Chameleon - A City of London Thriller (26 page)

“
You’re still
young. You’re an attractive woman.”

Angela smiled
at the compliment and pre empted the question.

“
Les didn’t
kill himself, you know,” she blurted out. Pete showed his
surprise.

“
Nah. He was
way too selfish for that. I remember the day, though. He had been
setting traps on the estate and he came home grinning all over his
face, and, standing right over me, he rubbed his groin where his
trousers were damp and said two words, ‘Young meat’. I tell you,
Pete, I nearly killed him myself. Not for my benefit, but I
couldn’t bear to see another life ruined.

A little while
later he went out to clear his traps and he never came back. I
called Nick to ask if he knew what was going on. Let’s face it, his
niece was fourteen, pretty as a picture and the only young teenager
in the village. Nick told me that Les had assaulted Gillian and had
committed suicide out of remorse. With more than a little help from
Nick, I suspect. That little girl was the light of Nick’s life.
Anyway, suicide or no suicide, Les Vaughan didn’t deserve to live
and so there was no sorrow in the village at his passing, just
relief.”

Tears flowed
down her cheeks and her shoulder shook as she continued speaking
through sobs.

“
I loved him
you know, and yet I still wonder how anyone could love a bastard
like that. I couldn’t bring myself to go to his funeral because,
for all that he did, and was, I still loved him and I didn’t want
to be seen to shed a tear for him in public.” She broke down, and
Pete pulled her into his shoulder with his arm around
hers.

***

Pete had
calmed Angela. It had taken fifteen minutes but she was now back to
her ebullient self. Even her Geordie accent was making a
comeback.

“
Here, it’s a
long way back to London. Take a couple of these.” As Geordie
watched, Angela rolled a mini quiche and a corned beef pasty into a
sheet of greaseproof paper.

“
I made them
myself. Don’t know why, really, I rarely eat them.
Pete?”

She paused and
handed him his packed lunch, looking up at him.

“
None of this
is going to hurt Gillian, is it? I mean, I know you are a close
security operative, it says so on your card, but she isn’t in
trouble, is she?”

Pete thought
about the answer and lied to Angela for the first time.

“
No, we’re
helping her meet up with her father. They’ve been separated for too
long.”

Angela’s
expression changed from one of concern to one of peace. She lifted
her hands to either side of Pete’s face and drew his face down to
hers. Standing on the tips of her toes, she kissed him softly but
fully on the mouth.”

The tough
bodyguard blushed.

“
It’s not
often I get kissed by a handsome man these days,” Angela
murmured.

“
I didn’t
recall kissing anyone; I thought I was the one being kissed,” he
replied rather ungallantly, but with a smile on his
face.

“
Well, when
you live in a village called Stratfield Turgis, you take your fun
where you find it,” she said in defence of her actions.

Geordie gave
Angela a last hug and then set off to find the Chameleon, and he
thought he knew a good place to start.

Chapter
3
4

Security
Service Director General’s Office, Thames House, London. Wednesday,
Noon.

Barry had been
in this office only twice before and in both cases he had left the
office with a demotion. This time he was on sure ground. He had
solid evidence that his employer’s representative had not only
bullied and discriminated against him in the workplace - cause
enough for unfair dismissal - but it was about to become common
knowledge that the Director had been sleeping with Barry’s wife.
The service would want to sweep that tawdry mess under the
rug.

Monica
Stewart-Smith could now legitimately claim the title Dame of the
British Empire. The award had been made just a year before for
services to Her Majesty’s Government. She had spent her career in
the security services and had been a surprise appointment when the
last incumbent, a Labour government toady, lost the coalition’s
confidence after wholly misreading the public appetite for
increased security and reduced freedom.

‘
Ballbuster’,
as the DG had been known since the 1980s, had shattered the glass
ceiling long before anyone had known there was such a thing. Unlike
the ‘boys’ club’ that ran MI5 in the 1970s, Monica had known that
the fourth and fifth man would eventually have to be exposed, and
so she planned her career accordingly. Well placed memos and
reports naming them were sent and ignored, but once the two men
were exposed her memos mysteriously came to light and she appeared
to Margaret Thatcher, the current PM, to be a prophet whose
predictions were both accurate and troubling.

The PM was
keen to promote a woman to high office in the security service but
the Home Secretary was having none of it, until Peter Wright blew
the lid off the security services’ culture of secrecy. Faced with
overwhelming pressure, the Home Secretary gave in and Monica
Stewart-Smith became the agency’s first female director. Sidelined
during the Labour years, she bided her time and at the ripe old age
of sixty two she replaced the DG, who had unfathomably been
promoted after the Iraq ‘sexing up’ affair.

In another
era, ‘Ballbuster’ would have been out in the field terrorising
Eastern Bloc spies, but today hers was the task of ensuring that
MI5 survived as a separate entity, despite a recent government
report suggesting that all of the security services could be merged
to save millions of pounds every year. She knew that bad publicity
would give her enemies the ammunition they needed to close down an
organisation which many in high places believed had become too
powerful.

The DG’s
office was fussy and feminine. Pictures of small children graced
the wide expanse of desktop, and gifts from foreign counterparts
were tastefully displayed. An Apple Mac Desktop with a TV sized
screen stood at one corner. White and sleek, its workings were all
enclosed in the monitor screen and so it needed no base unit. A
matching wireless mouse and keyboard completed the IT
picture.

There’s no way
in the world that set up is in compliance with IT policy, Barry
thought uselessly.

“
OK, Mr
Mitchinson.” The voice would have been unexpectedly light and
attractive to anyone who had not heard it before. It did not match
expectations. “We have a problem.”

