Catalyst (51 page)

“Fewer than one million – around seven percent – of respondents opposed the changes.”

He looked across at them, smiling broadly. “And here's the big finish.
Ninety-one percent
of the respondents, which, George informs us, is exactly eighty percent of the
whole
target population, answered ‘yes' to the final question, which was, ‘Will you hereby commit to casting your vote in favour of the Party at the next election who will themselves commit to these measures?'

“This is just too easy; and to think I entered politics for a meaningful challenge. By my calculation, this means that just over one third of the electorate has just voted Gormley and Co out of office.” He beamed across the desk at them. “Who needs fireworks? Well, team, what do you think of
that
?”

“Well, obviously, it looks very promising,” said Jackie, “but let's remember, no-one has voted for
this Party
. They have shown their support for an ideal, which, admittedly, aligns closely with our own objectives. But when push comes to shove, entrenched party loyalties will override this hysteria for millions of people. I'm not even sure if this survey will prove more beneficial to the government than to us. What it has done is clearly define – and quantify – what they have to do to stay in power; the extent to which they need to move in either challenging or adopting our proposals. I'm sure Ellen Gormley will be concerned about the results, but she'll also be extremely grateful for the information.”

There were a few moments of silence before Andrew responded.

“You're absolutely right, Jackie,” he said, taking both her and Tom by surprise. “Complacency is the one thing that we cannot afford. We have the high ground – I'm sure Tom will like the analogy – and we must diligently and, if necessary, ruthlessly defend it.”

He put the letter down on the desk and continued.

“Another piece of news. I have it on good authority that the government will be calling a General Election next June. Could be better, of course; we were hoping for the spring. But, never mind, at least they've shifted it by four months. Poor old Ellen must be really teed off right now. All this brilliant work to resolve the oil crisis and she can't claim a single brownie point because she's been publicly insisting all along there wasn't really a problem. You really have to feel sorry for her, don't you?”

The Queen's speech on 16
^th
November passed with the traditional surfeit of ceremony and lack of passion. The annual commitment was made to improving community life…

“My government will introduce legislation to protect communities from antisocial and threatening behaviour by street gangs and organised crime, which will include significantly greater penalties for repeat offenders and for those who carry weapons and deal in illegal drugs.…”

Andrew pointed out afterwards that the statement should have started with the words “My
next
government will… ”

A week after the Queen's Speech, the Leader of Her Majesty's Opposition held a small ‘reception', as he chose to call it, as both a thank you for the work carried out by the task force, and a celebration of the results of the REP survey. Tom, Jackie, Grace and Reggie, along with a couple of dozen people who had provided them with legal advice, administrative support, data-gathering and number-crunching, were invited to join him in one of the committee rooms at Portcullis House for champagne and canapés.

It was a measure of their Leader's inability to display the common touch that the room was devoid of beer, lager, wine or any suggestion of real food. Nevertheless, the gesture was well received and the group was clearly appreciative of the recognition. It was also Friday afternoon, and a good way to end the week. Mobile phones had been duly switched off to comply with Andrew's socialising protocol.

Three-quarters-of-an-hour into the party, Andrew's PA entered the room. Shirley Topliss was in her late twenties, a small, slim girl with tightly-curled ginger hair and freckles. Her natural expression was famously one of pending doom, but right now she was looking noticeably more agitated than usual and beckoned Jackie over to her.

“Mrs Hewlett,” she said in a low voice, “I've just had a call from a Mrs Manners. She'd like you to phone her back as soon as possible.”

Jackie's face drained of colour.

“Did she say what it was about?”

In spite of the hushed delivery of the message, everyone in the room had stopped speaking and was listening to the exchange, alerted by Shirley's anxious expression.

“Something about Lucy. You need to call her right away.”

“Oh, God!”

“Jackie,” said Andrew, walking over. “Are you alright?”

“My child-minder,” said Jackie, retrieving her mobile from her shoulder bag and switching it on.

She slumped onto a chair as she keyed the number. Then stood up again and almost ran from the room as the phone connected. Outside she leant against the wall of the corridor.

“Danni,” she said, “what's wrong?”

“I'm not sure, Jackie, I went to pick up Lucy and when I got there, her teacher said she had left with somebody about twenty minutes before the end of classes. They said that you'd phoned at lunchtime to say that she would be picked up early, and that you had described the person – a young man. Apparently he had ID and everything and a note from you on your official letterhead. They showed it to me. They all seemed perfectly relaxed about it, so I came home. It wasn't until afterwards I thought… well… you would be bound to let me know if you'd made other arrangements. Oh, please tell me it's alright… ”

Jackie was unable to say anything for a few moments. Tom had followed her as far as the door and watched her face contort in an agony of fear. He stepped forward as she slumped to a sitting position, back to the wall.

“Jackie, Jackie, what is it?”

She turned to him, seeming to take a few moments to recognise him.

“Tom. It's Lucy.” She dropped the phone onto the floor. Tom picked it up and, crouching beside her, spoke into it.

