Dead in the Water (13 page)

“
This is ridiculous.”

“
Let me read you something Mr Hunter: ‘The maximum period of detention without charge for someone arrested under terrorism legislation is 28 days. Access to a solicitor can be delayed for 72 hours.’ And if the Home Secretary thinks it wise, under recent amendments to the Act, four weeks becomes three months. As you probably know. I could read it again if you like.”

Allan doesn’t like.

And then, for the first time, the older of his two interrogators speaks. Calm, chillingly calm. “We think you know who stole your van.” Allan looks nonplussed. If they know, then why the hell are they holding him here? “We have a warrant to search your house.” He pauses, watching Allan’s response. “We think we can probably find all we want on the computer. We can retrieve deleted files. You know that, don’t you. Even if the hard disc’s been reformatted. So if you have ever had anything on that computer – we will find it. That’s probably as much as we need. But then again, if you continue to be … unhelpful … we might have to look further. And that can be very disruptive. … Do you get my drift?”

“
That sounds like a threat.”

“
Not at all. It’s encouragement.”

“
This is so fucking mad.” That should have been to himself; but they don’t respond, say nothing, look at him. And he knows they’re waiting. He knows they have a video camera trained on his face and someone somewhere is watching every eye movement, every twitch. And the silence is worse. They just look at him. “I’ve told you everything.”

The older one of the two almost imperceptibly moves his head to one side. And then: “What will we find on your computer, Mr Hunter?”

Allan shuts his eyes. Tries to calm himself. He wants to co-operate. That’s all he can do. But how? “Names and addresses of customers and suppliers. Invoices. Mailing list. Tax returns. A flyer I put out.”

“
And?”

“
A few games. Family photos.”

“
E-mail correspondence?”

“
Yeah.”

“
Letters.”

“
Some. I don’t write many.”

“
You a member of the Green Party, Mr Hunter?”

“
Used to be.”

“
What happened?”

“
I stopped paying the subs.”

“
Why was that then?”

“
I didn’t like the way it was going.”

“
And where was it going?”

“
You don’t want a lecture in politics.”

“
Dead right. What I want to know is where you stand.”

“
You’ve got files on me. Haven’t you? You know where I stand. But that doesn’t make me a terrorist. I think these fucking
Angels of Light
are crazies. I don’t want to go round blowing people up.”

“
So where do you stand Mr Hunter? In relation to Green politics?”

“
This bloody government’s let everybody down. They give a couple of tame Green Party MPs jobs as junior ministers, and they think that’s it. It’s bollocks. The fucking Green Party’s been bought off. They don’t want to rock the cradle. That what you mean?”

“
That’s where you stand?”

“
More or less.”

“
And you do? Want to rock the cradle?”

“
I was in favour of in-yer-face campaigns, yeah. But I don’t believe in violence. I do not believe in violence.”

“
Some people might call you a militant.”

“
They’d be wrong.”

Again silence. They stare at him.

“
Look. Some bastard nicked my van. I didn’t report it straight away. I was bloody stupid. And I happen to think that governments should keep their promises. But that’s got nothing to do with my van being nicked.”

“
Some people might think otherwise.” And they go silent on him again.

21
London

“
I’m on my way,” says Mark. “I’m on the train. Just pulling out of Oxford.” The irritatingly soft spoken voice on the other end of the phone says it will pass this on to the Prime Minister. Jay Porter; a toy poodle rounding up the troops. What the fuck’s she doing with a little fop like that for a private secretary?

The train journey from Oxford to London is pretty awful. Mark tries to concentrate on the meeting ahead, to prepare a set of positions and proposals, but is unable to stop himself from gazing out of the window, haunted by memories of river holidays and walks, picnics on the banks and games with the children. Joanna’s right. The separation has just been a way of postponing a decision. In spite of the months apart, they’ve not separated in any real sense. And he doesn’t want to let go. Sara probably sensed this was looming.

