The Turning Tide (24 page)

The more she thought about it, the more the pieces dropped into place. The Scottish notes. Running a candidate north of the border. Morag was always rumoured to want the top job in her party, but it had never happened. With the total collapse of their support north of the border at the general election, no one would blame her for jumping ship. No one would be overly surprised if a new party came out of nowhere and she defected to it.

And it was her own constituency that the body had been found in.

‘Right, so what you don’t know is that a couple of days ago someone tipped me off to something. Someone who I was chatting with online, like you,’ Kerry said, leaning in.

‘Go on,’ Erykah said, leaning over the table so her forehead was inches from Kerry’s.

‘It was a picture of Morag Munro. She was up in Scotland the day the Schofield body was autopsied and she was there – at the post-mortem. The photographer didn’t know who the body was at the time. It was no big deal, then that body was identified and he thought, well this is a strange coincidence. So he sends it to me, right? And I thought maybe this is more than a coincidence. But no one else has seen it, yet.’

‘Morag’s in the photo.’

‘That’s right,’ Kerry said. ‘He tells me to check something called the Exif data on the photo – it’s the metadata that tells you when and where it was taken? Just so I know it’s real and not a trap.’

‘Right. Good. And?’

‘And, it was taken in Cameron Bridge, right? So I call up the morgue to check because why not? I guess the staff there are not too concerned about security, because the woman I talked to basically confirmed that Damian Schofield was the only post-mortem that day.’

Erykah nodded. She had expected something like this, but it was incredible to have it confirmed. ‘My God.’

Kerry continued. ‘The thing about Morag is, well, she’s not at all what she pretends to be. She has this public image of being whiter than white, you know, like a schoolteacher or a nun? Meanwhile, she’s screwing my boss, one of our producers – and in return he adjusts the headlines to suit her.’

Morag Munro having an affair and planting headlines? It sounded so unlikely, it had to be true. ‘Are you sure about that?’

‘Well . . .’ Kerry said. ‘Pretty sure. I mean, I heard him tell one of our presenters not to cover the Schofield case when the guy was still missing. Why would he do that? Usually we’re all over dead bodies like flies.’ Kerry stopped and took a sip of her tea. ‘Figuratively speaking, I mean.’

‘And the blind item you posted, about the senior politician – that was them?’ Morag seemed a little long in the tooth to be indulging in affairs, but that had never stopped any male MPs from chasing down extracurricular excitement.

Kerry nodded and poured tea from the steaming pot. ‘Exactly. I was maybe too subtle because nobody put it together.’

‘You think she has something to do with the
SLU
?’

‘It makes sense, doesn’t it?’ Kerry said. ‘Jonathan – that’s the producer – he was all over your donation story. Really bigging it up. Like, before anyone else was. Almost like someone told him to make something out of it. And I mean, the
SLU
wasn’t even really on the map, news wise, until we did that.’

Erykah nodded. But if that was the case, then Kerry would be one of the first people they suspected.

‘So you sent her an email.’

‘Yeah. From the Media Mouse account. Just said “heads-up”.’

‘But you didn’t tweet it.’

‘No, it felt like too much about her all in one go. I wanted to sit on it a while first,’ Kerry said. ‘And I wanted to see if she would do something. I thought I was being safe . . .’ Kerry went to pick up her tea, but her hand was trembling. She set it down again. ‘I didn’t even think of the IP address. When you found me, it was like, oh shit. That same IP would have been on the email I sent to Morag, even though I used a throwaway email. I should have taken precautions and I didn’t. I didn’t think until it was too late.’

‘I’m sure she gets a lot of strange emails. She’s not going to pass it on to the police, is she?’ Erykah said.

‘No, I don’t think she will,’ Kerry said. ‘But she might pass it on to someone else, which is why I thought, when you found me . . .’

‘Yeah. No, I see what you mean.’ Erykah sipped her tea but what she needed right now was a whisky. ‘And I can’t tell you for sure whether that’s the case or not, because I don’t even know who’s behind all of this. All I know about are the people I’ve met.’

‘Who are?’

‘Major Abbott, and two guns for hire.’

