State Sponsored Terror Page 14

  Drugging suspects and interviewees had become a vital weapon in the war on terror. It was not strictly legal, but as many of the suspects didn’t realise they had been drugged, that didn’t matter. The courts turned a blind eye to such behaviour, and drugs were now deemed to be an important plank in the effort toward bringing serious criminals to justice. It had worked so well on the Anderson case down in Southampton, that it had set a new agenda.

  The Andersons were drug runners and murderers who ruthlessly ruled the council estates that encircled that beleaguered city. The regular police had tried for years to break into their inner circle, to turn just one regular associate, but so frightened of the Anderson brothers were the underlings, no one would risk a squeal.

  Flunitrazepam changed all that.

  Foot soldiers, accountants, distributors, all succumbed to the drug, and once wakened, they couldn’t stop talking. The best bit was, by the following day they had completely forgotten everything that had been discussed, yet all that evidence was down on digital, video, audio - evidence the magistrates greedily listened to, lapped up, and decided upon.

  The Andersons were sent down for thirty years apiece, and all because of the beloved flunitrazepam. It had set a new benchmark. It had ushered in new, modern police methods that the SPATs alone had access to, so far. It set the SPATs apart, but there was nothing new in that. The SPATs were apart, special in so many ways, and Jarvis Smeggan was determined to maintain that superiority.

  Drugs, legal drugs, were rapidly becoming the policeman’s best friend, and besides, flunitrazepam had other uses, something that Jarvis Smeggan was experimenting with in his own time.

  IN THE PRESTON HOUSEHOLD, as the broadcast ended, Frank and Joss had been left alone in front of the TV. Frank’s parents imagined their son and the smart daughter of The Messenger reporter were now a courting couple, and they were clever enough to realise that Frank had landed a corking girl in Joss Cornelius. It was as close as they had ever been to having a real live celebrity in the family, and they loved all that.

  As far as they were concerned, their darling Frankie could do whatever he wished with her; and under their roof too, with their blessing. They had already made it clear to him that if he ever wanted some time alone with her, to let them know. It was almost as if they were standing on the sidelines urging him onward. Go on my son, at a boy!

  AT THE CORNELIUS HOUSE on the smarter side of town, Donald had been put protestingly to bed.

  ‘So,’ said Eve, snuggling closer to her mother, ‘what do you think of our Thelma, mum, the PM?’

  Jemima weighed her words carefully.

  ‘She is charismatic and clever, that is all too obvious, but I suspect she is also scheming and devious. I wouldn’t trust her an inch, but don’t quote me on that.’

  ‘Joss thinks she’s great,’ said Eve.

  ‘Joss is mixing with decidedly odd company these days. I wouldn’t take what she thinks too seriously. She’ll grow out of it.’

  ‘Do you mean Frank Preston?’

  ‘Among others. Anyway, enough of Joss. What about you, Eve? Let’s talk about you for a change. What do you think of our incredible woman prime minister? Some thought that after Mrs Thatcher, we would never see another in our lifetime. But then we had Mr May....’ and she paused, and let that thought die on her breath.

  ‘I only have only one word to describe Thelma Bletchington, mum,’ said Eve, glancing down at her nails.

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Evil.’

  ‘Evil, darling? Really?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That wasn’t the word I expected. In what way?’

  ‘In any way you care to mention. The woman is evil, and it will all end in tears. Mark my words. Can I have a bath?’

  ‘Course you can, darling.’

  ‘I’ll go up now. I want to be back down by the time dad comes home. I want to hear everything he has to say.’

  ‘You and me both, kid.’

  AT 20 BLUE REEF POINT, as the broadcast ended, Martin switched off the TV.

  ‘Well?’ he said. ‘How do you think Colin did?’

  ‘Truthfully?’ said Liz. ‘I think she ran rings round him.’

  ‘She did rather, didn’t she. I didn’t envy him that job. I rather thought that might be the outcome.’

  ‘Didn’t he look stupid at the start,’ said Liz, unable to stifle a giggle.

  ‘Kissing her hand like that,’ grinned Martin. ‘No way would I have done that. No way!’

