Collusion: Chapter 6

In London the threat is building

On Tuesdays and Thursdays, I’ll publish a section from the novel. Chapters 1 2 3 4 5 are here for those who missed them. The story so far: Michael Ashton, a journalist, is investigating right-wing groups. The links with Ulster Loyalist have proved a dead end. Back in London, a date distracts him but it’s dangerous to take your eye off the ball

Chapter 6 Bolt from the blue

The banging continued. Ashton checked his watch. Two minutes had elapsed. At least whoever was outside had not tried to force the door. Even so, he cowered in the bedroom. Then he heard a voice. “Ash, Ash. Are you there? I saw you come in. You OK?”

It was only the neighbour, Mo. Relief coursed through him.

He went into the living room and shouted through the door: “Are you alone?”

“Yeah, I wanna talk to you, man. Got something to tell you.”

“Hang on,” Ashton said. “I was in the shower. Give me a second.” Titch would arrive soon and he wanted to be absolutely sure the man next door was not being used as bait.

He checked the time on his phone. Four minutes had gone by. Where was Titch? The answer came almost immediately.

“Alright mate,” he heard Mo say. “He’s in the shower.” Then he heard Titch’s theatrical, breathy, voice.

Ashton opened the door and let both in. Titch was panting. Mo looked in wonder at his neighbour’s face. “Lucky escape, man. Must have been a scary crash.”

“Very scary,” Ashton said. “You’ve met Titch? A friend of mine.”

‘Yeah,” he said. “There’s been a lot of friends round asking about you. One offered me fifty quid to ring him when you got home.” He grinned. “Said he was your mate and wanted to surprise you. I took the money but I don’t reckon he was your mate.”

“Amateurs,” Titch said scornfully.

“This is the number.” Mo passed a piece of paper. Titch took it and photographed it with his phone.

“Well, young man,” he declaimed in a tone of authority, “I think Ash and myself would like you to ring it and explain to your benefactor that you have seen your neighbour but he only came home to pick up some clothes and then he was heading up north for a while. Tell him the flat will be empty for at least a week.”

“Now?”

“Now.”

Mo looked bemused and turned to Ashton. “I ain’t gonna get in trouble, am I?”

“No, not at all,” Titch said. “I expect it’s some sort of bailiff. Young Michael has a few outstanding debts. He’s been a naughty boy. The man is trying to serve some court papers. I’m Ash’s financial advisor and need to sort things out so that he doesn’t lose any of his belongings. In a week, we’ll have everything squared.”

Mo’s body language suggested he was not entirely sure but the mention of a debt collector sold the story. He had seen too many of them on the estate over recent years.

“Ring from mine,” Titch said. “That way he won’t have your number.” He fiddled with his handset for a few seconds, typed in the number and passed it over.

They listened intently to the conversation, Ashton and Titch huddled close enough to hear the voice at the other end of the line. “When did you see him?” a gruff man asked. “Midday,” Titch mouthed. “When’s he coming back?” The watching pair shook their heads. “Dunno.”

“Call me when you see him again. There’ll be more money for you after I’ve talked to him.”

Titch took the phone back.

“Thank you, young man,” Titch said. “Now, if you don’t mind, we have some business to conduct. And if anyone approaches you, can you give me a call?” He handed Mo a card that merely said ‘Alan Weeks, consultant’ above a landline number. “And here’s a little thank you for your help.” He produced a £50 note from his wallet.

“That,” Titch said after the neighbour left, “is payment for the Westvleteren. I shall come and get it tomorrow.

“I’m not sure how far I’d trust Mo,” Titch continued. “I don’t think he’s clever enough to have made a note of the number. He looked a bit surprised when I took it off him. Now it’s in my phone, too, and I’ve recorded the conversation. I will have it checked out when I get home.”

“How did you get over here so fast?”

“My bike.”

“You cycled?”

“No, dear boy. Here.”

He went outside and pointed up to a black Triumph Bonneville T120. Ashton snorted in astonishment. “You ride that?”

“Yes, I’ve been riding for a long time,” Titch said. “I was trained to use them in the Det and have always liked bikes. Every now and then I’ll ride it back to Spain. It’s a very uplifting journey.”

