Chapter Twenty

Once you start asking questions there are always more to be asked. More angles to think of. More leads to follow. More dead ends to run down and get lost in.

Savage needed space to think.

He hit the pavement in Canary Wharf and in the reflection of a window saw two men fall in step behind him. He was already being followed. And his head was too full to figure out who or how – what with all the enemies he kept making.

Instead of the car, tube or DLR he headed for the river. At the top of the plaza steps that led down to the high speed ferry he saw the distinctive catamaran-hulled boat already moored up and boarding.

He broke into a sprint. Hit the long taper of people waiting to get on and pushed rudely forward. The boat-hands closed the gate and began pulling the mooring ropes off the bow.

The boat's powerful engines roared to life. He mounted the rail that ran the length of the jetty and launched himself off towards the stern of the boat. It started to pull away.

There was an, 'Oh my god,' from someone behind.

He grabbed the rail along the open rear deck and clung on. Then he pulled himself over with a grunt. The boat engines roared. He turned back and saw the two men run up to the back of the queue. They glared in his direction. He didn't recognise either man.

They could have been pursuers or just harried passengers.

Either way Savage now had time for himself.

He took a seat next to an Arab family. A gothic woman sat opposite them with a heavily pierced man on either side of her. She held both their hands. Her bitches by the smug look on her face. The Arab family didn't seem to mind. Wasn't that multi-culturalism? Each to their own?

He let his mind wander and lost his focus in the rushing wake of the boat.

Savage had scratched the surface long enough to know that Michael's missing millions somehow tied with the millions disappearing now.

He also knew why Thomson and everyone else distrusted him so much. The recording. Everyone there had heard it. Everyone there assumed he knew they had.

Only he hadn't.

He never even knew it existed. And the first person to know about it? The CAO.

He took out his phone, searched his call log. Dialled her number. Straight to answer.

'It's John Savage,' he said, 'we need to talk,' left a number and hung up.

Had she left for the same reasons? Shame? Embarrassment? Humiliation? People had thought she'd been in on Michael's death. That they had been in it together.

Impossible. Of course. And what about the money? Where was that coming from? And what was it being used for? In a company of nearly 100,000 staff there were a lot of places to look.

He thought he knew a way to find out. He'd need to speak to Vi again, get her to look at the old files again.

Michael and Jessica. Two horns of the same bull. And the police, Thomson, the gangsters, the surveillance, the money.

He tapped his foot, made a decision, then looked up the switchboard number for the Guardian.

'Guardian News and Media, good morning.'

'Morning. Editorial please.'

The phone line went quiet. Then one ring. 'Editorial.'

'Hi, it's Brian Haswell, chair of the Environment in Business Association. I was supposed to get some files to Peter Morel last night but we missed each other. Is he in?'

'He's covering the chancellor's speech this morning. Can I take a message?'

'No, that's fine.'

Savage scanned the internet. The chancellor was speaking at Central Hall in Westminster to the leaders of British business. To either give them bad news or to roll over and change his tune now the political classes were dropping like drunken flies off a window pane.

Over the tannoy the ship's captain said: 'Passengers for Blackfriars please inform the staff, this is a request stop only'.

Confusion for any would be surveillance?

Savage grabbed a uniformed steward. 'Blackfriars please.'

Then, for the first time in, well, Savage couldn't remember how long, he sat back and admired the views along the Thames. Past the old docklands on the south side of the river, converted to some of the most expensive real estate in the world. Studio flats and penthouses and expensive restaurants. Past the houseboats that peppered the waterways in front of Tower Bridge, it's drawbridge lowered and covered in commuter traffic. Past the compact glass structure of City Hall, the Mayor of London's powerhouse, on the left. The Tower of London on the right.

The HMS Belfast took up half the river and then they powered on under the bridges of London towards the famous South Bank, home to art galleries like the Tate Modern and the Hayward, the Film Institute, theatres and restaurants and bustling food markets, pubs and the thatched Globe Theatre – a new home for Shakespeare, where audiences in the pit became part of the show.

