The files were all marked North Manchester Divisional HQ in black ink against an orange background. On first inspection, none of them stood out. The reports included a wad of witness statements, drawings, photographs, written recommendations and medical data. They were each dated and noted on the front to mark their progress by the various contributing officers; a direction label was appended to mingle with all the others in an out tray.
The Staff Officer was unaware of anything out of the ordinary until she came to sort the files for onward processing. The one marked for the attention of the Chief Constable had two distinguishing features: 1) it had been stapled shut, and 2) someone had used a red felt pen to mark it at the top with the letters NQA.
‘What’s this?’ she asked a more senior colleague.
It only took a glance. ‘Do you want the official or the unofficial version?’
‘How about both?’
‘You won’t find it written down anywhere, but I was told the official reason is it means Nil Quota Allocated. In other words, there’s a recommendation that no police resources should be applied for further investigation. Which is why it goes all the way to the top for the Chief’s final decision. What’s in it, anyway? It’ll say on the front.’
‘Just a couple of recent incidents in Salford Quays. Nothing I’d have thought the CC would want to look at.’
‘Ah, you never know. But that’s why me and a few others reckon NQA means something else: No Questions Asked—sensitive stuff the top brass keep to themselves. Bet you’ll never see that file again. Know what I mean?’
*
In the London Metropolitan area, reports of the retirement of Commander Neville O’Brien MBE were brief and to the point. As the officer in charge of the inglorious Operation Ascot, he was leaving under a cloud, but with a golden handshake for forty-three years loyal service. A small party was held in his honour, attended by the Commissioner, before an even smaller group of invited guests assembled at the former commander’s home in Richmond upon Thames for private drinks.
Six serving officers sat around O’Brien’s dining table with neutral expressions and a glass of Prosecco each. He included himself in that number as he still (unofficially) held the role of Head of Operations. Four others remained from Ascot—all the Commissioner could afford. That left the sixth person, who sat opposite O’Brien at the far end of the table. Time for introductions.
‘Welcome to day one of a non-official investigation I’m calling Pentland. Each of you have a written brief in front of you, and I’ll get to your individual assignments later. Just let me remind you that ranks no longer carry weight here, and while each of you answer directly to me, I respectfully ask you not to address me as “Nobby”.’ Polite laughter round the table. Sidelong glances at the familiar nickname. ‘Some of you may already have met her, but for those yet to do so, let me introduce Emily Blake from Greater Manchester, who has the rank of Detective Inspector.’ Several eyes turned to look at a solemn-faced woman of around forty, her hair tied in a French plait. She gave a brief nod of acknowledgement. ‘Emily is the author of the report you were issued with yesterday, so you will understand why recent events in Manchester have been flagged for our attention. Emily.’
‘Thank you, Mr O’Brien.’ The accent was northern with a hint of something else. ‘Peter Gris has only recently come to our attention in Manchester. He was identified as a potential source of hostile activity in connection with the author Eric Vinke about six weeks ago. This was reported through colleagues in Lancashire who have jurisdiction for Mr Vinke’s home address. Shortly afterwards, a Salford resident with connections to Mr Vinke sent a document to GMP implicating Peter Gris in at least two homicides at her former home in Northern Ireland. Both victims were members of her family. We have been unable to interview the woman, who appears to have left her home address. To date, Lancashire have also been unable to speak to Mr Vinke, who we understand may be receiving care in a nursing home. I believe Mr O’Brien has since received a further angle on Peter Gris.’
‘Thank you, Emily,’ O’Brien acknowledged. He knew Emily had skimped on detail from the written report with good reason, mentioning only the main points, while key information had come from elsewhere. No matter. The Manchester angle was secondary to his contribution. ‘If you look inside your folders you will find a printout from Wikipedia about Peter Gris. This, like the obituary written by Sir Antony Jaeger, is assumed to be part fact, part fiction. There is a reference common to both implying the two became friends after Gris was elected as an MP in 1970. The truth, as I understand it, is that they first met a lot earlier than that.’
