State Secrets Read online

  ‘In the Prime Minister’s room in the House of Commons.’

  I had to laugh at that; there was no suppressing it. ‘Pure bloody Skinner,’ I said. ‘He never does anything low-key.’

  Four

  Emily Repton and I had met once, when I was acting chief constable of the old Strathclyde Police Service in Scotland and she was Home Secretary. It wasn’t exactly amicable. Each of us had something on the other, and each of us had been prepared to use it.

  My weakness was a series of compromising photographs of Aileen, to whom I was then legally still married, taken at a party when she’d been filled up with drink by a couple of female spooks and persuaded to inhale something she shouldn’t have.

  Hers was another reel of images, featuring her husband, the then Justice Secretary, Lord Forgrave, having congress with a lady who had set up a hidden camera to record the encounter, in considerable detail.

  In the event, neither of us had won, nor had either of us lost. I’d laid hands on the originals of the Aileen pictures, by a means I need not disclose, and she had neutralised my threat to her by the simplest means. She’d divorced her husband, and engineered his sacking from government. To top it off she’d been reshuffled into the Department of Work and Pensions, from which position of safety she had watched the former Prime Minister, the Right Honourable George Locheil MP, tear himself to pieces during the shambolic EU referendum.

  When he fell she had been the Conservative Party’s choice as the new tenant of 10 Downing Street, the second woman to hold the office. She had moved in without invoking the principles and examples of any saints, probably because she didn’t know any.

  I had loathed the damned woman at our only meeting, and for a while after that, but watching her subsequent career moves I had come to admire her just a little. I was pretty sure she would have made a very good prime minister, and so I found myself with mixed feelings as I observed the crumpled little figure lying across the desk, stripped of all glamour and dignity by the four inches of stainless Sheffield steel that had been slammed into her head.

  Assassination? I thought. I’ve seen the aftermath of a couple of those and in neither case had the murder weapon been improvised. Nor had the assassin been able to get inside what had to be the most secure part of one of the most secure buildings in the world.

  There may have been political motives, there could conceivably have been religious motives . . . although I wouldn’t have bet a penny on that, not even at the most ridiculous odds . . . but I was certain of one thing from the very start.

  Statistics vary according to circumstances and location, but overall, more than fifty per cent of murder victims are acquainted with their killers. Emily Repton was not among the minority; nobody she didn’t know or who hadn’t been vouched for was getting into that room.

  As I walked around the room, my investigator’s instinct kicked in, and I realised that I was breaking one of the basic commandments of modern policing: Thou shalt not fuck up the crime scene forensically.

  ‘We need to get out of here,’ I told Amanda as she pocketed her phone and moved back towards me. ‘And you need to call in a CSI team; I assume you have those at your disposal.’

  ‘Yes,’ she conceded, ‘but not all with the security clearance required for this. You’re going to have to do without scientific back-up. Mickey Satchell’s a doctor; she will certify death for the record, but that’s the only formality we can have here.’

  ‘Jeez,’ I whistled, ‘thanks very much. You’ve got me investigating with one hand in my pocket. We? Us? Am I getting Neil McIlhenney?’

  ‘Yes. He’s on his way. So is Norman Hamblin, the Cabinet Secretary; but not here. He wants us to meet him in Downing Street, you, me and Roland Kramer, the Home Secretary . . . who’s also the Deputy PM,’ she added, but I’d known that.

  ‘Fuck that,’ I declared, instinctively. ‘I’m not leaving this building. I’ve just had a meeting with the leader of the Labour group in the Lords and one of her senior colleagues. It was private in theory but plenty of people knew about it, on the Opposition side of the house. I know enough about this place to be aware that word always got around here at Twitter speed, even before the blogosphere was invented.

  ‘You might be the chief spook, Amanda, but these days everybody knows who that is and what she looks like. People know I’m here. If we’re seen together anywhere, other than having dinner in Shepherd’s, word will get out and questions will be asked. So please get back on to Mr Hamblin and tell him he’s coming here. Now, who normally has access to this corridor? How easy is it to get in here?’