Savage kept forgetting about the lighter side of London. Where the tourists came to collect memories and where locals stripped off, found the nearest patch of grass to lie on and be cool, get drunk, flirt, read, or get stoned.

The red and white bridge that his destination took its name from came into view, the London Eye and the Houses of Parliament beyond that. Central Hall further still. His shoulders tensed again and he realised how he never relaxed any more.

'Blackfriars!' The tannoy barked.

Savage tensed everything tight just once and then stepped forward to the exit.

*

Black mercs and beamers, top of the range all, spilled their illustrious occupants out onto the pavement. Talk time and everyone was rushing to get in.

The delegates thronged between the barriers like cattle at an abattoir. Recognisable faces, backbenchers and billionaires, chatted and guffawed at each other, relaxed in their A-list position in life. If not their Z-list celebrity status. Politics was fame for ugly people the truism went. But, surprisingly, many of those same fat uglies got more tail than pop celebs. They certainly had no hang ups about their physiques. Size zeros don't exist in politics.

Amongst the throng Savage caught sight of someone without a belly. Morel. Then his wavy hair disappeared into the front entrance of the grand old church and conference centre. Savage took position in the queue and joined in with the polite shoving.

The hall sat in the square mile around Parliament, just opposite Westminster Abbey and around the corner from Scotland Yard. The police on duty all carried MP5 sub-machine guns. Through the arched doorway the security staff checked IDs, cross referenced them on the invite list, then stood each delegate in front of a camera and took a picture. With the picture printed onto a name badge the be-suited then stepped through a metal detector for a pat-down, their bags through an x-ray scanner. Sniffer dogs hung out hoping for some semtex, possibly Class As – you never could tell with politicos.

A phone rang. It belonged to a tall man in a sharp light-blue suit. 'Nigel,' he said, one of those voices that even when whispering had all the subtlety of a primal scream.

'What?' he said. 'What!' again, not good news, clearly.

The man pushed back through the crowd, jiggling bellies and elbowing man breasts. He ran straight into Savage in mid rant about how that was impossible and what the bloody hell was going on.

Savage grabbed onto him to stop himself from falling. The man barely noticed, grunted in Savage's direction, an apology perhaps, and pushed on through.

Savage opened the man's wallet, brown leather to match the man's brown shoes. Initials DG on the front leaf. David Goodman, a senior exec at one of the other British banks bought out by the government in the latest crises. He had a gym membership and drivers license both with his picture on. They slipped out of Savage's hands and fell to the floor. The other ID, private members club, bank cards and business cards, British Bankers Association membership, were all photo-less and easy covers for Savage. The self printed email invite was folded neatly in the main wallet along with four fifties and five twenties.

The queue dwindled ahead and built up behind Savage. When it was down to the last man in front Savage turned, as if looking for a late-arriving friend, and slipped the knuckle duster from his jacket into the right hand pocket of the man directly behind.

The man had a fatherly look about him, red faced and slightly boozy with a pin-striped shirt and pin-striped suit. Savage wondered if his underwear was pin-striped too.

A tap on his shoulder. 'Sir?' a man with a gun said. He gestured over his shoulder to security.

'Thanks,' Savage said and bounded up the steps. He passed his bag over for the scan and handed a stern looking woman in a stab vest the invite.

'We don't need that, sir.' she said. 'Name?'

'Goodman. David.'

She ticked a list. 'Very good. Please stand here,' she motioned in front of the small video camera.

'Thank you sir. Please go through.'

Savage set the metal detector off. His belt according to the guard, who patted him down and ran a hand-held scanner over his body. Spent far too much time around the crotch for Savage's liking.

Then the alarm went off again behind him. Scanner man rushed past to assist his colleagues. One of which was holding up the knuckle duster.

Savage walked causally over to the x-ray scanner, picked up his bag and strolled away.

