State Of Emergency: (Tom Buckingham Thriller 3) (11 page)

Tom nodded at him. ‘Yep, you never know what’s coming round the corner.’

Inside the gate, the drives and paths had all been cleared of snow and the sense of order that had impressed Tom on his first visit still prevailed. Apparently Rolt had ploughed the best part of the fortune he had made from his software businesses into creating this place out of an old army base, a haven for ex-service people to get cleaned up and prepare to re-enter civilian life. But a large number had grown to like life on the campus so much that they had managed to prolong their stay, like perpetual students. Perhaps some had even relapsed on purpose to avoid facing the outside world. Rolt hadn’t objected: he had told Tom he liked the idea of his men being housed together in one place, enjoying the support of each other’s camaraderie, even though it had stretched resources and put pressure on his seemingly limitless funds.

Tom left his car by the admin block and went into Reception. There was no one at the desk so he walked down the corridor towards the senior management offices.

The warden’s office was empty, as were those of the field directors. He reached the last room and peered through the glass. Carter, the bursar, was at his desk, hunched over a screen. Tom knocked.

‘Fuck off, I’m busy.’ Carter, a paraplegic Basra veteran, was famously miserable.

He didn’t look up as Tom stepped into the room. ‘Sorry to disturb you.’

‘Well, don’t then.’ Carter glared at him briefly then returned to the screen.

Tom knew it wasn’t personal. And in a world of false courtesy and meaningless ‘Have a nice day’ platitudes, the brusqueness came as a relief. And there were no favourites where Carter was concerned: he treated everyone with the same contempt. He was good at the job and his memory for fine detail was legendary. When Tom had sat in on board meetings in Rolt’s absence, he had watched with amusement as Carter tore into everyone round the table over various financial misdemeanours, all of which he seemed to recite without notes and with terrifying, surgical accuracy. You might have survived the insurgents, his tone seemed to say, but woe betide you if you can’t produce a receipt for that new pen.

Tom gestured at an empty desk. ‘Could I log on to one of these? Need to look something up.’

‘You can try. Only the whole fucking mainframe’s down.’

A wasted journey. He’d wanted to give Randall’s personal file a really good going-over.

‘Where is everybody?’

‘Hanson’s taken them all off to Dartmoor.’

Hanson was the chief warden, a former Marine and one of the few Ruperts to have joined Invicta.

‘What’s that in aid of?’

Carter rolled his eyes. ‘He’s been giving them all hell about keeping in shape.’

‘What – all of them?’

‘Just the leadership and some of the long-termers.’

‘First I heard of it.’

Carter’s withering gaze settled on him. ‘There’s a lot you people don’t hear about in the London office.’

Tom parked himself on the corner of an adjacent desk. He knew better than to ask for a chair. ‘Did Rolt sanction it?’

‘Fucked if I know. His lordship gave the warden
carte blanche
on spending when this election business blew up.’

He referred to it as if it were an unwelcome irritation in Rolt’s schedule, rather than an unprecedented turning point in the fortunes of the nation.

‘I thought things had been getting a bit tight.’

Carter gave him another withering look and returned to the screen. He was notoriously guarded about all matters financial.

‘Sorry, didn’t mean to pry.’

‘Well, since you
are
here, you tell
me
something. What’s going to happen now he’s a fucking government minister? How’s he going to square the new day job with all this?’

Since Rolt had become absorbed in the election campaign his fortnightly visits to the campus had been on hold, but the place had its own momentum and Tom wasn’t aware that there had been any negative impact. ‘You lot seem pretty good at keeping the ship on course.’ He glanced nonchalantly around the room as he spoke. It was a hallmark of Carter’s type that compliments only irritated them further.

‘Paddling like fuck away from the rapids, you mean.’

This conversation wasn’t going anywhere. He decided to plunge in. ‘You know Randall? Used to be the boss’s driver.’

‘Gone. Had enough, I heard. A few of the old guard have in the past months.’

‘Who else?’

Carter looked at him with exaggerated dismay. ‘How should I know? No one tells me anything. Every time someone fucks off that’s one less mouth to feed. Far as I’m concerned, the fewer the merrier. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to get on with my job here. Why not fuck off and annoy someone else?’