They went inside. “You can return here tonight,” Titch said. “But I’d prefer you back at the Mews. I’ll have the alerts on and can be here quickly but, even so… I’d expect they’ll check tomorrow despite Mo’s call.”

“I prefer my safe room for a little longer,” Ashton said. “Thank you so much for earlier. I was frozen with fear and my heart felt like it was exploding.”

“Think nothing of it,” Titch smiled. “Hypnotherapy 101. An adjunct to Psych Ops. Now go and get ready. I’ll drop you off on the bike. I’ve a second helmet in the box.”

“I’m only going to Dolphin Square.”

“It’s not about distance, it’s about arriving in style, dear boy. Style is everything.”

*

Style was not Ashton’s forte. He emerged ready for his dinner with Orlanda York wearing his only suit and a tie. Titch was not impressed. “Are you sure?” He raised an eyebrow. “Have you ate at Dolphin Square? It’s not as formal as you seem to expect. Perhaps you should dress a little more comfortably.”

Despite its proximity, Ashton had rarely ventured into the Square. He had sometimes met contacts there but only in the bar or the foyer. It was not the sort of place he was likely to dine.

“Well, you can walk,” Titch said with high-handed scorn. “You’re not getting on the back of my bike dressed like that.”

As they parted the big man sniggered again. “I wish I was a fly on the wall,” he said.

“You mean an intrusive hidden camera, you disgusting voyeur?”

The reply was lost in the roar of the engine.

Ashton was a little early. The restaurant was a long, narrow corridor overlooking an indoor pool. It opened up into a stubby rectangular bar area. The lighting was subdued and the colour scheme was subtle greens and blues. It was quiet. A couple of older men sat talking inaudibly. He was gratified to see they were wearing suits. They looked like senior civil servants or maybe anonymous members of the House of Lords.

The server guided him inside and offered him a choice of tables. He selected one for two people at the base of the corridor, where he could see the entrance at the other end.

Over the years he had heard a lot about the Square. It opened in 1936 and the first time he came across the name was in John Le Carre’s The Spy Who Came In From The Cold. Later he learnt that the block facing the Thames had been De Gaulle’s headquarters during World War Two. Christine Keeler and Mandy Rice-Davies, the good-time girls at the centre of the Profumo affair that helped bring down the Tory Government in the 1960s, had flats in the huge complex. Local rumour suggested that one of the leading proponents of Brexit had taken an apartment recently. Ashton thought it appropriate. Oswald Mosely and Diana Mitford, the poster couple for British fascism, were taken to confinement from the Square in 1940.

Dozens of MPs lived here. As well as the pool there was a gym, shops, another bar and a tennis court just across the embankment. Some residents were said to never leave the place. It was its own little world.

Ashton was in his own world when Orlanda York bowled in. She was wearing jeans with ankle boots. A fitted silk shirt hung untucked at the waist. Without high heels she looked surprisingly athletic and youthful. Her makeup was unobtrusive. Ashton had to admit to himself she looked great.

“Ms York,” he said, standing up and extending a hand.

“Orlanda,” she replied, appraising him. “You wore a suit.”

He blushed, she laughed. “I should have told you. I’m sorry. I should have said it was more casual.”

“No, no, don’t worry,” he lied. “I’ve come straight from another appointment. I’ve been to see a chief executive in the City. Didn’t have time to go home.”

Orlanda could spot a fib easily. She nearly said it. After all, she worked with hundreds of liars. “Can I call you Michael or do you prefer Mike?”

“Mike is good.”

“I don’t eat here often,” she said, “but it is very convenient for me. Within a minute of leaving the table, I’m in the lift.”

“Where’s your protection?” he asked.

“Don’t need him in here. There are cameras everywhere and the Square has its own security. And I’m perfectly safe with you.”

Ashton doubted that.

He asked about the mood in Parliament and Orlanda made a few incisive and wittily scathing comments about her colleagues. When she reciprocated by asking about his afternoon, he dismissed the question by claiming he had conducted “a really dull interview.”

They ordered. It was nothing flash. The MP had croquettes to start and fillet steak for the main while Ashton had crab cakes and a rib-eye cut.

“Would you like wine?” Orlanda asked.

“If you’re having a glass,” he said. “You’ll have to order. It’s not my area of expertise. I’m a beer snob but know little about wine.”