At yet another desk, he picked up his name badge and a handout. The polite young political intern told him, 'The meeting will commence in just two minutes in the Great Hall.' Unable to take her eyes off the front entrance where the father-figure protested too much.

'Do you know who I am?' he said, to the nearest man in uniform, who smiled.

A line that gave anyone further down the social ladder, like a copper, a good excuse to wear a rubber glove.

Savage headed up two levels for the Great Hall. Which in its glory days must have been something to behold, two tiers, impressive organs behind the central stage, the faded reds of imperial grandeur. The podium on the stage in front of the organs was lit by stage lights that were slowly becoming brighter as the house lights dimmed.

Savage moved quickly to the front scanning for Morel.

Nothing on right of centre, he headed across the front of the stage. The slogan of the day emblazoned across the backdrop.

THE CHALLENGE HAS BEEN MET.

What that meant Savage had no idea. Maybe he'd been out of the country too long. Maybe no one knew.

He took up position at the front of the room and peered up into the balcony areas to see if he could spot Morel's familiar mop of hair. The gloom on the balcony left him with nothing but uncertainty. A hand touched his arm.

'Sir? Please take a seat,' a young woman said. 'We're about to start.'

'Sorry,' he moved off to the left hand side of the auditorium. He sat down on the end of a middle row and let the hubbub of deep voices wash over him. The lights dropped to a single spotlight on stage. It took a few moments for Savage's eyes to adjust.

Two rows ahead a man yammered on his phone. The young woman called to him. 'Sir, please switch your phone off. Sir?'

The man held up a finger to say one moment. 'Now sir, or you'll be escorted off the premises.'

The man hung up and lowered his phone. It was Morel.

A tall, middle aged woman with athletic broad shoulders walked on stage. Fair haired to hide the grey, she pulled the podium microphone to her mouth.

'Ladies and Gentleman, please bear with us for one moment while everyone takes their seats. I'm afraid we had a misunderstanding at the front entrance, one of our esteemed peers forgot to remove some tools from his hunting weekend before he arrived and gave security a fright.'

An overly entitled chuckle spread around the room.

'Ah, here he is.' The door at the back of the room closed behind the fatherly gent with the knuckle duster. Strange kind of hunting. The foxes must have gotten tougher.

'My lord, if you will please take your seat?'

He shuffled into a seat just behind Savage.

'Now without further ado ladies and gentleman, he needs no introduction, he's the Alderman of London, Viceroy of New Helmlandshire, Fulbright scholar, fully paid up member of the British Empire, Chancellor of the Exchequer...'

She held out her hand. A youthful forty-something gent with a paunch jogged briskly onto the stage to a round of dutiful applause from the audience of the political minded and the media. The fully committed at the front gave a big hurrah as the chancellor waved for the claps to die down.

'Ladies. Gentlemen. Thank you. Thank you from the depths of my soul,' he said humbly with eyes down. Then his eyes met the room, and, with volume, 'The challenge has been met,' vigorous applause from the faithful, 'and we have not been found wanting.

'In 1945, at the end of the war, the great Sir Winston Churchill addressed the Conservative Party in this very room and told them, “Victory is certain, victory is near.” Those words are just as true today.

'But Victory, as you well know, comes at a cost. Great sacrifices were made then for future prosperity, as they must be made now.

'Since we have taken power there has been great speculation about how we would manage the economy. As you know, if we carried on as the last administration had, robbing Peter to pay Paul, then eventually large men with bald heads and baseball bats would be paying us a visit and demanding that both Peter and Paul make amends.'

Another polite chuckle.

'We could have simply followed what the previous administration had done “invest”,' he made quote mark fingers, 'in public services and keep cash flowing in the economy. But that's not real growth ladies and gentleman, that's not real prosperity. We have one of the most powerful economies in the world, and for an island nation our size, we punch above our weight class, and we win. Regularly.

'But that won't continue to happen. The capital that flows through this great city of ours is the life blood of our nation, and without its strength our muscles will grow weak and our blows ineffective.