  ‘He looked a plonker!’ said Liz.

  ‘I’ll tell you what, though,’ said Martin, ‘he’ll be made by that interview. He will become famous. That was screened all over the place. All over the world, come to think of it. Even if he got off to a shaky start, the name of Colin Cornelius will be on everyone’s lips. I wouldn’t be surprised if our Col became something of a celebrity.’

  ‘I think that is bound to happen,’ said Liz, ‘at the very least.’

  ‘Perhaps we should invite them to dinner?’ said Martin.

  ‘If you want, just give me plenty of notice.’

  ‘Yeah.... I’ll think about that,’ said Martin, though neither of them knew it would never happen.

  AT THE BIG HOUSE DOWN in Compton Acres in Canford Cliffs the strange couple of Martin’s mother, Sarah, and the young newly orphaned Adam Goodchild, had taken an odd liking to one another. It made a pleasant change for her to have someone in the house, for no one wants to live alone when they are old, or at any age for that matter, and she was no different. Adam looked out for her; he made her tea, and brought her things from upstairs whenever she had left her book or glasses on the wrong floor of the cavernous 1920’s detached house.

  ‘I suppose you like her?’ he said, sipping his tea.

  ‘I think she is the best thing to happen to this country since Mrs Thatcher, and probably since Winston Churchill,’ Mrs Reamse gushed. ‘What do the young people think of her?’

  Adam thought for a moment.

  ‘Split fifty-fifty. Half thinks she’s great, half thinks she’s awful, a menace, a fascist.’

  ‘Oh really! She is not a fascist.’

  ‘She damn well is.’

  ‘And you, Adam, what do you think?’

  ‘Can’t you tell? I think she’s awful, Mrs Reamse. Terrible. Really terrible. It will all end in tears, you mark my words.’

  ‘Those are strong words for one so young.’

  ‘The country seems to have embarked on a course that cannot possibly have a good ending. It is as if we are hurtling down a slippery slope toward hell itself. I worry for the future. I really do.’

  ‘Dear boy, don’t be so dramatic. You are far too young to be worrying about the future. There is no dire future ahead, and no hell either. Mrs Bletchington is doing her best to bring law and order and justice and safety to all the citizens of this great country. We need a period of stability, Adam. She has the obvious support of the vast majority of the country, and she has my support too.’

  ‘Well she doesn’t have mine, Mrs Reamse, sorry but no, and she never will have. We shall just have to agree to disagree.’

  IT WAS ALMOST ELEVEN o’clock when Colin finally arrived home. The regular police had stopped him three times, demanding to see the special exemption certification that allowed him on the streets after the VCS deadline. The first time he blurted out, full of enthusiasm, ‘I have been interviewing Mrs Bletchington on live TV. Didn’t you see it?’

  The coppers stared at him, unconvinced.

  ‘We are working mate. When do we get time to watch TV?’

  Colin thought better than to mention his newfound celebrity status after that. At home, he found his wife and younger daughter cuddled up together asleep on the settee.

  ‘Anyone for cocoa?’ he said softly.

  Slowly they came too, yawning and stretching like purring cats, as Colin prepared to lace the chocolate.

  ‘Go on dad. Tell us all about it,’ urged Eve, cupping her drink in b
oth hands, as they sat together on the settee.

  Colin glanced at Jemima. She nodded her approval to begin.

  ‘Well,’ he said scooping in a big breath, ‘it was like this...’

  Jemima and Eve smiled at one another, and then at him through happy eyes, and settled in for the night.

  Twenty

  There was no rock concert, there never had been. Joss did not like lying to her parents, but she knew they would never have allowed her to spend three days and nights at Frank’s house. It wasn’t as if she was sleeping with the boy, or anything like that. The Prestons had moved Frankie’s younger sister Tracey out of the little bedroom at the front of the house, enabling Joss to enjoy a room of her own, much to Tracey’s annoyance.

  Tracey was twelve, going on twenty. It didn’t stop Frank trying to muscle into the room too, a manoeuvre Joss countered with the age old, I’m tired and I’ve got a dreadful headache.