‘Well it’s not Abbott. He’s worse than useless. I saw him give a talk when I was at university.’ Kerry frowned, remembering. ‘I mean, the guy was so wasted he could barely stand up straight, much less give his speech. And he ditched right after, didn’t stay to sign books or anything. Everyone else was so off their faces they didn’t notice. But he’s, like, a joke.’

Erykah nodded. ‘That was my thinking as well. It can’t be him; he doesn’t have the clout to pull it off.’

‘And the others?’

Erykah waved a hand. ‘Usual criminals. They’re in it for the money, not the conspiracy. Can’t be them. There’s someone else, but I’ve never seen her. I don’t even have a name, not a full one anyway. A woman. I heard the Major call her Livia. That’s all I know.’

‘So it could be . . .’

Erykah nodded. She could imagine what Kerry was going to say. ‘Morag.’

‘Yeah.’ Kerry checked her watch. ‘I should go. My boss is going to kill me.’

Erykah reached for her arm. ‘Is there some way you can call in sick? Until this all blows over.’

‘Not go in?’ Kerry snorted. ‘Unless you’re going to pay my rent and bills, it’s not exactly an option.’

‘You don’t seem to appreciate,’ Erykah said, ‘the danger you’re in. Losing your job is bad, sure. But if this goes the way I think it’s going you’re going to end up dead.’

‘So I’ll play it cool.’ Her eyes darted around. Erykah could tell she wasn’t as calm as she was pretending to be.

‘Play it cool? When the whole world is looking for you and there are people out there trying to kill you?’

‘What else can I do,’ Kerry said. ‘If it is Munro, what point would there be in going to the police? I mean, the Shadow Home Secretary of all people. And we have no evidence. Nothing solid.’

‘I know, I know,’ Erykah said.

‘But as long as I keep tweeting, they can’t really do anything, can they? I mean, it’s not like they’re going to take out someone in the public eye.’

‘You saw a mortuary photo so you know what they’re prepared to do. I found you in less than a day. It’s just a matter of time before someone else figures out who you are, and then . . .’ Her voice tailed off. ‘Isn’t there somewhere you can go for a few days? Family?’

‘The editors of all the papers are following me now,’ Kerry waved her hand in the air. The more she said, the more she seemed convinced of the truth of what she was saying. ‘Chief reporters, columnists, everyone. The entire world would notice if something happened to me. Right?’

‘You think those editors are following you because they wish you well?’ Erykah grabbed the sleeve of Kerry’s coat. ‘All you are to them is a story. If you end up in a box those people won’t be leaping to your defence. They’ll be dancing on your grave in 36-point type, all the papers, above the fold. You’re not a human to them – you’re content.’

‘Are you going to keep me safe?’ Kerry shook off Erykah’s arm. ‘Right now, I have a boss who’s breathing fire because I was supposed to be back half an hour ago, a dozen mentions to answer, and a thousand new followers. Unless you have a better idea, I’m going to keep doing this my way.’

Erykah was aghast. How did the girl not seem to realise what could happen? But was it really so different from when she was thrown into the public spotlight herself all those years ago, naïve and unprepared? ‘I have to go to the Highlands tonight, but I promise you, I will be trying to find a way to get you out of this,’ Erykah said. Kerry wasn’t listening. She was checking her phone for tweets and mentions.

Erykah watched as Kerry disappeared up the stairs and out the door. She hoped for the girl’s sake it wasn’t the last time they saw each other. It was only after the door swung shut that Erykah noticed that Kerry had left her black and yellow scarf on the chair. She picked it up and stuffed in into her bag.

: 22 :

‘Where’s he gone?’

‘Quick, this way!’

The noise of the approaching enemy grew louder. The Major’s heart was beating hard. He felt the blood coursing all the way to his fingertips and he hunched near the ground. The drills, the training, the fight-or-flight responses he had practiced over and again as a young officer. They should have switched into automatic. They did not. He had cowered and run like a fool down the alley at the back of the pub.

