Ken McClure - Wildcard

The water had gone cold. Steven stood up and towelled himself vigorously, still wondering about a change in tactics. Even if Victor did turn out to be a red herring, he would still have to find him in order to establish that fact for sure. Of course, if Victor was Pelota’s killer, the police might well find him first. In the meantime, and just in case they didn’t, he would continue the search.

Although he had never met Ann Danby, he had a soft spot for her. There was something about her and her circumstances that got to him. He wasn’t sure why, but he felt an empathy with her. Maybe it was the lack of any real presence in her existence, her lack of personal possessions. People liked her but no one knew her. Her flat had been like a room in a hotel, comfortable but totally impersonal. The same applied to her office.

Everyone had been kept at a distance, except, of course, Victor. She’d been the soul of discretion as far as Victor was concerned, to the point that she had not even kept any mementoes or souvenirs of their time together. There had been no letters from or photographs of the man she had clearly felt so much for, only a book of sonnets with a false declaration of undying love. In fact, there had been very few photographs of anything at all in Ann’s flat, come to think of it. He could recall seeing only two, and one was a duplicate of a print she kept in her office.

That thought brought Steven to a jarring halt. Why? he wondered. Why, if Ann hadn’t bothered with photographs as a general rule, had she kept two prints of the same one, one in her flat and one in her office? It wasn’t as if there was anything remarkable about the photograph; it was just the standard line-up at the formal opening of a dull exhibition. Nothing remarkable or special at all about it… unless of course… Victor was in it!

Excited at the prospect, Steven decided to drive over to Tyne Brookman as soon as the working day began and ask Hilary Black who the people in that photograph were.

‘Well,’ said Hilary with a smile, ‘Marie Claire didn’t change too much about your hairstyle. I thought maybe blond highlights and a quiff…’

For a moment Steven couldn’t think what she was talking about and then he remembered that the last thing he’d asked her was for directions to Ann Danby’s hairdresser.

‘I chickened out.’ He smiled.

‘What can I do for you this time?’

‘The photographs in Ann’s room. I’d like you to tell me the names of the people in them.’

‘I’ll just get them,’ said Hilary. She left the room and was back a few moments later with both photographs. She put them on the desk and then stood beside Steven.

‘This one,’ said Steven, pointing to the print of Ann shaking hands with the mayor.

‘This is Cedric Fanshaw, our managing director.’ Her forefinger moved along the row. ‘Tom Brown, our chief editor, Martin Beale, who organised the exhibition, and William Spicer, our local MP. This is the mayor, Mr Jennings, and, of course, Ann.’

Steven looked closely and pointed at Spicer. ‘I’ve seen him before and quite recently,’ he said. ‘He was on television.’

‘A rising star in the shadow cabinet,’ said Hilary. ‘I think Health is his current bag.’

‘That’s it,’ said Steven. ‘He was arguing with a Labour minister about the handling of the outbreak here. He was accusing the authorities of incompetence, and destroying the career of your director of Public Health.’

‘Did he deserve it?’ asked Hilary.

‘He’s a she, and no, she didn’t. Spicer reckoned the time was right for a scapegoat so he threw Caroline Anderson to the wolves in order to up his profile and further his own career.’

‘How unlike a politician,’ said Hilary acidly.

‘Quite so. Is he married, do you know?’

‘Yes, I remember his election leaflets carrying pictures of his wife doing good works, handing out buns to the poor or knitting socks for AIDS victims, that sort of thing. Can’t remember her name, though.’

‘You’re absolutely sure his name is William?’

‘Well, yes. I didn’t vote for him but he is my MP. I live in silent-majority-land where they’re still in mourning for Margaret Thatcher. They’d vote a chimpanzee in as long as it was wearing a blue rosette and had a strong policy on law and order.’

The description made Steven think about Ann Danby’s parents. ‘So how come you live there?’

‘I met my husband at university, where we shared ideals and principles about social justice. We were going to change the world.’ Hilary smiled at the memory. ‘He finished up by ditching me so he could marry his boss’s daughter and become a director of the firm but I got the house out of it, in “a nice area”.’

‘Life,’ said Steven sympathetically.

‘I wouldn’t have believed people could change so much.’

‘The rebels of today usually turn out to be the bald fund managers of tomorrow,’ said Steven.

‘And with that sobering thought…’ Hilary smiled.

‘Yes, I mustn’t take up any more of your time. Thanks again for your help.’

‘You’re still piecing together Ann’s life?’

‘Still trying.’

‘The outbreak doesn’t seem to be slackening off.’

‘Things could get a bit worse yet,’ said Steven.

‘You look tired, if you don’t mind my saying so,’ said Hilary.

‘I had an exciting night,’ said Steven.

‘Lucky you,’ said Hilary.

As he drove back to his hotel, Steven thought again about the men in the photograph. It was a pity that Spicer’s name was William and not Victor, because he would have fitted the bill nicely. He supposed that he might be attractive to women in a Tory MP way — chubby face, wavy hair, cheesy smile. He was married, had a high-profile job and was clearly ambitious. Steven decided that it would be worth asking Sci-Med for more information about him anyway. He still felt there had to be a reason why Ann had kept that particular photograph in both her flat and her office, and, apart from the mayor and the MP, she could see the others in the office on any old day of the week. He realised that he hadn’t bothered to ask the mayor’s first name. Ann might have had a thing about gnarled men in their sixties with small Hitler moustaches who wore heavy gold chains — a bondage thing, maybe? No, forget the mayor.

Steven e-mailed his request for information about Spicer to Sci-Med, then downloaded and decoded the information he had requested earlier about the Scottish outbreak. He spent the next hour going through it, searching for a possible link — however tenuous — with either of the other two outbreaks but failing to find one. He was preparing to drive over to City General when the information on Spicer came through.

The first line of the report made Steven feel that life was suddenly worth living: William Victor Spicer had been a Conservative Manchester MP for seven years.

‘Well, well, well,’ murmured Steven. ‘Got you, Victor!’ He read on. The MP had been educated at Ampleforth College before reading Classics at Cambridge and then joining his father’s export/import business. He had been appointed export manager with the company and had at one point survived a Board of Trade investigation into the nature of certain items being exported to Arab countries as ‘automotive spares’.

A year later he had been adopted as Conservative Party candidate for the Manchester seat which he now held. He had been adopted in the face of stiff competition, because it was generally regarded as a safe Tory seat, and his father, Rupert, was believed to have played a significant role in securing junior’s selection. Spicer senior had long been an influential character in the local business community and Conservative Party Association.