James Craig - The Circus

In the PM’s book, Trevor Miller had always seemed solid, dependable. Obviously, the guy had flipped. Something must have short-circuited in his brain. This was what his spin doctors liked to call ‘a game changer’. Edgar had never known what exactly the term meant until now.

Out of the corner of his eye, the PM saw Sir Gavin O’Dowd slip into the room. Waiting until the Cabinet Secretary was within discreet earshot, he asked: ‘Is it done?’

‘Yes,’ Sir Gavin nodded. ‘Your new interim Head of Security has been appointed as of,’ he looked at his cheap-looking watch, ‘twelve minutes ago.’ He mentioned a name but Edgar swatted it away. At this moment, the precise details of Trevor Miller’s replacement were irrelevant.

‘Good. And what are you going to say about Mr Miller himself?’

‘When the calls start coming in, the Press Office has been told to adopt a strict “no comment” policy. We will hold to that for as long as possible.’

Sighing theatrically, Edgar looked under-impressed.

O’Dowd gave an apologetic shrug. ‘I know that it is less than satisfactory.’

‘Even by your exalted standards of insight,’ the Prime Minister said drily, ‘that is something of an understatement.’

‘It is far from satisfactory,’ Sir Gavin repeated, the rictus grin on his face looking like it was about to crack. ‘But we are where we are. The press team will hold to the line for as long as they can.’

Which will be about six seconds, Sir Chester estimated grimly.

‘Only if someone starts running a story about Miller being suspected of murder and on the run will we go to a line against inquiry saying that this is a police matter and that he has been relieved of his duties pending their enquiries.’

A look of extreme annoyance crossed Sir Chester’s face as he noticed the large G amp;T that had just been placed in the Cabinet Secretary’s hand. ‘What do you want me to do?’ he asked.

‘You?’ Sir Gavin shot the police chief a patronizing smile. ‘I think it’s probably best if you try to do nothing.’

‘Nothing?’

‘Just do what you can to stop the information from leaking out. When it eventually does, get your guy to give the press something suitably bland that doesn’t make things even worse.’

‘You think you can manage that?’ Edgar demanded.

‘Of course,’ said the Commissioner stiffly. Privately, he wondered if even that much was achievable. The whereabouts of ‘his guy’ was currently a mystery. Much to his boss’s annoyance, Simon Shelbourne’s mobile had been switched off for the last hour. This was easily the biggest crisis of Sir Chester’s career and the stupid little bugger had gone incommunicado.

‘Good.’ Sir Gavin tasted his gin and gave a small grunt of approval. ‘How long do you think it will take to place the. . er. . suspect in custody?’

‘Impossible to say.’ Suffering from the chronic lack of alcohol in his bloodstream, Sir Chester wasn’t going to stand there and try to pretend that they had any clue as to Miller’s location. ‘We are trying to track him down at this very moment, but we have yet to pick up his trail.’

‘Pick up his trail?’ Edgar complained. ‘This is not a bloody fox hunt. He can’t have gone far, so get your officers off their arses and damn well find him!’

Sir Gavin shot his boss a look that said Calm down . ‘I am sure that the Commissioner is making this his number-one priority at the present time.’

‘That is absolutely the case,’ Sir Chester confirmed. ‘Yes.’

‘And, as this is a police matter,’ Sir Gavin continued, ‘we should be doing nothing more than assisting the police in dealing with this most serious and grave situation.’

‘Miller’s clearly gone totally crazy,’ Edgar mused. ‘With a bit of luck, he’ll do the decent thing and top himself. Save us all a lot of time and trouble, as well as a bundle of taxpayers’ money.’

The Commissioner’s face brightened slightly. ‘Maybe that’s what’s happened. Maybe he’s lying face down in a pool of his own blood somewhere, which explains why he’s proving so difficult to find.’

The PM tried to shoot his underling a meaningful look. ‘That would be a result , as they say.’

Not responding, Sir Gavin stared into his drink.

‘Yes, well. .’ Uncomfortably aware of his latest orders, Sir Chester began retreating towards the door. ‘I will let you know of any developments.’

‘You do that,’ said Edgar sternly, signalling to the waiter that his glass needed refilling.

Once the Commissioner had slunk off into the night, the Cabinet Secretary pulled a letter from the inside pocket of his jacket and handed it to Edgar.

The PM took the envelope but didn’t open it. ‘What’s this?’

Sir Gavin O’Dowd cleared his throat. ‘I’ve decided that it is time for me to retire.’

Edgar angrily stomped on the carpet. ‘Bloody hell, Gavin, not tonight.’

Sir Gavin stood his ground. ‘The letter is undated. We can action it in due course, once this problem is out of the way.’

‘So you are bailing out on me, too?’

‘Not at all.’ Sir Gavin smiled. ‘It’s simply time for me to do some other things.’

‘Lucrative non-executive directorships,’ Edgar grumped.

‘I was thinking more along the lines of some travel and a bit of birdwatching.’

‘Mm.’

‘I’m planning a trip to the Mahananda Wildlife Sanctuary to try to spot the Lesser Adjutant stork.’

‘For God’s sake, Gavin.’

The Cabinet Secretary shrugged. ‘The bottom line is that my heart’s simply not in it any more. We all reach our sell-by date and I’ve now reached mine.’

Nodding sadly, Edgar held out his glass for the hovering waiter to add some more cognac. He was already feeling a little drunk, but now was most definitely not the time to stop drinking. Where the hell is the Mahananda Sanctuary? he wondered. Maybe I should consider a trip there myself.

Crawling on to his Jensen Ophelia Continental bed, Simon Shelbourne placed the cool glass of the Jack Daniel’s bottle against his fevered brow, in the hope that it could relieve his bastard migraine. He’d been suffering from raging headaches and nausea for hours now — ever since he’d clocked the story in the Standard about the dead policewoman.

A youthful Jenny Southerton had smiled up at him from the front page. Only her name wasn’t Jenny, it was. . somebody else. Simon almost dropped the newspaper in shock. He couldn’t believe it. He could feel his heart-rate accelerating as he read through the story of the woman’s violent death. Thinking back to their meeting in the Balmoral Club, he realized that everything the little tease had told him was a lie. She hadn’t worked on the Sunday Witness . She was a cop.

An undercover cop, who had been spying on him . And now she was dead. There was no doubt about it: he was totally fucked.

Dealing with this calamitous situation in time-honoured fashion, Shelbourne had decamped to Wade’s Wine Bar and promptly done three lines of charlie in the bog before settling in for an extended session of continuous drinking. Five (or was it six?) hours later, having somehow made it back to his Wapping flat, he bounced on the patented Hourglass Zoned Spring System — which, mercifully, provides consistent support to your ever-changing position and weight distribution — while trying to wriggle out of his Citizens of Humanity Adonis slim jeans.

‘Have you got any more coke?’ The bottle blonde he’d dragged home with him — Rebekah or Rachel or something — dropped her bag on the floor. Shrugging off her denim jacket, she jumped on to the bed, pulling her Mumford amp; Sons T-shirt over her head as she did so.