‘But I know someone who gave them a down payment of twenty thousand pounds on the promise of hundreds of plants when the business was fully up and running. Predictably, nothing arrived after a few months and when he tried to contact the Slavens, they told him that the company had gone into liquidation and the money was gone. He wasn’t happy but luckily he had good insurance so he didn’t lose out. I don’t know if that’s helpful. I’ll make a cuppa while I’m down here. Can I interest anyone?’ All three women declined politely and Will ambled off towards the kitchen.

  ‘They sound delightful,’ said Veronica. ‘No wonder Tiffany isn’t a fan.’ They thanked Rachel, who printed out a copy of the photograph for them to take away, and walked slowly back to Celia’s house where Catherine called Monica to update her on everything they had learned. The ex-chemistry professor was in St John’s Wood with Thomas entertaining Chris and Anna so Catherine was put on loudspeaker for everyone to hear while Monica put the finishing touches to a spiced aubergine dish she was on the verge of serving.

  ‘Sounds like we need to get into the Storey house,’ said Anna, ‘not only to find out what’s actually going on but also to check on Paul. It doesn’t seem like he’s in the best of health.’ Chris added that it was mildly ironic that a month ago they were plotting to assassinate Paul Storey and now they were planning to potentially save him. Monica thanked Catherine for the update and said that she would arrange a meeting of the whole group along with Suzanne Green ‘probably not tomorrow because we’ll be whiffy after yoga but maybe the day after, depending on her schedule which seems a bit manic this week.’

  ‘She always makes time for you,’ said Anna, smiling. ‘I have a sneaking suspicion that dealing with us is actually one of the most fun parts of her job. Certainly a hell of a lot jollier than doing the media rounds as she was doing earlier.’ The four of them had already discussed the commissioner’s delicate handling, on that morning’s TV and radio networks, of the news regarding a uniformed officer filmed using racist language towards a Bengali shopkeeper in Kilburn.

  ‘Her job doesn’t get any easier,’ said Thomas. ‘She’s doing her best to weed out the undesirables in the Met but there just seem to be so many of them.’

  Chris, meanwhile, was staring towards the window at the mid-evening light, deep in thought. Since his recent regular meetings with Mrs Mendoza, he had been doing a fair bit of reading about post-traumatic stress disorder and, although it was too early to be sure, something about Paul Storey was ringing a persistent and increasingly worrying bell.

  32

  It was not until after the weekend that Suzanne Green had finally managed to find some spare diary time and the commissioner was full of apologies on arrival at The Twelve house in Minera Mews, a short hop from Sloane Square. Thomas was particularly delighted to be able to revisit this Twelve house as he hadn’t had the time earlier in the year to investigate its art, a selection of Rossetti sketches from the 1860s which, according to Terry, were given to a member of The Twelve by the artist in 1871. ‘It was a chap named Fawley, if memory serves,’ said the locksmith. ‘Used to drink with old Dante Gabriel when he lived in Cheyne Walk not far from here. Apparently there’s one of his handwritten poems somewhere too.’ Thomas suspected this literary treasure might well be locked away in Baker Street along with any number of other priceless items.

  Only eleven members were in attendance at the meeting as Belinda was still spending time with her husband in his final days. ‘I’m so sorry about the delay in gathering,’ said the commissioner, settling into a comfortable armchair and gratefully accepting an espresso from Owen. ‘It would have been sooner, of course it would, but for this bloody Kilburn idiot and the media storm that he’s wrought upon the Met. God knows I’ve done my best to expel these morons but it’s like painting the Forth Bridge. You think you’re finished and another one pops out of the woodwork. Plus, at this time of year with less going on politically, the media drag things like this out for as long as possible. The recruitment policy before I took over left a lot to be desired. I’d retire tomorrow if I could. The more time I spend with you guys, the more appealing retirement becomes.’