  On Saturday evening Joss and Frankie cuddled together on the settee. They were snogging again, something Joss was happy to do; though they both knew that Frank would push his luck and try it on. Frank’s parents were still out chasing groceries, while Tracey was running loose round the estate, larking about with her fifteen-year-old boyfriend.

  During a breathing break, Joss whispered, ‘There is something I want to talk to you about.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ said Frank, removing his hand from her bra and imagining all kinds of things, all beneficial to him. ‘What lover?’

  ‘You know that guy who came to see me from London?’

  ‘Mister Granger. What of it?’

  ‘He said, if I knew anything that might be beneficial to the Party, he might be able to get me excused from EWP duty.’

  ‘Yeah, so, what of it?’ said Frank, eager to get back into action.

  ‘Well, I might know something, though it’s probably nothing.’

  ‘Like what?’ Frankie grunted. ‘Come on Jojo, spill the beans.’

  ‘I don’t want to get dad into trouble, or anything.’

  ‘You won’t,’ said Frank encouragingly. ‘He’s an important man, your dad, it’s probably not even him they are interested in; it’s probably something to do with some of the people he is investigating. Your dad will be all right, trust me, I’m sure of it.’

  ‘I wish I could be so certain,’ whispered Joss, fixing her blouse, worried that Frank’s mum and dad might burst in at any moment.

  ‘So what is it?’ said Frank, as he pulled out his mobile phone and began scanning his messages.

  ‘Do you really think they would excuse me from the EWP? I don’t want to tell them anything, not unless it is worth my while.’

  ‘Course they will! I’m sure of it, but anyway, if you have a chance to help the Party and the government you should consider it a pleasure to help, a duty even, yep that’s it; it’s your duty to help. Besides that Joss, it will go down on your record, big brownie points for you, you’d be surprised, they don’t ever forget things, and good information can bring all kinds of rewards further down the line. Trust me on that, I know what I am talking about. So come on, tell us all about it kid. What’s on your mind, Popsicle?’

  The front door opened and Frank’s mother and father staggered into the house, heaving bread and potatoes and lavatory rolls, and yet more cheap pizzas and fizzy drinks for Frank and his new young lady.

  ‘I’ll tell ya later,’ whispered Joss, standing up and smoothing down her short skirt.

  ‘Don’t forget.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  AFTER DINNER THEY SAT and watched the obligatory Saturday night talent show on BBC1, all six of them, crammed together on the two settees. Young Tracey had brought her youth back, a spotty kid called Billy Burridge who seemed unable to string more than three words together. Tracey and Billy sat hunched up with Joss and Frankie, Tracey linking Billy’s arm, and smiling at the kid who seemed to have no inhibitions whatsoever.

  ‘This is nice,’ said Frank’s mum, ‘all of us together.’

  The kids looked at one another and muttered unconvincingly, ‘Yeah. S’pose.’

  ‘Well?’ whispered Frank, directly into Joss’s ear. ‘Tell me what you were talking about before.’

  ‘You certain dad won’t get into any trouble?’

  ‘Course I’m certain. I’m telling ya.’

  ‘All right,’ said Joss under her breath. ‘He meets people.’

  ‘Is that all? We all do that.’

  ‘No, I mean, he meets people in secret; in fact he will be meeting someone now as we speak, every Saturday night. A bloke it is, someone very special. He never tells us who it is, or what it’s about. Dad’s very nervous about it, I can tell. It’s all bloody odd.’

  ‘What are you two whispering about?’ said Mister Preston, glancing up from his paper.

  ‘Leave them be, Eddie,’ said his wife, ‘you were young once, or have you forgotten?’

  ‘Yeah, s’pose,’ he said, as he returned to The Messenger racing pages.

  ‘Carry on,’ whispered Frank, ‘Do you know where they meet?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Up on Hengistbury Head.’

  ‘Whereabouts?’

  ‘In that hut, right on the top.’

  ‘I know it. Queer and minging place it is; and an odd spot to meet.’

  ‘It is, but that’s another thing that make’s it all so bloody queer.’

  ‘And you don’t know who this guy is?’

