sThe Quiet Wart (2 page)

The formalities of registering a company had been easily taken care of, but waving Praew into the gate at her new school was proving far more challenging. She looked adorable in her purple blazer and grey skirt, with a straw boater topping off the image, and she'd entered the school genuinely excited to be there. But it didn't stop Sean from worrying about how she'd cope.
I hope she doesn't get bullied; kids can be so cruel.
They'd chosen the school because it had a large number of international students and they thought that Praew's race and accent were less likely to make her a target for bullies there.

After returning home, the two new business partners sat opposite each other at the designer dining table, in the luxurious Fulham flat that they now shared. It belonged to Liz, as did pretty much everything else in their relationship, the one enduring feature of Sean's life being that he was still penniless, despite penning a globally acclaimed news piece. Thankfully, it didn't seem to matter to Liz. She welcomed him without question, sharing everything equally.
Does she regret that now?
Sean thought. S
he could do so much better than me.

‘What do we do now? How does it work?' Liz asked, showing her eagerness to get started.

‘There are two ways to go about it: one, we approach editors with an idea and try to get an advance against the sale of the later piece; or two, we write a piece and then try to sell it.' Sean shrugged.

‘Which is the best?'

‘We'd make more money out of the latter, assuming we could find decent stories that is. A finished piece is worth much more than a concept, plus we could market it to multiple outlets and still own it. But it means financing everything ourselves until we get a finished piece. The other way, we get cash up front, but we have a set price and probably have to work to a set deadline. Whoever pays for it owns the story too.'

‘The choice seems obvious to me,' Liz responded.

‘As long as you're willing to fund the gap; expenses can be quite high on these things, as you know from the BW affair.'

‘Good, then that's settled. We're on our own. Where do we start?'

‘Strangely, I think the best thing we can do is study the news — TV, papers, Internet, newswires, everything — until we find something that we think is worth a closer look. Why don't we just get stuck in and at lunchtime prepare a short list of ideas?'

‘Great, just in time for my foot massage!' Liz said, flicking her long black hair behind her ears.

Their new venture started with a burst of activity, Sean went out to buy newspapers, Liz watched news channels on TV and they both trawled the Internet. By 12 p.m., they'd both scribbled a short list.

‘You go first,' Liz said.

‘Okay. I've got Lyle Walsh, the Baptist priest from Cornwall who's trying to get one of those American-style TV churches going here. I think it's just a scam.'

Liz frowned. ‘Isn't all religion? You know, give me your money and do as I say, or my imaginary friend in the sky won't invite you to his parties when you're dead?'

‘True, but I think this is less well disguised. He's a former postman who now drives a Bentley.'

‘And the Catholic Church is one of the wealthiest institutions in the world, never mind the Mormons, the Church of England and every other fear-mongering collection of weirdoes that foist their idiotic ideas on us daily.'

The comment made Sean laugh. He knew Liz was very anti-religious and that she never missed an opportunity to have a rant about it. ‘I'm guessing you don't want to follow this up then?'

‘Only because highlighting the misgivings of the fringes of religion somehow lends credibility to the more mainstream versions. In my view, they're all as wacky as each other. The others have just been around longer.'

‘Okay, who've you got?' Sean conceded reluctantly.

‘I've got Vladimir Koryalov, a Russian oligarch living in London. There's a rumour he's a frontman for the Russian President, laundering corrupt money for him.'

‘Right, I'll get my body armour out then and start looking out for people with poison-tipped umbrellas,' Sean smirked.

‘Hmm, you're right. If it's true, it could be a bit on the dangerous side. How about Nick Allsop? He's on my list too.'

‘Really, why?'

‘I just thought that we know so little about him, but he seems to be gaining popularity at a rate of knots, maybe even enough to break the duopoly of British politics.'

Sean pulled a face, pushing his lips forward. ‘He's just a rabble-rousing cretin — here today, gone tomorrow — isn't he?'

‘There are rumours that he has some secret racist agenda, that he's been fiddling his expenses as an MEP for years, and of course, that he's sleeping with a fellow MEP from Germany.'

It was obvious that Liz was serious and that she was ready to defend her choice. Personally, Sean didn't think that writing about an idiot like Allsop would be very challenging, but maybe it was a good place to start. They could use it to create a decent system of working together. ‘Okay. Settled. I'll call his constituency office and set up an interview,' he said.

‘Will you get one?'

‘You said it yourself: I'm an award-winning journalist, and he's a politician, and most would agree to an interview with a plastic spoon if they thought they'd get some publicity out of it.'

*

As predicted, Allsop consented to an interview. Although it surprised Sean how quickly he wanted to do it. It was arranged for two days' time, in the small Cheshire village in which Allsop lived.

‘I'd better get cracking with the background research,' Liz said.

‘I don't think you'll find anything that interesting,' Sean responded. ‘Every newspaper in the country will have been looking into the obvious areas to try to get a scoop. Plus, the other parties have probably had their goons crawling all over him, looking for something they can use to discredit him.'

‘So what do you suggest; just an interview? He's not going to tell you anything incriminating.'

‘That depends on the questioning, but I think you're probably right. Maybe we need to follow him and find out what he really gets up to when he's out of the spotlight?'

‘Really? I'm not sure how I feel about that. Is it legal?' Liz scrunched her nose.

