15
SOME DAYS LATER, Claridge was at home. His wife and two daughters were in another part of the house, playing Scrabble – or, if what Claridge had witnessed was typical of the game, mainly cheating at Scrabble. He’d taken the opportunity to creep away, installing himself at his office iMac.
He googled for a while, then made more checks. ‘Christ!’ he muttered, then opened his messenger application and sent an IM: ‘:-) SC’.
As he sat waiting for Sarah’s call he thought of her and wondered if she ever regretted finishing with him all those years ago, only to end up with Kenneth.
Claridge had never liked Kenneth. Of course that antipathy was in the process of being entirely vindicated, but back then neither of them could have known what darkness lay within Kenneth Farmer.
What turns a man that way? wondered Claridge. What corrupted Kenneth?
Money, perhaps? Kenneth certainly had a lot of that. Even so, Claridge wondered how Kenneth was able to go toe to financial toewith the likes of Lord Oakleigh or the captains of industry that Claridge was convinced were involved. For something like this, the figures involved would be astronomical.
Maybe Kenneth was able to offer them something in addition to the money, or in place of it? He was, after all, husband to the Home Secretary and had bankrolled her political career. What influence might he wield? Claridge shivered at the thought.
His phone rang. ‘Hello, Simon,’ said Sarah. ‘You have news?’
‘I do. You’ll recall our agent was going dark, and that he hoped to be picked as the quarry.’
‘I do. But presumably there is no way of knowing when that happens?’
‘The last time I spoke to our agent he mentioned he might have to gazump another man for the job, a Sergeant Philip Barron, previously of the Paratroopers.’
‘Yes?’
‘A vagrant by that name was found stabbed to death by the docks the day before yesterday. It looked as though he was beaten up beforehand.’
‘You think our man did this?’
‘If he did, then he would have had no other choice, Sarah.’
‘I see. So if he’s in place, what now? What can we do?’
‘There’s nothing we can do, I’m afraid. We assumed he’d be thoroughly searched for any kind of surveillance device, so he doesn’t have anything on him. His instructions are for us to wait.’
‘Wait for what?’
‘That remains to be seen.’
‘Then God help him,’ she said.
‘If he’s as good as his record indicates, God help them all.’
Outside in the corridor, the Home Secretary’s security pushed down his sleeve and replaced his biro in his inside pocket, moving away to retake his position by the front door.
On the inside of his wrist he had written the word ‘Simon’.
CHAPTER 16
SIR ERIC APPLEBY, Permanent Under-Secretary at the Foreign and Commonwealth Office, was striding purposefully across the lawn in the direction of the Commons when his phone rang.
Not long ago he’d got the hang of programming his phone so that callers had different ringtones, something he was disproportionately proud of having mastered. His teenage daughter had even awarded him an impressed high five. In return, he was able to screen calls from her and her mother with even greater ease. He didn’t even need to look at his phone to ignore them.
Now, however, the hunting-horn ring told him it was somebody else entirely – somebody it would not do to ignore. He stopped and, casting a quick look around to ensure there was nobody within earshot, took the call.
‘Hello,’ he said.
‘Voiceprint protocol, please, sir,’ came the reply. ‘State your name, if you would.’
‘Appleby.’
‘And your keyword, sir.’
‘Steeplechase.’
There was a short pause, then he heard an electronic click. In the distance the Thames shimmered, and across the lawn the Chief Whip was being pursued by a pair of underlings. The two men exchanged a wave, and Sir Eric wondered if his colleague knew anything of ‘The QC’,
SOME DAYS LATER, Claridge was at home. His wife and two daughters were in another part of the house, playing Scrabble – or, if what Claridge had witnessed was typical of the game, mainly cheating at Scrabble. He’d taken the opportunity to creep away, installing himself at his office iMac.
He googled for a while, then made more checks. ‘Christ!’ he muttered, then opened his messenger application and sent an IM: ‘:-) SC’.
As he sat waiting for Sarah’s call he thought of her and wondered if she ever regretted finishing with him all those years ago, only to end up with Kenneth.
Claridge had never liked Kenneth. Of course that antipathy was in the process of being entirely vindicated, but back then neither of them could have known what darkness lay within Kenneth Farmer.
What turns a man that way? wondered Claridge. What corrupted Kenneth?
Money, perhaps? Kenneth certainly had a lot of that. Even so, Claridge wondered how Kenneth was able to go toe to financial toewith the likes of Lord Oakleigh or the captains of industry that Claridge was convinced were involved. For something like this, the figures involved would be astronomical.
Maybe Kenneth was able to offer them something in addition to the money, or in place of it? He was, after all, husband to the Home Secretary and had bankrolled her political career. What influence might he wield? Claridge shivered at the thought.
His phone rang. ‘Hello, Simon,’ said Sarah. ‘You have news?’
‘I do. You’ll recall our agent was going dark, and that he hoped to be picked as the quarry.’
‘I do. But presumably there is no way of knowing when that happens?’
‘The last time I spoke to our agent he mentioned he might have to gazump another man for the job, a Sergeant Philip Barron, previously of the Paratroopers.’
‘Yes?’
‘A vagrant by that name was found stabbed to death by the docks the day before yesterday. It looked as though he was beaten up beforehand.’
‘You think our man did this?’
‘If he did, then he would have had no other choice, Sarah.’
‘I see. So if he’s in place, what now? What can we do?’
‘There’s nothing we can do, I’m afraid. We assumed he’d be thoroughly searched for any kind of surveillance device, so he doesn’t have anything on him. His instructions are for us to wait.’
‘Wait for what?’
‘That remains to be seen.’
‘Then God help him,’ she said.
‘If he’s as good as his record indicates, God help them all.’
Outside in the corridor, the Home Secretary’s security pushed down his sleeve and replaced his biro in his inside pocket, moving away to retake his position by the front door.
On the inside of his wrist he had written the word ‘Simon’.
CHAPTER 16
SIR ERIC APPLEBY, Permanent Under-Secretary at the Foreign and Commonwealth Office, was striding purposefully across the lawn in the direction of the Commons when his phone rang.
Not long ago he’d got the hang of programming his phone so that callers had different ringtones, something he was disproportionately proud of having mastered. His teenage daughter had even awarded him an impressed high five. In return, he was able to screen calls from her and her mother with even greater ease. He didn’t even need to look at his phone to ignore them.
Now, however, the hunting-horn ring told him it was somebody else entirely – somebody it would not do to ignore. He stopped and, casting a quick look around to ensure there was nobody within earshot, took the call.
‘Hello,’ he said.
‘Voiceprint protocol, please, sir,’ came the reply. ‘State your name, if you would.’
‘Appleby.’
‘And your keyword, sir.’
‘Steeplechase.’
There was a short pause, then he heard an electronic click. In the distance the Thames shimmered, and across the lawn the Chief Whip was being pursued by a pair of underlings. The two men exchanged a wave, and Sir Eric wondered if his colleague knew anything of ‘The QC’,
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