The Director
General stared at Barry and continued without referring to notes.
“Chief Inspector Brabham from the Metropolitan Police has informed
me that Gordon’s death looks to have been a suicide. He wrote a
note on his computer using a keyboard which contained only his
prints. No one went in or out of his office during the critical
period. The man clearly felt that the ‘Chameleon’ would try to
repay his attempted assassination of her by exposing him to the
press and anyone else who would listen. He was also having regular
sex with your wife and other unsuitable women. God only knows what
he let slip in post coital pillow talk.

Now, most
other occupants of this seat would simply buy you off with a
promotion and apologise for one of our own destroying your
marriage. But not me.”

Barry wasn’t
merely shocked; he was stunned by the way events were
unfolding.

“
Mr
Mitchinson, I am minded to let you go. You could talk to the press,
but I would ask you to remember your obligations under the official
secrets act. You could claim unfair dismissal, but we both know
that you won’t do that. You have far too many skeletons in your own
cupboard.” The woman removed her half moon spectacles and glared at
Barry.

“
So, please,
don’t tempt me to go public with what I know.” She lifted the
glasses and placed them back on her nose, halfway down so that she
could look over them.

“
Here is my
one and only offer to you. You are suspended on full pay whilst the
investigation into this suicide examines the Director’s
relationship with your wife. You ensure you let your wife know you
forgive her and that you wish to make a go of life as a married
couple. Whether you want to or not is irrelevant to me. Now is not
the time for a messy divorce citing a suicidal MI5
Director.

Finally, you
find Gillian Davis and ensure that, through incentives, debriefing,
rendition, or whatever it takes, she does not feel the need to
unburden herself to the media. If she does, I guarantee you that
you will lose your job, your wife, your home and everything you
hold dear. You created the monster, you deal with the
monster.

Report back to
me in four weeks with your assignment fulfilled and you will find
yourself in a plum appointment anywhere in the world you wish, as
long as it is somewhere where you can’t do any harm. Perhaps
Maureen Lassiter would be able to accompany you.”

With that
single sentence Barry realised that, whilst the police might see a
suicide, Monica Stewart – Smith suspected a murder. Luckily, the
victim had been something of an embarrassment, and so the Director
General was prepared to sacrifice justice for the continuation of
her beloved MI5.

“
I was
wondering if I might take early retirement, actually, given the
intolerable embarrassment I would inevitably face if I returned to
work after the suspension.” Barry knew he was pushing his
luck.

“
Barry - may
I call you Barry? From what I know of you, I believe you to be the
kind of deceitful, incompetent low life we needed so badly in the
cold war but whom we now need no more. Nonetheless, you complete
your assignment and I guarantee that you will receive a pension
that would make a banker blush.”

Barry smiled
and Dame Monica looked down at a document on her desk.

“
Now, get out
of my office,” she snarled.

Chapter
3
5

Number 1,
London Bridge, London. Wednesday, Noon.

It had been a
busy morning and Dee was exhausted by her efforts to keep up with
the young movie star, who seemed to have a Victorian work ethic.
People may criticise these young stars and say that they are
spoiled, or that they have an easy life, but Dee knew that Katie
Norman worked hard, and as a result she spent her days racing from
meeting to meeting.

“
I simply
cannot be in London for four days without visiting JJ,” she had
announced after a dress fitting in the Savoy Hotel, where she had
dropped her bags after the long flight, showered, tried on a
borrowed dress for that evening and stuffed her face with
croissants slathered with orange marmalade.

The driver
pulled up at the rear entrance of Number 1, London Bridge. The
London Dungeon was located opposite, and Katie looked at the
waxwork experience with longing, before deciding she just did not
have time to visit one of her favourite tourist venues. It wasn’t
so much the exhibition that she remembered as much as the fact that
it had been the last time they had enjoyed a day out as a family
before her parents’ divorce. Her dad was now her part time adviser,
whilst retaining his job as a University Lecturer, and her mum was
busy with her new French husband and family. She didn’t really see
enough of either of them or her adorable baby sister, Cosette. But
that couldn’t concern her now.

The office
building loomed over them as they entered at basement level and
took the long escalator to ground level. As they stepped up the
moving staircase people looked, glanced away and then looked again,
just to confirm this was indeed Katie Norman, better known as Clara
Campbell from the blockbuster film series.

A few seconds
later Dee stood with Katie as a security man signed the two women
in. He explained that he would have to announce them and obtain
permission for their unscheduled visit. Katie smiled sweetly and
said that she wanted it to be a surprise, and if he would let them
in she would pose for a picture with him. A moment later the man
was around the visitors’ side of the desk and Dee was taking a
photo of Katie and her new friend on his mobile phone.

“
Thank you so
much, you have been very sweet,” Katie crooned as she pecked the
man on the cheek. He almost melted back into his chair.

“
Seventh
floor, Upstream Tower,” the guard managed to say as he regained his
composure. The two companions took the elevator in the Upstream
Tower and left the dark marbled lobby behind.

***

JJ, as he was
known to Katie, or more correctly J Jackson Bentley, was absorbed
in his writing when they arrived at the door to his office. His
gaze never lifted from the computer monitor. But he sensed a
presence at the open door.

“
What is it,
Lucy?” he asked, assuming it was his PA at the door.

“
I was
wondering if you could invent another character for me. She’d have
to be a bit older now, of course.”

His face lit
up at the sound of Katie’s voice, and he stood up to collect her in
his open arms as she raced across the office. Dee smiled and looked
through the large picture window situated right behind the famous
author. From that vantage point she could see the north bank of the
Thames, St Paul’s, the Gherkin and the rest of the city. Off to the
side Dee could see Tower Bridge and the Tower of London. It was an
office view to die for, and one which was probably only affordable
to a best-selling author.