‘You sure about this, Walter?’
‘Course I’m fucking sure.’ The older man clapped him on the shoulder to strengthen the point. ‘Got to hand it down the generations, like Mickey wanted. You’ll do it right, you being a policeman an’ fond of the Pope. Won’t you? When the time’s right, pass it down to young Brendan, okay?’
Patrick Faulkner still hesitated, staring at the manila envelope in his hands as if it might somehow crumble into dust. ‘Okay. And this is proof the British Government were responsible?’
‘I’d swear it on Marion’s life. Them and that American feller. Read it for yourself but for fuck’s sake be bloody careful. Sensitive as a dose, know what I mean?’
‘Does Marion know about this?’
Walter Palmer blinked, mindful he was talking to a policeman as well as his favourite son-in-law. Best to tell the truth, then… up to a point. ‘She does. Leastways, she knows, but she’s never read any of it. Look, I know she’s my daughter but you know what she’s like. Fuckin’ women never keep their mouths shut, do they? Yak, yakkety yak. And then she used to work for that publishin’ company, didn’t she? Can you imagine what would happen if they got their hands on it? Wipe bloody Portadown off the fuckin’ map!’
Later, once the old man had left, Faulkner spread the fragile pages over the table and did his best to make sense of the whole thing. Forensics had never been his specialty, but he looked at the evidence in front of him and tried to form a reasonable conclusion. This was old stuff, going back to 1911. Familiar names: Pirrie, Ismay, Morgan, even Churchill. The Titanic, and all those who died. Did any of it matter now?
His father-in-law’s family had kept the documents for over seventy years. Now Walter had chosen him to keep them safe until the next generation were ready to take up the baton. For what purpose? Surely such sensitive material could be put to better use in difficult times?
Family ties. Faulkner remembered Walter’s wider circle of relatives held another connection that could prove useful. His thoughts took another direction, and he reached for pen and paper to jot down some ideas.
*
Weeks later, in a flat in Westminster, a young boy found little pleasure in a childhood game.
‘You’re cold, Timothy! But you do have a shapely backside. Try nearer the window.’
The recommendation came with an appreciative chuckle as a thirteen-year-old boy sat on his heels turning his head in search of a stronger light. It amused the man to watch as his new playmate searched to his right, the material in the blindfold just thin enough to lead him on. The boy adjusted his position slightly before crawling forward a few more inches.
‘Warmer!’
The boy sensed something solid in his path a moment before he hit it. The result was a slight bump to his head.
‘Shit!’
Laughter behind. ‘Oh, Timmy, Timmy! You don’t know how warm you are, you really don’t. Are you not enjoying Hunt the Thimble?’
The boy rubbed his head and bit his lip. The truthful answer would have been ‘no’. Apart from the embarrassment of banging into furniture while blindfolded, he was also feeling sore from an earlier encounter. Shuffling around like this on all fours while stark naked was not his idea of fun. But he felt sure it was better to please the man than to make him angry. He tried crawling in a new direction.
‘Cold! No, Timothy. To your right. To your right! WHAT?’
This last was not directed at the boy. A male secretary stood uncomfortably at the Cabinet Minister’s elbow, studiously averting his eyes from the playful scene initiated by his employer.
‘Telephone, sir. PM’s office.’
A call from the Prime Minister on a Sunday afternoon was highly unusual, but could not be ignored, so he closed the door on his new playmate. The left hand was one world; the right hand another, and it was in that direction he must now follow. The amusement he had christened ‘Timothy’ would keep for a few minutes.
Picking up the handset in his office, he took a deep breath before announcing himself: ‘Peter Gris speaking. What’s up, Jaeger?’
‘She wants to see you,’ came the clipped but fruity tones of Antony Jaeger. ‘Bit of a panic on affecting your new playground, old chap. I trust you weren’t into anything too... distracting?’
The recently appointed Secretary of State for Northern Ireland sighed in exasperation. Wearing only a bathrobe and slippers, he’d hoped the interruption would be brief. ‘Nothing I can’t put aside for an old friend. How serious are we talking? Is it the old enemy?’
