Heaven's Light (46 page)

‘Zhu’s building a lifeboat,’ he said softly. ‘He’s shipping out all this cash. Money from Hong Kong. His and other people’s.’

‘Of course.’ Louise paused. ‘So what else would he need?’

‘Somewhere to keep it. Somewhere to invest it.’

‘And?’

‘A brand new home for him and his chums. Somewhere small. Somewhere on the edge of Europe. Somewhere.…’ he looked up ‘… they could call their own.’

Across the room, Zhu was still deep in conversation with the leader of the Tory Group. He wants to build a new
Hong Kong, Wilcox thought, and Pompey First will hand him the city on a plate.

‘So what does that make Barnaby?’ he mused aloud, still looking at Zhu. ‘An accomplice?’

‘Of course.’ Louise was reaching for another scone. ‘Either that or a dupe.’ She smiled. ‘Good story?’

For the second time in two years, Jessie found herself in the Queen Alexandra Hospital. Haagen occupied a bed in a private room on the third floor. A young uniformed policeman sat outside, and when Jessie gave him her name he checked it against a list of permitted visitors. She had spent most of the day at the city’s central police station. To most of their questions, she couldn’t begin to supply an answer.

The policeman spoke into his radio. A door opened down the corridor and a policewoman appeared. She searched Jessie from head to foot, and examined the contents of her bag. The policeman unlocked the door to Haagen’s room. ‘Five minutes,’ he said.

Haagen appeared to be asleep. He was lying on his belly, naked to the waist. The lash marks had scabbed on his back and the bruising had already acquired a yellowish tinge. Standing by the bed, Jessie wondered whether she should wake him. His head was turned to the window and his eyes were closed. Then, barely audible, he spoke. ‘Is the door shut?’

‘Yes.’

Jessie found herself a chair. She wanted to kiss him, but when she tried he shook his head. The beating had extended to his face. There was a heavy swelling over one eye.

‘How are you?’

‘Shit.’

‘What have they done?’

Haagen didn’t answer. His eyes, open now, were cold. ‘Have you got a pen?’

‘Why?’

‘I want you to write down an address.’

‘They’re watching. Through the window.’

‘Yeah?’ He smiled. ‘Just memorize it, then.’

For a long moment, he said nothing. Then he gave her an address. 89 Tokar Street. ‘Got that?’

‘Yes. Tokar Street. Number eighty-nine.’

‘Know where it is?’

‘I’ll find it.’

Jessie could hear a woman’s voice in the corridor outside. She was saying that Haagen should be OK in a couple of days. OK enough to be transferred into police custody.

‘There’s a guy called Monty,’ Haagen muttered. ‘Just tell him to make sure it’s on.’

‘What’s on?’

‘Doesn’t matter. Just tell him that. Just make sure he gets the message. Tokar Street. Number eighty-nine. OK?’

Haagen’s eyes closed again. He appeared to have lost interest in the conversation and when the policeman knocked on the glass and Jessie bent to kiss him goodbye, he shook his head again, burying his face in the pillow.

Chapter Sixteen

A grey day, dawn curtained by flurries of rain.

Before seven Barnaby was awake in his flat, rummaging in the tiny bathroom for a bottle of paracetamol. He swallowed two and took a second glass of water back to bed. Kate was still asleep, her body curled in a tight ball. Unusually, after last night’s impromptu session at the Imperial, she’d consented to spend the night with him. Drunk, they’d made love. He couldn’t remember much about the details except the face beneath him on the pillow. For the first time ever, she hadn’t said a word.

There was a radio clock beside the bed. At seven o’clock, it turned itself on and Barnaby listened to the headlines on the
Today
programme. This had always been routine for him but lately he’d developed a near-addiction to breaking news. Only once had Pompey First ever featured on this flagship show but that had been enough to open the door to the world Barnaby wanted so desperately to join. If the last four weeks had taught him anything, it had been that nothing was beyond his reach. If you wanted something badly enough, you could make it happen.

He sat on the edge of the bed, debating what to wear. At first he didn’t hear the phone ringing in the lounge
across the hall. When he finally found the mobile, tucked behind a cushion on the sofa, it was Wilcox.

