Stella Rimington - At Risk

“Lord!” said Charlotte Delves a minute later, touching her pearls in surprise. “There’s enough gin in here to tranquillise a horse.”

“Enjoy,” said Denzil. “Chill out.”

“Aren’t you going to have one?” Royston Delves, who had made his money in commodities, was a pinker, fleshier version of his RAF officer son.

“I’m driving,” said Denzil piously.

“Yes, straight to the pub,” said Colin.

They were still laughing when Denzil’s mother came in with Jessica. The baby had been bathed, fed her bottle, and dressed in a clean white babygro. Now, sleepy-eyed and talcum-scented, she was ready to be shown off before being tucked up for the night.

It was the moment Denzil had been waiting for. Amidst the cooing and clucking, he slipped away. The woman was waiting outside the shop, as she had said she would be. Denzil didn’t see her at first, but then she stepped quickly towards the Honda and climbed in.

“Sorry,” he said, as she buckled herself in. “It’s a bit of a tip. Try and pretend it’s a Porsche.”

“I’m not sure I like Porsches very much,” she said. “A bit flash, don’t you think?”

He turned to look at her. She was dressed as she had been earlier, and was carrying a dark green waterproof jacket. “Well, I’m glad you see it that way,” he grinned. “Have you had an OK day?”

“A quiet day. How about you? I’m Lucy, by the way.”

“I’m Denzil. So what do you do, Lucy?”

“Very boring, I’m afraid. I work for a company which produces economic reports.”

“Wow, that… that really does sound quite boring!”

“I have dreams,” she said.

“What dreams?”

“I’d like to travel. Asia, the Far East… Hot places.”

“There’s a tandoori place in Downham Market. That can get quite hot.”

She smiled at the windscreen. “Well, perhaps that’s as far as I’ll get this Christmas. How about you?”

“I’m studying geology at Newcastle.”

“Interesting?”

“I wouldn’t go that far. But it can take you to some interesting places. There’s a Greenland trip next year.”

“Cool.”

“Yeah-icy, even. But I’m a cold places person, if you know what I mean. Like you’re obviously a hot places person.”

“That’s too bad.”

“Well, perhaps we could meet in the middle. In some temperate zone. Like the pub.”

Denzil pulled in to a car park.

“This is it. The Green Man. L’Homme Vert. El hombre… ”

“It looks nice,” she murmured. “Do you mind if I leave my jacket and bag in the boot?”

Yes, Minister,” said the Deputy Chief Constable. “I believe absolutely that they will go tonight, whatever it costs them. We now think it’s not just a question of jihad, but of familial honour. In this context, neither is negotiable… No. Thank you, Minister. Goodbye.”

He replaced the receiver. “Home Office,” he explained for the benefit of the dozen or so individuals watching and listening. “And those two jokers damn well better bomb something tonight, or…”

A dozen or so pairs of eyes stared at him. The SAS captain sniggered. The moment was saved by the ringing of Mackay’s landline. The MI6 man snatched up the receiver. “Hello? Vince? Where are you, mate? Right. And you’ve got… Brilliant! Good man. Hang on, I’ll…”

He covered the receiver and beckoned to Liz. “Price-Lascelles. That headmaster from Wales. Our bloke’s found him. Bad line.”

Liz’s eyes widened. “OK. Don’t transfer it.”

She walked over to his desk. The headmaster’s voice was very faint, and sounded as if it had been strained through several thicknesses of blanket. “… do you do. I understand you… speak to me.”

“I need to know about one of your ex-pupils. Jean D’Aubigny… Yes, Jean D’Aubigny!”

“… remember her very well. What can I…?”

“Did she have any particular friends? People she might have stayed with in the holidays? People she might have stayed in touch with?”

“Have lunch with?”

“WHO WERE JEAN D’AUBIGNY’S BEST FRIENDS?”

“… difficult young woman, who didn’t make friends easily. Her closest, as I recall, was a rather troubled… named Megan Davies. Her people… up in Lincoln, I think. Her father was in the forces. RAF.”

“You’re sure about that?”

“… what they told me. Nice couple. John and Dawn, I think their… pillar to post… Megan very wild in consequence. In the end it turned out that we… permit pupils to bring drugs on to the premises.”

“Did Jean D’Aubigny go and stay with the Davies family?”

“… to my knowledge. She may have done so after Megan left Garth House.”

“Where did the Davies family go after Gedney Hill?”

“Sorry, can’t help you there. They… at the time of Megan’s departure.”

“Do you know where Megan went on to? Which school? Mr. Price-Lascelles? Hello? ” But the line was dead. Everyone in the room was staring at her. Mackay and Dunstan wore particularly indulgent smiles.

Was she way off beam here? Was this complete whimsy?

Replacing the receiver, meeting none of the eyes which followed her, Liz returned to her desk. Pulling down the contacts file on her laptop, she rang the Ministry of Defence. Identifying herself to the duty officer, she had herself put through to Files.

“I’m actually just shutting up shop,” a pleasant-voiced young man told her. “It’ll have to be quick.”

“It’ll take as long as it takes,” said Liz levelly. “This is a matter of national security, so if you don’t wish to find yourself outside a job centre this time next week, I suggest that you remain exactly where you are until we are finished, is that clear?”

“I hear you,” said the young man petulantly.

“RAF records,” said Liz. “John Davies, D-A-V-I-E-S, senior officer of some kind, probably admin, wife’s name is Dawn, daughter’s name is Megan.”

“Hang about, I’m just…” There was the sound of keyboard strokes. “John Davies, you say… Yes, here we are. Married to Dawn, née Letherby. He’s over at Strategic Air Command.”

“Did he ever have a posting in Lincolnshire?”

“Yes. He spent, let’s see, two and a half years running RAF Gedney Hill.”

“Is that still operative? I’ve never heard of it.”

“It was sold off in the cuts about ten years ago. It was where they used to do the escape and evasion courses for aircrews. And I think the Special Forces Flight did some Chinook training there too.”

“So where did Davies go after that?” asked Liz.

“Let’s see… Six months’ attachment in Cyprus, and then he was given command of RAF Marwell in East Anglia. It’s one of the American-”

Liz felt her hand tighten on the receiver. Forced her voice to remain level.

“I know where it is,” she said. “Where did he and his family live when he was there?”

“In a place called West Ford. Do you want the address?”

“In a minute. First I want you to look up a man called Delves, Colin Delves, D-E-L-V-E-S, who holds that post at Marwell today. Find out if he lives at the same address.”

Another muted flurry of keyboard strokes. A brief silence. “Same address. Number One, The Terrace, West Ford.”

“Thank you,” said Liz.

Replacing the phone, she looked around her. “We’re guarding the wrong target,” she said.

A frozen silence, utterly hostile.

“Jean D’Aubigny’s dowry. The reason she was fast-tracked to operational status. She knew classified information vital to the ITS-namely, where the RAF Marwell CO was billeted. She stayed there with a friend from her school. She probably knows every secret inch of the place. They’re going to take out Colin Delves’ family.”