The Circus (17 page)

Fucking Twitter, Miller thought with a sigh. You never had to worry about that kind of shit in my day; you could go about your
business in peace. Social media provided a limitless platform for voyeurs, the ego-crazed and the criminal. If his boss, the Prime Minister, had any sense, he would just close the whole internet thing down. Maybe Miller should suggest it once he got back to Downing Street. It wouldn’t be that difficult – or, at least it wasn’t for the Chinese and the bloody Iranians. He poured himself some more coffee. It was too late to worry about the location now, so he would just have to make the best of it. If the meeting ever did become public, perhaps he could hold up the venue as evidence that they were being totally open and transparent. Hiding in plain sight had a lot to recommend it.

Gazing around the room for the hundredth time, Miller picked out various familiar faces, a banker here, a newspaper editor there; a chat-show host complaining to his waiter about something; a couple of actresses looking bored in one corner as a television executive wittered on. No one caught Miller’s eye or returned his gaze. Deciding against extra toast, Miller folded his mauve cotton napkin and placed it on the table. ‘So . . .’

‘So . . .’ Shelbourne blinked once, twice, before turning to his former boss for help. Encased in a Moschino red tweed bouclé jacket buttoned to the neck, Sonia Claesens fixed Miller with a steely glare. She had the pinched features and dead eyes of someone who had spent the last two decades subsisting on half-rations.

‘I think,’ she said solemnly, ‘that we will be able to find an agreement on an intelligent way forward.’

Shelbourne nodded enthusiastically. ‘Absolutely.’

I very much doubt that, thought Miller. He smiled. ‘The PM would welcome that.’

‘Good.’ A well-preserved, forty-something platinum blonde, Claesens was Senior Managing Director at the Zenger Corporation. This role gave her responsibility for the
Sunday Witness
and other British assets owned by the global new media conglomerate. In such an elevated position, she had become used to sharing a table with prime ministers, rather than slumming it
with their minions. Now, however, with Zenger enmeshed in scandal, Sonia’s stock was sinking at an alarming rate. Edgar Carlton, the current PM, had appointed Trevor Miller as Number Ten’s ‘gatekeeper’ on the phone-hacking issue. To her immense chagrin, Claesens found herself in the position of having to mix with the bag carriers.

Dabbing the corners of her mouth with her napkin, she glanced at her Omega Ladymatic. Time, as always, was precious. ‘Broadly speaking, Mr Miller, is Edgar happy about where we are now?’

‘The Prime Minister is in Birmingham today,’ Miller grinned, ‘visiting some widget factory or other and having to mix with the plebs. So, no, I don’t suppose that he is very happy at all.’

Claesens grimaced at the feeble quip.

‘Shouldn’t you be with him then?’ Shelbourne asked. ‘Given that you do his security?’

Miller shook his head. This boy was clearly an idiot. ‘There is a team of more than seventy who cover the PM’s security detail. I’m not one of the guys who stand next to him, wearing an earpiece, ready to take a bullet.’ He smiled indulgently. ‘I’m too old for that.’

‘But you would if you had to,’ Shelbourne persisted. ‘Take a bullet, I mean?’

Not in a million years
. ‘Of course,’ Miller said. ‘If the situation arose, I would definitely step in.’

Shelbourne removed his spectacles and began cleaning the lenses with a napkin. ‘You were previously in the police, weren’t you?’

Miller stiffened. The less people enquired about his past, the better. ‘A long time ago.’

‘In the Met?’

‘Yes. I was born here in London. I started out in the mineworkers’ strike up north in the eighties.’ He gave the little scrote a dismissive look. ‘I guess that was before you were born.’

‘Almost,’ Shelbourne said, steadfastly not taking any offence.
‘But we did it at school. Or at least, I remember seeing something about it on the telly. So I know a bit about it. The whole thing looked pretty brutal – the “enemy within” and all that. Good to know that you were there, standing up for law and order.’

‘We cracked a few heads,’ Miller replied, smiling at the memory.

‘But it’s rather a long way from the coal mines to Downing Street. How did you end up as the Prime Minister’s Security Adviser?’

‘It just happened,’ Miller shrugged. ‘After leaving the Met, I set up my own consultancy . . .’ He suddenly remembered his Downing Street media training and a pre-prepared soundbite popped into his head. ‘Edgar Carlton is the best leader we’ve had in a long time – certainly the best since Margaret Thatcher put the country back on track. I am very lucky to have had the chance to work for him.’