‘There’s a car park on Portsdown Hill,’ he grunted, ‘up by the roundabout. I’ll be there at eight.’

Automatically Barnaby checked his watch. It was still barely seven. He still had time to shave and shower.

‘Why the hurry?’ he said.

‘Don’t ask. Just be there.’

Wilcox put the phone down. He’d sounded gruff and angry, as if someone had awakened him prematurely from a deep sleep, and Barnaby stood at the window for a full minute, wondering why he hadn’t come down to the hotel and joined the party in the bar last night.

At length, he heard movement behind him. Kate was standing in the open doorway. She was wearing nothing except an old T-shirt of Jessie’s. Across the chest, in faded black letters, it read ‘All Property is Theft’.

‘I feel terrible,’ she said. ‘I think I’m going to throw up.’

Wilcox was already in the car park when Barnaby swung the Mercedes in from the roundabout. The wind had got up but the rain had stopped and Barnaby could feel the warmth of the sun through the thin veil of cloud. He stood beside the car, staring down at the city below. Patches of sunshine mottled the grey silhouettes in the dockyard. Over the Isle of Wight, the horizon was purpled with a passing squall. Barnaby had rarely seen such dramatic contrasts in the weather. It was, he thought, astonishingly beautiful.

There was a photographer with Wilcox. He got out of the car and began to unpack equipment from the boot. Wilcox walked across. His coat was streaked with rain.

‘Fucking awful morning,’ he said briefly. ‘Mind if the snapper takes some shots?’

Barnaby shook his head. Something had happened to Wilcox, something profound, and he couldn’t work out what it was. The hostility he’d sensed earlier on the phone was visible on his face, in his body movements, in the way he barked at the photographer when he began to moan about the light. Wilcox wanted shots of Barnaby against the city below. He didn’t care a fuck about the readings on the meter. If the photographer had to use flash to fill in the shadows on Barnaby’s face, so be it.

The photographer shrugged, taking Barnaby by the arm and positioning him at the edge of the car park where the sodden downland fell away to the housing estate below. Barnaby adjusted his tie and ran a comb through his hair, still watching Wilcox. The photographer was asking how many shots he wanted.

‘Lots.’

Wilcox returned to his car. Barnaby mustered a smile while the photographer motioned him left and right. After one set of photos, he changed cameras and took another. Eventually, he told Barnaby he’d finished.

Barnaby walked across to Wilcox’s car. The
Sentinel
’s first edition appeared on the city’s streets at noon. He wanted to be sure that there’d be a mention of the evening rally at the Guildhall.

‘Get in.’ Wilcox jerked his thumb towards the passenger seat.

Barnaby did as he was told, his bafflement giving way to irritation. It was still bloody early. He’d been more than obliging. Why the aggression?

Wilcox had produced a small cassette recorder. He wedged it on the dashboard and pressed the record button.
Then he turned to Barnaby. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Let’s have your version.’

‘My version of what?’

‘Your version of what this whole charade’s been about. Zhu’s moving millions into the city. At the moment we’re talking money. Soon it’ll be Hong Kong Chinese. Thousands of them. Hundreds of thousands.’ He nodded at the recorder. ‘We’re on the record, remember. So don’t fuck about.’

Barnaby was at Charlie Epple’s house before nine. Jessie opened the door, her bare toes curling on the plastic matting. Her face was a mask, pale and drawn. When she saw her father, she forced a smile. ‘I tried to ring you last night,’ she said.

Barnaby gazed at her. The last thing he needed was another episode with Jessie. ‘What happened?’

‘Haagen.’

‘What about him?’

‘It’s complicated. I need to talk to you.’

‘Later,’ he said briskly. ‘Is Charlie in?’

‘He’s up in the bathroom.’

Barnaby pushed through, hearing the door close behind him as he mounted the stairs. Charlie was sitting on the lavatory, naked. Barnaby wedged himself in the space between the wash-basin and the window. Charlie tapped ash into a soap dish.

‘We’ve got a problem,’ Barnaby told him. ‘Has Wilcox been on?’

Charlie reached for the lavatory paper. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Why?’