“That’s refreshing,” she said. “Men who admit that they lack knowledge of a subject are pretty rare in my world.”

There was a lull in the conversation. Ashton broke it. “Do you mind if I take this tie off, Orlanda,” he said. “I didn’t have another appointment. I just misjudged the situation. Sorry.”

Her laugh filled the corridor. “I know,” she said. “Undo it. It’s nice if we’re both relaxed.

“You know,” she continued, “I’ve had my fill of men in suits. All the young boys in politics wear those really tight ones with short jackets. The older men wear expensive, Savile Row productions that they think hide their drooping bodies and make them attractive to women. Next time make sure you’re comfortable.”

Next time. Interesting, he thought and moved the conversation on with a joke. “You know what they say? What do you call a Scouser in a suit?”

She made a quizzical face. “The defendant,” he said, expecting her to laugh. The reaction was quite different.

“That’s awful,” she said.

“It’s a joke.”

“But it’s still awful. I can’t imagine anyone thinking one group of people were predisposed to crime.”

“There is,” he said, “a little truth in the stereotype. Poverty breeds crime and I’m from the poorest constituency in the UK.” She was unconvinced by his explanation.

He asked about her life. “Boring,” she said, tucking into croquettes. “You’ve read Wikipedia.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he said. She looked up at him, squinted across the table and sat back. “What do you want to know?”

“Your parents. What you were like as a teenager. Why politics?” He paused. “Why you’re single. What do you want from life?”

So she told him. She was the only child of a City big-shot who was a huge Conservative Party donor. Her mother was a painter with minor aristocratic family connections. It was a loving family but she was sent away to a very expensive school – “that’s on Wikipedia,” she said, “I don’t want to talk about it” – where she was academically brilliant but made few friends.

“Why?” he stopped her.

“I was never really one of the gang,” she said, as if considering the question for the first time. “People seemed to think I was a little bit cold and a little bit strange. Odd.”

“You’re very earnest.”

“Perhaps. It scares people off. It was the same at Oxford.”

“So you joined the Conservative Party to make friends?”

“No. My father idolised Margaret Thatcher. I was brought up to believe she was the epitome of a strong woman. He always told me we had a duty to serve.”

“And you’re married to the party and politics?”

“Ah, everyone’s favourite cliché about me. I’m just not married to anyone else.”

“But there have been men?” She raised her eyebrows. “Sorry,” he said, “I should have said partners.”

“No,” she said curtly. “Men. You can forget any ‘Euro traitor’s secret lesbian life’ headlines.”

Now Ashton looked hurt. “Everything that passes between us is off the record until you say it isn’t,” he said. “I’m not here as a journalist. Anyway, what does sexuality matter? I’ve never had any homosexual leanings but I often wonder whether it’s simply because I’ve never been in certain situations or been offered the opportunity at vulnerable points in my life.” He thought about that for a moment. “Maybe it would be better phrased if I said. ‘points in my life when I was more emotionally open to the possibility.’”

Even though he was unable to judge the impact of his words, he continued. “Incidentally, I found out today that a friend I was certain was straight is actually gay. And, in the short time I’ve had to think about it, I’ve come to admire him more.”

“This was not the sort of conversation I was expecting,” she said but it was not a rebuke.

Inevitably they talked about politics. Ashton apologised for his outburst in Portcullis House but admitted he could not understand Orlanda’s pattern of voting.

“I mean, we’re sitting here just a quarter of a mile from Churchill Gardens. Do you ever walk around the estate and see the way people live? I’ll take you round.” He considered that for a moment. “Maybe when this is all over. But you should see it.”

She was listening. “And how long have you been in the Square? You must have seen the explosion in homelessness around Pimlico. Just after Christmas I was coming back from the pub at midnight and there was a man rifling in the bins. He pulled out a carton of yogurt and started eating what was left in it. I was stunned. Here we are, a mile away from the Houses of Parliament, and people are eating out of bins. In one of the richest cities in the world. Every night I see rough sleepers and men and women rummaging through the clothes recycling bins. No wonder the electorate are starting to listen to charlatans.”

“We have,” she said carefully, “let the voters down. I’ve moved towards the centre in the time I’ve been in Parliament. I’ll accept your criticism. Perhaps I should see more of how the less well-off live.”