Shelbourne smiled wanly. As an ex-journalist, he knew when he was being spun a line. So did Sonia Claesens, who looked like she was in pain.

‘And I also have a very interesting job,’ Miller continued, ‘taking an overall view of different issues . . . general situations and specific threats, trying to neutralize them before they become active.’ God alone knew what that guff meant, but it was a well-rehearsed explanation. He regularly used it around Westminster, where the lame-brained politicians always lapped it up.

‘Well, then,’ Claesens looked like she would happily shoot both of them, given a chance, ‘getting back to our particular
specific
threat . . .’

Leaning forward, Miller realized that he had taken a visceral dislike to this woman that would never be reversed. He lowered his voice and went into the little speech he had composed on the way to the restaurant. ‘Edgar has asked me to make it clear that he is all too aware of the current situation. None of us’ – the word
us
reminding them that he, Miller, had risen to become a player here in his own right – ‘are happy about the latest turn of events.’

Shelbourne gave Claesens a concerned look. ‘What “latest turn of events”?’

‘Duncan Brown’s murder.’

‘Who?’

‘Jesus, Simon,’ Claesens snapped, ‘you don’t ever pay any attention, do you? He worked at the
Witness
for almost five years. He was there when you were still the Editor.’

‘More than two hundred people worked on that paper,’ Shelbourne replied huffily.

‘He was a news reporter; won Best Newcomer of the Year at the Press Awards three years ago.’

‘You’re still not ringing any bells,’ Shelbourne said tightly.

‘Anyway,’ said Claesens, turning her attention back to Miller, ‘it is all very unfortunate, I’m sure. But, equally, it had nothing to do with our current situation.’

‘Maybe not, but at this stage the possibility of some kind of connection can’t be totally ruled out.’ Having done a little discreet digging, Miller was aware that Brown had been placed under investigation after it leaked out that Metropolitan Police Officers were selling confidential information to Zenger reporters. Worse still, these were the very journalists who were championing the government’s re-election prospects. The whole tawdry mess needed to be nipped in the bud before the start of the campaign was formally announced. Edgar Carlton wanted to call an early poll and have a second term in the bag before the Opposition managed to get their act together. The last thing he needed was them sinking their teeth into a nice juicy scandal.

Without warning, Shelbourne suddenly seemed to tune into the significance of their conversation. ‘Oh, God!’ he mumbled. ‘This thing is a total nightmare. And it’s just getting worse and worse.’

‘Pull yourself together, Simon,’ Claesens snapped.

I bet she’s said that to him plenty of times before, Miller thought.

‘The whole business is just too horrible for words,’ the PR man groaned.

‘But we are where we are,’ Claesens said firmly.

‘But we are where we are,’ Miller echoed, a shark-like smile crossing his lips. ‘Of course, ultimately,
we
are not exposed to the potential fallout from this in the way that
you
people are.’

‘Is that a threat?’ Claesens picked up her fork. Gripping it tightly, she looked like she was getting ready to stab him in the chest.

‘Not at all,’ Miller said evenly. ‘It is just the reality of the situation.’ He turned to Shelbourne. ‘Where are you with the Meyer investigation?’

A look of panic flashed across the young man’s face. ‘Well,’ he stammered, ‘the Chief Constable’s inquiry is independent of both the Commissioner and—’

Miller cut him off with an impatient wave of his hand. ‘Spare me the PR guff, sonny. Sir Chester knows that if he allows himself to be outmanoeuvred by some Nottinghamshire plod, he will be straight out the back door, to be replaced by the Mayor’s latest pet.’

For the first time, a smile tickled the edges of Claesens’ lips. ‘But surely it was the government’s decision to set up Operation Redhead? And didn’t Edgar take the credit for parachuting in Chief Inspector Russell Meyer to head it up? “A clean pair of hands” was the phrase he used, if I remember correctly.’

‘It was indeed,’ Miller nodded. ‘The PM has personally taken a firm lead on this thing. But, as you well know, Meyer is letting the whole thing get out of control. He now has seventy officers working on it and they spend their whole time taking calls from bloody lawyers who claim to be representing “victims” and are greedily eyeing up big fat compensation pay-outs.’

‘Bastards,’ Claesens clucked.

