Fuck, but the guy was in trouble.
Dipwick’s curt letter of resignation was reported in full in every newspaper.
Amadeus cut it out, smoothed the creases and placed it in his file alongside Dipwick’s letter to the Telegraph. The one that had started it all. All that crap about feather beds. The one that said: ‘The truth of the matter is simple. The nation’s security remains safe in this Government’s hands.’ Except, of course, when those hands were straying.
He placed it back in the drawer of his desk, which closed with the gentle sigh of a knife being replaced in its sheath. One down, one still to go.
They hadn’t been able to pick up Freddie Payne easily. Sod’s law. His wife had taken the children away to her mother’s so he’d grasped the opportunity to stay over in London at his club in St James’s. He’d invited Jamie Cairncross to dinner, paid him the eight thousand he was owed – ‘splendid, never doubted you for a moment, my dear fellow’ – and then settled down over several large tumblers of Highland Park to play a little backgammon, during which he’d doubled up with the brashness of Zorba on his saint’s day and promptly won two thousand of it back. Just when he didn’t need it. And when, over a late breakfast the following morning, he’d heard of Dipwick’s discomfort, he’d decided to take the day off. A minor celebration was in order. Buy some new ties, perhaps sacrifice a few virgins. The gods were playing on his side once more.
Or so he thought.
After another indulgent night, he had arrived at the gallery the following morning with cobwebs in his eyes and a tongue that had the tactile qualities of Velcro. He’d assumed the three men in raincoats were viewers of the new exhibition, but they weren’t. They were police officers. He was arrested as soon as he walked in, directly in front of the new white-on-white sand thing by Stephane Graff. He hadn’t even had time to take off his brand-new overcoat.
The moment they put their hands on his shoulder, Freddie Payne knew that his life had changed completely and for ever. There was no going back now, not to the way things had been, to that period of his life when his father was alive, to the years when he had served well and loyally in the cause of his country. Least of all could he go back to that short but elegant time when his wife had been in love with him, and he had loved her. He should have realized this much sooner. Perhaps he had been fighting too hard inside himself to hang on to what he had lost, looking back, clinging to the wreckage rather than rebuilding. Now he had no choice. There was no going back to the way things were, not when he was handcuffed to a police inspector in the back of a speeding police car filled with the sound of its wailing siren.
The sweat was beginning to trickle onto the fold of his new collar, his wrists were already sore and in the car mirror he could see a face that belonged to someone else, a face that was hollowed and aged with eyes shot through with red flecks of fear. A familiar face, but not his own face. It seemed to be the face of his father. That was the moment Freddie Payne realized he hated himself.
As he looked at the angry eyes staring out at him from the mirror, they seemed suddenly to grow huge and fill his mind, boring into those hiding places he had built inside himself and confronting all the excuses he had made for failure. He had worshipped his father, tried to emulate him in everything he had done – joining the Guards, but never making it to command the regiment. Facing the dangers of active service in Northern Ireland, because that’s what his father would have wanted, but never winning the Military Cross. Why, he had even learned to abuse women in imitation of his father, learned how to lose money, too, although he had done both of these with considerably less finesse than the General. He had tried to live his life in his father’s footsteps, yet just when Freddie had needed him most the old bastard had blown his brains out. Taken the easy option, left the field of battle and run away, leaving Freddie to face the mess on his own.
It seemed to Freddie that he had spent the years since then in an impossible struggle, trying to continue to love his father even while he had learned to loathe him, blaming his father for everything, using him as the excuse of last resort. It was all the old man’s fault, or so he pretended. Now, sitting in the back of the police car as it jumped the lights on the way to the top security cells at Paddington Green, Freddie Payne reckoned he had about ten minutes in which to grow up.
He had little idea why they had picked him up or what they knew, but many things were already certain. His wife would leave him, that was inevitable, taking their two daughters with her. They were spoilt brats anyway, took after their mother. The job at the gallery was history, too; Charlie would never forgive him for the embarrassment. The bank manager would also get in on the act and bring a complete stop to his stumbling line of credit. That part of the equation gave him cause to smile. He had made the best part of eight hundred thousand on the water and telephone deals and almost none of it had found its way into that unimaginative idiot’s hands. Payne had opened a new account, in Switzerland, where neither his wife nor his bank manager could get at it; maybe they’d never find it, maybe it would still be there for him when he got out. Something to look forward to.
His wife, his bank, most of all his father, they’d all let him down, but not as much as he’d let himself down. Throughout his adult life only one thing had always been there for him, constant and unquestioning. The Army. Until the bloody politicians had got at it. The Army was the one thing he’d always been able to rely on, and in turn it had always been able to rely on him. It was the only thing in his life he had ever got right.
As the car swept in behind the reinforced steel gates of Paddington Green, Payne knew what he had to do.
‘He’s done what?’ Bendall didn’t try to hide his exasperation.
‘Remained silent. He refuses to give us anything but his name, rank and serial number,’ the Police Commissioner sighed, not sure what he might say that would mollify the Prime Minister. There had to be more to life than being used as a doormat.