  ‘Nope, I said so, didn’t I. Dad won’t tell me.’

  Frank stood up.

  ‘Where are you going?’ said Joss, feeling uncomfortable she had told someone else of her dad’s business.

  ‘Eh? Oh, the bog,’ he said, ‘need a leak, won’t be a mo.’

  In the bathroom he dropped his trousers and sat down and took out his mobile phone. He located Mister Granger’s number and pressed Call. Three seconds later the phone was answered.

  ‘Hello?’ rapped a man’s voice, cheerfully enough.

  ‘Mister Granger?’ whispered Frank.

  ‘Yeah, who is this?’

  ‘It’s Frank Preston, you remember from Christchurch?’

  ‘Course I remember, Frank, how could I forget our ace recruiter. How are you doing, my boy?’

  ‘I am fine. And you?’

  ‘I am very well. Couldn’t be better. Now what can I do for you?’

  ‘Sorry to bother you on a Saturday night.’

  ‘No bother at all,’ said Granger, staring down at his naked oriental wife. ‘Your timing is perfect, you can ring me any time you like,’ he schmoozed, tying up his dressing gown while winking down at the young woman. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘You remember Joss Cornelius?’

  ‘Course I do. Colin Cornelius’s daughter, that idiot who made such a pillock of himself on TV. She ran rings round him, didn’t she? Did you see it?’

  ‘I did, I thought she was brilliant.’

  ‘Always is, Frank, always is. Thank the Lord she is on our side. This Joss girl, you’re sweet on her, aren’t you?’

  Alone in the bathroom; Frank’s fat face flushed.

  ‘Yeah, something like that, a bit.’

  ‘She is a pretty girl, if memory serves,’ said Mister Granger, studying his wife’s curves, as she rose and dressed. ‘You could do an awful lot worse than her.’

  ‘I know. Anyway, the point is, Joss said, that you said, that if she had any useful information, she might be excused EWP duty.’

  ‘I might have said something along those lines, Frank, yeah. Why?’

  ‘She does know something.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Her father, this Colin Cornelius geezer, he meets people in secret. Someone special too, by all accounts.’

  ‘Does he now? Where and when and who?’

  ‘I don’t know who it is, and neither does she, but it’s in a hut up on top of Hengistbury Head.’

  ‘Hold on a minute, let me write this down.’


  Granger sat on the bed and grabbed a pen and notebook from the bedside table and began writing, as Chan returned and started to massage his impressive shoulders.

  ‘Go on Frank,’ he said, flexing his neck, ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘He meets this guy reg’lar like. Every Saturday night like clockwork.’

  ‘What time?’

  ‘That’s the point, right now, as we speak, this bleeding minute.’

  ‘In the hut up on Hengistbury Head, right?’

  ‘Correct. It’s probably nothing, but I thought you’d like to know.’

  ‘You’re damn right, Frankie, it’s probably nothing, but just as well you told me, boy, thanks a lot. You keep in touch now.’

  The connection to the Preston’s bathroom died leaving Frank staring at the phone. He grunted and pulled up his black trousers and flushed the loo.

  ‘You were ages,’ moaned Joss, as Frank returned, and she folded her arm through his.

  ‘Touch of the squits,’ he said, ‘I think it’s me mum’s cooking.’

  ‘What’s that?’ shouted his mother, hearing only part of the conversation.

  ‘Nothing, Ma,’ said Frank, ‘nothing for you to worry about.’

  GRANGER RANG SMEGGAN. Smeggan rang the Bournemouth office, and within minutes an unmarked car zipped from the SPATs garage located close to the University. It raced toward Southbourne, its headlights flashing, as it closed on Hengistbury Head.

  In the darkness, in the hut, Colin and Martin were exchanging their latest information. Colin was filling Martin in on every detail of his encounter with Thelma Bletchington. He confessed that she had excited him in ways that politicians rarely do, in ways that politicians were not supposed to do. He told Martin of Thelma’s efforts to persuade him to join the Party, the Prime Minister of Great Britain practically begging him, little Colin Cornelius from Christchurch, to join her and her crazy gang.