The Hunt and the Kill Page 27

  They sat in silence, remembering the sprint out of the laboratory, the terrified dash to Henke’s truck. And Henke, abandoned somewhere out in the reserve.

  ‘We can’t get back into the house in Llandudno either,’ Casey said. ‘I imagine that the posse of bodyguards will stay there now, with their guns and everything. I don’t think we can risk it … ’

  ‘We certainly bloody can’t.’ Zac was firm. ‘Absolutely no way.’

  ‘But what do we do?’ Casey cried out. ‘How do we work it out?’

  57

  It seemed impossible that it was only lunchtime. Zac stood and walked over to the minibar. He pulled out two tiny bottles of vodka, grimaced and shoved them back into the fridge.

  ‘Wait there.’

  He was back a few seconds later with a large bottle of rum, still in a garish duty-free bag.

  ‘Enough,’ he said, unwrapping it. ‘That’s enough for today.’

  They sat on the balcony, enjoying the heat of the sun. Casey could feel her limbs stiffening up, the cut on her leg throbbing.

  ‘They both so desperately wanted it to be real, didn’t they?’ said Casey. ‘Garrick wanted a father. And Bailey … Bailey wanted a son.’

  ‘I know,’ said Zac. ‘I can see that now.’

  ‘Bailey couldn’t just cast Jeanie to one side, either. Not out here. Her parents wouldn’t have put up with that.’

  I know the McElroys, of course.

  ‘No. So she was half protected, half punished.’

  ‘What was she like?’ Casey asked. ‘Jeanie.’

  ‘She was sweet, kind, wore great clothes. I thought she was wonderful. A crush, I suppose. But it’s odd, isn’t it? The difference between a child’s perspective and an adult’s,’ Zac said slowly. ‘As a child, I just knew that Jeanie was a single mother, trying to make it all work. I suppose I knew that she didn’t have a job, so there must have been someone somewhere paying for the house and the school and all the rest of it. But I didn’t really think about it.’

  ‘And you didn’t question it as you grew up. But when you stop and think about it as an adult, it looks different.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘Now I look back and wonder,’ said Zac. ‘Whether it might have been better for Jeanie to fly the gilded cage?’

  ‘Elias encouraged a dependence, you mean? From both her and Garrick?’

  ‘Subconsciously in Garrick’s case, but, yes, Jeanie always shaped herself to other people’s lives rather than forge her own way, and I suppose that is what Garrick does too. He tells you what you want to hear. And if you do that long enough … ’

  ‘Half truths,’ said Casey. ‘The worst sort of lie.’

  ‘But we were friends for so long … ’

  ‘Yes. Friendship, a sort of habit.’

  ‘You get used to being friends,’ he said. ‘That shared history. The jokes that were funny twenty years ago, and told a thousand times since. Friendship is idealised, isn’t it? And then one day, you stop and think: what do we actually have in common? French lessons with Mrs Thomson and that time we hammered Ipswich 66–9.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Garrick was the only person who came to visit me in Mauritius,’ said Zac. ‘He was the only one who could, of course. And when he was out there, it just struck me how different we were now. We started off in the same place, but we’d gone off in different directions. I was enjoying my life in Mauritius, of course. But … ’

  Drewsteignton’s scholarship boy, Casey thought. Zac had gleefully snatched up the yacht, the house, the dream. The trappings everyone else had all along. But by the time Professor Jalali had called, perhaps it had started to pall.

  ‘I never meant to stay out there forever,’ said Zac. ‘A few years maybe.’

  ‘A few years can become a lifetime.’

  ‘Not for me.’ He was certain, shaking his head. Then his face lit up with a smile. ‘I was bored.’

  The last word was almost a shout.

  ‘Not bored now.’

  ‘No. I think Jeanie convinced herself she was doing it all for Garrick,’ said Zac, taking another swig of rum. ‘But it might have been better for Garrick if she had struck out on her own.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘My mother,’ Zac laughed, changing the mood, ‘always fought her own battles.’

  For a second, there was an old photograph, clear in Casey’s mind. The beach in Cornwall on a hot summer’s day. A primrose cottage, thatch a sunbonnet. Ice cream: scoops of pistachio and strawberry and mint choc chip. Sticky trickles of pink and green and brown.