  Over the weekend, as usual, the various members of The Twelve had busied themselves with different tasks, some related to the group and some not. Owen and Martin had been continuing to monitor their allocation of potential new recruits. One of Owen’s was a charity CEO on whom The Twelve had been keeping a close eye for a couple of years. ‘I attended a fundraising event and won a dinner with the chap at the auction. It cost £11,500 but I thought it was worth it as it’s an opportunity to really get to know him. The charity was delighted as the same prize only made four grand last year.’

  Martin, meanwhile, had been tracking a recently widowed watchmaker who also had an interest in bomb disposal. Everyone secretly hoped that this hobby, should the watchmaker ever make it into The Twelve, would never actually be required but nonetheless it was a useful talent to possess.

  Terry made individual Bakewell tarts which he proudly presented at the meeting. ‘I make the frangipane myself,’ he had revealed. ‘So much better than shop-bought. I like to think it’s the free-range eggs which make the difference.’

  Monica intimated that the commissioner would almost certainly have a place within The Twelve when she did eventually retire, but since she was only in her late forties, such thoughts seemed a little premature. ‘Would you still consider me if I went and did the public speaking circuit for the next fifteen years?’ she asked.

  Monica confirmed that, assuming both that there was a vacancy and also that the public speaking business didn’t transform Suzanne into a complete megalomaniac, she would still be a shoo-in for a role ‘although, if I’m being selfish, I’d rather you didn’t retire quite yet. The Twelve have become fans of yours and we’d rather not have to go through the rigmarole of introducing ourselves to another new commissioner any time soon if it can be avoided.’

  The plan regarding the Storeys had developed rapidly following the latest encounter with Tiffany and Janine in the café. David had carefully worked out the best inlet for carbon monoxide to be pumped into the house, an air brick at the rear of the building which would allow a constant flow of gas under cover of darkness. Monica would be on hand to monitor the safety levels while Graham and Owen would maintain a constant watch on movement inside the house. Once the Storeys were immobile, Terry would pick the lock and six of them would enter the house; Terry, David and Monica as well as Anna and Thomas with oxygen canisters as well as Veronica for support. The former TV presenter fist-pumped the air in excitement.

  Martin would be positioned on the street outside the house in case anyone needed transport. His cab would also be used to store canisters. By Monica’s assessment, having worked out the internal area of the house, if they started the gas infusion around midnight at a certain rate, it should be safe to move to the next stage around two in the morning.

  Once inside, the group would open all the windows to prevent anyone else from succumbing to gas poisoning; Anna would treat the Storeys with oxygen and then, once they were lucid, hopefully by dawn, conversations could begin. ‘We’re aware that we may need to tie them up,’ said Monica. ‘Initially at least. Until there’s hopefully a degree of trust. Would that be okay, Suzanne?’ The commissioner confirmed that they should do whatever they felt necessary to move the case forwards.

  ‘I’ll be in Kensal Green at Anna’s,’ said Chris. ‘It’s only a mile or so away if you need backup.’

  ‘In the meantime,’ said Graham, ‘I’ve been delving into Tony and Janine Slaven and their various business interests over the last decade or so. They appear to have a history of registering companies and then leaving them dormant, sometimes for years. I managed to get banking records for two of the businesses and in both cases there are long periods with no activity and then a sudden deposit of funds, hundreds of thousands of pounds in one day, which then all gets withdrawn and disappears into an offshore account. The businesses claim to specialise in random areas like importing dentistry equipment or international property cleaning but I suspect all of them are a cover for something else. Arms or drugs, most likely.’

  ‘Neither of them have criminal records,’ said Suzanne, ‘although one of the sons does. Leo. He did three months in 2015 for beating up a taxi driver.’ Martin growled and bit violently into a Bakewell, dribbling a viscous stream of jam down his chin.

  ‘We’ll set a date, then,’ said Monica, decisively. ‘Next Thursday? It’s due to be a warm night with no rain so that makes perfect conditions.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Martin, mid-wipe, ‘taking Joanne to see Six. You know, the one about the wives of Henry the Eighth. I’ve bought us a box right near the stage.’

