Exposure (15 page)

He had made his own future, and he owed nothing to anyone.

‘No, darling,' he said, ‘I was just being lazy.'

‘You shouldn't work so hard,' she murmured, leaning against him, one arm round his shoulders. He had a warm, comforting smell, a mixture of aftershave and cigar smoke. When she was a little girl she used to insist that she would marry him when she grew up. It made him roar with laughter. He used to swing her up in the air and say, ‘Shall I get rid of Mummy, then?' She always said yes, with great vehemence.

‘Who's going to pay the bills if I don't work?'

‘Don't tease. I'm serious. You come in here to sleep because you're tired. You shouldn't have to.'

‘I come in here to get away from your mother and her bird-brained friends,' he retorted. ‘So many women are so stupid. And men. I listen to them sitting round my dinner table talking cock, and I can't believe it sometimes.'

‘Why do you let her do it?' his daughter said angrily. ‘You come home to relax and she has dinner parties and lunch parties and there's never any time for you to put your feet up.'

‘She enjoys it,' he explained. ‘She likes being social. And sometimes it's useful. What did you think of that fellow Leo Derwent? Was he interesting?' He'd watched Gloria talking to the Junior Minister for Trade and Industry during dinner. He might enter into Gloria's conspiracy against her mother, but he told his wife who to include in her guest list, and the rising politician was one of them.

There were murmurs about his addiction to tying up his girlfriends and beating them. Low murmurs, but they'd come to King's ear through Joe, who knew what he called the Service industry inside out.

Leo Derwent liked S and M. So King suggested that Joe might make some amenable ladies available, and two of them were among the guests that weekend. One of them had already made a mark with the minister, and just to camouflage the ploy, King told Marilyn to seat him next to Gloria at dinner. And, to whet the appetite, the sultry lady was placed opposite.

‘He was banging on and on about the
Sunday Herald
,' his daughter said. ‘He says Western is running a campaign to discredit him because he's against a Federal Europe. He was quite paranoid about it; he says they've run through articles criticizing his handling of various issues where he showed bias against Brussels. Now he says they've started some Insight-type feature and he told me he'd met the woman heading it when he went to the Westerns' house about five years ago.' Harold King sat up, moving his daughter's encircling arm away.

‘Did he?'

‘Yes, he talked about it all through dinner. Ego. Ego – they're all the same.'

‘Politicians' disease,' he remarked. ‘Big heads and little minds. What did he say about this feature? It's called “Exposure”. There's been a lot of hype about it in the
Herald
, but they haven't run a story yet.'

‘Well, he thinks they'll have a go at him.'

‘He's not that important,' King muttered. ‘He says a woman's heading up this feature – they haven't come out with any names.'

‘Julia Hamilton – she's one of their stars. He said she was a tough bitch when he met her.' Her father got up, heaving himself out of the deep chair.

‘Hamilton? She's a news reporter … How the hell would he know that?'

Gloria had a flawless memory. She stored everything she thought would be of interest to her father.

‘Because he was having a drink at the House with some political journalist filling in for Warburton. Said he used to be her boyfriend but they'd split up. She'd got this high-powered job. Creepy said the ex had had a few drinks, and was throwing hints about her having a go at some VIP. He's sure it's him!' She laughed at the folly and conceit of the man. Like her father, she had scant respect for human beings in general, and cold contempt for human frailty.

‘Julia Hamilton,' her father said. ‘We saw her at Mario's when we had dinner last month. Redhead.' His face was set and he was frowning.

‘I remember. She was giving you hate looks. I mentioned it.'

‘You did,' he agreed. ‘You did. Go back to the party, darling. Say I've had to take a business call and I'll be with you as soon as I can. Be nice to Leo Derwent. He could be useful to me.'

‘He was getting stuck into that girl Freda who came with Ted Ellis. I don't think he'll want to talk to me. I'll try.'

Freda was the bait sent down by Joe. A very high-class, educated call girl who brought a touch of genius to her act of sexual humiliation. The junior minister was hooked. King found himself a cigar and sucked hard on it, bringing the end to a glowing red.