  Red and white sandals, a little blue bucket and two figures, smiling at the camera, eyes screwed up against the sun.

  Her mother, overexposed in the sunlight, with her arm around a small girl.

  There had never been a photograph of the three of them, she realised. He took all the photographs, always.

  But her mother was smiling.

  Smiling at the person behind the camera.

  A happiness so close she could almost touch it.

  But still: that smile, almost forgotten.

  She must have fought so hard, Casey realised, quite abruptly. A pupil in one of the grandest barrister’s chambers, awed by the QCs. Especially back then: thirty years ago and coming from nowhere.

  She must have clawed her way up, tiger-eyed. Because no one would have made it easy. Not for her. Not then.

  And one day …

  And there was no one to catch her, either.

  ‘What did your mother do?’ Zac interrupted the silence.

  ‘She worked,’ Casey said quietly. ‘She worked very hard.’

  Punctual. Good typing speeds. Neat sandwiches packed every day.

  And a smile lost somewhere in Cornwall.

  But she survived, Casey thought, with a sudden pride. On her own. And that must have taken a sort of bravery.

  ‘She fought for you.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Casey simply. ‘She did.’

  58

  Zac leaned forward, pouring her another drink. When he looked up, his face was just a few inches from hers, and for a second, they stared at each other.

  Then the phone beside Casey’s bed rang, loud and demanding. She stood up, walked back into the room and answered the phone wearily.

  ‘Hello, Casey.’ Miranda sounded bouncy, energetic, normal. ‘We’ve fronted up Drummond.’

  Casey fought to remember: the health minister, a gaudy range of ties, and have you ever thought about making a donation to the party?

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Casey managed. ‘What did Drummond have to say?’

  She turned away from Zac, trying to concentrate on Miranda’s voice.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Miranda asked. ‘You sound … knackered. And your phone is dead.’

  ‘I’m fine.’ Casey shoved away the exhaustion, the injuries and the rum. ‘I’ll have to get a new phone. What was that about Drummond?’

  ‘He wouldn’t say anything over the phone.’

  ‘Oh.’ That was normal. You’ll hear from my lawyers before the phone was slammed down. Some cried. Others begged. Casey dreaded that, always.

  ‘Drummond’s coming into the office.’

  ‘He’s what?’ Casey thought that she had misheard.

  ‘I know. All a bit odd. Anyway. We’ll meet him in the little conference room upstairs. Keep him away from the newsroom. Do you want to watch?’

  Casey’s mind was moving slowly. ‘Sure. That’s weird though, no?’

  ‘I certainly can’t remember it happening before. Although I suppose Drummond’s probably been here for lunch quite a few times over the years. He was quite matey with the last editor, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, he was. And yes, I want to watch.’

  Since the coronavirus crisis, video technology was installed as standard in the Post’s conference rooms. During the morning editorial conferences, the US editor or the Beijing editor, or whichever reporter happened to be in a key hotspot,
dialled in.

  ‘We’ll leave the screens off,’ said Miranda. ‘He doesn’t need to know you’re watching at all.’

  ‘Great.’

  Janice, the editor’s secretary, showed Ambrose Drummond to the upstairs conference room. He ignored her offer of a cup of tea, coffee, a glass of sparkling water, closing the door in her friendly face.

  In Cape Town, Casey was crouching over her laptop. Zac had gone back to his room, understanding without being asked that Casey needed to be on her own.

  In London, Miranda, Hessa, Dash and Ross were arranged round one end of a long polished pine table. There was a bank of black screens behind them, and a perfunctory plate of shortbread on a side table.

  Drummond strode to a chair at the far end of the table, without the usual nods and handshakes. Casey saw the minister’s eyes shift to the wall of technology behind Dash and Ross. The camera was so sharp that Casey could see every detail of Drummond’s face. She could even make out the rows of blue horses cantering across Drummond’s scarlet Hermes tie. Drummond’s eyes rested on the screens momentarily, but then he looked away, unworried.

  In fact, Casey thought edgily, Drummond looked buoyant, relaxed: remarkably unruffled by the severity of Hessa’s letter. Casey’s mind started to tick over, running through the options.