“It’s more than money,” he said. “People need two things: Opportunity and aspiration. You had both. I had neither…”

“But you’ve done well,” she interjected.

“I got lucky,” he said sadly. “But we shouldn’t argue about politics. What do you do for fun?”

“Well,” she said sheepishly, “I think that’s part of my problem with friends and relationships. I like unusual things. When the girls at school were screaming at boy bands, I loved opera and theatre. I like to go to historical lectures and watch classic films. I enjoyed things that other young people didn’t like.

“Then, the men who seemed drawn to me – at university and in politics – tended to think they were alpha males. They wanted to be the breadwinner and would prefer it if I stayed at home and provided them with babies. So here I am, single and happy. You?”

“It’s the job, I think,” he said. “Strange hours, long absences from home and little money. You have to be in a similar, unusual business to understand. Relationships with nine-to-fivers fall apart pretty quickly. Simple as that.”

“Have you ever dated anyone with my politics?”

“No,” he said, surprised at how forward the question was.

“The reason I ask,” she said, “is you seem quite happy to be friends with Barry, who is closer to Nigel Farage’s politics than mine. How is it possible to be friends with him but rule out – if that’s what it is – relationships with Conservative women?”

Ashton was on the spot. “Fair point. I suppose it’s because I don’t have to be intimate with Barry or men like him. I can tell them to go to hell any time I like. I can ignore him and not see him for weeks at a time. You can’t do that in a relationship. You are intimate and have to surrender some of yourself. Can anyone surrender their political beliefs?”

They sat in silence for a long moment. “It’s a hell of a question,” he said. “You’ve made me query the way I think about things.”

Orlanda smiled. “Dessert?” she said.

“Cheese board for me,” he grinned back.

“In that case we’ll need another bottle of wine.”

It was all surprisingly painless. They dawdled over the wine and stuck to more casual topics. Ashton had thought she had charisma at their first meeting but did not expect her to be as witty and engaging outside the political arena. She was clearly very bright and it was obvious that many men would be threatened by her intellect.

Across the table Orlanda assessed Ashton in a similar manner. He was nicer than he thought he was, she believed. There was a lack of ambition that a partner might find galling in the long term but he was fundamentally a good person.

He was not the only one to have done some research. She had read some of his pieces and he was much better at articulating his arguments in prose than verbally. It was probably a confidence issue, she reckoned. He did not have the private schoolboy’s self-assurance that was so commonplace in her world.

But he was deeply wounded by something, she thought. Not just something that had happened in recent weeks, either, though clearly the scars from the attack by the thugs were deeper than the cuts and bruises on his face. Well, she pondered, no one gets to his age without baggage. She had enough of her own to carry but, nonetheless, it had been a nice night. There might be scope for another dinner.

“That was lovely, thank you,” he said as they left the restaurant. She walked him the short distance to the dolphin fountain in the middle of the Square and stood in front of it looking down the avenue of trees that led to the entrance on the river. The lights made it look like a film set.

“You would think standing here,” she said, “that the world was a lovely place and there were no troubles befalling us. The Square sometimes feels immune to chaos. It’s as if it is not part of the city.” He could see that.

They strolled back across the garden, touching shoulders as they walked, and entered the house where she lived. The minder was sitting on an easy chair in the hallway, where he could see all the doors and corridors. He nodded to both and the brief moment of intimacy passed. “Goodnight, Orlanda,” Ashton said, this time not extending his hand.

“Goodnight Mike.” She kissed him on both cheeks and pressed the button on the lift. Ashton stepped back and the policeman walked across to accompany her in the elevator. After the door shut, he stood for a moment and then re-entered the real world.

The magic of the Square had evaporated. The trees shivered and there were strange movements in the bushes. Someone barked a hoarse laugh that bounced between blocks and a shadowy man moved quickly under the archway exit to Chichester Street. The silence echoed and Ashton suddenly felt threatened. Normal London life was now sinister. It seemed like he was a long way from home. He had just 350 yards to negotiate.