This wasn’t the Falklands, and the shouts of the advancing mob weren’t coming from Argentinians. He was in Cameron Bridge, hiding behind the bins in a back alley. It was, or at least was meant to be, his first public appearance north of the border, bringing the European Parliament campaign direct to the Scottish public.

Erykah had made some excuse about coming up on an overnight train, giving him no choice but to stay at the cottage with his wife. At least she let him sleep alone in the guest bedroom – he told her that the ongoing building work was too much of a distraction, and no, she wasn’t required to come to the kick-off event tomorrow either. He wasn’t sure if he had imagined the look of relief that crossed her face.

It had to go well today. Had to. There had been yet another sideswipe insult in the newspapers the night before: he was in danger of becoming a national punchline.

It was only a little thing. Hardly worth a moment’s notice. An aside in a society column comparing the Major’s recent forays into public life to his father’s. ‘He may be an Abbott, but By George he’s no George,’ to put it precisely. The judgment stung.

He had run the water hot in the downstairs shower and checked his voicemail while the room filled up with steam: sure enough, that familiar Scottish accent was the sole occupant of his inbox. He deleted the messages one by one and wondered why, apart from misplaced loyalty, he had ever signed up to be involved in the charade in the first place.

Ah yes, the money. That was it. He swigged from an emergency whisky flask and climbed into the shower.

The water had rolled down his back, releasing a whiff of sweat and stale alcohol. Whitney was something of a connoisseur of showers, having been shuttled between boarding schools and sports clubs in his youth, then moving on to barracks and hotels as an adult. Of these, hotels were by far the best: endless water, ample clean white towels and slick, tiled walls that he never tired of. But he had to admit that his wife’s endless renovations were paying off. Finally, he had a decent shower in the Highlands.

The Major had turned off the taps and flung the shower curtain open. A ghost of his own form stood in the mirror before him, the features slowly becoming recognisable as the steam cleared. The barrel-shaped body, the skin slack over his chest and belly, the white hairs. He realised with a dull shock that he was older now than his father had ever been.

What would George have been doing with old age? Not chasing women or fannying about with European politics, that was for certain. But in Cameron Bridge, in the heart of the Commandos’ historic training ground, Whitney at least looked the part.

He had cleared his throat and made eye contact with the old man in the mirror, trying to remember the key talking points to focus on. ‘The spectacular failure of the Yes campaign shows us its supporters should not be awarded the consolation prize of additional powers for Holyrood,’ he intoned. ‘We must not give in on a fully reunited Britain. The dream consequence of this loss should be a steady erosion of Holyrood’s powers until it can be abolished.’

Whatever George Abbott’s reaction to his son’s career might have been, the Major would never know. He had died of a stroke three days before Whitney’s passing out ceremony. The papers printed long obituaries, extolling the elder Abbott’s bravery – yet another of the old guard gone. Whitney had stood at the funeral in full dress uniform, his face stony and tearless at the graveside as the gunmetal coffin was lowered into the ground. ‘A Hero’s Farewell,’ screamed the
Mail on Sunday
. ‘Last of the Good Guys,’ harrumphed the
Telegraph
.

A great man, perhaps, Whitney thought. But George Abbott was never a good guy.

The way things were going, the Major doubted very much that anyone would remember him except as a footnote to his father’s legacy. Much less as either great or good. Especially now, this afternoon, cowering as he was in the alley with angry protestors coming after him.

‘I saw him go this way!’ More shouts, then the footsteps went off in another direction.

The plan had been simple and designed for maximum impact. They would start at the top of the High Street, next to the war memorial, in the shadow of Ben Nevis, metres from where the seventeenth century fort had been established to hold back the savage clans and roving barbarians of the Highlands. He would announce the SLU’s manifesto to the crowd and to the press with a backdrop of rugged mountains and white-water burns. The Major would mass his supporters at the start of the West Highland Way, getting them ready for the march to Holyrood which he would join at appropriate times. ‘The speeches should be over in about an hour,’ Heather promised. ‘And the forecast is sunshine and no rain. You couldn’t ask for a better start.’