Barnaby explained about the encounter on the hill.
Wilcox had been talking to some source or other. He believed Zhu was fronting for Hong Kong interests. At best, Pompey First had been set up. At worst, the new politics was a cover for a wholesale invasion.

‘Of what?’

‘Hong Kong Chinese. Wilcox thinks we’re angling for independence. And he thinks Zhu’s put us up to it.’

‘What did you say?’

‘I said it was bollocks.’

‘It is. It’s a lovely thought but it’s still bollocks.’ Charlie finished with the lavatory paper and stood up. ‘What’s this source, then?’

‘He wouldn’t say.’

‘So what’s the evidence?’

‘He says he’s heard tapes.’

‘Tapes of what?’

‘You and me. Talking about UDI.’

‘Face to face?’

‘On the phone.’

‘Fuck.’

Charlie reached for a towel and wrapped it round his waist. Downstairs, on his hands and knees beside the telephone socket in the hall, his fingers found a thin whisker of wire. He fetched a butter knife from the kitchen and used it to unscrew the cover of the socket. Then he peered inside. ‘We’ve been bugged,’ he announced.

Barnaby became aware of Jessie watching them from the kitchen. It took him several seconds to realize she was crying.

‘Bugged by who?’

‘Fuck knows.’ Charlie was on his feet again. ‘What are we supposed to have said?’

‘Wilcox wouldn’t tell me, not in detail, but he says it all
stands up. We’ve betrayed the people. We’ve sold them a pup. That’s the line he’s taking.’

‘Where?’

‘In the paper.’

‘Today?’

‘Yes.’

Charlie groaned and took a step backwards, sinking onto the stairs. From the kitchen, Barnaby could hear Jessie making tea. Charlie was trying to recall the conversations they’d had. Of course they’d talked about the future, about the possibility of independence, about going it alone. That was logical, that was where the fun was. Fuck, no one went into politics to keep the world spinning the same old way. Otherwise why bother?

‘Fuck.’ He shook his head, trying to dislodge Barnaby’s news. ‘Fuck, fuck.’

Jessie arrived with tea. Without a word Barnaby took a mug. He didn’t take his eyes off Charlie.

‘This stuff about Zhu,’ Charlie was saying. ‘It’s crap, isn’t it?’

Barnaby hesitated. ‘I’m not sure. To be honest.’

Charlie stared up at him. ‘You’re not sure? What the fuck does that mean?’

‘It means what it says. I’m not married to the man. I’m not privy to everything he gets up to.’

‘So you think it might be true?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘But what did you tell Wilcox?’

‘I told him exactly that. That I didn’t know.’

Charlie closed his eyes in disbelief, his hands cupping the mug.

‘He’s a newsman, for Chrissakes. Saying you don’t know
is next best to admitting it. Jesus, where have you been all these weeks?’

‘Trying to win an election,’ Barnaby said heavily. ‘Since you ask.’

The two men gazed at each other, then Charlie looked at his feet, lost for words.

‘I thought he was a supporter,’ Barnaby muttered. ‘I thought he was a mate. I thought he cared.’

‘He’s a journalist,’ Charlie said. ‘Journalists don’t have mates. They have sources, contacts, careers. There’s a difference. Trust a fucking journalist, and you’re dead meat. As we’re about to find out.’

‘Maybe he won’t print. He’s got to talk to Zhu yet. He’s bound to deny it. Bound to.’

‘Deny what?’

‘Whatever Wilcox has been fed. He says Zhu’s been bidding for the utilities. Water, electricity, Nynex, companies that keep this place going. Listen to Wilcox and it all makes perfect sense. The master plan for UDI. He even quoted from that daft song you wrote, “Heaven’s Light”. He says it’s going on the front page. Pompey First’s national anthem. Exhibit A.’

Charlie groaned again, putting his head down and hugging his knees. At length he looked up. ‘But that was shit,’ he said ruefully. ‘I could have done much better if I’d known.’

Louise Carlton bent to the phone, glad to have found Ellis at home. In the absence of other instructions, he’d elected to have the day off. Louise pulled a copy of
Yellow Pages
towards her, leafing through until she found the entry for restaurants. Pompey First’s final rally would probably end
around ten. She wanted a little guidance on what they should eat first.

‘First?’

‘Before we go back to the hotel.’