“Hello. It's Tom Brown here. What's happened? Is Lucy hurt?”

“No. Well I don't know. Someone picked her up from school and… well… ”

Jackie took the phone back from Tom, recovering a little. Andrew and Shirley had joined them and were standing behind him. Jackie checked her watch; it was 3.55 pm.

“Listen, Danni, I didn't phone and that note wasn't from me. I'm going to call the police. Can you go back to the school; I'll send the police there. I'm on my way.”

Tom helped her to her feet. She leant unsteadily against the wall and her hands were shaking as she keyed the emergency number.

“I need to go,” she said to the group, her voice trembling. “I need to get… ”

“I'll drive you,” said Tom.

Grace had joined the group.

“No need,” she said, “we'll get her there with a police escort… ”

“I'll come with you anyway,” Tom said. He looked across at Grace and wasn't sure whether or not he detected a brief scowl. He gave her the benefit of the doubt.

Jackie was speaking to the police. Andrew himself hurried down the stairs to the ground floor reception and told them to get a car round as soon as possible, giving the destination as Jackie's home – she could redirect it to the school as they got closer. He also asked for the police escort. “A serious emergency,” he said, without elaborating.

Jackie and Tom joined him almost before he had finished delivering his message. The car pulled up outside within two minutes, a police motorcycle half a minute later. They set off at 4.03 pm. It was already getting dark, making the situation seem even more desperate.

On the way, Jackie called her husband, telling him what had happened and to go home in case Lucy turned up; then Lucy's father – her first husband. He could do nothing – he lived in Ayrshire – but just in case Lucy called him. She contacted the school, explaining the situation, and telling them that her child-minder and the police were on their way. They assured her that the police were already there and had started asking questions, and Danni arrived as she was speaking. Jackie phoned her PA, Cindy Pearce, at her constituency office to check whether anyone had asked for some of her letterhead notepaper. Not as far as Cindy knew, but she would ask around.

Then, biting her lip as she asked, “I don't suppose Lucy's there, is she?”

“No, I expect she's with Danni,” said Cindy. “Why, what's wrong, Jackie?”

Jackie told her, the effort destroying her composure. Her voice broke and Tom took the phone from her.

“Hi, it's Tom Brown. We're on our way to Lucy's school, Cindy, we'll keep you posted. Let Jackie know if anything happens at your end.”

“Of course. Oh, God!”

Jackie took the phone back from him and made calls to the homes of three of Lucy's friends, more to fill the time than with any real expectation or hope of a positive outcome. No-one had seen her.

They were just ahead of the rush hour and with the police out-rider they made it to the school in thirty-seven minutes, not much more than half the time it usually took, arriving at 4.40 pm.

Jackie ran inside, past the two police cars parked in the playground. Tom followed, asking their driver and the out-rider to wait. The staff had provided a good description of the man – tall, late twenties to mid-thirties, close-cropped hair, black-rimmed glasses, well-dressed in a lounge suit and tie, pleasant, well-spoken. There had been nothing about him to arouse suspicion, except in retrospect – he was wearing gloves; they noticed when he handed them the letter. Even though it was nearing the end of November, it was still very mild. The police had acquired a digital photo of Lucy from the school's computer records, and Jackie okay-ed their circulating this to patrol cars in the area.

Most of the staff were in tears and Lucy's own teacher was inconsolable. The Security Supervisor was being questioned by DI Keith Warnock, the investigating officer, and looked completely shattered by the event. He had actually spoken to the man, exchanging friendly greetings, as he entered the premises alone and when he left shortly afterwards with Lucy.

They asked Jackie about a possible misunderstanding – a mix-up on dates, for example – just for the purpose of eliminating the obvious. However, nothing as straightforward as that would explain the phone call and a forged letter. Jackie was unable to identify anyone from the description, at least no-one specific.

Inspector Warnock took Tom to one side. The questioning of Jackie and the staff was taking place in the school hall; the policeman led him through to the foyer. In the year-six classroom off it, helped by a teaching assistant, police were carefully checking Lucy's desk and the PC she shared with three other pupils. The inspector was a tall, well-built man with strong features, and an air of authority and reliability. But in spite of the feeling of confidence he inspired, he was clearly very concerned.

“This doesn't look good, sir,” he said. “Whoever did this took an enormous risk. He must have known there was a good chance the school would phone Mrs Hewlett back to confirm the arrangements after receiving the call. That's what they should have done, in which case we'd have been here waiting for him when he arrived. He must have been very confident of the plan and very convincing in the role. We've checked the call; from a mobile reported stolen earlier today. The school record all incoming calls and keep them for a week, just in case – standard practice now. This one had loud traffic noise virtually drowning out the caller. Obviously to mask their voice.”

“What would he – they – want her for?” asked Tom. “It doesn't bear thinking about.”

“I don't think it's anything to do with sex if that's what you mean,” the policeman replied, “because it's been so well set up and carried out with a lot of bottle. She's obviously been targeted and it's most likely something to do with the mum.”