The Loyal Servant (4 page)

*

Angela Tate barged her way through the tight pack of photographers and reporters blocking the entrance of the Department for Education and tapped Frank Carter on the shoulder.

‘Can I bum a fag?’

‘What time do you call this?’ Frank pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and handed them to her.

‘My body can’t take as much punishment as it used to. You shouldn’t have let me drink so much. Call yourself a friend...’

Frank shook his head and shoved his camera under an arm. He took a drag from the last few millimetres of his cigarette and threw the stub into the gutter.

‘Anyway,’ she said. ‘I haven’t just fallen out of bed.’ Angela ran a hand through her hair. ‘I’ve already been into the office.’

Frank concentrated on polishing the lens of his camera and stuck his tongue into his cheek.

‘I have! I’ve been waiting for Evans to turn up.’ She stared down at the cigarette packet, instantly going off the idea of a nicotine fix.

Frank stopped polishing and looked at her.

‘I wanted to ask him about Jason’s undercover op,’ she said.

‘You’re not still banging on about that.’

‘Aren’t you even a little bit curious?’

‘And what pearls of wisdom did our esteemed editor share with you?’

‘Oh I left before he got in. He must have a hangover of his own. Bloody lightweight.’

‘Still doesn’t explain your tardiness.’

‘The roads are a complete fucking nightmare. Because of the fire.’

Frank perked up. ‘What fire?’

‘Come on, Frank – how can you not know? I’m surprised you can’t see the smoke from here. The whole of Waterloo’s been closed off. The bridge too. Which has made Blackfriars and Westminster pretty much impassable. I had to get on a tube.’

‘My God, Ange – public transport – that is desperate.’

‘Shut up.’

She looked around at the surrounding reporters and TV news crews. ‘Have I missed anything?’

‘Bugger bleeding all. I’m thinking of packing up. No one’s managed to get further than the front desk.’

A black cab pulled into the kerb and the throng surged sideways towards it. Angela stuck out her elbows to avoid getting crushed.

‘Has it been like this all morning?’ she shouted above the din.

Frank nodded. ‘Every time a car pulls up. But it’s never anyone important.’

Angela looked at the greedy faces surrounding the poor unsuspecting soul who had just emerged from the taxi. ‘I can’t work under these conditions.’

‘Exactly the conclusion I came to an hour ago. All I’ve got are dozens of shots of camera-shy civil servants holding their hands up to their faces.’ He scratched his head. ‘I feel like a wildlife photographer disturbing their delicately balanced ecosystem.’

‘If there’s nothing doing, why are you still here?’

‘I’ve been waiting for you to turn up.’

‘I don’t need a minder, Frank.’ She dug an elbow into the ribs of the
London Tonight
reporter as he attempted to record a piece to camera, just to illustrate her point.

‘I thought we might get a spot of late breakfast before I head off.’

‘Please, Frank – don’t mention the ‘B’ word. The way I’m feeling I don’t think I’ll ever be able to eat again.’

‘Suit yourself.’ He lifted his camera above his head and snapped a few shots of the man from the taxi as he disappeared through the revolving doors. ‘Oh yeah,’ he said, turning back to her. ‘There was some nugget of news I wanted to impart before I left.’ He unzipped his camera bag and squeezed the camera inside. ‘Not sure I want to tell you now – the mood you’re in.’

Angela planted her hands on her hips and waited.

He slowly zipped up the bag. ‘Not five minutes ago there was a buzz going around the tabloid hacks.’

She edged closer to him.

‘We’ve found out who discovered the body last night.’

‘And?’

‘Some woman called Caroline Barber. She’s a senior executive officer, apparently.’

‘Forget about her job title – did you get a picture of her?’

‘Might have done – probably got the whole department recorded for posterity.’ He waved the camera at her.

‘This needs a more direct approach.’ Angela slipped Frank’s cigarettes into her jacket pocket. ‘Honestly - if you want anything done properly...’ She pressed through the crowd towards the entrance and turned round when she reached the doors. ‘Are you coming or what?’

Frank raised his hand. ‘I’m off to check on that fire at Waterloo.’

‘Chicken!’

Once she was through the doors and into the reception area, Angela pulled a phone from her pocket and pretended to be deep in conversation. She paced up and down for a few moments, glancing around, checking the possible routes past security. She spotted a man carrying a briefcase who was making for a side door just to the left of the long reception desk. Without breaking her stride she followed him to the door, and passed through right on his heels. On the other side she found herself in a narrow carpeted area, emergency exit to the left and a staircase leading to the first floor in front of her. The man with the briefcase headed left. Angela looked up the stairwell; the stairs disappearing in a giddying blur several flights up. She glanced back at the man she’d followed in, just as he slipped through another door. She hurried after him and discovered another flight of stairs leading down to the basement. She heard a shout behind her.

‘Oi! What do you think you're doing?’

Angela hurried through the door without looking back. At the bottom of the stairs she was confronted with three more doors and no sign of the man with the briefcase. She hesitated for a moment too long.

‘Stop right there.’

She turned to see a potato-faced security guard struggling down the stairs. By the time he reached her he was panting.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘were you talking to me?’

‘Where’s your pass?’

‘My pass? Oh... yes... it’s just here... somewhere… I’m sure I put it…’ Angela made a show of patting her pockets and checking her bag. ‘I appear to have mislaid it. You won't tell will you?’ She fixed her mouth into what she hoped was a winning smile and thrust her chest towards him.

‘No one without a pass in the building. Especially not today.’

She peered at his name badge. ‘Now come on… Ed – I’m sure just this once you can make an exception. I’m already late for a meeting.’

