, once I’ve finished talking, they’re likely to go, ‘That’s an excellent proposal, Alec; however, I’m not sure you’re the best person to execute it. How about insert-name-of-office-bootlicker-here?’ And, for fear of looking bitter and envious, I’m obliged to go, ‘Oh joy, that’s just what I was thinking!’ Be careful. You might find ‘Marciella’ gets more of this investigation than anyone’s bargained for. Then we’ll all be sorry.”
“I keep telling you, it’s not a fiefdom.”
“It is, John. That’s exactly what it is. It’s what every investigation is. A fiefdom. And this one’s Phyllis’s. Remember that.”
He finished his cereal and read the papers. Two days on and still ‘Death of the Brexit Queen’, ‘Tragic demise of key Brexit player’, ‘“Police not considering foul play”: report’, ‘Frances Holland: her life in pictures’, ‘Holland’s cause of death determined but undisclosed’. Alongside other news: the US Primaries, the continuing fightback against IS, another Taliban attack on Christians. Did the papers always make it sound as if the world was coming apart at the seams, or were the times just very ‘interesting’? He couldn’t remember. Once you’d read a paper, it tended to get forgotten as new ones piled on top of it. Probably all the same, all the time.
Wait a minute, though. ‘Justin Bieber becomes first artist to hit 10 billion views on Vevo’. A crumb of good news, surely? If you liked him. But what the hell was Vevo? He ought to know: he was a spy.
He buttered a slice of toast and ate it while reading about The Get Out Clause. Then he got up and went to see Ruby Parker. He’d made an appointment at ten mainly because he knew Phyllis would be questioning the Flemings then. He looked at his watch. 9.56. Ample time, assuming Grey hadn’t poisoned his Coco Pops.
He went to Basement One, knocked and went in on her command. She sat at her desk looking unrelenting. She obviously knew what he was here for, and considered it best to begin as she meant to go on. She put her pen down, sat up, folded her hands on the table in front of her, and permitted herself a faint you’ve-no-hope smile. Implacable, but polite as well.
“Sit down if you like,” she said, indicating the chair.
He accepted. No point exacerbating matters. She was only doing what she thought was best for him.
“State your case,” she said. “And make it as fast as you can. I’ve a lot of work to do. You want to be allowed out again. I assume that’s what you’re here for.”
“I’d like to begin by asking a few questions.”
“If they’re about the case, you’re probably best advised to see Phyllis.”
“I understand she’s meeting the Flemings now. Otherwise, I would have done.”
“Go on then.”
“What about Pierre Durand? Has Planchart seen the photos?”
“All of them. He claims he’s met European politicians from a variety of ideological backgrounds over the last few months. Given his position as leader of TGOC, it’s inevitable that at least the majority would belong to Eurosceptic parties. He says that any attempt to read a significance into the photos beyond that is mischievous. He says it’s the sort of thing The Sun, the Daily Star or the Mirror might do. He doesn’t expect it of MI7. I happen to agree with him. As for Durand, he claims to have thought he belonged to the French Front National. He can’t remember what they talked about, except in very general terms: how to roll back the influence of Brussels. He challenged Phyllis to prove that he doesn’t belong to the FN. Which of course she can’t.”
“What about Annabel’s burglary? Alec tells me Planchart’s linked to Simpson, Musgrave and De Groot.”
“So is TGOC. So, unfortunately, are lots of people. Simpson’s kept on a retainer, with bills coming in to TGOC quarterly. We’ve just reached the end of the last quarter, which means there’s still two months and twenty days till a new one. If this particular service – springing Durand - has been itemised yet, it’s not on the system. Right now, since we’ve no evidence against Durand – we only want to question him – there’s no way we can make them tell us the name of the specific client at whose behest he was released. Planchart will probably say it was the FN, but will hedge that round with caveats to the effect that he’s only speculating and it’s really none of his business.”
“Presumably, we can find out whether Durand belongs to the FN?”
“I’ve asked Interpol to investigate, but of course, we can only find out whether he’s a member, not necessarily whether the FN’s employing him. Any such employment might be indirect.”
“Links between the FN and Simpson?”
