The Ninth Step - John Milton #8 (John Milton Thrillers) by Mark Dawson

glittering parliamentary career and the lordship that denoted it, but, between the two old men, Higgins was in control. There was something about the relationship that made Hicks feel uncomfortable. He would have been very happy to have been sent outside, but, instead, he stood quietly at the edge of the room, his arms folded across his chest.
    Isaacs cleared his throat. “I’ve been approached by someone who claims to have known me during the eighties.”
    “In what capacity does he know you?”
    The older man shuffled in his chair and clasped his skeletal hands together. “He says he met me here.”
    “The parties, Leo?”
    Isaacs coughed. “Yes. The parties.”
    “What’s his name?”
    “I have no idea. It’s all very random. He’s a taxi driver. He picked me up in Westminster after a session at the Lords and drove me here. He was looking at me in the mirror as if he knew me the whole way, but he didn’t say anything. But then I saw him again a couple of days later. He was waiting for me outside the building in the morning. In his bloody cab. He got out and came over to me. He told me he remembered who I was. He said he remembered the building.” His voice trailed away. “The parties.”
    “And what do you think?”
    “Well, I didn’t recognise him, if that’s what you mean.”
    “Why would you? He would’ve been a boy.”
    The retort was delivered with just enough scorn to condemn Isaacs, and it provided enough context for Hicks to fill in the blanks. He felt a sudden blast of disgust.
    “Well, yes…” Isaacs said, his voice falling away.
    “Do you believe him?”
    “How else would he have known to say that?”
    Higgins didn’t answer. He walked across to the coffee table and picked up a paperweight that was anchoring a pile of papers.
    “What am I going to do?” Isaacs pleaded.
    Higgins replaced the paperweight. “First things first, Leo. What did he say? What exactly?”
    “He said he was going to go to the press.”
    “With what? Does he have any proof? Did he say?”
    “I don’t see how he could.”
    “Then it’s just rumours and innuendo.”
    “But what if he’s believed? You know how it is. What if he gets someone to publish what he says? There’s no smoke without fire, that’s what they’ll say, especially with what happened before.”
    “Yes,” Higgins said. “That would be unfortunate.”
    “You said you’d look after me.”
    “And we will.” Higgins looked over at Hicks again and then turned back to Isaacs. “This man—what else do you know?”
    “His taxi badge. I remembered the number.”
    “That’s better. Corporal—take a note, please.”
    Hicks took out his phone and opened the note application.
    “56381.”
    Hicks tapped the numbers and saved the note.
    “Anything else?” Higgins said.
    “He’s late thirties, early forties. Overweight. Not much hair. Looked nervous. That’s all.”
    “Very good, Leo. You can leave it with us.”
    “What will you do?”
    “Take care of it. You don’t need to worry. That’s what you pay me for, isn’t it? Peace of mind.”
    Payment. The politician paused, confusion wrinkling his brow before it was replaced by understanding and then a brief moment of resentment. Higgins noticed, and Hicks saw the anger that flashed in his eyes; Isaacs quickly mastered himself. He walked to a bureau and opened the lid. He took out an envelope and, telling them to wait a moment, went through into the bedroom.
    Higgins didn’t speak. He allowed a little of the distaste he so obviously felt for Isaacs to manifest itself on his face and went across to the window and gazed out. Hicks waited where he was, thinking that it would be a simple enough matter to find out the name of the man who had been given that taxi licence number. The thought of it, and what might follow, made him feel uneasy.
    Isaacs returned. The envelope had been filled, and it bulged in the middle. He handed it to the general. The end was unsealed, and Higgins made a