*

It was a restless night. Ashton dreamt that he was approaching the fountain in Dolphin Square with Orlanda and they were both laughing. They sat on the edge of the water and she splashed a small spray of liquid in his face playfully. But the wetness made him panic and he slipped into the shallow pool. Only it wasn’t shallow. He grabbed at Orlanda but could not drag himself out. Instead, she tumbled on top of him and they sank deeper. Looking into her terrified face he knew that death was about to take them both. He shut his eyes and when he opened them again he was staring at the ceiling and gulping for air. His body was rigid.

It took 20 minutes for any form of equilibrium to return. The clock said 4am.

There was no possibility of returning to sleep so he put on his running clothes and left the flat. Seconds after shutting the door his phone rang. He had forgotten that Titch would get an alert. “I’m sorry mate,” he said. “I’m going for a run. I didn’t think. I had a bad dream.”

“Don’t worry, dear boy,” came the reply. “I was awake anyway. Let’s talk later. I’ll come over and get that beer this afternoon.”

He ran for an hour through the empty city. No one was around and he felt safe powering through the deserted streets. The route took him around Buckingham Palace, along the Mall, down Whitehall and past Parliament. There were no protestors. It was quiet for the moment. He ran hard away from this epicentre of turmoil. He never wanted to see the place again.

By 7am he felt normal. The phone rang and Pierce was on the line. “Well, well, well,” he said. “Are you alone? Can you talk?”

“Of course I am.”

“I heard you had a date.”

“I had dinner with Orlanda. That’s it.”

“You’re leaning towards the right,” Pierce said triumphantly. “Anyway, where are you?”

“At home. I need to spend the morning sending emails. All this stuff has played havoc with work.”

“A beer later?”

“Not tonight. Maybe next week.”

Back at the computer Ashton sent an email to Orlanda thanking her for dinner. A reply came back immediately. “We’ll have to do it again,” it said. “I’ve got a surgery tomorrow but I’ll be back on Sunday. Give me a call if anything happens.” There was a mobile phone number. He did not expect that.

Throughout the morning he worked on story pitches. It occurred to him that these adventures would eventually become useful. He resolved to do some investigative pieces from Northern Ireland. The border issue was not going to go away. Titch’s contacts were extensive. He even began to feel positive about his prospects.

Pierce called again in early afternoon. “Look,” he said, “is it worth me doing a little background check on your obese friend.” That irritated Ashton but he could see there was some logic in the suggestion. “I know a few people in the world of spooks,” Pierce continued. “I can ask around. I can get answers that journalists can’t.”

Ashton provided a thumbnail version of Titch’s life. “Sherwood Titchfield,” Pierce scoffed. “Preposterous. As is the claim he was involved in special forces. Leave it with me.”

Within a minute the phone buzzed again. This time it was Titch. “I’m in a cab coming back from town,” he said. “I’ll swing by your place and take that Westvleteren. I’ll probably be about half an hour.”

“Text me when you’re near,” Ashton said. “I’ll bring the crates out so you won’t have to keep the driver hanging round too long.”

He pottered about while he waited and placed the wooden slabs of bottles close to the entrance. As soon as Titch’s message arrived, he opened the door, stepped outside and surveyed the area. Nothing seemed unusual. He turned his back to the street and leant inside to pick up a crate. There was a swoosh above his head and then a crashing thud. Looking up he saw a crossbow bolt had bounced off the floor and was quivering in the wall. For a split-second Ashton was rigid and then he hurled himself to the floor, kicking the door shut behind him. He groped for his phone and rang Titch. “They’ve just tried to kill me,” he said. “They’ve just tried to kill me!”

“I’m a minute away. Stay inside. Be careful. I’m pulling up now. Sit tight. Phone the police. I’ll have a look around.”

Titch paid the driver and did not wait for change. He checked the parked cars and the nearby streets. There was no indication of any trouble. After six or seven minutes inspecting the area he gingerly approached Ashton’s flat. “It’s me. Let me in. Whoever was here has gone. You’re safe. For now.”

The door opened and Titch barrelled in. He was not entirely certain he was right that the danger was over. Ashton pointed to the wall. “It least,” the big man said, “it doesn’t look like they’ve got any guns yet. Back to the mews for you, myladdo.”

*

• Chapter 7: Depths of fear

• My other novel, Good Guys Lost, a story of gangsterism, the music industry and working-class Liverpool, is available here