The guard scratched his chin for a moment and looked her up and down, his gaze coming to rest just above the plunging neckline of her shirt. He turned a fraction and glanced back up the stairs. Angela spotted the early edition of the
Evening News
sticking out of the back pocket of his trousers. She edged backwards towards a door.

‘Who’s your meeting with?’ he finally said.

‘Caroline Barber.’ It was the first name that popped into her head.

‘She never mentioned she was expecting a visitor when I spoke to her earlier.’

‘You know Caroline? Oh well – if we’re both friends of Caroline’s – I don’t see a problem. You can just let me get to my meeting.’

The guard was nibbling at a piece of dry skin on his bottom lip. He let out a long halitoxic breath. ‘Nah.’ He shook his head. ‘Can’t be done. I’m sorry; you can’t just wander round the building without a security pass. We’ll have to go back to reception and get you another one. I can phone through to the academies division from there and let Caroline know you’ve arrived.’

Academies?
Now she really wanted to meet this Caroline Barber woman. Angela put a hand on his arm, lightly brushing her fingers along the wrinkles of his badly ironed shirt. ‘Congratulations!’ she said. ‘You've passed.’

‘What? What are you talking about?’

‘The security test.’ She smiled at him again. ‘I'll make sure your supervisor receives a glowing report.’

The guard stood a little straighter.

‘My paper does it from time to time. To all the major government departments. Especially at times of extreme stress and er… high security alert.’

‘What paper is that?’

‘The one you've got there. Would you like to make a comment about the shocking events of last night?’

He opened his mouth but hesitated, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

‘Were you by any chance actually in the building when the body was found?’

*

The open plan office on the seventh floor was busy with civil servants and management consultants, talking excitedly in small groups or crowding around computer monitors streaming Sky News. These people were standing not twenty yards from where Caroline had found Martin’s body,
gossiping
about his death and the PM’s resignation as if they were discussing the latest twists in a soap opera.

No one noticed her as she made her way slowly and steadily along the wall of cabinets she’d walked past in the dark the night before. Finally she reached the desk of Martin Fox’s PA, the chair tucked neatly underneath. Caroline scanned the office – there was no sign of Consuela. A man at the adjacent desk was pecking away at his laptop and didn’t look up as Caroline approached. A mobile phone sitting next to his elbow started to vibrate, and began working its way steadily towards the edge of the desk. He ignored it and continued typing.

‘Sorry to disturb you,’ Caroline said, a tremble in her voice she barely recognised as her own. Still he didn’t look up. ‘Do you know where I might find Consuela?’

Finally he stopped tapping and tore his gaze away from the laptop screen. ‘Who?’ The buzzing phone tipped over the edge of the desk and he deftly caught it left-handed, looking decidedly pleased with himself. He pressed a button on the mobile and tossed it back on the desk. ‘I’m sorry – it’s my first day. I’m still getting my head round all the names. Who did you say?’

‘Consuela.’

‘Is she one of ours, or KPMG?’

‘No – she’s not one of yours. Or theirs. She’s a civil servant, Martin Fox’s PA.’

‘Martin Fox? What, you mean the bloke who—’ A second mobile on his desk started to ring, he snatched it up. ‘I’ve got to take this, it’s really important… sorry.’ He turned away from her and barked his name into the phone, looking anything but apologetic.

Caroline checked Consuela’s desk – neither the monitor nor the computer was on and the normally overflowing in tray was empty. She slowly turned towards the minister’s room, expecting to see blue and white police tape strung across a padlocked door. But it was wide open. She crept towards it. Memory of the police constable’s words describing the little office as a ‘potential crime scene’ sent a rapid shiver across her shoulders. She stopped at the threshold, unable to enter, or even look inside.

Someone nudged her arm.

‘Excuse, please.’ One of the contract cleaners was standing next to her, the handle of a Henry vacuum cleaner gripped firmly in one hand, a bucket stuffed with bottles of spray disinfectant and dusters in the other.

Automatically, Caroline stepped to one side and the cleaner manoeuvred herself and her equipment through the gap. Caroline finally peered into the room and couldn’t believe what she saw. Apart from a set of empty bookshelves, a desk and a chair, the room had been completely cleared. She imagined dozens of little freezer bags, each one containing a small fragment of Martin Fox’s office – the whole of his professional life reduced to bundles of polythene bags neatly tucked away in a stack of cardboard boxes.

The cleaner found a socket on the far wall and plugged in the vacuum.

‘Wait!’ Caroline ran across the room and grabbed the woman’s arm. ‘You can’t clean in here. The police may need to search it again. For evidence.’

The cleaner tilted her head at Caroline as if she was staring at a lunatic. ‘Supervisor say clean room. I clean room. You want to make trouble for me?’ She looked down at Caroline’s hand, still gripping her arm. Caroline let go.

‘Who is your supervisor? I really don’t think you should be doing this. There must have been a mix up.’ She yanked the plug from the socket.

The cleaner let out a long sigh and shook her head, as if she had to deal with crazy civil servants all day long. She produced a mobile phone from a pocket in her overall and tapped in a number. When she was connected she rattled away in an eastern European language Caroline didn’t recognise. The woman jabbed the phone towards her. ‘Supervisor.’

The man on the other end explained slowly, as if he was talking to a small child, that his instructions had been given to him by the head of facilities management, who

had received his orders directly from the permanent secretary.

‘Are you sure?’

‘I’m just doing what I’m told to do. We got special instructions this morning.’

‘From the permanent secretary?’

‘That’s right.’

‘But who instructed her?’

Caroline heard the man at the other end exhale, losing his patience with her.

‘Maybe you should check with the police,’ she said.