It was a sparsely furnished room, which the visitor found surprising. Given that the former Parliamentary Private Secretary still had status, and thirty years earlier had been a personal aide to Margaret Thatcher, he had not expected anything so spartan. The corpse of a once brightly patterned rug lay on stone tiles the colour of bone. Walls once magnolia were now overlaid with nicotine, and remained free of further decoration. A huge window with a view to a verdant landscape sent shifting shadows into a space where the furniture seemed as elderly as its owner. The senior policeman blinked at the shape in the wheelchair: a vague relation to the man in the photographs he had examined on file that morning. Barely a hair on a moon-shaped head, grey eyes beset with glaucoma amid a complexion in shades of beetroot and potato. But Sir Antony Jaeger’s brain appeared more agile than he thought fair for an eighty-eight-year-old.
‘One of us should feel honoured.’ The voice had a hoarse edge, but still maintained an accent betraying his Winchester and Oxford education. ‘And I’m not yet sure it should be me.’
‘Let’s just agree that both of us have earned some respect. Especially me, as you covered your tracks pretty well. May I sit down?’
A slight inclination of the head was the only response, so the visitor chose a wingbacked chair that looked a little more solid than its neighbour. ‘Good of you to see me.’
‘I’ll let that one ride, Commander O’Brien. It is our first face to face meeting, after all. Which I find ominous. But I suppose if it has to be either you lot or a priest, and bearing in mind I’m no fan of the Pope…’ Jaeger left the sentence unfinished.
His visitor pulled a notebook from his bag. ‘You’re not religious?’
‘Not in the slightest, dear boy.’ Jaeger appeared to seek the light from the window. ‘But I do believe there’s a good amount of bolting horses now the stable door has finally been shut.’
‘Meaning?’
‘I was referring to something pertaining to a racecourse.’ Jaeger paused for effect. ‘Ascot.’
The commander raised both eyebrows. ‘You’re well informed. News does travel fast.’
‘Not as fast as a plump little newspaper boy between the sheets.’
O’Brien stared, uncertain how to react. Then he picked up on the small movement of Jaeger’s head and eyes. On a side table to his left was a copy of the Daily Mail. He didn’t need to read the headlines to understand the intimated connection. He already knew the leading story covered the collapse of a huge investigation by the Metropolitan Police into child sexual abuse and homicide. Operation Ascot was viewed as a failure by politicians on both sides of the House, many furious at so many witch-hunts.
‘How does it feel to have lost the plod?’ A crack had begun to widen between two purple lips, a breathy whistle spouting in minor eruptions. ‘Sorry! I did wonder if the reason for your visit today might be to ask for a reference. But as we hardly know each other.’ The old man’s sly humour almost brought a smile to the face of his guest.
‘Then wonder no more. Ascot is not yet officially defunct. And I still have an unofficial role to play. The investigation continues on a private footing. Small team, even smaller budget. So, I’m calling in favours, and yours is top of my list.’
‘Ah, there’s the rub, so to speak. But how likely am I to provide reliable information?’
‘Do I have a choice? Information leading to allegations of child abuse and homicide is as useful as a fart in a sandstorm without a prosecution. Alas, the last lead you provided was tenuous at best. Not your fault. Mine neither. But I’ve one more shot at a particular target. We’re narrowing our focus. Perhaps you’d like to reconsider your knowledge of someone supposedly very close to you: Peter Gris.’
Jaeger bowed his head for several seconds. ‘Close, you say?’ he addressed the floor. ‘More than you know. But I suppose that is the point.’ He let his gaze stray past his guest’s shoulder. ‘Would you care for a lemonade? I recommend the vintage in that receptacle over there.’
O’Brien glanced at the sideboard, home to a silver tray bearing crystal glasses and two plastic bottles of Schweppes lemonade, one of which was half-empty. He had no desire for the fizzy pop, but recognising it would be impolite to refuse, he poured himself a full glass and followed his host’s instructions to fill the other ‘no more than a finger’. Jaeger accepted the modest measure with grace, placing it on his side table with elaborate care.
‘Thank you. I’m not allowed alcohol of any sort. The consumption of which, so they tell me, is punishable by death.’ He shifted uncomfortably in his wheelchair before producing a hip flask from deep inside his jacket. ‘They’re entirely wrong, of course. I’ve been found not guilty on several occasions.’ With the drink topped up to at least three fingers, Jaeger secreted the contraband and raised his glass with great ceremony. ‘Chin-chin.’
‘Your good health!’ O’Brien toasted his host before swallowing a mouthful. He was curious to see Jaeger put his own glass back on the table without drinking from it.
‘Well, one has to take precautions. Don’t want to peg out before I’ve had time to confess, eh?’
‘A confession? So you do have one to make, Sir Antony?’
Again, Jaeger sought respite from the window before the lips framed a reply. ‘I confess I was very fond of Grizzly. Very fond. But I’m curious why you should be looking to blacken the name of a dead man. Would that justify resurrecting a discredited investigation?’
O’Brien failed to hold back a smile, acknowledging his host’s perception. ‘True. I’m not expecting another Jimmy Savile. My brief is to only pursue someone if we can personally hold him to account in court.’
Jaeger’s eyes seemed to rest somewhere beyond O’Brien’s left ear as he considered his response. ‘Which would be very difficult if my old friend’s present whereabouts was beyond the ether, so to speak.’
‘But not so difficult if you were able to confirm otherwise?’
‘Ah.’ Pale eyes retreated behind closed lids for a moment. ‘I take it you have a source other than the devil himself to assume Grizzly failed to make the appointment?’
O’Brien gave a small nod. He knew the two men had been friends since before Gris had been appointed to the Cabinet by Mrs Thatcher. They had known each other throughout Gris’s years as Secretary of State for Northern Ireland, and then for Defence under John Major. Their relationship had been a close one for almost thirty years. Who better to know what this high-profile minister had got up to behind closed doors? ‘I have one. It would be useful to hear your view, bearing in mind you wrote his obituary.’
Jaeger dropped his voice to a more intimate level as he leaned forward. ‘Before I tell you what I know, what assurance do I have there will be no recriminations?’
‘Against you? None whatsoever. As I said, this is no longer an official investigation. All I need is a lead. After that I’ll forget where it came from.’
‘Hmmm. Not what I meant, but I appreciate the sentiment.’ Jaeger’s hand found his glass and he took a cautious sip before continuing. ‘No. Recriminations can come from both sides of the House, if you get my drift?’
The commander hesitated. ‘I can assure you of my personal discretion.’
‘Indeed.’ The old man took a deep breath that seemed to rattle his upper body. He coughed, gently at first but then strained for air as the attack grew in strength. He held up his hand to reassure his guest as the spasms subsided. ‘Should take more water with it. Or wine. I understand a religious chap once performed a good trick there. But then we’re talking resurrections again, aren’t we?’
‘Possibly. For those that weren’t dead in the first place.’
‘A moot point. Well, then… we might be in business.’ He drained his glass, holding it up for a refill. While his guest obliged, Jaeger took a breath and began his story. ‘There were occasions when I found Grizzly’s appetite to be at odds with mine. Like his father, he had a passion for games, and went to the most extraordinary lengths to feed his desires. My personal preference was not so competitive. I’ve never been a fan of anything that raises the heart rate. Apart from sex, of course. But you see, I was a civil servant, bound up prettily in all manner of red tape. Grizzly had no such restrictions, and enjoyed the act of concealment as much as copulation. Politicians are natural liars. It goes with the job. They know that if they want to get to the very top, they shouldn’t let a little old-fashioned rape and pillage get in the way. But Grizzly went too far.’