  As he sat down, Drummond nodded to Hessa. Even from Cape Town, Casey sensed Hessa’s squirm. She didn’t envy the young reporter.

  ‘Dash Bishop,’ the head of news introduced the table, ‘Ross Warman, Miranda Darcey and Hessa Khan.’

  ‘I am quite sure I was introduced,’ Drummond gave half a smile, ‘to a Ms Jessa Uddin.’

  The minister leaned back in his chair. He was wearing a three piece suit, and as he stretched out his legs, Casey caught a glimpse of bright red socks.

  ‘It would be helpful,’ Miranda said smoothly, ‘if you could respond to the questions raised in Hessa’s letter.’

  ‘Ah, yes.’ Drummond pulled a couple of sheets of paper out of his bag. ‘This letter. From Miss – ah – oh, yes, Khan. She makes some interesting points, certainly.’

  Drummond wasn’t remotely intimidated by the four journalists, Casey thought with a certain grudging respect.

  ‘We would like to reflect your response in any article the Post may publish … ’ Dash recited the words Casey had written in a thousand right-to-reply letters. Balance, fairness: they had to promise it, at least.

  ‘It is certainly quite a forceful letter,’ Drummond continued. ‘Especially after the Post’s efforts in Bangladesh last year. And the subsequent events, of course.’ Casey grimaced. The Post didn’t necessarily need the authorities going over the Bangladesh story with a fine tooth comb. ‘And then there’s all the Leveson stuff that was never quite resolved,’ Drummond put the letter down on the boardroom table, and contemplated the journalists thoughtfully.

  Was Drummond trying to blackmail the Post? Casey wondered incredulously. He must know such a manoeuvre could backfire. It would be an act of sheer desperation, and Drummond didn’t look desperate.

  Ross glanced at his watch ostentatiously, then leaned forward.

  ‘Is there any specific point you’d like to make, Mr Drummond? Otherwise I’ll be getting back to my newsroom. Busy time of the day and all that.’

  ‘I assume this is all off the record?’ said Drummond.

  There was the briefest of hesitations.

  ‘It can be,’ said Dash. ‘Although, of course, we will need a response to all the points raised in that letter before publication.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Drummond. ‘Naturally, I would give you a full response within the quite draconian timeframe Ms – ah – Khan specified. So, to clarify: we are off the record?’

  A small nod from Dash, and then a grudging ‘yes’.

  ‘The thing is,’ Drummond made a flicking gesture with his fingers, ‘I’m such a minor player in the world of Westminster. I’m a junior health minister. A mere nothing.’

  They waited. Ross broke first. ‘And?’

  Casey and Miranda would have waited all day.

  ‘I suppose that I just thought you might have bigger fish to fry,’ said Drummond sleekly. ‘Than little old me.’

  The Prime Minister? wondered Casey wildly. Was Drummond’s loyalty running out?

  ‘Colette Warwick?’ Miranda’s voice was even. ‘Your boss.’

  ‘In a manner of speaking,’ said Drummond.

  ‘Not really. She is your boss.’

  ‘Well,’ said Drummond. ‘I just thought you might be interested in some of her … activities.’

  ‘What activities?’ Ross, again.

  Drummond peered thoughtfully at his scarlet socks.

  ‘They’re not exactly her activities, I suppose,’ he said, as if speaking to himself. ‘They’re her husband’s, to be precise.’

  Colette Warwick’s husband ran a hedge fund, Casey remembered. One of the very highest of flyers. The couple managed the shaming scale of their wealth by donating large sums to charity. A small percentage of their fortune, but generous enough to neutralise the rage, more or less. The tax of philanthropy, driven down as low as possible.

  ‘Get on with it,’ Ross snapped.

  ‘How would Colette Warwick’s husband affect her role as Health Secretary?’ Miranda asked.

  ‘It’s not about her time in Health,’ said Drummond smoothly. ‘It’s about her time in the Treasury.’

  Warwick had been economic secretary to the Treasury, Casey remembered, a couple of years back. An anachronistic title for one of the stepping stones on her path to the cabinet.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Well,’ said Drummond. ‘You’ll remember that there was a,’ he paused, choosing his word carefully, ‘hoo-ha about Mr Warwick’s fund shorting banks.’