He had stood in the square in the centre of town, as arranged. The Major’s feet were planted a shoulder’s width apart, his kilt waving in the breeze. Heather was there, and she minded the table where she piled neat stacks of pamphlets. She set up a large cardboard cut-out of the Commando Memorial on one side of the table and a photo of Abbott Senior on the other, to remind passers-by who the Major was. Several dozen Keep Scotland United signs on wooden sticks were stacked nearby.

A few people milled around, but it was hard to tell who was there for the rally in the crowd of the shoppers and tourists. Several kept stealing glances at the Major. He kept a broad grin glued to his face but started to wonder: where were all the supporters?

They must be waiting for a signal to advance. He raised one hand and bellowed to indicate that the rally had begun. No sooner had he done so than one scruffy onlooker unrolled a makeshift banner made from a bed sheet. On it was spray painted Go Home London Elite. Within a minute, dozens more were shouting the slogan.

Whitney looked back at Heather. She was offering placards to the growing crowd but finding no takers. ‘Call the police!’ Whitney growled. But she didn’t hear him because a bearded Scottish nationalist with a tattered Yes saltire knotted over his shoulders was arguing with her. The Major couldn’t make out what they were saying – it seemed to be something about permits and regulations. Trust a filthy Nat to be banging on about health and safety at a time like this.

A pair of men started pushing their way towards him. A few of the protestors were arguing with them and holding them back. Could these be his belated supporters? He didn’t like the look of them, but any port in a storm. ‘Let them through!’ he bellowed, and the Nationalists fell back.

The pair of men ran up to him. The Major opened his arms in a welcome and smiled broadly. At that exact moment one of the men coughed up a ball of spit and hurled it at his face.

‘Get tae fuck,’ the man said as Whitney wiped the frothing glob off his moustache with his jacket sleeve. ‘Get yersel oot of Cameron Bridge or we’ll set about ye.’

‘You disgusting nationalists have held Scotland to ransom too long!’ The blood rose in the Major’s face and he went beet purple. ‘I am here to make sure you never soil the memory of the Union again!’

The men laughed. ‘You got us all wrong,’ the spitter smirked. The Major glowered and puffed out his chest, but the skinny man did not flinch. ‘We’re not
SNP
,’ the weedy fellow behind him said. ‘Spineless cunts with their votes and referendums. We just hate all you English.’ The spitter hocked up again and deposited a spatter of saliva, this time on the toes of the Major’s shoes.

Whitney clenched his hands tight and brought them up to his shoulders. ‘I demand you face me in a fair fight!’ he said. ‘Marquis of Queensberry rules!’ It had been decades since he’d learned to box in the corps, but by God and country, if a man wasn’t prepared to engage in fisticuffs defending the honour of the Union and all it stood for, then when would he be?

The two men looked at each other and laughed. ‘Oooh, Marquis of Raspberry,’ said the first one. ‘Never heard of him, or his rules.’

‘Lay off him,’ the bearded man with the Yes cape pulled at the shoulder of the spitter. ‘This is a peaceful protest. You two were banned from the High Street for kicking off outside the Maryburgh Inn. Just go home and no one has to call the police.’ He turned to the Major. ‘This lot aren’t with us, they’re—’

‘Ah, fuck that,’ the spitter said. His own fist whipped out at high speed, connected with Yes man’s temple and sent him straight to the ground. He wheeled back to face Major Abbott, his hands balled loosely, his jaw tucked in. ‘Six times junior Muay Thai champion, all Scotland,’ he said and spat on the ground again. ‘Come and have a go, old man. And bring yer Marquis of Elderberry.’

A few more people had pushed through. They peeled off to Heather’s table and picked up the signs. Not, as Whitney hoped, to come to his defence. He watched in horror as they ripped the signs off the placards to use the sticks as makeshift weapons. The crowd, which had been patchy at first, was now spilling from the square onto the High Street. The Major turned and ran.

It had not been his finest hour – that much was certain.

And now here he was, shivering in an alley while the enemy galloped by.

The back door of the pub creaked open. Heather looked up and down the alley in a panic. The Major, doubled over in his kilt, scurried to the safety of the building.

She closed the heavy door behind them and double-locked it. ‘The police are on the way,’ she said.