Tom’s attention was caught by a large wall map of the UK and a handful of locations marked as important. ‘What’s with the red flags?’

Carter followed his gaze. ‘My personal hit list. Properties that are a drain on resources. Main one being the London office, I might add.’ He gave him an accusing look.

‘Don’t blame me, I only work there.’ As well as the main campus where they were now, there were three hostels used for training courses: one in Derbyshire, the one on Dartmoor where the senior management had gone now, and a third in the Lake District. It all added up to quite a portfolio. ‘Are they all going to be sold?’

‘Some, if I have anything to do with it.’

‘Which first?’

‘Derbyshire and the Lakes.’

‘What do they cost to run?’

‘Far too fucking much, is what. And if they’re not maintained properly, and we’re not using them enough, they go to seed. So we’re obliged to keep them at least partially occupied when they’re not in use for exercises. Turn the heating off completely and these old buildings succumb to damp and go to rat shit. And if the local dickheads think they’re empty, you get burgled. Windows broken, graffiti …’

Tom stared more closely at the map. He had never been to these facilities. He thought about the car belonging to Randall’s elderly neighbour that had shown up in Cumbria. ‘Who’s looking after the Lakes?’

Carter sighed heavily. ‘As I think I tried to make clear, I just look after the figures. You’d have to see HR about that.’ He leaned back and then forward again. ‘Oh, no, you can’t. They’re on Dartmoor as well.’

The man could teach masterclasses in exasperation. He picked up a pencil and started to scribble something on a pad.

‘How’s the election gone down here? How do people feel about it?’

Carter threw down his pencil. It rolled off the pad and fell to the floor. ‘Look, what do you actually want, Buckingham? Because, hard as it may be for you to comprehend, I’ve got quite a lot to be getting on with here.’

The phone on the other desk started to ring. He ignored it.

‘Want me to take it?’

‘No!’

‘Only trying to help.’

‘Well, don’t.’ Carter pushed himself away from his screen and wheeled over to the phone. He picked it up and listened, his face changing from mild irritation to thunderous annoyance. His questions came like bursts of rapid fire. ‘When was this? … How many? … What’s the extent of the damage? … Okay, okay. Stay there, I’m coming.’ He glanced at Tom again. ‘And, no, I
don’t
need a push.’

‘What’s happened?’

‘You’ll see.’

19

15.00

Like many ex-service paraplegics, Carter had hugely powerful shoulders and upper arms, but the armoury was at least a quarter of a mile from the admin building, and a steady climb, more than any man could manage in a wheelchair, much as it clearly annoyed him to accept Tom’s help.

The snow was starting to fall again, causing the lamps to come on along either side of the path. As they approached they saw Regan, the sallow-faced deputy armourer, waiting outside for them, pulling anxiously on a cigarette – which was forbidden, of course. Carter bellowed at him from twenty metres. ‘Put that fucking thing out! When did this happen?’

Regan dropped the cigarette like a guilty schoolboy, and trod it into the snow. He was a small man, painfully thin, who, Tom knew, had lived rough for several years before joining Invicta. ‘I’ve only just opened up.’

‘Well, let’s see, then.’

Regan hesitated, a worried glance in Tom’s direction, irritating Carter. ‘Get on with it – it’s fucking cold out here.’

Regan held the door as Tom wheeled Carter in. For a moment even he was lost for words.

‘This is what happens when people go away – nothing but fucking trouble.’

They looked along the racks. Thirty or more were empty. It was obvious to Tom that whoever had done this had come mob-handed and with the appropriate transport. ‘Who was in charge of security last night?’

Regan nodded over his shoulder. ‘There’s some tyre tracks going up over the back field. They must have come through the forest gate, the bastards.’

He was making a big show of his disgust. Too big, Tom thought.

With all the security he found it hard to imagine that this was anything other than an inside job. If Carter was thinking the same, he probably wasn’t going to say so in front of Regan. Tom glanced at where the door had been forced. Heavy locks top and bottom held it fast, but the damage was all midway down. Unconvincing. Tom fixed his gaze on Regan. ‘Who else knows about this?’

He gestured at Carter. ‘Mr Carter and you is all.’

It was obvious to Tom that he was lying. But Carter seemed to be taking him at his word. ‘What about your boss?’ Hartley, the senior armourer.

