A Secret Worth Killing For. Simon Berthon

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СКАЧАТЬ areas of great professional interest to me,’ said Anne-Marie. ‘And now political interest too.’

      ‘We should not always be a predictable government. I’m determined that now, right at the beginning, we show that we can be bold.’ He looked up and, for the first time, fully locked eyes with her. ‘I would like to offer you a post in my government as Home Office Minister of State for Security and Immigration.’

      ‘Jesus.’ Her language relapsed, the astonishment was so real. A welling of emotion caught her unawares. She swatted it like a fly. ‘I don’t know what to say.’

      McNeil caught her eye. ‘I think what the Prime Minister would like you to say is whether or not you accept his offer,’ he said gently.

      She had that odd sensation – not for the first time in her life – of her words emerging ahead of her thoughts. ‘Yes, of course.’ She did not hesitate. ‘Of course I do.’

      ‘Good,’ stated Buller without emotion.

      ‘I have no experience in government.’

      ‘Few of us do. But you have expertise.’

      ‘What about Steve Whalley?’ she found herself asking.

      ‘Don’t worry about Steve,’ replied Buller, ‘you’ll find a way.’

      She sensed the conversation was over and stood up. This time, unlike at her arrival, he stretched out a hand and she shook it. ‘Any problems you ever have, just ring Rob. He’ll be my eyes and ears.’

      ‘I’ll see you out,’ McNeil said with a nod.

      He waved her ahead of him and followed her down a modest corridor lined with nondescript watercolours before emerging at the grand staircase. Anne-Marie considered the scions of the British establishment looking down on her. The blessed Theresa, fleshy Cameron, glowering Brown, Blair, the grinner in anguish by his end, Major, the nothing man, Thatcher, the femme fatale who had haunted Anne-Marie’s teenage years.

      ‘History’s proving kind to her, isn’t it?’ remarked McNeil, scrutinizing Anne-Marie’s eyes trained on the famous face and bouffant hair.

      She stopped to look more closely at the portrait. The journey she had made suddenly seemed so improbable. To think that the idea of Thatcher as the mortal enemy was one of the certainties of her political upbringing. And yet here she was stepping down the very staircase this iconic foe had once graced. Of course, it was not only she: the one-time leaders of the IRA now too were politicians, collaborating with a British state they had wanted to destroy.

      ‘In that case, history is being somewhat premature,’ Anne-Marie replied tartly.

      ‘Perhaps that depends on when history begins,’ Rob continued.

      She turned sharply, again feeling the dread. ‘What do you mean?’

      ‘Only musing.’ He smiled. ‘Just thinking of how quickly they can come and go.’ She thought she detected admiration in his eyes. Perhaps it was nothing more.

      She turned away and accelerated down the stairs. McNeil skipped down them behind her. As they crossed the chequerboard floor and approached the front door, she stopped again. He caught up and she inspected him more thoroughly. The furrowed seriousness was even more apparent, enhanced by the widow’s peak of his pale hair.

      ‘I should have congratulated you in there,’ she said. ‘It’s a great achievement. A huge job too – the voice of government.’

      He smiled again. ‘That’s rather an intimidating way of putting it. I meant to congratulate you too. Yours was an important victory.’ He paused, looking around. ‘And now all this.’

      ‘I know. Doesn’t quite feel real, does it?’

      She spun on her heel, nodded to the policeman at the door, and left to the clicking of photographers and yells of reporters. Despite her trembling knees, she paused, smiled, waved, took a deep breath and strode off up Downing Street.

      She had anticipated the return walk would be a celebration, wordless though with a smile for the camera. Now, the smile fought the thumping in her head. Coming face to face with McNeil had brought the past abruptly to unwelcome life. She sensed walking invisibly beside her the three men – one brother, two lovers – who had truly mattered in her life. All long gone, swept away from her, disappeared. Who knew where? Or how? Were they now to be the ghosts at her banquet?

      She crossed the Embankment, red flashes of passing buses appearing abstract, almost unreal. What if I stepped out now? She caught herself, reflecting on the idiocy of the thought, worse still the failure of nerve, and headed for the pedestrian lights.

      Over Westminster Bridge she increased her pace, wanting to run, but knew she must not. There could be more photographers, followers, pursuers even. She found herself watching out for men in hats. Her pulse raced. Calm it down, slow deep breaths, smile, admire the reflections of the river, enjoy the rainbow colours of tourist groups.

      Big Ben struck five – she could only have been in there twenty minutes; it felt not just an eternity but a distant one.

      She reached the other side of the river, crossed and flitted down the steps onto the Thames pathway. To the right the Houses of Parliament, a mile or so ahead the boorish shape of MI6’s grandiose contribution to the London skyline and James Bond films. The monstrous palace of games.

      The South Bank unshackled her. She took off her heels and, despite the constrictions of her skirt, broke into a jog. As the last neo-Gothic vestiges of the Houses of Parliament slipped from her eyeline, the building rhythm of her movement slowed her heartbeat. A sense of mission seeped down and reinforced her.

CHAPTER 8

       November 1993

      She’s told Mrs Ryan the bus to Cork leaves from BusAras at 8 a.m. To avoid seeing her or the kids, Maire creeps out of the house with her rucksack an hour earlier. Night is clearing to a biting crispness as the sun breaks through the late November fog.

      The bus station’s less than a mile away but she takes a detour via Talbot Street, instinctively glancing back for prowling eyes. She tells herself not to be an idiot and heads for the junction with O’Connell Street. They’re picking her up outside the General Post Office – whatever the historical connections, at least they can’t miss it. Because of the early departure she’s half an hour to kill and finds a side street café to warm her hands over a cup of tea.

      At 8 a.m. a sporty-looking car draws up and toots its horn. David leaps out and helps her into the cramped back. ‘Sorry,’ he says, ‘you’re the only one who’ll fit there.’

      As they pull away, he does the introductions. ‘Maire, this is my friend, Rob.’ The driver takes one hand off the steering wheel, turns and offers it.

      ‘Hi, Maire.’ He doesn’t sound quite as posh as David but the nicely cut and brushed straw-coloured hair and green jacket suggest wealth.

      She shakes the hand. ‘Hello, Rob.’

      They head west, Rob driving too fast and David urging him to go faster. David swivels. СКАЧАТЬ