  ‘Friday, then?’ Monica said with a sigh. Everyone agreed that Friday night into Saturday morning was entirely acceptable.

  Anna’s phone pinged; a message from Belinda asking whether she was with Chris and, if so, could he please call her urgently. ‘Excuse me for just a second,’ he said, turning on his phone and wandering into the quiet of the kitchen at the back of the house. He returned a couple of moments later looking deep in thought. ‘It’s her husband, Malcolm. She’s asked me if I can help speed things along.’

  ‘Are you okay to do that?’ asked Monica, conscious that he was still easing himself back into the often turbulent waves of The Twelve.

  The ex-surgeon nodded solemnly and reached for Monica’s hand which he kissed gently. ‘In a weird way, I suspect it will be a part of my own complex healing process.’

  33

  The hospice was at the brow of a leafy hill on a side road just outside of Windsor to the west of London, a slightly imposing Georgian house which had been converted in the 1980s. As Chris drew up to the entrance, he noticed a white wisteria which covered the front of the building was bravely attempting a second blooming of the summer, doubtless encouraged or confused by the warm spell. The whine of aircraft making final approaches into Heathrow filled the air every few minutes as they descended over the nearby castle.

  According to one of the kind-faced nurses, Sir Elton John was a neighbour and, if you went to the far end of the long, flower-filled garden to the rear of the building, you could just make out a corner of his extensive mansion. The nurse, whose name was Wilhemina, delighted in telling everyone that a few years ago a bowel cancer patient was convinced she had seen the rocket man himself, peering cautiously from an upstairs window. Chris and Belinda suspected that the sheer distance made this unlikely but decided, on balance, that the story was best kept unquestioned as it seemed to give both Wilhemina and her patients such joy, an emotion which was sometimes in short supply in such a building.

  Chris had informed Belinda, and the group, that he would need to pop home to get the necessary supplies but then he would jump in his car and be there within a couple of hours, traffic permitting. East London to Windsor would always be a challenging journey but he’d be as quick as he could. Thomas had expressed surprise that he’d known Chris for almost a year and didn’t know he owned a car. ‘I’m a surgeon. It’s part of our specific Hippocratic oath to own a sports car. Mine’s an Alfa Romeo 4c. She’s red. Stupid car to have in London so I rarely drive the thing. If you ever want to borrow it, let me know.’ Monica glanced at Thomas and made a low purring sound, thoughts of a romantic drive into the countryside filtering into her mind.

  Chris had excused himself and taken a taxi back to Victoria Park. He had been spending so much time at Anna’s that his own house had acquired an aroma of stale emptiness, of air that hadn’t had an excuse to circulate and had grown lethargic. An impressive pile of mostly purposeless post had accumulated. Chris flipped quickly through the envelopes, rescued the half dozen which looked important and put them in his case to peruse later. Then he strode into his study and opened the cabinet where he kept various medicines in case of emergency. It was always cool in the study and there was a small refrigerator for any medicines which required it, although his prize today did not. He located a bottle of morphine and a couple of syringes and placed them in the case before opening the top drawer of his desk and finding his car keys as well as those to the small garage round the corner where the Alfa was kept. ‘I hope the bloody thing starts,’ he muttered to himself as he opened the garage doors a few minutes later, trying to remember the last time he drove it and realising it was probably about six weeks ago to visit his eldest daughter in Surrey.

  He didn’t have to worry. One turn of the ignition key and the Alfa, the colour of arterial blood, roared gratefully into life, as if delighted to be roused from slumber. Chris quickly texted Belinda to say that he was on his way and to ask her to carefully consider whether she was sure this was what she wanted.