‘Not this time,’ said Jaeger. ‘But I get the impression she needs a blue-eyed boy who can’t say no.’
Don’t we all? thought Gris. He put aside the memory of Timothy’s backside and pressed the PM’s secretary for more information. ‘And how soon is this particular blue-eyed minister required to attend?’
‘Yesterday would be good.’
‘Christ, this must be worth a good bung. You do realise I’m knee-deep in all of Douglas’s reports from before the recess?’
A fruity chuckle came over the line. ‘Peter, Peter… please don’t shoot the messenger! But speaking of bungs, I have it on good authority a certain Right Honourable Gentleman is standing there with a silver thimble up his arse.’
*
A little less than an hour later, Peter Gris was shown into an office slightly smaller than his own within the matrix of rooms that formed 10 Downing Street. The Prime Minister remained seated at her desk and pointed deliberately at the chair to her left. That was a good sign. The new Northern Ireland Secretary knew he was not in any trouble, or he would have been directed to the one facing her.
‘Peter, good of you to come.’
His lips forced a tight smile. ‘My pleasure, ma’am. How can I help?’
‘I won’t keep you any longer than necessary. Peter, are you aware of any history for a chap called Patrick Faulkner with the RUC?’
It meant nothing to him, and he said so.
‘He’s trouble,’ she announced. ‘Or at least he has been. I want you to ensure he doesn’t make any more for us. Have a look at these.’
The folder she passed to him held few pages, and he scanned the contents as quickly as possible. The first item was a letter from Faulkner, purporting to be a senior officer with the Royal Ulster Constabulary. The initial paragraph indicated that the addressee, ‘Gerry’, worked for a newspaper in Northern Ireland. On the face of it, Faulkner was offering to sell material for a story that could damage the British Government, including the reputation of the late Winston Churchill. He claimed to hold evidence that the government of 1912 had actively colluded in covering up the facts surrounding the fate of RMS Titanic. More alarming in Gris’s eyes was a claim to have information regarding the sexual habits of at least one senior name in the present government.
The Prime Minister spoke again. ‘We were lucky. The package was intercepted before it reached the news desk.’ Gris looked up while trying to mask a flurry of panic. ‘Peter, I’m treating this seriously for two reasons. Faulkner has historical family connections to workers at Harland & Wolff. It seems there is a very real risk in that quarter.’
Gris nodded. The Belfast shipbuilders had been nationalised less than ten years earlier, which put the threat squarely in his own patch. ‘These photocopies of old letters?’
‘Possibly forged, but in the wrong hands they could be interpreted as compromising relationships between Churchill, who was then President of the Board of Trade, and Lord Pirrie who was—’
‘Chairman of Harland & Wolff.’
‘Correct. You will also be aware the wreck has been discovered?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘The second reason is that an American scientist has just found the Titanic at the bottom of the Atlantic. It seems likely that is what prompted the timing of this letter. Look at what he says about Ismay.’
Gris was grateful not to have to admit the news of Titanic’s reappearance had eluded him. He turned over two pages and found a letter referring specifically to J. Bruce Ismay, managing director of the White Star Line which owned the notorious ship. The contents made uncomfortable reading.
He felt lightheaded as he thought about the paperwork on his own desk intended to cement an Anglo-Irish Agreement in only a few weeks’ time. One person’s greed could blow it all apart.
‘Is this for real? Did the Government have something to do with the sinking?’
‘Of course not!’ she snapped. ‘There’s no evidence at all. But the last thing we need is for anyone to believe there is. The allegations against Churchill’s memory are absurd. I want this whole thing stamped on at once. Faulkner is now your problem.’
‘He’s a rogue officer, then? You’ve had him checked out?’
She nodded. ‘He’s an inspector, but it seems he’s also a sympathiser with militants. I want him removed, and I want a guarantee of silence. Do you think you can do that, Peter? Discreetly, of course.’
Gris ran a hand through his mane of hair while considering multiple options at speed. One part of his deviant mind had already reached a potentially favourable outcome.
‘I think I can say you have my guarantee, Prime Minister.’