Heaven's Light (45 page)

Charlie’s battle order unfolded still further. Throughout the day, local commercial radio stations would be offering information about Thursday’s polling arrangements, and Charlie’s careful courtship of a handful of the key DJs would ensure sympathetic mention of Pompey First. Normally, media coverage of elections was restricted by rules about political endorsement, but Pompey First had become a news
item in its own right and Charlie seemed confident that the party could only benefit. The
Newsnight
poll certainly suggested it, and their predicted Pompey First vote – 73 per cent – would form a giant backdrop to the eve-of-poll rally at the Guildhall. Once again, the media would be there in force. To date, the press centre had processed sixteen requests for facilities.

Barnaby moved the meeting on to arrangements for polling day, and Charlie handed round an armful of sea-green folders with a ward-by-ward analysis of exactly how he planned to maximize the Pompey First vote. Yet another deal had given him access to a fleet of minibuses, and these would be offering free trips to local supermarkets via designated polling stations. Computer printouts listed the names and addresses of confirmed Pompey First supporters, and these trusties would be offered separate lifts in private cars. A final round-up of electoral waifs and strays was planned for 8 p.m., an hour before the polls closed, and with luck Charlie anticipated a turnout of pledged votes that might be as high as 90 per cent. The operation had, he said ruefully, given him renewed respect for the guys who’d masterminded D-Day.

There was laughter around the room, and a round of applause for his efforts. Then Barnaby got to his feet again, applauding his troops in return. Collectively, these people had become friends, allies in an extraordinary war that he and Charlie had declared against the sprawl of vested interests in London. They shared his impatience, his disgust, and they shared as well his conviction that men and women of goodwill could make an infinitely better job of governance than the faceless mandarins and tired politicians in the metropolis.

He paused for breath, looking round the crowded room,
then ended his impromptu speech with a reminder that even victory wouldn’t bring the battle to an end. Back in the sixties, a Labour politician, T. Dan Smith, had attempted something similar. He’d mustered support in the north-east and led local voters towards a vision of semi-independence. He’d talked of ‘vertical structures’, local decision-making, the beginnings of a kind of autonomy. The threat to the centre was obvious and London had destroyed him with a ruthless mix of rumour, innuendo, and finally prosecution and arrest. His political career had ended in the law courts, answering charges of corruption, and for a generation the dream of a thriving local democracy had gone away. Now, thanks to the efforts of Pompey First, the return of power to the people was back on the agenda, but they’d taken the battle deep into enemy territory and the last thing they could afford now was complacency.

Barnaby was suddenly sombre. The enemy, he said, was everywhere. But with luck, and a great deal of effort, they’d battle through. It was what the people wanted. And the people, on Thursday, would have their shout.

Kate Frankham was standing beside the top table. Barnaby reached out to her, inviting her up, holding her hand high. Charlie did the same with her other hand and there was more clapping, and then whooping and war cries, and finally a great roar of applause. Barnaby looked down at Kate, squeezing her hand, but she was gazing up at Charlie, her head back, a huge grin on her face.

Wilcox was standing in the hotel lobby when he heard the commotion down the corridor. He raised an eyebrow at the smiling faces behind the reception desk but when the duty manager explained about Hayden Barnaby’s council
of war he resisted the temptation to stroll down and take a look for himself. This afternoon’s meeting with Tully, and now the prospect of more revelations, had sounded an alarm bell deep in his head and he wondered again whether he shouldn’t suggest afternoon tea at some other venue.

When she arrived minutes later, Louise Carlton wouldn’t hear of it. She peered round, unbuttoning her coat and carefully folding the Paisley silk scarf into a pocket. Tea was always served in the Nelson lounge, an ample, beautifully restored room on the south side of the hotel, and she tucked her hand through Wilcox’s arm, insisting he walk her through. To Wilcox’s surprise, Zhu was occupying an armchair at the far end. Beside him, deep in conversation, was a squat, harassed-looking businessman, whom Wilcox recognized at once. As leader of the city’s Tory councillors, he was fighting for his political life.

Louise ordered tea, scones and a plateful of cakes, waving away Wilcox’s protests that he’d eaten already. From her bag, she produced a long brown envelope, leaving it on the table between them. Wilcox examined his name on the label, looking for clues to this strange woman with her granny bun and huge glasses. Who was she? And what gave her the right to take command like this?