  ‘Too easy, obviously,’ she replied. ‘Honest answer, I don’t know. The woman you should ask is the Serjeant-at-Arms. She’s the chief constable of this place.’

  ‘Does she know about this?’

  ‘Not the whole story, no.’

  ‘Then who does?’ I asked, sharply. ‘Apart from the Satchell person.’

  ‘When she found the body, she went running into Roland Kramer’s office. As Home Secretary, he’s my immediate boss, and he called me; he has a direct line to me. I advised Xanthe Bird, the Serjeant-at-Arms, that we had a red security issue and that I was taking control of the premises. She probably thinks it’s an exercise. We have contingency plans for all sorts of situations; every so often we try them out, but we play it for real. I told her I was sealing off the ministerial corridor until further notice. She accepted it as routine, and she’ll have advised her staff.’

  ‘They think there’s a security drill under way?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How long do these normally last?’

  ‘Until I say they’re over; there is no norm. Let me call Hamblin again,’ she said, reaching for her mobile.

  Locked in a room with a dead prime minister, I was still trying to get my head round the situation, to think of all the questions that needed to be asked, and to put together a plan of action. Was I up to this task? I don’t remember ever coming close to panic before, but I was then.

  I closed my eyes and pictured things as they should have been, not as they were, with someone having been able to walk into Emily Repton’s Commons office, drive her letter-opener through her skull then walk out again.

  ‘CCTV?’ I asked, hopefully.

  ‘Not in this corridor,’ Amanda replied. ‘There used to be, but a previous prime minister had it removed. It was never reinstated.’

  No easy fix, then.

  ‘Protection officers,’ I said. ‘The PM’s close protection team. Where the hell were they?’

  I’ve known a few of those people over the years. They were all calm, unflappable, very well trained, and fiercely loyal to the leader they served.

  ‘They were in Downing Street,’ she said, ‘and they still are. Emily didn’t like them being here. She said this place is a fortress, so they’d only be getting in the way. They would ride with her in the car that brought her here, then go away, and come back to collect her when she was ready.’

  ‘They can stay where they are for now, but I’ll need to speak to them, at some point.’ I paused. ‘There’s something I think you should do,’ I added, ‘if you haven’t already. Extend your so-called security drill by instructing the protection officers for the other Cabinet members to stick to their charges like ticks to a dog. We can’t assume that this was a one-off. In fact we have to assume the opposite, that this is an attack on the state and there may be other targets.’

  ‘Really?’ she exclaimed. ‘One loose word and we could start a panic, Bob.’

  ‘Who’s going to panic over an exercise?’ I countered. ‘Is Hamblin on his way?’

  ‘Yes, under protest. He says do nothing till he gets here.’

  My moments of self-doubt were over and things were beginning to slip into place.

  ‘I wasn’t planning to.’ I checked my
watch; it was approaching midday. ‘We have one immediate problem,’ I told her. ‘The big story of the day was supposed to be the Prime Minister’s mystery statement on defence. Nobody knows what she’s going to announce. Well, she’s going to say nothing now.’

  ‘What do we do?’

  ‘Put your plan into action: take that knife out of her head and get the body out of here in a stretcher. Put her in an ambulance and take her to a tropical diseases hospital, the same one they treat the Ebola patients in. Is it possible to do that without her being seen?’

  ‘Not without clearing the whole place.’

  ‘Could we stage a fire alarm?’

  ‘That’s possible, but even then the ambulance will be visible from Parliament Square.’

  ‘Okay, we wrap her up and put an oxygen mask on her. If someone does snatch a photograph it’ll fit with the cover story.’ My mind was working at full speed, as I visualised Repton’s extraction from the building.

  ‘What about the paramedics?’ I asked. ‘We can’t risk a leak via one of them talking to his mates in the pub tonight.’