Andrew Linden is a large man with grand tastes and a substantial private income to fund them, a man who has thrived in Angela Walker’s government. Instinctively of the right, he’s had no trouble in adapting to the coalition – as Foreign Secretary, he has at last achieved the visibility he knows he has long deserved. Had he lived in a different era, he might perhaps have been a Tory grandee; but he likes to present as Modern Man, and he has developed an uncannily prescient feeling for imminent changes in the political environment. His critics in the media may have branded him an opportunist, an operator, but Mark cannot help but admire him: he’s intelligent, cunning and, when he turns it on, utterly charming. Mark is never quite sure who cultivated whom, but he’d much rather have him as an ally than an enemy.

Number 59 had previously been divided into three flats. When the Lindens bought it, they converted it back into a single house. Mark has never been to the house before; and he is a little surprised that Andrew himself opens the door. He’d expected a flunkey. Linden seems equally surprised to see him. Perhaps he has not been forewarned that Mark has been invited to ‘The Coven’, as this small inner cabinet group was once referred to by a
Daily Mirror
journalist. With the name now widely, almost affectionately, adopted throughout the media, it has lost the damning tone of derision in the original editorial – yet another sign that Walker’s brand of consensual compromise seems to have made the government impervious to censure.

Linden beams as he greets Mark and takes him through to a spacious, light and airy kitchen/breakfast room with views over the garden at the back. “Can I get you something to drink? Glass of wine? Spritzer? Fruit juice? Tea?” Mark has a fruit juice.

“
It’s a very lovely garden,” says Mark, enjoying the privilege of this personal attention.

“
We are very lucky, I have to say. And Isabelle has such green fingers. Are you a gardener?”

“
When I get the chance.”

“
Isabelle’s not here, otherwise she’d have shown you round. Knows the names of everything. Totally beyond me.”

“
Am I early?” asks Mark.

Linden’s mouth puckers ever so slightly. Then he shrugs and smiles. “Afraid not. They all left about quarter of an hour ago. Short and sweet. We wondered where you were.”

“
Not four thirty?” asks Mark, with a rush of embarrassment.

“
Two thirty,” says Linden, still smiling benignly.

“
Jay Porter rang this morning. He said four thirty.”

“
Fourteen thirty,” says Linden, with polite reluctance.

“
So I’m two hours late, not ten minutes early?”

“
Maybe just as well. You know how boorish McTaggart can be at times. He was at his worst, I’m afraid,” as if this somehow exonerates Mark for the mix-up. Andrew sits down at the hand-made beechwood table; gesturing to Mark to join him. He’s annoyed with himself, but he can’t help wondering if someone is deliberately trying to discredit him. He has plenty of enemies in the government who want to see him sidelined. He’s only ever invited to these meetings when Mrs W wants a specific contribution from him, his brief to be reliably informative and then become discreetly invisible. Visibly absent does not quite fit the ticket. Why the fuck didn’t anybody ring to find out if he’d been held up? But of course they did. That’s what Jay Porter’s call as he was leaving Oxford was about. Shit!

“
Useful meeting?” he asks, barely concealing his humiliation.

“
Well. Yes. McTaggart was his usual self. But, yes.” Cryptic. Is Linden keeping him at arm’s length too? “The terrorist’s have issued another deadline. Highly confidential. It’s not been made public. We discussed how we should respond. Tag trotted out his usual line about weakness being a provocation; adamant that any kind of negotiation would be perceived as weakness. Hardly original. But he has a point.”

“
Of course.”

Mark would have liked to have used the meeting to talk about the situation in Venezuela. When the Summit was first agreed its purpose had been to discuss environmental issues in preparation for a larger, more formal meeting of the G9 countries. But in recent weeks, as the situation in Venezuela has deteriorated, that has moved up the agenda. Instability in such a key region is highly dangerous; and has already had a serious impact on the highly volatile oil markets.

“
Then we discussed the Emergency Powers,” Linden continues. He could be chatting to a friend about an unusual occurrence at work. But he doesn’t elucidate. And despite Mark’s gentle probing, he avoids further talk about the meeting. “Look,” he says, “Now you’re here, why not stop and have a quick bite to eat? And take a look at the garden while the sun’s still shining.”