'In 1946, in this great hall, Prime Minister Clement Attlee welcomed the first inauguration of the fifty-one member states of the UN to our “ancient home of liberty and order.”

'Today, ladies and gentlemen, that order will be restored. Liberty guaranteed.

'Our nation can no longer run at a deficit which is why I have made the bold step of guaranteeing that in our first term in office the fractional reserve banking system will come to an end in our country.

'No longer will you gentleman be able to take one pound from the public turn it into forty pounds worth of unsecured credit and then expect the public to bail you out at one end of the deal, pay the interest at the other, and have their own assets devalued by inflation. It's a self-perpetuating pyramid scheme that's been around so long nobody sees it for what it really is.'

The boos started quietly, then grew louder.

'The money illusion is over gentlemen. You are not winners, you will not take all.'

The audiences' shock wore off and the shouts began.

'Real growth will come from real investment with real returns, we will create and innovate across our nation. We will distinguish between investment accounts and storage accounts so that the public retain ownership of their money and their money cannot be sub-let to forty other banks like an hourly room at a whore's hotel.'

The gentlemen began to throw things at the speaker. Security guards moved into position at the far edge.

'There will also be wide-ranging cuts in welfare and education. Investment projects with a significant economic return to the country will be prioritised Health and international aid will be ring-fenced and protected. 25 per cent will be slashed from all government departments. VAT will rise to cover the worst of the deficit—' He took a deep breath.

The room calmed a little, thankful for the traditional kind of measures that never really resolved anything.

'And although I know you expected me to do a u-turn on these issues after the grotesque assassination of my colleague – there are even dark rumours about what will happen to me if I don't do what I'm told.'

He gave a solemn stare around the room at the rumour mongers hidden in the dark.

'However,' a forgiving smile, 'despite the City's protests, we all know the truth, the recent banking crisis has doubled the national debt to nearly a trillion pounds and this is where many of the repayments will have to come from.

'From today bank bonuses will be suspended indefinitely, the Bank Levy, which I know you all expected me to say was no longer viable will come into force this financial year and will generate billions more for the economy.'

Morel laughed. The knuckle dusting lord behind Savage joined in the booing. He tapped Savage on the shoulder.

'I don't mind the man,' he said. ‘But I don’t like his policies, doesn’t he know that our ability to lend more than we have is the only reason Britain has any say in the world? Idiot. Boo!'

Savage nodded as if this insight interested him. The rich. The powerful. Like a bunch of school kids. The booing continued. The chancellor smiled at the crowd.

'Please keep it up,' the chancellor said. 'Informed debate is always such a thrill,' he waved his hands royally. 'The economy that maintains your businesses and your banks is about to be destroyed and if you think that it won't take you with it, you don't deserve your position or your titles or your bonuses.'

He slammed his hand on the podium.

'Banking needs to change its ways gentlemen. It can no longer be the largest, most needy part of the welfare state.' The booing calmed a little, but not much. 'You need to get on your bikes and get to work. Or find a country that won't mind you stripping it of its assets and powers. Think you'll be welcome anywhere?

The chancellor ducked and a paper missile missed his head.

'Now pay attention children, here are the figures. Let's see if you can keep up.'

Despite the roomful of hate the chancellor was enjoying himself. Savage saw Morel share a joke with the men on either side of him.

Savage scrunched up the first page of the handouts and threw it at Morel's head. The journalist turned to see where it had come from. Angry, not like the smiling picture on his website at all. Savage pointed a finger at him, then himself, then outside, and mouthed the word, 'Now'.

Morel shook his head and turned away.

He looked just as angry when the next ball of paper hit his head. Savage mouthed a name. The man's face went cold. Savage pointed again, stood up and headed for the exit.

*

Morel emerged into the foyer moments later. Agitated. Angry. He looked at Savage's name badge then back at Savage. 'What about Jessica?'

'She was working on something that took her to the Middle East.'

Morel didn't respond. His lips got tighter.

'Something that killed her. I want to know what you know about it.'

'What makes you think I know anything?'