Police work had become so intensely political. You entered the service with some vaguely formed idea about fighting for justice but instead, as you rose through the ranks, you found yourself distracted by the fight for budgets, for press coverage, for breathing space from the onslaught of pressure groups and politicians. You never won, it was always a rearguard action, until you ended up disillusioned and simply fighting for something to retire to.
The Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, Peter Jevons, had played the game with skill. Throughout his career he had always kept on the move, taking care not to get bogged down in unnecessary confrontations with either the media or his political masters, making sure he never gave the impression of being stale. A career wrapped in clingfilm, they had said, out on show but untouched, although now he was seated behind the Commissioner’s desk with nowhere else to run there was the suspicion that his reputation was beginning to moulder slowly at its edges. Yet a safe pair of hands, they’d always said that of him. That’s why he had decided to bring the news of Payne’s arrest personally to the Prime Minister, not because he wanted praise, but because he expected trouble. His instincts were entirely accurate.
The interview in the Downing Street study had started civilly enough. Faced with the possibility of several more days’ revelations in the Sun about his colleagues’ dipped wicks, Bendall knew he was in desperate need of a diversionary tactic. The tide was beginning to run ferociously against him; if he couldn’t turn it, perhaps he could at least redirect it before it succeeded in surrounding him completely.
‘This is the moment to hand the media another story, wouldn’t you agree, Commissioner?’ Bendall had suggested, drawing on a cigarette. He only ever smoked in private, and only when under pressure. Bad for the image, to be seen smoking, so he never did so in public and never allowed any photographs of himself with a cigarette. Bit like Hitler and his reading glasses, thought Jevons. ‘So we’ll call a press conference this afternoon. To announce the latest developments.’
‘Developments, Pri
me Minister?’ the policeman’s face had crumpled into creases of concern.
‘That I have taken personal charge of this investigation. Hands on. I’ll not tolerate any further failures. And neither will the public.’ He had disappeared for a moment behind a grey-blue haze before reappearing, his eyes agitated, dancing around the room in search of a resting place. ‘I’ll be able to announce the bloody man’s arrest and reveal that they’re no better than common thieves, in it for the money. I want no doubt left in the voters’ minds that these people want nothing less than to hold London to ransom.’
‘That may be, but I would advise strongly against a press conference so soon.’
‘Why, for heaven’s sake? It’s the only decent spin we’ve had in weeks.’
‘Because the matter is still spinning. It’s not yet under control.’
‘He’s locked up in top security at Paddington Green. How much more control do you need?’
It was at this point that Jevons had told him about Payne’s stubborn silence. Nothing but name, rank and serial number. And there was more, Bendall’s equanimity was about to undergo a further assault.
‘That’s not our only problem, Prime Minister.’
‘What?’
‘Unless we find some hard evidence – and so far we haven’t – we’re going to have the devil of a time making any charges stick.’
‘Several hundred grand in his pocket and you say you’ve got no evidence?’
‘It’s all circumstantial. Completely circumstantial. We may have to let him go.’
‘He’s not the only one who can be let go, you just remember that, Commissioner,’ Bendall spat.
Jevons flushed. ‘Am I to take that as a threat?’
Bendall didn’t answer immediately but stubbed out his cigarette – only half finished – before straight away lighting another. Then, through the smoke: ‘Of course not. Just a reminder that there are all sorts of potential outcomes to this one. For both of us. We need to nail these bastards.’
‘I can’t guarantee a charge. We may have to let him go. We have power to hold him for thirty-six hours, no longer.’
‘For God’s sake, have you no imagination?’ Bendall exploded. ‘Can’t you think of some other charge? His kind often have exotic tastes. With traces of it in their pockets, so I’m told.’
‘You’re suggesting we plant evidence on him?’
Bendall’s lips twisted in frustration. His words, when they came, were slow and very precise. ‘I would never suggest anything like that, Commissioner.’
‘Of course not.’
‘So use the Terrorism Act. Then you’ve got him for days, not hours.’
‘Terrorism? This isn’t the IRA.’
‘No, it’s worse!’ Bendall was straining forward in his chair, like a condemned man who had just received the first tickle of eternity. ‘This isn’t a game we’re playing here, it’s a premeditated assault against millions. The entire capital. Striking at the heart of the whole damned country.’
‘Forgive me for pointing it out, but your opponents might suggest you’re confusing the interests of the country with the interests of your Government.’
‘Dammit, these people are a national menace! They’ve already disrupted London far more seriously than the IRA ever did. That makes them terrorists in my book, terrorists under the law, too, and I’ll find a dozen different law officers who’ll back me up on this.’
‘I don’t doubt it.’
‘So you hold him under the Terrorism Act and you sweat him. You understand?’
This time it was the Commissioner’s turn to consider carefully before replying. ‘I’d be grateful for your instructions on this matter in writing. It helps to have things in proper order, don’t you think?’
‘In writing, you want it in writing? No problem. In fact I insist we handle this thing, as you put it, in proper order. Which brings me to another development I want to announce this afternoon.’ Bendall moved over to the window from where, through the inch-thick glass, he could gaze across the garden of Number Ten. The tubs were full of flowers in bloom and the silver birch was casting a long shadow over a lawn. He obliterated the scene in cigarette smoke. ‘What do you think they planned to do with the money?’