Julia Hamilton. Heading a team of investigative journalists. He knew the
Herald
promotion by heart.
Watch out for ‘Exposure'. Watchdog of the nation
. Joe had found nothing in her flat but scrap paper with some jotted timetable for a flight to Germany. And the contact number for the boyfriend. The ex, who'd talked to Leo Derwent.

It was time he asked him a few questions. He got Joe on his car phone. Joe listened, not interrupting. Then he said, ‘Yes, don't worry, leave it with me. Is it urgent? I need a few days to set it up. Oh, OK, no problem. How are my toms doing?'

They were hand picked, and they had clear instructions: aim for the one guy and don't mess with anybody else.

‘Freda's taken his fancy,' King snapped. ‘She knows not to fuck him in my house?'

‘Jesus, no, she wouldn't do a thing like that – I told her …' Joe sounded shocked at the idea. King liked a varied sex life himself, but his home was sacred. Must be the generation, he thought. And the foreign background. He changed the subject hastily. ‘I'll meet up with our boyo. I'll try it the easy way first time.' King cleared the line.

‘Julia Hamilton.' He said it out loud. Something was in the wind, and he scented it like an animal. He went out of his library to mix with his guests. He made a show of being loud and self-important, dropping names and puffing on a huge cigar. He played the vulgarian and the power figure with the skill of an actor. He dominated them all.

In his modest sitting room in Nessenberg, the President of the town's Veterans' Association was finishing his confidential report on the English visitors and their examination of the Control Commission's 1949 file to his contact in Stuttgart. Munich had a core of pro-Nazis and was under close police surveillance. His contact had been changed to Stuttgart. He went through it, checking everything, and then sealed it. It would go by Express Special Delivery on Monday morning. Stuttgart would route it through from there. He didn't know its final destination, and he didn't permit himself to wonder. He had done his duty to their benefactor. That was enough.

5

‘There's no death certificate. Nobody called Koenig died in the borough during that year or the following two years. They checked, just to make sure.' Julia shook her head. ‘I don't know what to make of it.'

Harris played with his glasses, turning them round so that the lenses caught the light. ‘Any joy from medical records?'

‘Not yet; one local practice had no records, everything was cleared out when they rebuilt the surgery – just our luck if she was a patient there – they're working on two other practices that were operating at the time. We know,' she went on, ‘we know she had an accident because there were witnesses. But there's only
his
word that she died afterwards. So what happened to her?'

‘Wait for the medical check,' he suggested. He sat forward suddenly. ‘Accident victims go to the local hospital. Get someone over to the Putney Royal and the Hammersmith. They may have chucked out stuff forty years ago, but it's worth a try.'

‘Thanks, Ben. I'll put someone on it now. And I bought you a present.'

‘Present? What for?'

‘To stop you breaking your glasses,' Julia said. ‘Here, put them in this.' It was a dark leather sleeve; he knew by the feel of it that it was expensive.

He fitted his glasses inside and put them in his breast pocket.

‘I'm not used to presents. What do I say?'

‘Nothing,' Julia smiled at him. ‘Stop looking grumpy because you're embarrassed.'

‘I'm pleased,' he said. ‘Really. Thanks. I've got to get back to my office. Meet me afterwards?'

‘We can start at the pub,' she suggested. ‘Then you can take me home and introduce me to your cat.'

She met Felix going down in the lift; they hadn't encountered each other since he'd left the flat. ‘Hi,' he said as she got in. ‘Nice to see you.' He looked cool and friendly, without a hint of awkwardness. Julia felt herself stiffen at the sight of him.

‘Nice to see you, too,' she said. ‘How's it going?'

‘It's going well. Matter of fact, I'm off to meet some tout who says he's got inside info on a front-bencher. Something juicy.'

Julia said coldly, ‘You know Warburton doesn't deal in that kind of thing.'

‘I know – he's a stuffy old fart, that's why. I'm going along to see what this creep's got to offer. I'll have to put him down to expenses.'

He laughed, and as the lift doors opened, he pushed out ahead, calling over his shoulder, ‘Bye, Julia – see you!'