Louise was asking him whether he’d like to make notes. The envelope contained material he’d doubtless find interesting but there was nothing to beat an
aide-mémoire.

Wilcox glanced across at Zhu. Unusually, he was laughing.

‘I don’t want to sound rude,’ he said, looking at Louise again, ‘but who are you?’

Louise tut-tutted to herself and plunged a hand into the bag by her side. From a leather wallet, she produced a slim ID.

Wilcox took it. ‘Security Service?’ he said blankly. ‘Thames House?’

‘I’m with MI5. I’m sorry. I should have explained.’

Wilcox was looking at the envelope again, thinking about Tully. Was he MI5 as well? Was this an official operation? Intelligence-driven?

Louise’s hand was back in the bag. She offered a ring binder pad to Wilcox, plain white cover, brand new.

‘Just in case you’d forgotten your own.’ She beamed at him, a plump, middle-aged woman, enjoying her afternoon by the sea. ‘Shall we begin?’

Wilcox uncapped his pen while Louise outlined the operation she’d been running these last six months. From the day he’d flown into Heathrow, Raymond Zhu had been awarded VCIP status. As a Very Commercially Important Person, he’d been given priority access to the higher reaches of the DTI. They’d smoothed his path to certain manufacturers and he’d duly placed a modest order for equipment of what Louise termed a ‘paramilitary nature’. At the same time, he’d begun to invest heavily in Portsmouth, a decision that no one at the DTI could satisfactorily explain.

The comment stung Wilcox. This was exactly the kind of Whitehall dismissiveness that had led to the birth of Pompey First. Barnaby and Charlie Epple were right. The bastards really did think we still lived in caves.

Wilcox’s gaze had returned to Zhu. ‘What’s so crazy about investing in Portsmouth?’ he enquired. ‘It’s a free world, isn’t it?’

Louise patted his knee.

‘Of course it is,’ she said. ‘But it was the
amount
he was investing that concerned us. In our trade, Mr Wilcox, we look for anomalies, bumps in the usual graph line. Mr Zhu
represented a very big bump indeed. We simply wanted to know why.’

‘And?’

‘We started making enquiries. As you might expect.’

Her hands returned to her lap. Wilcox noted the absence of rings on her fingers and found himself speculating on her seniority within MI5. She didn’t somehow fit his image of a sharp-end agent. She was too old, too comfortable, too self-confident. But did that mean she occupied a perch in the upper echelons? And, if so, what might that say about the importance of this mission of hers?

Louise was talking about the dockyard now. The
Sentinel
’s intervention in the negotiations had, to be frank, been extremely premature. The details fuelling Sunday’s exclusive had plainly come from Zhu, and that in itself rather confirmed one of the preliminary conclusions she’d reached about the man.

‘Such as?’

‘Well,’ she lowered her voice, ‘he plainly sees no divide between business and politics. He briefed you on the dockyard in the sure knowledge that you’d use it. That, in turn, rather made Mr Barnaby’s point.’ She smiled. ‘Didn’t it?’

‘You know Barnaby?’

‘I know of him.’

‘And you’re saying he and Zhu are close?’

‘Obviously.’

‘And you’re saying that’s deliberate? On Zhu’s part?’

‘Yes.’

‘And that’s a problem?’

‘Yes.’ She nodded. ‘I think it might be.’

‘Why?’

‘Because politics and business don’t mix. Or shouldn’t.’

Wilcox permitted himself a short, mirthless snort of
laughter. ‘Are you kidding? Where have you been these last sixteen years?’

Louise pursed her lips. ‘Domestic politics are different. Domestically, we assume a common interest.’

‘Do we?’

‘Yes. Mr Zhu, I’m afraid, doesn’t offer the same guarantee.’

‘Is that why we’re selling him the dockyard?’

‘That’s a matter of interpretation. Mr Zhu’s, to be precise.’

‘You’re saying he hasn’t bought it?’

‘I’m saying negotiations are still in progress. But that’s not the point. The issue is rather longer-term. We need to understand where Mr Zhu is heading. And, to do that, we need to take rather a good look at where he’s been.’ Louise reached forward, touching the envelope. ‘I think you’ll find the evidence pretty conclusive.’

‘What evidence?’

