When it was only Alastair and George Bannister left at the venue, they settled down for a final brandy in one of the adjoining private rooms.
‘I’ve just seen the headline on my phone. What happened earlier this evening?’ said Bannister quietly. He looked both angry and concerned, something he’d done a good job of hiding during the dinner. ‘Tina Boyd’s neighbour, the old lady who was shot. Did that have anything to do with you?’
Alastair knew there was no point in denying it. In truth, he’d been annoyed himself. He’d expected The Wraith, as she liked to style herself, to kill Ray Mason, and possibly Tina Boyd too (which would have been a nice bonus). Instead she hadn’t managed to do in either of them. Killing old ladies might have been permissible in South Africa, or wherever it was she came from, but over here it was like killing kids or dogs. It meant a whole lot of trouble.
‘It was a mistake,’ he told Bannister equally quietly. ‘It wasn’t meant to happen.’
‘You can’t just do this kind of thing, Alastair. It’s too dangerous. It could get us into huge amounts of trouble.’
‘It won’t if we keep our nerve.’
‘It’s getting out of hand. Things can’t continue like this.’
Alastair knew there were only two ways to deal with Bannister. With threats or reassurance. He decided to go for the latter and put a hand on Bannister’s shoulder. ‘They won’t continue like this, I promise. Have you been kept abreast of the latest developments on the hunt for Mason, and the old lady’s murder?’
‘Obviously,’ Bannister answered testily. ‘I spoke to the NCA commander this morning and this evening.’
‘And still Mason stays on the run. This is becoming something of a humiliation for the NCA. For the government as a whole. It brings our entire policy on cutting police numbers to the forefront,’ Alastair continued, warming to his theme. ‘I’m going to authorize a big increase in police numbers if I become PM, and pay for it with an equal cut in the foreign aid budget, so no one can accuse me of not trying to balance the books. Have they any idea where Mason is?’
Bannister shook his head. He looked uncomfortable, and Alastair could tell it wasn’t just about the fact that the authorities hadn’t been able to locate Mason. ‘No, but he’s not your average prisoner on the run. He’s ex-military intelligence, and he’s clearly resourceful.’
‘Do you think he’s out of the country?’ asked Alastair, who was keenly aware that his security might not be enough to stop a concerted attempt by Mason to kill him.
‘I really don’t know where he is, Alastair,’ said Bannister. ‘But we have a lot of people looking for him and his capture is top priority.’
‘What about Boyd?’
‘What about her?’
‘She could still be in touch with him.’
‘If she is, we’ll find out. But I don’t want any attempts on her life. Call off your dogs, Alastair, and let things settle. Boyd’s no threat. And right now, Mason will be too preoccupied trying to remain free to bother with you.’
Alastair wasn’t so sure. Mason was one of those fanatical types who seemed prepared to risk everything in the pursuit of revenge. But he was more concerned with Bannister, whose attitude seemed testy. He’d been fine over dinner – then again, like most politicians, he was a good actor – but the news about the old lady had clearly got to him.
‘Fine,’ he said. ‘I’ll let things lie.’ He stopped, and looked Bannister right in the eye. ‘Don’t lose faith in me, George. I’ll take us both to the top.’
Bannister sighed and turned away from his gaze. ‘I know you will, Alastair,’ he said, but his tone was weary, as if he’d had enough.
Alastair leaned down close to his ear, deciding that it might be time to replace the carrot with the stick. ‘Don’t ever fucking forget that photo of you throttling an underage prostitute, George,’ he whispered, feeling the other man tense. ‘Because I won’t. And if anything happens to me, I’ll make sure the whole world sees it.’
35
Driving home that night through the largely quiet streets of Clerkenwell, a place he’d always considered an oasis in the centre of London, Mike Bolt thought about what Tina had told him about Alastair Sheridan.
It seemed ludicrous to believe that the man who could potentially be the next Prime Minister was a killer. Bolt himself hadn’t had any involvement in the Bone Field investigation, but he knew that it was ongoing, and that it was being overseen by the NCA. It had been, and to a large degree still was, a very high-profile case, which had started off with the discovery of the remains of seven women buried in the grounds of a private farm in mid-Wales some fifteen months back now. Only one of the women had been identified and it was believed that the other six had been illegal immigrants from eastern Europe, and their deaths had happened over a number of years.
At the time, there’d been the usual clamour for results from the press and the public, and the ownership of the farm had eventually been traced via a series of shell companies to a lawyer called Hugh Manning. But Manning had been murdered while in police custody, which had got plenty of conspiracy theories going as it seemed he was going to name names of people involved.
Since Manning’s death, the case had still periodically made the headlines, mainly because of the lack of progress in bringing anyone else to justice, but Bolt had always believed there’d been a lot more to it than met the eye. He also knew that it had been Ray Mason and Tina who’d discovered both the location of the Bone Field farm and what had gone on there, so they both knew more about the case than
