A Sentimental Traitor (22 page)

Spring. But the blows continued to fall on Harry with the determination of a winter gale. He had neither cash nor credit, so he sold his Audi S5, for notes, in a hurry, and
inevitably well below the market price. The buyer screwed him. As Harry was discovering, it’s what happens when your luck runs out.

His team of campaign volunteers, so dedicated and willing, was suddenly struck down by plagues of a biblical proportion. There was an outbreak of unseasonal colds, others were kept at home by
minor domestic crises, or had distant relatives in need of their immediate attendance. If his constituents passed him on his side of the street, they averted their eyes, or if on the other, they
stared. Kids made idle by the school holiday followed him down the street, dancing in his wake, taunting him.

The Prime Minister refused to take his call. When Harry telephoned Downing Street, the switchboard put him through instead to Usher’s parliamentary aide, Archie Dodgson, an old friend of
Harry’s.

‘He’s preparing for the final leaders’ debate,’ Dodgson explained. ‘Sorry, Harry, you know how it is. Try not to take it personally.’

‘OK, suggest some other way I can take it, Archie.’

‘He’s got too much on his plate,’ Dodgson responded abrasively, then softened. This was Harry he was talking to. ‘Look, you know what the polls are showing. Our private
polls are even worse. The voters have never particularly liked Ben, you know that. But now they don’t respect him either. The tide’s turned.’ There was a dullness in his voice
that spoke of more than late nights and exhaustion. He had lost hope.

Every ray of sunshine seemed to start a forest fire in his soul. He had friends, even former lovers, who stood by him, offered him support, but there were many who didn’t know what to say
or were keen to move on, so said nothing. It was the silence that hurt, wormed its way inside his confidence and dragged him down, those who should have called, but didn’t.

Then, precisely a week after his arrest, Harry was called back to Charing Cross for a further interview. He dressed carefully, polished his shoes in the old military style, wasn’t going to
sit there in prison garb again. Van Buren had phoned ahead and asked permission to use a more private, rear entrance. It was denied. Another posse of inquisitors and photographers was camped out in
Agar Street, waiting for them. ‘Don’t worry,’ the lawyer had said as the taxi approached, ‘they’re just the foreplay.’

They read him his rights all over again, put him through the nightmare once more. But it was a different interview room, bigger, smelling of old dust and disinfectant, no windows but a dark
glass panel in one wall that Harry assumed allowed others to see him unobserved. They were kept hanging around for nearly half an hour. Harry kept glancing at his watch. ‘Can’t you
complain?’ he demanded.

‘Course I could. But it wouldn’t make a bloody bit of difference.’

So they sat, and stifled.

Eventually the door opened and the two investigating officers, Arkwright and Finch, entered. No smiles, no handshakes, no apology, all formality. Detective Constable Finch was carrying a number
of clear plastic evidence bags. Despite the presence of his lawyer, Harry felt outnumbered.

The Detective Sergeant trotted him through his version of events once more, checking for inconsistencies, wondering if he would trip himself, save them the bother, before they moved on to the
meat of it all.

‘Forensics, Mr Jones,’ Arkwright said. ‘Usually tell the whole story in this sort of thing. And very clear in our little case.’ He pushed an evidence bag across the
table. ‘For the purposes of the tape, I’m showing Mr Jones Exhibit KAA1. It’s Miss Keane’s sweater.’

Harry stared, but didn’t touch.

‘You see the stain there, on the left shoulder? That’s a drink stain. Your drink, Mr Jones.’

‘I don’t deny it. It spilled when she rushed me.’

‘Fibres from this sweater were found in considerable quantity on the shirt you were wearing that night, consistent with there having been considerable contact between the two of you. You
know, as if she had been held very tight.’

‘Or thrown herself at me. Can forensics tell the difference?’

Arkwright didn’t reply, sat staring, wondering if Harry might say more, change his story. Then he moved on.

‘I am now showing Mr Jones Exhibit KAA2. Is this your shirt, Mr Jones?’ Another evidence bag was pushed across the table.

