‘Charity isn’t the only thing that begins at home, Minister,’ Cavendish reminded him. ‘Our overseas responsibilities begin here as well. Something as Secretary of State for International Development you seem to take very lightly.’
‘Damn it Cavendish,’ he shouted, slamming his hand down on the desk top. ‘What are you trying to do? A little harmless, private fun and you poke your bloody noses in.’ He stopped. Cavendish was holding up his hand.
‘Your harmless, private fun resulted in the death of one of those girls. She was found in a rubbish skip not fifty yards away from where you sodomised and raped her; you and your companions. So don’t talk to me about private, harmless fun, Minister. You are in deep, deep trouble and will go to prison for a very long time.’
Cavendish was getting angry and it was the last thing he wanted to do. He also wanted the minister to have a clear head and be given an opportunity to redeem himself by cooperating and agreeing to what it was Cavendish had in mind. He wished he’d been lying about the girl being found dead in a rubbish skip; for all the good that men like the Cabinet Minister do for those poor girls, and the life they put them into, they might just as well be dead before they were used and abused.
‘But there is a way out for you,’ he told him, ‘for your own peace of mind and for the security of our country.’
The Minister looked up expectantly, his brow furrowing into deep creases. ‘What are you talking about?’ He snapped the question out, his demeanour now very much like the cornered animal that he was, and no longer the urbane, cabinet minister that was seen so often in the debating chamber of the House.
Cavendish had no pity for him or his ilk. All he wished to do was get the truth out of the man and then rid the country of the vermin that he was. It galled him to offer the minister a way out.
‘First of all Minister, I want the names of the two men who were with you during your little bit of fun, as you so describe it.’
The minister shook his head vigorously. ‘Out of the question; I don’t even know them.’
Cavendish looked at his watch. ‘You can begin by telling lies if you wish,’ he said, looking up, ‘but eventually you will tell me what it is I want to know.’
The minister stretched his hands out across the table; his manner more compliant. ‘Look, it’s the truth; I do not know those men. We have to arrive incognito and remain so, for obvious reasons.’ He dropped his voice a little. ‘But I can get their names for you. Would that be enough?’
‘That would depend how long it would take you.’
The minister drew his hands back and relaxed a little. He thought he recognised the beginning of the bargaining; the dealing that would be done in order to minimise the risk of exposure and subsequent scandal, to say nothing of a stretch in prison. He also thought he could see a way out of the danger he would undoubtedly face once others higher up the chain learned of his own misjudgement.
‘I could have the names by midnight,’ he told Cavendish.
The security man didn’t trust him, but ironically the cards were in the minister’s hands. If Cavendish had him arrested by Special Branch, the news would break immediately and be splashed all over the front pages. The Prime Minister would have no need to sack his Cabinet colleague because the minister would have resigned immediately, and the faceless ones, those who Cavendish was really after, would fade away into the background and put their operation on hold. No, arresting the minister would serve no useful purpose at the moment.
He looked at his watch again. ‘I will give you until this time tomorrow,’ he told the minister. ‘If you come up with those names and anything else you can tell me about them, I will withhold any action against you.’ He stood up. ‘I’ll be here tomorrow. Oh, and please understand that you will now be under surveillance until then? just in case you decide to skip the country.’
The minister didn’t bother to stand. ‘I won’t,’ he said. ‘You have my word on that.’ He watched as Cavendish left the office and immediately began considering the quickest and most effective way of silencing him.
SIX
Marcus was seated inside the Regent Restaurant when Susan walked in. He stood up immediately and waved at her from across the room. She half smiled when she saw him and came over to the table. Marcus thought she looked lovely. She had put on a coat to ward off the evening chill, but it was fitted and accentuated her figure. She had a white, beanie hat on, but unlike a lot of people Marcus had seen wearing them, it looked lovely on her and emphasised the brunette shade of her hair that curled from beneath it.
Susan unbuttoned her coat and pulled off the hat, tossing her head a couple of times to get her hair to fall naturally into place. She was wearing a black, turtle neck sweater which made it all the more difficult for Marcus to take his eyes off her. He took her coat and hung it on a coat stand that was close by.
Susan was just settling into her chair when Marcus came back. She looked up at him and smiled.
‘Thank you.’
Marcus sat down and asked her what she would like to drink. Susan said she would only have water, which was already on the table. He poured a glass for her and handed her a menu. Five minutes later the waiter had taken their order and they toasted each other’s good health; Susan with her water and Marcus with his small beer.
‘So, how did you get my phone number?’ Susan asked him.
He smiled at her disarmingly. ‘Dead easy; I followed you.’
Susan looked a little startled. ‘You what?’
‘When you left my office, I followed you. Once you reached your house, I went into an internet cafe and logged on to British Telecom. Simple.’ He couldn’t help looking a little triumphant when he had finished.
‘OK, so you got my phone number, but you wouldn’t be the first to have it.’ She sounded a little sharp with him. ‘And what is it you have to show me? The reason you made me come here?’
Marcus put his hand in his jacket pocket and pulled out a couple of photographs. He passed them over to Susan.
‘Recognise this man?’ he asked, pointing at the picture.
Susan looked through the photographs, then back up at Marcus. ‘This is Cavendish.’ There was surprise in her voice. ‘How did you?’ She stopped in mid sentence, then her shoulders drooped a little. ‘Of course, you went to the Foreign Office, right?’
Marcus shook his head and had a tight little smile on his face. ‘He doesn’t work at the Foreign Office. They’ve never heard of him.’
This brought Susan up straight. ‘Then how did you?’ She waved the photos at him. ‘How did you find him? Why did you find him?’
Marcus reached across the table and took the photographs from her.
‘Cavendish works in Intelligence. He is highly placed in MI6 and his name is Sir Giles Cavendish.’
Susan frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’
Just then the waiter appeared with the first course of their order. Susan had chosen pate. Marcus had plumped for soup.
‘When you told me how Cavendish had contacted you, how he had met you and all that,’ Marcus said between mouthfuls, ‘it struck me as most odd. You couldn’t call him back because his number was withheld; he knew you as soon as you went into Starbucks, didn’t give you his phone number but gave you a long story about the diplomatic bag.’
Susan took a bite of toast. ‘You thought of all this while I was talking to you?’
‘I wrote it down.’
‘You were doodling.’
‘Sez you!’
‘Well,’ she said through a mouthful of crumbs, ‘you’re crafty.’
He finished his soup, pushed his plate away and dabbed his mouth with his napkin.
‘The question is, Susan; why did he do it?’