There was a long silence. Through the window, beyond the sprawl of the city, Louise could see clear down the Solent to the northern tip of the Isle of Wight. After the early-morning gloom, it was a beautiful day.

Louise tucked the phone into her shoulder. She’d found a Spanish restaurant called Bodega Hermosa. She scribbled down the number. ‘You’ve done extremely well,’ she murmured to Ellis. ‘It’ll be my treat.’

By mid-morning, the Pompey First election machine was in top gear. Charlie had arranged for all candidates to carry mobiles and, as promised, they were making regular progress reports to one of the three rapid-response desks he had set up in the press centre. A couple of TV crews were prowling around, picking up shots for the early-evening bulletins, and Barnaby was aware of roving microphones eavesdropping on his telephone conversations. The more sensitive calls he made from a bedroom upstairs, reserved for his use, but the sheer pressure of events demanded his presence at the operation’s nerve centre.

Charlie had just arrived from the
Sentinel
’s offices. He’d been engaged, in his own words, in a little damage limitation. His face betrayed the way the conversation had gone.

‘No go?’

‘Hopeless.’ Charlie kept his voice low, eyeing the TV crews. ‘Even worse than I expected.’

‘He’s printing?’

‘As we speak.’

‘Shit.’

‘Exactly.’

The two men retired to the bedroom upstairs, leaving the girls on the response desks to field incoming calls. Barnaby had drafted a press statement and Charlie scorched through it with a felt tip, changing a phrase here, stiffening an adjective there. The best form of defence, he told Barnaby, was attack. The slur on their efforts was monstrous – yet more evidence of the battle they had to fight. Given that Pompey First might win the support of the people, London had reacted the only way they knew. By lying.

‘You’ll go with that?’ Charlie looked up.

Barnaby was standing by the window. In the last hour or so he’d begun to lose touch with events. The world he’d created, the activity around him, was no longer real. He gazed across the Common, towards the sea.

‘Say what you like.’ He sighed. ‘I’m leaving it to you.’

‘Thanks.’ Charlie was already heading for the door. ‘Managed to find Zhu yet?’

‘Who?’

‘Zhu.’ He made a dismissive gesture with Barnaby’s press statement. ‘Our guiding light.’

Mike Tully had been alerted to the
Sentinel
’s midday edition by a phone call from the paper’s newsroom. A reporter had presented the editor’s compliments and advised him to nip down to the newsagent. Now, past noon, Tully heard his secretary hurrying up the stairs outside his office. When she opened the door, she gave him the paper, pausing to tell him about the convoy of outside-broadcast vehicles she’d seen nosing into the Guildhall Square. Something big, she’d said. Something for the telly.

The story dominated the
Sentinel
’s first four pages. Under the giant headline
SELL OUT!
a team of reporters detailed Zhu’s involvement in the Pompey First campaign. His donations approached six figures. By funding the poster sites, the felt-tip giveaways, the air-ship and a dozen other electoral come-ons, he’d tried to buy the votes that would prise the city away from the motherland and expose it to a flood of immigrant Hong Kong Chinese. His strategy had been subtle and immensely cunning. The jury was still out on the involvement of Pompey First’s leaders, but they were either fools or knaves. If the latter, then the city had very nearly been the victim of a ruthless international conspiracy. If the former, then readers must surely draw their own conclusions. Did they really deserve to be led by dupes?

Tully turned the page to find Hayden Barnaby gazing uncertainly at the camera. Behind him, in the distance, the distinctive Portsmouth skyline. A caption beneath asked,
MR POMPEY? WHO ARE YOU KIDDING?
Tully tried to suppress a smile. He should have made allowances for this kind of tabloid excess. No one deserved so crude a public execution. He turned the page again, glad to see that Wilcox had kept his promise. The editor had mentioned the alleged involvement of Liz in some drugs scam, and Tully had only agreed to hand over the audio-tapes on condition that she be spared the attentions of the
Sentinel
’s news machine. When Wilcox had pressed him for more details, he’d refused to say another word and it had amused Tully to watch him battle to suppress his curiosity. Journalists were like kids, he’d decided. Give them a sniff at the cookie jar and they couldn’t keep their fingers to themselves.