Miller shot her an angry look. ‘Maybe if you’d kept your people under control in the first place,’ he snapped, ‘we wouldn’t be sitting here having to worry about this mess.’

Sonia Claesens didn’t like the security man’s tone one little bit. ‘But I knew nothing about any of this before it came to light,’ she pouted. ‘Did I, Simon?’

Hiding behind his teacup, her former underling said nothing.

‘I wasn’t even aware that we were using those people,’ she continued.

Those people
meaning Wickford Associates: a group of former police officers now working as private detectives.

‘Is there any way that I could have had any idea that they were hacking people’s phones? Of course not!’

No, love, Miller thought sarcastically. Of course not.

‘As soon as I heard about what was going on, I ordered it stopped,’ she trilled. ‘And I have the emails to prove it.’

‘I bloody hope so,’ Miller snorted. ‘But we still have to clean up the mess so that we can draw a line in the sand and move on.’

Shrugging, Claesens took another sip of her lemon tea.

‘The point is,’ he said, ‘there are now literally thousands of people coming out of the woodwork claiming that their phones have been hacked. Not all of them can be z-list celebrities that no one cares about. Some of them must be real people.’

Another theatrical shrug. ‘Real’ people rarely, if ever, featured on Sonia Claesens’ radar.

‘If there are real people involved,’ looking around, he lowered his voice even further, ‘it appears that the Metropolitan Police Service and the government have been turning a blind eye to what you’ve been doing.’

‘You don’t need to spell it out,’ Claesens said crossly.

Behind his goofy glasses, trying to keep up with the conversation, Shelbourne looked like he was about to burst into tears.

Miller took a deep breath. In an ideal world, he would take the pair of them into a windowless room and slap some sense into them. But, sadly, it was far from an ideal world.

‘The Prime Minister,’ he said slowly, ‘values the working relationship that exists between Zenger Media, the Metropolitan Police Service and the government. It has been very productive, on many levels, and has made several important contributions to the evolution of our civil society.’ They looked at him blankly, but he ploughed on; it was amazing how easily this meaningless
crap just rolled off the tongue. He supposed that was what happened when you spent too much time hanging around politicians. ‘However, if it is discovered that there have been aspects of the relationship that were somehow dysfunctional or less than transparent, then, well . . .’ He spread his hands to signify
You’re on your own
.

Claesens pulled an iPhone6 from her large combo tote and began tapping angrily at the screen. ‘Of course,’ she said, not looking up, ‘the next election is on the horizon.’

‘Edgar is well aware of that,’ Miller said flatly, ‘and he is grateful for your continued support.’

Claesens dropped the iPhone back in her bag and looked up. ‘Which he should not take for granted.’

‘We would never do that.’ Miller held her gaze. ‘As I said, the PM values what all parties bring to the table here.’ He gestured to Shelbourne. ‘Simon here will keep his man under control.’ The boy looked doubtful but nodded anyway. ‘And you have to sort out
your
people.’

‘They are not
my
people,’ Claesens protested.

‘They are now,’ said Miller.

Claesens glared at him but made no reply.

‘I will let Edgar know that we have had a productive meeting,’ Miller told them, ‘that everyone’s on the same page . . . and that this matter will be dealt with speedily, efficiently and quietly.’ He paused. When there was no response from either of his eating companions, he got to his feet. ‘Thanks for breakfast. Let’s keep talking.’

Claesens did not seem particularly pleased at the thought of a continuing dialogue on this subject. Then she remembered something and perked up a little. ‘Tell Edgar I’ll see him at the weekend.’

Miller frowned.

‘We’re all going to the Harvest Food and Music Festival,’ Claesens explained. ‘It’s in his constituency, after all, and Edgar gave a great speech last year. There is excellent street food, too. Anastasia and I are looking forward to getting together.’

‘Mm.’ Miller didn’t want to get into an argument with the PM – or the PM’s wife – about their weekend arrangements. He knew how keen Anastasia Carlton would be to be seen out and about with her husband, if only to try and stem the gossip about Edgar’s extra-curricular activities. On the other hand, the last thing he wanted at the moment was his boss being caught in public with the toxic Ms Claesens. Worse still, what if there were horses around? The press were still having fun with George Canning, the ex-police horse that Claesens had adopted. A new picture of Edgar, Claesens and some horse – any bloody horse – would appear on every front page.