He had also radically reviewed his position at the bank. The initial temptation had been, like Jeremy, to quit altogether and run away. But on reflection he had opted to stay, albeit in the newly created role of the “facilitator” of an operation in which all employees, male and female, were equals, paid the same wages for the same work, and all of whom were granted both free shares in the business and votes at all board meetings. Amazed at this volte face were the employees, but also enthusiastic, grateful, and according to all indices, more productive than ever before. Ex-colleagues in the shrinking City of London were astonished, some of its luminaries even themselves considering similar moves in order to counter the threat of extinction as the Brexit negotiations continued to flounder.
Magnus, now known as “Maggie,” was pleased. He hadn’t transgendered or anything, you understand, just changed his name. But he had grown what was left of his hair into something vaguely resembling Elvis’s—sideburns and a quiff—lost weight, and taken to wearing skinny black leather jeans, black T-shirts with logos such as PEACE AT ANY PRICE, and black brothel creepers specially crafted by a retro outfit called Old Shoes in Balham, South London. He had also sold his midnight blue Bentley—with a new battery—and donated the proceeds to charities for the homeless. These days, permanently sober and nicotine-free on doctor’s orders, he travelled by Lambretta motor scooter wearing a white crash hat from which sprouted a little flag bearing in red letters the message FREEDOM. A new man indeed was (Sir) Magnus Montague but, as noted, a near-death experience can have that sort of effect on a person.
His desire to discover the whereabouts of Jeremy Crawford, however, remained un-diminished, although now for quite different reasons. No longer did he wish to punish the “little blighter” for having gone bonkers and deserted his post at the bank, no siree. Instead he wanted to shake him by the hand and congratulate him on the wisdom of his decision to get out of the game while he was still young enough to make a new start, unlike (Sir) Magnus/Maggie who, despite his recent lucky escape, was nonetheless in what he thought of a life’s departure lounge. No spring chicken was he, despite his Elvis makeover. But he’d had no luck so far. Julie Mackintosh/Jackie Lamur was still as lost to the world as Jeremy himself, so hopes of finding him were fading fast on that front.
There had to be some other way, but what?
Even keener than Maggie to locate Jeremy was Clarissa the PM, “Post Mortem” as some of the more scurrilous organs in both the left- and right-wing press had taken to dubbing her. So keen she was unable to sleep at night without repeats of those damned dreams in which she is slaughtered by unnameable foes in terrible ways, including suspension by her heels over toilet bowls before being flushed down the S-bend with echoes of “Goodbye Cruel World” ringing in her waterlogged ears. Not great for a person in her position. Not great at all. Ergo the absolute need to find Jeremy Crawford fastest and brand him not her as the demon behind the nation’s woes, in pursuance of which objective she again called her Casanova.
“Answer the bally phone, will you. It’s me. Phoebe,” she hissed as the super-triple-encrypted number rang and rang before going to message.
“Pah! Some bloody secret agent,” she spluttered, pacing up and down her private Downing Street bedroom tugging at her hair while Maurice made his excuses to the company over supper at the Shepherd’s Hut, saying this was a call he’d have to take.
“Bit of a clichéd line, old boy,” said Barry through a mouthful of cheese and pickle. “Thought only B-list American movie PIs said that sort of thing. Still, if you must, you must.”
“It’s the PM,” said Maurice, laying aside a newly forked radish. “Probably wanting updates. I’ll get a better signal outside.”
Jeremy paled with a half-chewed frankfurter in his mouth. “You’re not going to tell her about…?” he managed to gurgle.
“Certainly not,” said Maurice, as Julie leaned over and took Jeremy’s hand.
“What are you going to tell her then?” she said.
“To get lost,” was Dennis’s advice, at which Maurice laughed.
“Not in so many words,” he said over his shoulder as he made his way to the door with the phone in his hand. “Although you can rest assured legerdemain shall play an important role in my shtick. Think Iago here.”
Barry smiled, amused to hear his protégé employing the sort of reference 007 could never have dreamt of.
“Sock it to her, old fellow,” he said, but Maurice had already closed the door behind him.
“Phoebe, what a pleasure,” he said after dialling the super-triple-encrypted number and holding the phone away from his ear until the torrent of staccato language blasting through it stopped. “And what can I do for you this evening?”
More torrential staccato language, much of it blurred by what Maurice took to be tears or fury or a combination of both. He was reminded of eyewitness reports from the West Wing of the White House when the baby man president was upset.
“Hello there Phoebe?” he said, in an attempt to stem the flow.
Which was when the prime minister of Great Britain, currently lying on the floor of her private Downing Street bedroom kicking her spindly legs in the air, gathered together what was left of her wits, remembered her Roedean training, and whispered, “That is you, Casanova?”
“The very same, ma’am. At your disposal.”
“Thank God for that. Getting a tad confused. I need help.”
“Too right you do,” thought Maurice, although he was too well bred to say so. Instead he said, “Anything I can do to be of assistance?”
“Tell me where the megalomaniac bonkers banker is,” was the reply, all the words run together so they sounded more like tell-me-where-the-megalomaniac-bonkers-banker-zzzz.
“I need him on board,” Phoebe added in a more or less coherent utterance.
“Ah, so that’s it,”
“Yesssss.”
“I’m close to him. Very close,” Maurice reassured her, not entirely untruthfully.
“Good. Good. Call me when you’ve got him. There’s work for him to do,” said Phoebe, reaching into the secret bedside table which contained not only high-percentage bottles of vodka and gin but also secretly prescribed packets of high dosage Valium pills, six of which she crammed into her mouth and swallowed before dropping her phone and crawling back into her bed. After all, she faced Prime Minister’s Questions in the House the next day and needed to be on top form.
Maurice sighed, pocketed his phone, and returned to his Shepherd’s Hut supper.
“Well, what did you tell her?” was the question on everybody’s lips.
“As much as she needed to know and no more,” said Maurice. “Don’t worry, I gave nothing away,” he added before outlining his worries over the PM’s mental health, for which everybody expressed (limited) sympathy.
“So she still doesn’t know where I am?” said Jeremy.
“No,” said Maurice.
“Well, that’s a relief, Iago. Jolly well your legerdemain must have gone down,” said Barry. “Anybody fancy a top-up of the burdock brandy as a digestive?”