  ‘We’ll use my people,’ she replied quickly. ‘She’s bloody dead,’ she added. ‘They only have to look like an ambulance crew.’

  ‘The protection officers,’ I said. ‘If they always collect her, they’ll have to be there, and wearing biohazard suits. They’ll still be recognisable, and they should be, they’re part of the story.’

  ‘You mean the legend,’ she chuckled, grimly. ‘Spook-speak,’ she added. ‘Should they be told that she’s dead?’

  ‘Let them see for themselves in the ambulance; not before then. You need to have someone senior from your service in there, in control of the situation. These guys are trained to react in a certain way. We don’t want them shooting your fake paramedics.’

  She grimaced. ‘That would be unfortunate, I agree.’

  A solution presented itself. ‘No, not someone from MI5,’ I said. ‘Mr Hamblin can go in the ambulance. The protection people know him; he can explain as soon as the doors close.’

  ‘If he agrees,’ Amanda warned. ‘Norman Hamblin is not a man who takes orders.’

  ‘He will from me,’ I growled, ‘after I’ve told him he’s a fucking suspect.’

  ‘The Cabinet Secretary?’ she gasped. ‘Are you crazy?’

  ‘How many people have open access to the Prime Minister in her private House of Commons office?’ I retorted. ‘Every one of them is a suspect until I decide otherwise.’ I winked at her. ‘As for me being crazy, I like to think I’m a way short of that. However, my friend, you have just handed the bull the keys to the china shop. Don’t be surprised if some valuable crockery gets smashed along the way.

  ‘Go on,’ I insisted, ‘get your plan under way. While you’re doing that,’ I added, taking out my phone and selecting its camera, ‘I’ll do the best I can to create a full photographic record of the scene.’

  Five

  I was stepping out of the late Prime Minister’s bathroom, phone in hand, a couple of dozen images shot, when the office door opened. I glanced across the office, expecting to see Amanda return with the Cabinet Secretary, a man I’d recognise only because his image had accompanied a Saltire story a few weeks before. Instead it was Commander Neil McIlhenney, God bless him, who stepped into the room.

  He didn’t look at me, not immediately; his gaze was drawn to the desk and what was sprawled across it. I heard his gasp, and I saw an expression flash on to his face, one that I’d never seen on my friend and former subordinate, an instant mix of shock, panic and terror.

  It didn’t surprise me, for I knew that I must have looked much the same less than an hour before.

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Bob,’ he gasped, as he became aware of my presence, and as he recovered the composure that was one of his trademarks. ‘Do we know who did this?’

  I liked his use of the personal plural. He would have been sent to the scene by the Commissioner, his big boss, without explanation. Possibly he hadn’t even been told that I was there. But in an instant he understood that an old team had been re-formed and was back in action.

  His second question confirmed it.

  ‘Is McGuire coming too?’

  Deputy Chief Constable Mario McGuire, second in command of the Scottish Police Service, was Neil’s closest friend. They had been kids together, then plods, kindred spirits whose love of life, as much as their love of the job, had earned them a nickname that had been recognised all across Edinburgh, and feared in some parts: the Glimmer Twins.

  They had been, in their youth, the most formidable pairing ever sent out on the streets of Edinburgh in coppers’ uniforms. As their reputation grew, trouble faded away on the merest whisper of their approach. I don’t care what anyone says, every city needs police officers who will put fear and trepidation into its hooligan element.

  They were massive, each of them, hard as nails, but their personalities, while different . . . McGuire the extrovert single lad, McIlhenney the quiet family man . . . were complementary. Mario always had Neil’s back, and Neil always had a hand on Mario’s shoulder, lest he become over-enthusiastic. I’ve influenced the careers of many young cops. Most have pleased me, a few have disappointed me, but I’m more proud of McGuire and McIlhenney than of all the rest put together.

  ‘I wish,’ I replied, in answer to his second question. ‘As for who did it,’ I continued, ‘that’s what we’re here to find out. We have forty-eight hours, tops. I hope the situation can be contained, but it can’t be for longer than that.’