‘Away with the bloody rest of them,’ Carter growled.

‘And there’s no signal where they are,’ Regan added.

Carter let out an exaggerated breath of frustration. Tom said, ‘We call the cops, this’ll be out all over the media. I’ll break it to the chief. Now he’s home secretary he can decide how he wants it handled.’

20

15.20

Back in his car, Tom called Phoebe. ‘Are you at your desk?’

‘Where else?’

He could tell from her voice that she had been crying. He didn’t have time for any of that right now. ‘Invicta has a hostel in the Lake District.’

‘What’s it called?’

‘I don’t know, it’s near Keswick. The mainframe’s down here so I can’t find out any more. Can you access the records remotely? I want to know who looks after it. There must be a warden or someone on staff.’

‘You after somewhere to go to ground? Woolf said you might have to lie low.’

‘I don’t do lying low. It’s not my thing. He’s talking through his arse. Give me whatever comes up – names, records, anything.’

‘I’ll call you back.’

‘No, I’ll hang on.’

Although she must have put down her mobile he could hear her cursing in the background as she moved to the other desk where the main computer was. A couple of minutes later she was back. ‘It’s called Lakeside Manor. It says here it’s been sub-let to a school since September.’

‘Who’s responsible for it?’

‘There aren’t any names.’

‘Okay, go into the staff database and search “Lakeside”, see if any come up.’

There was another silence while she logged herself in.

‘And what’s the name of the school it’s been let to?’

‘Orchard College.’

He Googled it. No school of that name appeared. He could hear Phoebe tapping on her keyboard. ‘Woolf says you’re staying.’

She gave an empty laugh. ‘Leaving isn’t an option, apparently.’

‘Well, if I said I was sorry to hear it I’d be lying. I thought I was done here. Now I’m not so sure. Things just got a lot more complicated.’

‘Okay, it says here the last warden was called Evans.’

‘Doesn’t mean anything to me. Look him up – what’s he doing now?’

‘There’s nothing listed for him, which means he might have left. What’s the big deal about this place?’

‘I don’t know yet. Maybe nothing. What else have you got on Evans? When did he sign up?’

‘He’s got a very low number. Five. One of the first intake.’

The same as Randall.

21

16.30

On the drive back to London, a slow slog up a slippery M3, Tom reviewed the bits and pieces of what he had discovered. Randall could have been in Cumbria immediately before his assassination attempt at the hotel; the school to which Lakeside Manor had supposedly been let appeared not to exist; the armoury break-in had all the hallmarks of an inside job. Meanwhile, the Invicta management team was away, and Rolt had had a visit from someone he didn’t want anyone to see who might or might not have links to the newspaper that had backed him. But that was all they were, bits and pieces, their only significance whatever Tom chose to attach to them with his own imagination. Woolf would probably dismiss them, but he was pulling back now that he no longer had Mandler’s patronage. He had his own arse to watch. Tom realized he needed to get some perspective – a change of scene, which was why his much-postponed meeting with his father at his club was good timing.

Tom was greeted by the porter as if he’d seen him only recently, with the courteous neutrality characteristic of his kind. You could be someone’s secret mistress or the Duke of Wellington, whose illustrious ancestor gazed down at them from the wall opposite, and the greeting would be the same. The only difference was that this time Tom had remembered to wear a tie.

He found his father in the library behind the pink pages of the
FT
.

‘My dear boy.’

Hugh Buckingham cast off the paper and rose stiffly from his chair. The last time Tom had seen his father he had been brimming with vigour, having, rather late in life, adopted a strenuous fitness routine. Today he looked noticeably older, as if it had been years rather than months. Tom felt a stab of guilt, made worse by the evident pleasure on his father’s face at seeing him. ‘Good to see you, Dad.’

Tom felt the urge to wrap him in a bear hug but, for two reasons, he didn’t. First, they were in his club, surrounded by the other members, all male, who didn’t go in for such displays of affection. Second, they hadn’t even spoken to each other since their last disastrous encounter, and the ice had yet to be broken. Tom had been putting off meeting his father for weeks. Several times he had emailed him a date then cancelled, pleading that Rolt’s election campaign meant he was left holding the fort while the boss was out on the road. Now the election was over there were no more excuses.