James Craig - Time of Death

The Mayor took a cautious sip of his Auchentoshan 3 Wood, a malt whisky described by the advertising men as ‘best enjoyed on its own when in a ponderous and contemplative mood’. More to the point, it was 43 per cent alcohol. Christian Holyrod was not a man given to excessive contemplation but at the moment he definitely needed a drink – several drinks, in fact. Taking a second sip, he looked carefully at the man standing in front of him. ‘I don’t know what you are up to,’ he said quietly, ‘and I don’t want to know either. Just remember rule number one . . .’

The Mayor’s companion smiled weakly and half-pretended to be interested in what the harried politician was telling him. ‘And what is rule number one?’ he asked dutifully.

The Mayor leaned closer. ‘It’s simple: don’t get caught .’

‘Come, come now, Mr Mayor. What makes you think I am up to anything illicit?’

Holyrod, now enjoying the first flush of Auchentoshan-inspired warmth, said nothing.

‘We are both military men,’ his companion continued, ‘officer class.’

Not so you’d notice, Holyrod thought sourly. There are officers and there are officers .

‘We both know the importance of discretion,’ the other man went on, ‘and honour.’

We’ll see, the Mayor thought.

The man gazed into his glass of mineral water. ‘Do not worry,’ he said. ‘Everything will go as planned. We will support the TEMPO conference as arranged. And, even more importantly for your friends at Pierrepoint Aerospace, the contract will be signed before the opening gala dinner.’

Holyrod took another swig of Scotch. He had eaten nothing all day and the whisky was going straight to his head, leaving him feeling tired and irritable. ‘That is good to hear. What you have to remember is that the deal should have been signed by now. If it isn’t done by the time the conference starts, Pierrepoint will look to sue LAHC.’

The other man stiffened. ‘We both know that will not be necessary.’

‘I hope you are right,’ the Mayor said. ‘The last thing we need is another example of an equipment-procurement project suffering from horrendous delays and going way over budget.’

‘Ah, yes.’ A broad smile broke out on the man’s face. ‘The Green Report – the one that your government tried to suppress.’

‘Without success,’ Holyrod said bitterly.

‘I’ve only seen what’s in the papers, but your Ministry of Defence does not come out of it looking too good. No one likes the idea of money being wasted while front-line soldiers go without the equipment they need.’

‘Well,’ Holyrod sighed, ‘managing money was never their strong point. But, having been on both sides of the fence, I can see the difficulties the civil servants in Whitehall face.’

‘I’m sure you can, but that’s a compelling reason for you to come to us.’

‘Assuming you can deliver what we need,’ Holyrod interjected.

‘We can. On time and on budget.’

‘Good.’

‘And you, in turn, will be able to supply the MoD with the equipment they need, almost on time and almost on budget.’

Holyrod chose to ignore the last barb. ‘I have told the Pierrepoint Board that I think that any form of legal action would be totally counter-productive, even as a last resort. Apart from anything else, it would incur the risk of considerable publicity. But I am just one voice among many. And, as things stand, they are not inclined to take my point of view.’

‘Ah, yes, the travails of the non-executive director. To be honest, I am surprised that you are able to combine such a job with your political office.’

Was that a threat? Holyrod wondered. Bloody foreigners, he should never have gotten into bed with them. Ah, well, there it was. Draining his glass, he signalled to a nearby waiter for another whisky. He knew that he really shouldn’t, but what the hell. ‘It’s all above board. I made it very clear before I ran for Mayor that I was in the process of building up a portfolio of business interests and that I would not – that I could not – give them up if I was elected.’

The other man nodded. ‘Indeed.’

‘The voters like the idea that I can earn a living in the real world.’

The man looked bemused.

‘In the private sector,’ the Mayor explained.

‘Ah, yes.’

The empty glass was whisked from Holyrod’s hand and replaced by another large tumbler of Auchentoshan 3 Wood. He weighed the glass in his hand: it felt satisfyingly heavy. A couple more of these and I won’t need to bother about dinner, he thought. I might even get a good night’s sleep for once. ‘No one can doubt my commitment to public service,’ he continued, ‘but that does not put bread on the table.’

‘No, absolutely not.’

Holyrod started on his fresh drink. ‘I spent more than a decade in the service of Queen and country, stuck in many of those same hell-holes of which you have personal experience . . .’

‘Yes.’

‘. . . and I am still completely committed to public service, but not at the expense of keeping my family in penury.’

‘Of course not.’ His companion gave the Mayor a comforting pat on the shoulder. Presumably the £500,000 you are due to collect for closing our deal will help in that regard, he thought.

‘After all,’ Holyrod explained, ‘I don’t have the kind of family wealth behind me that you have.’

‘That is a very fair point.’ The other man stared into his glass of mineral water. ‘I am very fortunate.’

A deeper wave of warmth from the Scotch eased through the Mayor’s body and he realised that it was time to move the conversation on. ‘What does the Ambassador think of all this?’

‘Orb?’ The man made a face. ‘He is a bystander, nothing more than a passive observer. He has spent his whole life watching other people act, while making sure that he does nothing to get in the way. It is amazing that anyone can spend so long doing so little. At least that means he is nothing to worry about.’

‘And the policeman?’

The man placed his glass on the tray of a passing waiter and pulled out a packet of cigarettes. ‘Who?’

The Mayor thought about mentioning that this was a no-smoking building, but thought better of it. He hoped there weren’t any smoke-detectors nearby. ‘Carlyle,’ he said, ‘Inspector John Carlyle. That policeman who spoke with the Ambassador at the reception.’

The man lit his cigarette and inhaled deeply. ‘Surely you don’t have to worry about a mere policeman?’ He looked around for somewhere to deposit the ash from his cigarette. Finding nothing suitable, he flicked it on to the floor.

Aghast, Holyrod looked around, hoping that no one had seen. A waitress caught his eye and started heading towards them, but he glared at her and she hurriedly turned away. ‘I have come across him before,’ he said, ‘and he is a professional nuisance.’

‘Okay.’ The man shrugged. ‘I hear you, Mr Mayor. I can take care of him.’

‘No, no, no,’ Holyrod said hastily. ‘You can’t do that.’

The man looked at him with an air of faint amusement.

‘Let me assure you,’ the Mayor continued, ‘you shouldn’t try to interfere with the workings of our police here. That would be very . . . unprofessional. It would jeopardise everything.’

An irritated look swept across the man’s face. ‘As you wish.’

‘These kinds of problems can be dealt with in other ways.’

The man made a small bow. ‘As you wish,’ he repeated, in an almost mocking tone.

The Mayor felt a ripple of unease spread through his stomach. Maybe he should go easy on the Scotch. ‘My country, my rules.’