  ‘Who’s doing the containing?’ he asked.

  ‘We are,’ I told him, showing him my Security Service credentials. ‘You’re seconded to work with me until we’ve identified the perpetrator, or until we run out of time.’

  He smiled, grimly, as he studied my badge. ‘So she’s finally got you. Mrs Dennis. She’s finally drawn you into the Dark Side.’

  ‘Only for this situation. That card is temporary; she gets it back on Wednesday at the latest.’

  He glanced at the ID again, then handed it back. ‘Bob, it doesn’t matter where the damned card is. Your name’s on it, your image and no doubt the same biometric detail that’s on your passport. The signature at the bottom reads “A. Dennis”. What I don’t see is an expiry date. As soon as you put that in your pocket you were in.’

  He had a point. ‘Hell of a place, Westminster,’ I growled. ‘I’ve been here for one morning, and I’ve had two job offers already.’

  ‘Let’s concentrate on this one. You said this situation can be contained. Tell me how.’

  I explained the plan for removing the corpse of Emily Repton from the palace, and keeping the truth under wraps. When I was done, he nodded. ‘I see how it’ll work, but is it legal? Last time I looked, failure to report a crime wasn’t against the law, but there’s still malfeasance in public office.’

  ‘You’re here; in effect the crime has been reported to the police.’

  ‘Concealing a death?’

  ‘It hasn’t been concealed from you. Concealing it from the general public isn’t a crime. We’re not going to take advice from the Attorney General here, Neil. I’m comfortable that we’re both legally in the clear and even if some obscure law says we’re not, we’re acting in the national interest.’

  ‘Are we?’

  ‘Amanda Dennis says we are, and the Cabinet Secretary’s on his way here to tell us why. That’s all I can tell you.’

  ‘Where is Mrs Dennis?’ he asked.

  ‘She’s making arrangements for the removal of the body.’

  Neil sighed. ‘In that case, the very least I’m going to do as a conscientious detective is bag the murder weapon. That’s if I can get it out,’ he added. ‘It looks like the sword in the bloody stone.’ He moved behind the desk.

  ‘Wait a minut
e,’ I called out before he could begin. ‘I’d better video the removal process. This is history, mate.’

  ‘Make sure it is video,’ he exclaimed, ‘and not a still. I don’t want anything that could be interpreted as me putting it in there.’

  He stepped up to Repton’s chair, putting on a pair of disposable gloves that he took from his pocket. Raising her lolling head and holding it still with his left hand, he drew the blade slowly and steadily from her skull. It came out easily, the embedded section caked with blood and brain tissue.

  ‘Sssssss.’

  ‘What the . . .’ We exclaimed, in unison. We stood, staring at each other, listening; the sound was not repeated, but we were both sure that we had heard it and that it had come from Emily Repton.

  ‘Air escaping?’ McIlhenney suggested, nervously. His left arm was still cradling the Prime Minister’s head.

  ‘Hardly,’ I murmured.

  He laid the weapon on the desk, peeled off his right glove with his teeth, and pressed two fingers to her neck feeling for a pulse. ‘Nothing,’ he whispered.

  ‘Keep holding her like that,’ I ordered, as an idea came to me, and I reached for the briefcase that I had laid on the coffee table. I snapped it open and grabbed my Filofax, then slid my Victorinox SwissCard from its pocket. I carried it because James Andrew, my youngest son, had given it to me for my last birthday. I knew the thing would come in handy one day.

  Among its many gadgets is a torch. It’s tiny, but close up it’s quite effective. I switched it on and held it no more than an inch from Repton’s right eye, focusing its beam directly on the pupil, looking for any reaction to the light.

  There was none. I transferred it to the left eye, holding it even closer, almost touching. I was about to put it away, when I saw the slightest movement in the right eye, the slightest widening of the black centre of the eyeball, then a contraction as I moved the silver shaft of light away. I repeated the process, and saw the same reaction, then did it a third time, for confirmation.