“None. At least nothing direct. In any case, John, nowadays the FN is a respectable political party, and one of the largest in France. So what if we do establish a link? It’s not the bad old days of Jean-Marie. His daughter’s completely revamped it. It’s mainstream now.”
“Point taken.”
“The real problem is, we’ve probably lost the Frances Holland connection, which was one very important pretext for this investigation. If it’s true that she committed suicide – notwithstanding T. Robinson and the mysterious shell company - there may be nothing left for us to investigate. Or very little. We need a new lead, and we need it fast.”
“The nub of this investigation, as I see it, is Pierre Durand. If there was nothing to hide, they wouldn’t have got him out of police custody and off the face of the earth so quickly. Somehow, he’s at the centre.”
“And that gets us precisely ... where?”
He smiled. “You have to admit we’re in desperate straits.”
“I just have admitted it,” she said frostily. “Repeat: what’s your point?”
“Let’s say I had a plan to make progress, and the success of that plan would be increased, even ever so slightly, by my personal involvement, you’d have to consider it, yes?”
“I take it this ‘plan’ involves you leaving the building.”
“Sure does.”
She sighed. “I might as well hear it then. But don’t build your hopes up.”
“Did Marciella Fleming tell you about Mysterious Background Man?”
“Well done for spotting him so quickly. And?”
“Did you – Phyllis – ask Planchart about him?”
“Yes, and he didn’t bat an eyelid. He’s Ian Talbot, a sixty-one year-old politics lecturer at Sussex university. He’s writing a book about the EU referendum.”
“Have we spoken to him?”
“On what pretext? He’s not in any of the pictures in which Durand appears.”
“I see your point, but did Marciella - ”
“‘Marcie’. She’ll be upset if you keep calling her Marciella.”
“I take it we’re meeting again then, she and I?”
“She may be joining the investigation. Sorry, what were you about to say before I so rudely interrupted you?”
“Simply that in all the pictures in which he appears, Ian Talbot seems to be looking at Frances Holland with undisguised ... tenderness.”
“On that basis, what questions could you possibly ask him that would have any bearing on our investigation? Most likely, he’d deny it. Even assuming you’re right, John – and you may not be - it’s just a look; it’s not an incriminating document or a smoking gun. And in any case, as I’ve just said, this probably isn’t an investigation into Frances Holland any more. As you so rightly pointed out a moment ago, our sole point of interest now is the intersection – if any – of Simpson, Musgrave and De Groot, TGOC and Pierre Durand.”
“In order to discover a point of intersection, it’s sometimes necessary to look at the behaviour of the surrounding bodies.”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Like in the 1840s when Pluto was inferred from disturbances in the orbit of Uranus.”
She smiled thinly. “I meant, in the context of this case.”
“The way in which Durand’s role may be inferable from anomalies in the orbit of Frances Holland and her associates.”
“Specifically, Talbot, you mean? It’s a very, very long shot.”
“Seven point five billion kilometres. But still worth sending a spacecraft up for. Why is Marcie Fleming still interested in TGOC?”
“Why wouldn’t she be?”
“From what Alec told me, she was spying for the Conservative party. Her photos proved Planchart was hob-nobbing with dubious foreign powers. Mission accomplished, surely? What more does she want?”
“You’re to blame for that, I’m afraid. It was very much a case of done and dusted - until she saw you chasing Durand through Central London. Then she realised there was more to what she’d discovered than met the eye. Look, John, I’ve got a lot of time for you, but I’m also very busy. Tell me specifically what you want, and I’ll think about it.”
“I want to go to Frances Holland’s funeral and see if Ian Talbot’s there. If he is, and if he’s as devastated as I think he is, I’d like your permission to ask him a few questions.”
She sat back and looked at the ceiling. “I’ll think about it,” she said eventually. “Go to your desk and start familiarising yourself with the results of Annabel’s latest break in. I’ll let you know when I’ve considered all the pros and cons in peace. Give me half an hour.”
Thirty minutes later, she called him at his workstation. “I suppose it’ll get it out of your system,” she said. “And it can’t do any harm. Be careful leaving the building, and come straight back afterwards. If you suspect Grey – or anyone else - is following you, I want you to turn around and come back to Thames House, is that understood? If necessary, phone for a car. Don’t do anything stupid.”
He smiled. “Thank you.”