‘As long as we don't enter any private places, or tap his phones, we should be okay.'

‘Hmmm, okay, but we can't do it ourselves. Should we get Clive to do it?'

Clive Miller was an ex-Detective Superintendent from Scotland Yard, turned private security consultant. During the BW investigation, he'd proven invaluable at keeping Sean, Liz and Praew alive, as well as clarifying their thinking using his vast experience. In fact, Sean thought that he was probably the most intuitively intelligent person he'd ever met, despite the fact that he didn't have a single academic qualification to his name. Unfortunately, Clive had also sustained life-threatening injuries in the battle against the Findlow family, but had now recovered to a point where he could work. The only lasting damage was that he'd lost his right hand and now had a prosthetic limb.

‘Can we afford Clive? He's expensive?' Sean questioned.

‘I think so. Anyway, what's the alternative? Somebody we don't know? We can trust Clive. He's worth the investment.'

Unsure that any investment was worthwhile in what he considered would be a dull repetition of previous stories on the eccentric politician, Sean went along with it. ‘You're the boss,' he said smiling.

‘And don't you forget it,' Liz grinned, waving her feet in the air.

*

Clive's offices on Dover St. in Mayfair looked exactly the same as they had previously; tastefully decorated and neatly laid out. He still had the same efficient secretary, who ushered them into the small waiting area and, as before, he appeared on the dot of the pre-arranged time.

‘I see you've got rid of that blond mess you used to call a hairstyle,' Clive said, shaking Sean's hand firmly with his left hand. ‘About time!' He wrinkled his eyes, as a broad smile broke onto his face.

In reality Sean had never called it a ‘hairstyle'; he'd just not cut or brushed it that often. When he first met Clive, he'd been the living stereotype of a disgruntled hack: untidy hair; bad clothes; and an unhealthy level of cynicism. His injuries, and probably more influentially, Liz, had changed that. He was now dressing better, in dark jeans and a tailored shirt today; had shorter hair, although still blond, and he overtly portrayed quite an optimistic demeanour, although his journalistic scepticism was still alive and well. Clive, on the other hand, hadn't changed at all. He still dressed like a city banker in expensively tailored suits; his bald head still sported designer glasses; and his facial features still seemed to somehow project the sharpness of his intellect.

Once the meeting started, Sean explained the new business arrangement he and Liz had entered into, and then he told Clive who they were targeting as their first subject. Clive's eyebrows twitched at the mention of Allsop.

‘You think that's a mistake?' Sean said, picking up on the expression.

Stroking his chin before responding, Clive said, ‘Journalistically no, but be careful. Back when I was on the force, we looked into rumours that he was associated with some pretty nasty neo-Nazi groups.'

Lifting her eyebrows, Liz looked directly at Sean, saying
I told you there was more to this
, without actually saying it. ‘Really? I wonder why that hasn't come out?' she said.

‘It was just when he was starting out as an MEP and we couldn't prove anything, so we let it go.' Clive responded.

‘Couldn't prove anything?' Sean commented upon the non-committal remark.

‘Well, he certainly met with members of neo-Nazi organisations, but we never saw him actively involved: demonstrating, or worse.'

‘Worse?' Sean asked.

‘Yes, we're not talking about your run-of-the-mill skinheads here. These organisations are secretive and serious. Some are in the UK, but the others emanate out of Eastern Europe: Germany, Russia and the Ukraine mostly. They're thought to have been responsible for a number of political assassinations and race murders.'

‘So why did you stop looking at him?' Liz asked.

‘He got wind that he was being tailed and he has some powerful friends. On the surface we had to back off, but… '

‘But?' Sean asked.

‘We passed our findings over to the security services, MI5 and 6. From there I don't know, but given his current position, I'd guess they got nowhere as well.'

‘Can you follow him for us now?' Liz asked.

Clive didn't respond for a few seconds, clearly grappling with something. When he started to speak, it was deliberate and his words were carefully chosen. ‘Yes, but only in public places, and even then, only from a distance. We think he had very active undercover security cover in the past. They'd follow him looking for others doing the same, and they were well trained; probably former Stasi or KGB.'

‘Do you think we're biting off more than we can chew?' Liz asked.

‘I think you've both proved that you're capable of chewing quite a lot. Taking on the Findlows and the BW Corp was no easy feat, but don't assume that this will be any easier. The people in these organisations are ruthless and if they think you're watching them, they'll kill you without thinking twice.'

‘What do you think, Sean?' Liz asked.

‘I don't know. It all sounds a bit far-fetched to me, but I guess the only way we'll find out is to investigate it. If it is true, are you sure you're ready to do something that may be dangerous again, so soon after the BW experience?'

Liz shifted uncomfortably in her seat. ‘I don't think I'll ever be ready for that again, but why don't we take a quick look, and if it gets too dangerous, we can beat a retreat?'

‘Okay,' Sean agreed. In his mind he wanted to get it over with as soon as possible and get on with investigating the Cornwall priest, still convinced that this work would prove brief and unfruitful.

‘I'll get Terry's team onto it. We'll tail him for a week and then regroup. Okay?' Clive said.

‘Thanks, Clive. It's great to see you again,' Liz said, standing to leave.

‘Be careful,' Clive replied, before ushering them out of the door.