Tell No Tales by Eva Dolan Page A

still held in the hands of men like him, but when it came to the media he couldn’t rely on the boys’ club.
    She’d take the route they always did, he imagined, pressed to hit her deadline, and the usual answers would satisfy her. How he’d moved up to Peterborough because he had happy memories of his time at Uppingham nearby and the long stint at RAF Cottesmore during the nineties. That would give her an excuse to precis his service record and use the photograph of him climbing into a Tornado GR4 with a cigar between his teeth. They all used it. Then how he met his wife at a charity fund-raiser and her human rights work. The women always wanted to talk about Gabriela and he was happy to oblige, knew any politician was only as good as their other half in the eyes of the electorate.
    Marshall let out a murmur of annoyance.
    Shotton ignored him, looking at the photo of Gabriela on his desk. She hated being away from London and he couldn’t blame her, Peterborough was the worst sort of backwater, unaware of its own shortcomings, but they would be off again as soon as possible. Back to the little flat in Kensington for as many nights a week as they could get away with.
    Marshall swore and this time he didn’t wait to be prompted.
    ‘Our Twitter feed is going crazy.’
    ‘Fabulous.’
    ‘No,’ Marshall said slowly. ‘Not fabulous. We’re getting bombarded with tweets from those jackbooted oiks you want to distance yourself from and they are vomiting filth at us. Supportive filth.’
    ‘Damage limitation then.’
    Marshall moved over to the window. ‘It has to start at home.’
    Shotton followed his gesturing hand to the Range Rover. ‘I’m not downsizing to a Prius if that’s what you’re suggesting.’
    ‘You know full well what I’m suggesting,’ Marshall said.
    He did. Marshall had been banging on about Selby for months.
    ‘He’s got to go. Right now. Before someone makes the link back to the English Nationalist League.’
    ‘Selby’s not going anywhere.’
    ‘The man is a convicted criminal –’
    ‘That fight wasn’t his fault,’ Shotton said.
    ‘Do you think the press will bother with the context?’ Marshall shoved his glasses back up his nose with an angry stab of his middle finger. The subconscious gesture lost on neither of them. ‘You are employing a murderer. That’s the headline.’
    Oblivious to their argument Selby continued washing the Range Rover, down on his knees in the gravel, soaping the hubcaps with a pink sponge. If you didn’t know what he’d done, what he was capable of, you’d never guess from looking at him. He was just like any other forty-year-old bloke with thinning hair and a thickening middle. He looked more like a copper than Christian did.
    ‘Look, I like the man, I really do.’ Marshall’s voice was low and reasonable, ever the cold-hearted professional. ‘But he has long-standing links with some very unsavoury people. I mean, there isn’t a far-right group he hasn’t been a member of at one time or another.’
    Selby got to his feet, moving with more snap than was decent in a man his age, and went round the other side of the vehicle, ducking behind the bonnet.
    ‘Youthful indiscretions,’ Shotton said.
    ‘And if they were only going to reflect on him I wouldn’t argue.’
    Oh-so-logical, so fucking bloodless. He’d turn his grandmother over to white slavers if the numbers supported it.
    ‘But as your driver he represents you and you are giving tacit approval to every group he’s been involved with by continuing to employ him.’
    ‘By employing you I’m backing the bloody Trots then,’ Shotton said. ‘Maybe you should both go.’
    Marshall swallowed his reply, eyes straying towards the iPad. Again.
    Shotton moved in on him.
    ‘I am not sacking Selby.’ He stepped closer, into Marshall’s personal space. ‘He is my staff and what I choose to do about him is none of your damn business.’
    Marshall forced himself to look up from the infernal