  A couple of years ago, Aymen Warwick had made a fortune by betting against bank stocks twenty minutes before they plunged when the government announced aggressive reforms. The Post’s business editor had been delighted with her team for landing that scoop.

  ‘We broke that story,’ Ross shrugged, ‘Two years ago. It was embarrassing for Warwick, because the government was making a big deal about cracking down on the finance sector. Making them pay their way and all that. She weathered it, though.’

  ‘You broke half the story,’ smirked Drummond. ‘Or a quarter of it.’

  They waited.

  ‘What if,’ Drummond asked casually, ‘Aymen Warwick knew to short the stocks because he had read his wife’s confidential emails?’

  That would mean Colette Warwick’s head on a plate, thought Casey. And if it was one point for a backbench MP and three for a junior health minister, a cabinet minister must be worth – what? – five? Like children, trading marbles: I’ll swap you.

  Casey stared at Drummond’s smooth, smiling face, and knew exactly why he was being sent out with this offer. Colette Warwick was riding too high in the polls, the surveys the party tracked every single day. Who do you think should be the next Prime Minister? Who would you like to see lead the party into the next election?

  Dangerous questions, asked chattily.

  This would be a win-win for the Prime Minister. Protect his kingmaker and take out the threat, all in one seamless manoeuvre. If he fired Colette Warwick fast enough, they could even spin it as decisive.

  And Dash would bite: of course he would.

  ‘You can’t prove it.’ But a continent away, Casey could hear the hope in Ross’s voice. ‘Did she know?’

  ‘She did,’ Drummond smirked. ‘And I can. You don’t really want me anyway, old boy. I’m just a minor pawn in all this. A nothing. An irrelevance. A bagatelle.’

  And this queen, thought Casey, had got too strong, too ruthless. Sliding across the board unrestrained, too aware of her power.

  ‘No.’ Dash surprised her. ‘I’ve seen the footage from Poland, Ambrose. It’s damning. We’re running the story.’

  Dash stood up, Miranda and Hessa leaping to their feet.
>
  ‘But—’ Ross couldn’t help himself.

  ‘Ross!’ Dash barked the name. ‘Come along. Good day, Ambrose. It’s been a pleasure, but we would like your response by 5 p.m. tomorrow—’

  ‘You’re interested in Corax, are you not?’ Drummond was still sitting, unflustered.

  In Cape Town, Casey pounced on her phone.

  Dash hesitated, turning back towards Drummond. ‘Why?’

  ‘Jessa Uddin.’ Drummond hadn’t moved, still lolling back in his chair. ‘Miss Uddin seemed very interested in the esteemed Elias Bailey.’

  Dash moved slowly back towards the table. He had been bluffing, Casey realised. Dash had been a news executive for so long that she had forgotten his reporter past. But it was there, always.

  ‘What … ’ Dash sat down and stared hard at Drummond, ‘do you know about Elias Bailey?’

  59

  ‘Harare?’ Drummond laughed, the next day. ‘I’m not going to bloody Harare.’

  ‘You are.’ Miranda sounded stern. ‘In fact, you’re flying via Johannesburg, in a couple of hours.’

  ‘But … Zimbabwe? What if someone finds out?’

  Zimbabwe was subject to sanctions, the curt tactic the international community used to telegraph extreme disapproval. British ministers visited the country occasionally, but it was still a pariah state, and the brief burst of optimism after Mugabe stepped down had been rapidly extinguished.

  ‘Tough,’ Miranda said to Drummond. ‘No one said this was going to be easy.’

  ‘Yes, but … Harare?’ Drummond was still disbelieving.

  ‘And Casey Benedict will meet you there.’

  ‘What?’

  Drummond had known relatively little about Bailey, it had emerged. Dash and Miranda had fired dozens of questions at him in the Post’s conference room, until even Drummond’s composure started to thin.

  ‘You’re not really adding much,’ Ross said, deliberately brutal, ‘to what we already know.’

  ‘We’ll think about it.’ Miranda had ended the meeting tersely. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow.’

  And it was Casey who rang back a few hours later with a plan.

  Miranda and Dash listened to Casey’s plan with matching disapproval. The Adsero jet had left Frankfurt, Casey pointed out, less than an hour after she had fled Bailey’s house in Llandudno. She glossed over the details of her escape.