‘Tell me this was not part of your plan?’ The Major brushed dirt from his knees and straightened up. ‘Because with all due respect—’

‘I know that really means, fuck you,’ Heather said.

‘
With all due respect
,’ the Major repeated, ‘I am not convinced the media strategy of this campaign has been successful to date.’

Heather sighed. ‘You don’t have to tell me twice.’ The
SLU
secretary had watched in horror as yet again the campaign shot to the top of trending topics for all the wrong reasons. The launch in Cameron Bridge had been weeks in the making. There had been websites to design, flyers and signs to print. She had got the word out all over social media and press releases. ‘The thing is,’ she looked at the floor. ‘Those other guys were my idea. I told them there was twenty quid in it if they turned up and ruffled the crowd a bit.’

Whitney’s jaw dropped. ‘You . . . you paid those yobs?’

Heather shook the hair out of eyes and looked up defiantly. ‘I thought if it looked like some bitter Nats had come out to threaten us, it would play better to the media,’ she said. ‘Peaceful protests never get coverage. We need people to understand how the silent majority has been bullied throughout this process.’

‘Good God,’ Whitney said.

The pub landlord and his wife smiled uncomfortably from behind the bar. A grainy black-and-white
CCTV
monitor showed the scene outside: from the few dozen who had been chasing the Major to begin with, about fifty people had come down from the square and now gathered around the pub. Most looked to be harmless and a few were foreign backpackers who didn’t realise what was going on, but among those with placards were a hard-core few holding bottles and sticks and one with what looked unnervingly like a crowbar. A group of reporters and television cameras ringed the protestors.

‘Fuck’s sake,’ Heather mumbled. She gripped the shoulder strap of her bag so tightly her knuckles went white.

‘Is the bar open?’ the Major said.

The landlady rolled her eyes. ‘I thought all you needed was the phone,’ she said. ‘I don’t want any trouble in here.’

‘Please . . . Eilidh,’ Heather glanced down at the landlady’s nametag. Her accent shifted subtly, from regionless public schoolgirl to the faintest lilt of Scottish tones. ‘We may be here some time.’

Eilidh narrowed her eyes as she registered the change in Heather’s voice. But she said nothing, just turned and plucked a full bottle of Whyte & Mackay from behind the counter and set it on the bar alongside a grimy shot glass.

‘Pour it yersel’ then,’ she said. The Major reached eagerly for the bottle but Eilidh blocked his hand with her gnarled paw. ‘Ten pounds per single measure,’ she said.

‘Disgraceful,’ Heather said. Her voice had returned to its former haughty register.

‘Don’t be ungrateful,’ the Major said as he reached into his sporran. ‘We’re guests.’ He slapped a roll of fifty-pound notes on the counter and nodded at Eilidh. ‘I’ll have the lot,’ he said.

Eilidh’s eyes were still narrowed, but she nodded approval as she counted up the green Scottish notes and tucked them into her apron.

‘What are they shouting out there?’ The Major looked back at the CCTV.

‘Not sure.’ Heather scrolled down her smartphone. ‘Oh.’ A video, shot by a news team outside, looked even more threatening than it had only minutes ago. ‘They’re chanting, “go home you English fucks”.’

‘Bit racist that, isn’t it?’ the Major said and downed his drink. The landlady topped up the glass straightaway. ‘I would get the solicitor on the blower if I were you.’ Not that he set any particular stock by political correctness, but it would be some satisfaction to see the Left’s own rhetoric used against them.

The Major downed the next drink as well. It hit the back of his throat like liquid fire. He looked over to see Heather still ogling that infernal phone, the muscles in her jaw jumping as she ground her teeth. Whitney thought about London. What he wouldn’t give to be there now, having a quiet drink alone. Or perhaps rolling around in the sheets with someone fragrant and firm, then having a quiet drink alone. Anywhere but here.

Heather glowered at her smartphone, unable to do anything but watch as the situation went from bad to worse. Now the town’s Yes Coalition organiser was talking to reporters. The media coverage that should have been the SLU’s had been hijacked by a bunch of beardy do-gooders and neds steaming on Buckfast.