  It transpired that the journey west wasn’t as tricky as Chris had imagined apart from a slight delay due to roadworks outside Hammersmith. ‘You made good time,’ said Belinda as she hugged him in welcome at the entrance to the hospice. ‘And thank you again for this.’ She introduced him to Wilhemina whose luminescent smile, Chris thought, could light up any room, however potentially sad that room might be.

  ‘Don’t sign in, Dr Tinker,’ she said, beaming. ‘It would be better for your presence to be as private as possible.’ Chris expressed surprise that the nurse apparently knew what was about to happen but Wilhemina was quick to reassure him. ‘This happens much more often than you might expect,’ she said softly. ‘And even if the law doesn’t currently recognise this need, we do.’ She placed a hand on his upper arm and gave it a gentle squeeze. ‘Come and meet Malcolm. He’s been looking forward to your visit.’

  When she had joined The Twelve in 2017, just under a year after Chris’s own arrival, Belinda had spoken of her husband with great affection, showing the group photographs from their lives together, travelling the world, imagining future adventures. With no children by choice, and with cash to spare through their successful careers – hers in linguistics, his in pharmaceuticals – they had seemingly had everything needed for an idyllic retirement. Then came Malcolm’s diagnosis, a few days after his sixty-third birthday.

  The man in the hospice bed bore no resemblance to the Malcolm of those earlier photographs. The vibrant, bon-vivant husband had vanished and in his place a pale, gaunt, immobile apparition barely existed, almost translucent but with the merest shadow of a frown as if frustrated with the shrinking world it inhabited. ‘He’s been like this for five days,’ said Belinda. ‘He wouldn’t want this. We discussed it many times over the years, even before his illness. The true Malcolm would hate being here. He would want peace.’ Belinda picked up Malcolm’s left hand as she had done consistently over the previous weeks. As usual, there was not even the barest sense of a grip from Malcolm.

  ‘I’ll leave you,’ whispered Wilhemina, closing the door behind her. ‘Let me know when you’re ready.’

  Chris opened his bag and carefully extracted a vial of morphine, a pair of surgical gloves and the two syringes, explaining to Belinda that the spare was simply there in case the first one was in some way faulty. ‘It’s never happened to me before,’ he said, ‘but doctors are a superstitious lot.’ He pulled on the gloves, opened the vial and observed methodically as the syringe barrel filled with liquid. ‘You’re absolutely sure?’ he asked.

  Belinda nodded. ‘One more thing,’ she said. ‘Can I help?’

  Chris was unsurprised. He had known Belinda long enough to be aware of both her emotional strength and her sense of duty. ‘A final act of devotion for the love of your life.’ He smiled. ‘Of course.’ He found a vein with ease, a slow-moving purple tributary on a barren, parched landscape, and gently inserted the needle. ‘Push together?’

  Belinda reached forward and placed her thumb over Chris’s. She watched with fascination as the pain relief surged into the blood vessel. After a minute or so, Malcolm’s breathing changed, the shallow breaths replaced by more rapid, short bursts. ‘Normal,’ assured Chris. Belinda moved to the opposite side of the bed to stroke her husband’s head. Malcolm’s frown appeared to dissolve, replaced by the faintest flicker of a smile. ‘Sleep now,’ whispered Belinda. ‘I love you.’ She kissed him on his forehead as Malcolm took a last shallow breath.

  The two of them stood silently for around ten minutes, Chris noting the occasional tear trickling slowly down Belinda’s nose. Finally, the linguist took a deep breath, gave herself a shake and walked over to Chris for a hug. ‘Thank you,’ she said softly. ‘And by the way, how are you feeling? I know it’s been difficult these last few weeks, since your injury.’

  Chris maintained the hug. It felt therapeutic for both of them. ‘I’m good,’ he said. ‘I’m almost back to normal, I think. There was a moment back there when I was close to calling it a day but then I realised that I need The Twelve. I’d be lost without everyone’s friendship and love. I think we all would.’ To his surprise, Chris now felt tears swell in his own eyes and he drew Belinda back into the safety of their embrace.

 

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