They walk round the Lindens’ delightful garden, glass of perfectly chilled Sancerre
in hand, enjoying the early evening sunshine and talking about England’s prospects in the Test series. Linden makes him feel he is still in the fold, sheltered from his own stupidity. And right now this is a good place to be: in Linden’s garden, sipping an exquisite white wine, relishing the breadth of conversation as they shift from cricket to the architectural qualities of the Edwardian terrace, to the elegance of the stainless steel fountain that Isabelle commissioned “from a sculptor chappie she’s known since art school”. For at least five years Linden has been one of the brightest stars of the Tory Party; he is ‘media-friendly’, well-groomed, intelligent with good looks that make him appear ten years younger than he actually is. Perhaps these qualities, and not one’s ideological position or political competence, are the basic requirements for promotion to Angela Walker’s Cabinet – McTaggart providing the exception to prove the rule. And even if Mark does occasionally have nagging doubts that Andrew’s friendship is strategic, he feels thoroughly at ease in his company.

And he is true to his word. He produces a ‘quick bite’ in about fifteen minutes, still chatting to Mark, who sits at the kitchen table while his host prepares the meal using fresh pasta and herbs from the garden.

“
You’d be proud of me, Mark. We’re having solar heating put in. Got to be seen to be Green,” he says with a wry, self-deprecating chuckle.

“
Really?”

“
Oh, the full works. Steaming hot water and state of the art photovoltaics. Had a fellow round in the week to draw up plans. I’m all for it.”

Then the hospitality is over – as abruptly as it has been offered. “Hope you don’t think me rude, but I have to meet a chum in town. Can I give you a lift somewhere?”

Linden drops him outside the
Angel
tube station. He switches on his mobile to check for messages. A text from Jay Porter informs him that Angela Walker wants a comprehensive paper from him on the environmental issues in Venezuela by Thursday. There is no mention of his absence from today’s meeting; but that does not conceal the disdainful rebuke.

The station is quiet. Mark looks at his watch. It’s half eight. Saturday night. No more than a couple of dozen other people on the platform. Most people going out have already got where they’re going. He watches rats scurrying in the pit beneath the tracks. Then a page of a newspaper rises up on a sudden rush of air, its three week old headlines about Bank Holiday check-in delays at Heathrow, headlines which could have appeared at any time in the past ten years, the briefest of glimpses of a simpler world, and the first sign of an approaching train.

At Paddington he rings Joanna. And then Stephen on his mobile. No reply from either of them. He leaves messages asking them each to call him back, and wonders, with a flare of momentary jealousy, whether Robert is back early from his conference. He could, of course, get a train to Oxford, but if Joanna’s not home and Stephen’s out for the evening, he’d rather stay in the flat catching up with work.

There are times when Mark enjoys his own company, but he cannot remember the last Saturday night he spent alone. So much of his life has been partitioned – Oxford / London, Joanna / Sara, Radical / Gradualist – with separate friends attached to each compartment. The trouble is that, apart from Sara, the London compartment contains only work colleagues.

He checks for messages on the landline: nothing from Rachel, nothing from Joanna, nothing from Sara, nothing from Stephen; just Jay Porter yapping out the message he texted to the mobile. He opens a bottle of wine – nothing like as good as Andrew Linden’s ‘rather nice and pleasantly unassuming’ Sancerre – and switches on
News 24
. There’s an item about an American Republican Senator who has made a high profile speech arguing that the President is wasting precious time over Venezuela. If the oil refineries get back into the hands of the Marxists, they’ll be able to hold the world – meaning the USA – to ransom. Limited and specific intervention now will be far more effective than an unwieldy United Nations operation ‘way on down the line’ that the US will only have to ‘clear up after’. There’s only a short piece on the situation in Venezuela itself; but this includes a brief interview with a solemn young woman from
Greenpeace
, who is concerned about the possible effects of civil unrest on the rain forest. It’s nothing new to Mark, and it’s pretty much what Peters had been telling him on Friday – except in slightly more measured tones. This is accompanied by brief archive shots of the sinking of the
Greenpeace
boat,
Rainbow Amazonia
in Manaus earlier in the year.