Julia followed slowly, watching him stride down towards the car park. There had been no spark left. He had become a stranger, a man she couldn't relate to; a reminder, she admitted, of a period in her life when she'd allowed sexual dependence to sway her judgement.

It wasn't Felix's fault; she was older and should have put an end to the relationship before it deteriorated.

Now a very different man had come into her life. They were drawn closer by work and respect for each other's talents. And making love to Ben was a mutual experience, not a male dominance that satisfied a baser instinct in her nature. Perhaps she'd had a need to submit to Felix because of the imbalance in their ages and their finances. She hadn't considered that before, and it surprised her. Working on the enigma of Harold King, complemented by the acute mind and experience of Ben Harris, she had become more intuitive, more self-aware. She walked to the pub where they usually met after work, and she was looking forward to seeing him. The anticipation made her happy; it was an odd feeling, to be happy because you were about to meet a man who'd only left you a few hours ago. To want to see his pet cat that he brought in off the street. And to spend the night with him and eat breakfast with him in the morning. She pushed her way through the bar, and he was waiting for her.

Felix thought he'd never seen such a sleaze-bag in his life. The expensive trendy clothes didn't deceive him, or the phony Irish-American accent.

He took an instant dislike to the man with his smooth talk, and the over-chummy manner. ‘I'm Joe,' he had introduced himself. ‘Joe Patrick. Pleased to meet you. What'll you have?'

‘Beer,' Felix said, looking round. He wasn't familiar with the Soho pub his caller had suggested. It was wallpapered with old boxing posters and photographs of fighters posing with some tubby little jerk he supposed was the publican.

‘Ever been here before?' Joe Patrick asked him.

‘No,' Felix said. He sipped his beer. Joe Patrick had a straight whiskey without ice. ‘Who put you on to me?' Felix asked him.

‘Journalist friend of mine. I was telling him the story and he said you were the guy to talk to; so I called. I think you'll find it interesting.'

‘What's it going to cost me?' Felix finished the beer. ‘My boss doesn't print your kind of information, so it's got to come out of my own pocket.' Like fuck, Joe smiled to himself. He had formed his own judgement of Mr Felix dick-head Sutton. He'd been the journalist's fancy boy till she threw him out. Big-headed, macho pig with his brains in his crotch. Looked as if he'd boxed or played rugger, with that broken nose. Joe put his head on one side. ‘Is that straight? You'd be paying yourself?' Felix nodded. ‘Well …' Joe pretended to hesitate. Then he gave Felix a broad smile, displaying the fine white teeth that had been grafted on to his own stumps. ‘I'll make a special deal with you. We might be useful to each other. Fifty quid, cash.'

‘Let's hear the story first.'

Joe raised a manicured hand with a big gold ring on the middle finger. ‘Fifty quid on account and five hundred if you print it. That's fair, isn't it?'

‘Fair enough,' Felix nodded. He took the hand held out to him in token of a pact agreed between men of their word.

‘What's the dirt, then?'

‘Over here,' Joe suggested, leading the way to a small table. ‘We can talk here. I'll start with the name.'

Felix looked up quickly. A leading member of the Commons, no less. Subscribing to a paedophile mailing service. Videos, porno photographs, some of the children were three and four years old. ‘Very, very nasty stuff,' Joe murmured in mock disapproval. His journalist friend – he was a freelance, and his market was strictly tabloid – he'd heard it from a contact in the Vice Squad. They were watching the man after his name had been found on a list kept by a well-known Dutch supplier. Some of the dirt had been confiscated in the post. Then the word came down. Kill it; he'll be given a private warning, but there's heavy pressure not to show him up, or there'll be repercussions that'll hit the other side on the front benches. The copper thought there might be some money in it, if a suitable market could be found.

‘If he works for the tabloids,' Felix interrupted, ‘why not go to them? They'd love a Scotland Yard cover-up sex-and-scandal story on a politician.'

‘They wouldn't touch it,' Joe insisted. ‘Same pressure. It's a powder keg, this one. These pricks are in some very high places. So I thought of you. Your paper's doing “Exposure”, aren't you – I've read all the advance hype and it seemed just the sort of thing you'd latch on to. You're not scared off by the heavies … What'd you think?'