‘You know it is.’

‘You see these marks? They are Miss Keane’s lipstick. There are also clear traces of her saliva and tears. Consistent once again with her being held very firmly by you, against her
will.’

‘Look, you know they’ll be equally consistent with her pushing herself on me. She’s lying. Set me up. Why can’t you see this?’

Van Buren’s hand came out to touch Harry’s sleeve and stem the anger that was beginning to bubble to the surface and could so readily betray a client, but Harry was not to be so
easily deflected.

‘And let me make this simple for you, Sergeant,’ Harry snapped, his voice rising, ‘you’ll also show me some forensics report which will have my saliva on her face,
because we kissed. She was most insistent on that. Very persistent and passionate, she was, which is one of the reasons I pushed her away. Maybe there were marks on her shoulders – like
that.’ He made a sharp shoving gesture.

‘Seems like you were angry with her,’ Finch intervened. ‘About the press guide.’

‘And you’ve only got her word for that, too, haven’t you? For pity’s sake, I know you have to take these matters seriously, but lying to the police and perverting the
course of justice are also pretty damned serious offences, aren’t they? That’s what you should be investigating here.’

‘Why would Miss Keane do such a thing?’ Arkwright pressed.

In a manner that surprised even him, Harry’s tirade came to an abrupt halt. ‘I – I really don’t know. She’s a fantasist, I suppose, can’t take
rejection,’ he muttered, subdued.

Arkwright had gained a small victory, the accused had been thrown off course. His lips creased into a thin smile. ‘You were in the habit of taking Miss Keane back to your place late at
night.’

‘No.’

‘You sure about that?’

‘Absolutely positive.’

‘Not to drink? To maybe offer her a good time in the bedroom?’

‘Never.’

The smile was hovering once more. ‘That’s strange. How do you explain this, then?’ The policeman produced a document from his file. It was a photograph, of Emily leaving late
at night with him waving to her from the doorstep. It was date marked. Harry felt his heart rate rise, and his skin turn clammy.

‘That was the first time we ever met. She turned up on my doorstep.’

‘You invited her in. Showed her around.’

‘That’s not how it happened.’

‘Even into your bedroom.’

‘That’s a lie!’ Harry protested through clenched teeth.

The Sergeant remained determinedly calm. ‘Strange, then, how she’s been able to give us a pretty accurate description of your bedroom, right down to the design of your duvet, which
apparently you invited her to sit on.’

‘No!’ Harry slapped the table with the palm of his hand. ‘Look, I found her on the doorstep. She invited herself in. Asked to use the toilet. If she sneaked into the bedroom,
it was entirely on her own.’ He glared across the table. ‘She’s saying that I came on to her that first time, yet she came back for more?’

‘She’s saying you didn’t attack her. Not that first time.’

‘Not ever!’

‘And yet, Mr Jones, the forensics show without a shadow of a doubt that your hand was very firmly on the lady’s breast. How do you explain that?’

‘Take my word for it, she is no lady.’

‘But there was bruising on the lady’s breast. It precisely matches the hand pattern on the sweater. Your hand, Mr Jones. I have a doctor’s report here’ – another
piece of paper was produced – ‘and photographs of the injury.’

‘I suspect very strongly that the evidence shows those injuries were slight.’

‘A charge of sexual assault doesn’t depend upon the severity of the attack, only on the fact that it took place,’ Finch intervened.

‘They were self-inflicted. With her squeezing my hand. Just as I told you before. That’s why they were slight.’

‘You see, what’s got me puzzled here,’ Arkwright continued, ‘is why Miss Keane would construct such an elaborate charade when your motive seems – well, so very much
stronger than hers, wouldn’t you say? You were drunk—’

‘There is no evidence my client was drunk,’ van Buren interjected.

‘You had been drinking,’ Arkwright corrected himself. ‘You were under considerable pressure. You are a man with a reputation for having – what’s the right way of
putting this? – a considerable sexual appetite—’

‘My client is a single man,’ van Buren said.