Jevons paused before replying, uncertain in which new direction they were heading. ‘I can do nothing but speculate. Why, almost anything …’
Bendall swung to face him. ‘Almost anything, you say?’
‘Of course.’
‘Reminds me a little of the IRA, you know. All those bank robberies. Extortion rackets. They used the money to buy their arms and explosives. D’you think it’s possible that’s what we have here?’
‘Anything’s a possibility.’
‘Bombings? Assassinations perhaps? An attempt to cripple London as it’s never been hit before?’
The policeman held up his hand as though to stop a wayward driver. ‘You’re going too fast for me, Prime Minister. It needn’t be anything like that.’
‘We’re dealing with highly trained officers, and the one we’ve got locked up has years of experience in Northern Ireland.’
‘Even so, bombings and assassinations are far too –’
‘It’s what the latest TAG assessments are going to suggest is an option.’
‘My own Deputy Commissioner is on the TAG team, Prime Minister. I wasn’t aware that they were predicting full-scale war.’
‘It’s because they haven’t thought of it. Yet.’ A smile died almost before it had appeared. ‘But they will by the time of the press conference this afternoon.’
‘I can’t say I care for this.’
‘And I don’t care for the fact that you’re getting nowhere with these bloody people!’ Suddenly Bendall was shouting, seemingly so exasperated by the other man’s reticence that he was on the point of losing control. ‘Christ, I’m not asking you to prove the Virgin Mary was on the game, I’m only asking you to protect the elected Government. We’re being slaughtered on every front page. That’s what you should care about. Because things are going to change, you hear me? No more holding back, not any longer. From now on we’re taking the gloves off and we’re going to screw these bastards!’ Bendall was shaking so forcibly that he turned his back to give himself a moment in which to gather himself.
Jevons examined the lines of the well-cut suit, and concluded he was watching an act. First the bullying, now the anger. Bendall wanted something. When at last the Prime Minister spoke again the mood had changed and he spoke as if for the public record.
‘I would be failing in my duty if I didn’t share with the people the dangers they might face from these renegades. They need to know that their Government is doing everything within its power to prevent further attacks on their capital city. I expect your full support in that.’
The Commissioner lowered his head, but the contempt in his eyes had already betrayed him. The Prime Minister began wandering around the room, apparently aimlessly, as though looking for something he had lost. He knew he had already lost the Commissioner.
‘We’ll have to raise the level of security on everything. Public buildings, public people. Gives you a hell of a lot of contingencies to cover, doesn’t it, Peter?’
First names? Friends? Jevons’s alarm grew. He swivelled in his chair to keep Bendall in his sights. The Prime Minister was now at the far end of the study, standing beside his jukebox.
‘We have one of the most experienced police forces in the world, Prime Minister –’
‘Yes, of course. But can you cope?’
‘Are you doubting –’
‘Simply wondering. The force has come under great strain in recent years. You’ve got fewer men and fewer resources than you had, yet now we’re faced with something quite exceptional, something no one foresaw.’
‘I’ve warned repeatedly about the damaging effects of the cutbacks.’
‘Yes, I take the point.’
‘Why, we’ve met – what? – twice in the last eigh
teen months in this very room. Meetings I demanded in order to protest at –’
‘Let’s not dwell on it, Peter. We both know that Chancellors get it wrong more often than not. But it seems to me we’re here to deal with the present situation, not rake over old coals. I come back to my point. Can you cope?’
‘With difficulty. With very great difficulty, in fact. And I refuse to be held responsible if –’
‘I need your full support in this matter, Peter. Nothing less is acceptable.’
‘What, with all this talk of terrorism? TAG assessments? A security blanket thrown across London? Simply to save the reputation of you and your –’
‘OK. You win.’
A short pause for bewilderment. ‘Win what?’
Suddenly music came blaring out from the jukebox, something horrid and thumping from the Seventies. Bendall was drawing closer to Jevons in order to make himself heard.
‘You win your argument. Your logic, it’s irresistible,’ Bendall began, squatting informally on the arm of the Chesterfield next to the Commissioner. The noise forced him to bend close to the Commissioner’s ear to make himself heard. ‘Seems to me I’ve no choice other than to accept that the cutbacks have gone too far, and that as a result you might be considering your position. I respect that. A Commissioner who resigns on a matter of principle.’
‘I wasn’t aware that I had mentioned resignation!’
‘And I don’t think I’d mentioned the fact that in the light of the present situation it’s my intention to ensure that the damage done to the police budgets in recent years will be repaired. In full. That’s my promise to you.’
The Commissioner nodded stiffly, uncertain whether he had heard correctly above the din.
‘I want the TAG assessments acted upon, Peter. No holds barred on this one. And if it means extra resources …’
‘I can’t conjure up additional policemen out of thin air, Prime Minister.’
‘And there we have it, the nub of the whole matter. You’re going to need some help.’
At last Jevons thought he had caught up with where this one was going. This was a guns and butter conversation. He’d just been offered the butter, and now …