Wilcox picked up the envelope, weighing it in his hand. For the first time, it occurred to him that Zhu might have some connection with the drugs exposé the young reporter on the crime desk was investigating. So far, she hadn’t got much further than showing him the photos that had arrived anonymously on the
Sentinel
’s front desk. The prints had tracked the German boy to Amsterdam. One had featured Liz Barnaby leaving a Southsea travel agency. According to the carefully typed notes that came with the photos, the link between Liz and Haagen was pretty firm. Her cheque had funded the ticket to Amsterdam with plenty in reserve for the twenty grams of heroin and somewhat larger consignment of cannabis that Haagen had allegedly bought. Might Zhu be involved in narcotics? Turning Portsmouth
into some kind of bridgehead for hard drugs? Was there a Triad dimension here?

Wilcox wondered how much of this to share with Louise. He badly wanted to regain the initiative. He opened the envelope.

‘We’ve had a tip-off about a drugs story,’ he said.

‘Oh, really?’

Wilcox told her briefly what had happened. There was no suggestion that Barnaby had been involved but they were still talking to his estranged wife.

‘And what does she say?’

‘She claims she was trying to buy the boy off. He was a junkie. He shared a flat with Barnaby’s daughter, who was crazy about him.’

‘How much money was involved?’

‘Three thousand pounds.’

‘She gave him that to clear off?’

‘That’s what she’s saying.’

‘Without telling her husband?’

‘Yes.’

‘And this lad spent it on drugs?’

‘So it seems,’ Wilcox confirmed. ‘He was certainly back in the city because I saw him that weekend. The day this place opened.’

Louise steepled her fingers. At length, she sighed. ‘And you believe her husband never knew? A sum as big as that?’

‘I’ve no idea. It’s certainly possible. Then again …’

‘Let’s say he did. Let’s say he sanctioned the arrangement. Doesn’t say much for his judgement, does it?’

Wilcox accepted the hint and emptied the contents of the envelope onto the table. There were sheets of paper, dense lines of typescript. The top page headlined the various
ways Zhu had supported Pompey First. In cash terms, he’d so far written cheques for nearly £98,000.

Wilcox stared at the figure. A waiter had arrived with a tray of tea. Scones and cakes would follow. He cleared a space on the table, handing the papers to Wilcox.

‘Where did you get this figure?’ he asked.

Louise was eyeing the mountain of clotted cream beside the dish of strawberry jam. ‘Take a look at the rest,’ she said. ‘It’s important you understand the context.’

Wilcox read on. The second page traced Zhu’s various holdings in Hong Kong. Through his brother, he’d built up interests in a number of conglomerates and, as far as Wilcox could judge, he still held major stakes. Page three was more technical, an analysis of cash-flow into three bank accounts in Singapore. All were registered in the name of Celestial Holdings and the figures were enormous. The smallest account topped $898 million.

The scones had arrived. Louise loaded one with cream and jam and passed it across to Wilcox, who didn’t move. ‘The man’s made a lot of money,’ he said. ‘So what?’

‘Page four,’ Louise said, smiling across the room at Zhu, ‘is especially interesting.’

Wilcox returned to the stapled sheets of paper. Page four listed bids Zhu was making for major British utilities. Southern Electric was one, Southern Water another. He was even building up a sizeable position in Nynex, the cable operator with a network in Portsmouth. All the bids had been made in the name of nominees but accompanying notes followed the paper trail back to Celestial Holdings.

‘Why?’ Wilcox looked up again. ‘Why does he want all this?’

‘It’s partly good business,’ Louise admitted. ‘Water and electrical distribution are still monopolies. They’re outperforming
the market. The Americans are snapping them up.’

‘But?’

‘No buts.’ Louise was brisk now. ‘Just logic. Why would you need to secure power and water? Why would you want to control the cable network?’

Wilcox’s eyes returned to the tables of figures. Buried in there, he was beginning to realize, was a far bigger story than even the dockyard exposé. But why had Zhu chosen Portsmouth? And why all the backing for Pompey First?

He picked up the scone. Louise’s mouth was full. She took a sip of tea.

‘Hong Kong’s the key,’ she said at last. ‘As you’ve no doubt guessed.’

‘But I thought Zhu came from Singapore?’

‘He does. Before that, he lived in Hong Kong. His brother’s still there. The other half of the empire.’

Wilcox nodded, the light beginning to dawn. His eyes were back on the figures, tallying the tidal wave of money flooding into Celestial Holdings.