‘Precisely. That’s my point. He’s not married. Free to . . . indulge himself. All over the shop.’

‘I’m in a relationship,’ Harry snapped.

The Sergeant raised an eyebrow, as if for the first time he had learned something new. ‘Ah, I see. And the lady’s name?’

Arkwright prepared to scribble a note, but Harry shook his head. ‘I don’t want to involve her.’

‘Why not?’

‘It’s not material.’

‘I think I’d better be the judge of that.’

Harry’s mind swirled. He might just have lied. Was he in a relationship still? Jemma wasn’t answering any of his messages. And, in truth, their relationship had been sailing choppy
waters ever since the visit from the Russians. Hell, the last time they’d had sex was . . . on that bloody sofa, just where Emily had been sitting. Bringing Jemma into it wasn’t going
to help her, and most certainly wouldn’t help him, either. He turned to van Buren. ‘Do I have to answer that?’

‘No, you don’t,’ van Buren replied.

Harry turned back to the Sergeant. ‘I’m telling the truth.’

‘But not all the truth, it seems,’ Arkwright replied softly.

And for the first time Harry was no longer helping the police with their enquiries.

The Sergeant stared, hoping to dislodge something more, waiting. Arkwright’s eyes flickered, seemed to dart for a moment in the direction of the glass panel, as though he thought he should
be taking instruction. ‘That will be enough,’ he said eventually. ‘For the moment.’

They sat in the back of the taxi on the way back to van Buren’s office, not speaking, lost in the gloom of their private thoughts. The traffic was heavy, ground to a halt
with horns blaring, until Harry could take no more of it. He jumped from the cab. ‘Come on, Theo, the walk will do you good.’

‘Will it?’

‘It’ll cost you less. I’ll have to ask you to pay. If you don’t mind.’

‘I’m a very expensive lawyer for a man who’s got no money,’ van Buren said, pulling out his wallet and paying the fare. Then, on the pavement, he turned to Harry.
‘I know you’ve been worrying about that minor little point. But don’t. I owe you, Harry, and I’m a man who pays my debts. When I joined the firm and first walked into the
office, most of the bastards started reaching for their barge poles. Hadn’t been to the right school, had I? Had too much of a chin. So first they expected me to learn how to bow and kiss
butts.’

‘Instead you wore jeans and introduced them to the delights of a Walkman.’

‘It was bloody hairy until you came along. You were Harry Jones. If I was good enough for him, they thought, I could at least be trusted to sit in a client meeting without breaking wind.
You got me started.’

‘I wonder what they think about Harry Jones as a client now.’

‘One of them asked me that this morning.’

‘And you said?’

‘I said that either I’ll win a victory so famous they’ll write plays about me.’

‘Or?’

‘I’ll make a mint as a speaker on the after-dinner circuit.’

Harry chuckled drily. ‘I’m glad to be of service.’

‘And me to you, Harry, old mate,’ the lawyer said softly, the bravado gone.

They began walking on. They were on the Strand, approaching the grey stone towers that were the Royal Courts of Justice. A television news crew was loitering outside, already set up, waiting;
Harry and van Buren crossed the street to avoid it.

‘But I need to sort this money thing, Theo,’ Harry began again, returning to his troubles. ‘I can’t do that without finding Sloppy.’

‘You tell the police about him and you’ll be cutting your throat. They’ll use it as evidence you were under extraordinary pressure. Acting out of character. They’ll have
both opportunity and motive, and enough circumstantial to screw you.’

‘But I’m screwed if I don’t,’ he protested, kicking a waste bin in frustration. ‘That bloody woman seems to be making sure of that. Give me five minutes with her
and I’ll find out what’s going on.’

Suddenly the lawyer grabbed Harry’s arms and spun him round. ‘Give you five seconds with her and I’ll rip your balls off myself. Harry, listen, you go anywhere near her and
you’re dead. They’ll have you for threatening a witness, interfering with a police investigation, criminal conspiracy. You’d go down for sure, and there’d be nobody to wave
you goodbye.’