*
‘Let me start by telling you about the Great Welsh Lie,’ Jaeger had said, his breathing sometimes heavy between phrases, but every word enunciated with care. ‘Wikipedia will tell you that Gris is a shortening of Griffiths, and that the family’s ancestry is Welsh. True, but only on his mother’s side. Apparently she was a direct descendant of Gruffydd ap Llewelyn, a King of Wales in the eleventh century, and she certainly came from a wealthy family. Peter used to joke he had royal blood in his veins. He was just five-years-old when his mother died in 1938. Suicide, evidently.’ Jaeger took a careful sip from his glass. ‘But then her husband did have a fierce temper.’
O’Brien frowned. ‘Are you saying—’
‘I’m saying nothing—about him. Clive was very kind to me. But don’t forget I’m nearly five years older than Peter, and I knew the family. I knew about his father Clive’s little games, and his appetite for sex. I was invited to watch some of them. Yes, at the age of fourteen. His mother Anna was just as bad, so of course, there was no hope for the son. They were a very close family.’
Jaeger sat in sombre reflection for a moment while O’Brien felt his own breathing tighten, turning over the implications in his mind.
‘You also won’t know about the stepmother. Clive’s second wife.’
‘A second? No, I don’t recall seeing anything on file.’
‘You wouldn’t. I’m not sure it was ever legal. Her name was Priscilla. A whirlwind romance, I believe. I was at Winchester so didn’t hear about it until afterwards. Let’s just say they found each other only about a year after Anna died, and she got pregnant almost straight away. Clive was thrilled about it at first, as he was convinced she was going to produce a brother for Peter. But it was a girl, born 7th July 1940. Two years to the day since Anna… None of this was recorded for posterity. All hidden and swept away under the thickest of carpets. The baby, Helen, survived the war, but her mother did not. She was killed in an air raid on London barely three months later. Clive never got over it.’
Jaeger lapsed into silence, his downcast eyes drawing a curtain over his thoughts. His guest sensed something even more serious was about to surface.
‘Helen was a sweet little thing,’ breathed the old man. ‘Lush long brown hair and pale blue eyes. It was Peter’s sixteenth birthday and I was home for the holidays. Just the four of us playing games. Not the average childhood ones, you understand. Musical Chairs with a twist. When the music stopped the last one to sit lost an item of clothing, and it always seemed to be Helen. Nine-years-old and giggling fit to burst. Clive was in his element, getting her to sit on his lap. I could see what he was up to, and so could Peter. But we were all just laughing. I don’t remember if there was any booze involved, but suddenly there was Clive with a massive erection. “Look, Helen, I’ve got my flagpole up! Come and be a Welsh flag!” Then she was back on his lap, and she wasn’t giggling anymore. She cried, but not much, I think. It wasn’t the first time for her. But it was for Peter. His father offered her to him as a birthday present, and he took full advantage. I watched. I didn’t take part. But I knew this was a landmark for Peter. It wasn’t so much a sexual experience, more an exercise in power. His father taught him to take control over every situation. It was a lesson he never forgot.’
*
O’Brien looked round the table to measure the impact of his report on Peter Gris’s early life. Several avoided eye contact, their owners still processing the information. Only one pair returned his stare.
‘What happened to the girl? Was she his first homicide?’
‘You’re slightly ahead of me there, Emily. She disappeared about five years later, but we can reasonably assume the sexual abuse continued throughout that period. Our first job is to find out her fate, and to check how accurate these allegations from Jaeger might be.’ He paused, aware that his next speech was bound to lead to some lively discussion. ‘One more thing. In the past we’ve all too often been on shaky ground, pursuing information about the lives of celebrities and politicians. There are people out there now quietly enjoying the demise of Operation Ascot, their reputations damaged but not destroyed. Some have every right to feel outraged at what we did, but there are others… I know some of you sat round this table feel cheated at being so close to achieving a conviction and then seeing it snatched away.’ He noted two of his guests slowly nodding. ‘So, listen up! This one will not get away. This is a man who abused his powers when he was at the height of them, when he was a Cabinet Minister, with millions of people’s lives under his thumb. He used those powers to his own personal advantage, and he used the privilege of office to cover up his actions. Pursuing evidence of those activities will not be easy, but remember this: What kind of criminal fakes his own death if he doesn’t believe someone will hold him to account?’