‘So how did I do?’ I asked Dan softly.
He grinned at me. ‘That was a masterclass.’
‘It should be good for a couple of days’ headlines at least.’
‘Yes, Minister,’ Dan agreed with a smile. ‘Or should I say, yes, Prime Minister?’
We exchanged a smile. It hadn’t happened yet and I didn’t believe in counting my chickens, but we both knew the job was all but mine. I didn’t know how Dan did it and I didn’t particularly care, but he always managed to winkle out all the dirty little secrets that everyone in the public eye tried to keep hidden. And everyone had them. Many an incompetent, failing MP had stayed in power because of the secrets they knew. Those personal, potentially explosive details that others in power tried so desperately to keep buried.
Including me.
There was one secret in particular … And, if it ever saw the light of day, I didn’t doubt for a second that I’d be banged up and doing time until my hair had turned grey. There was nothing I wouldn’t do to protect myself. Absolutely nothing.
And both Dan and I knew that.
fifty-seven. Callie
* * *
As I waited for the kettle to boil, I looked out of the kitchenette window, watching the world scurry by while the afternoon took its time. I hadn’t grown out of my habit of people watching. It was like a hobby, making guesses about the lives of those coming into and leaving our offices, seeing what I could tell about them from their clothes, the way they carried themselves, the way they moved in relation to other people. Where I had the chance to check my suppositions, I didn’t do too badly. In fact, nine times out of ten my observations were spot on.
Watching Tobey on Guest of the Week the previous evening was a case in point. From the time Tobey was introduced by Ken Coughlan, I could tell by the way he was sitting and the smile on his lips that came nowhere near his eyes that he could smell blood in the water. I wasn’t even going to watch the programme until I heard who the guest would be. Seeing Tobey on the TV was as close as I’d got to him since university. And even then it wasn’t as if we’d exactly hung out together. Too much lay unresolved between us. But, I have to admit, I was glad I wasn’t Ken Coughlan as I watched Guest of the Week. It’d been brutal. The news headlines this morning had been full of analyses of the programme. By the end of the week, I fully expected to hear that Ken had resigned – if he had any sense.
Once the kettle had boiled, I made my way back to my office with a black coffee for me and a herbal nasty for Stacy, the Nought temporary secretary who’d been working for me for over a year. With Sol’s blessing, I’d offered Stacy a permanent position – and more than once – but each time she’d turned me down.
‘I make far more money working freelance,’ she told me. ‘And if you piss me off, I’m out the door with no notice and no goodbye. Why would I want that to change?’
Which was fair enough!
I passed Stacy her herbal mess. ‘Any calls or letters I should know about?’
She shook her head. ‘The important correspondence is on your desk or attached to the notifications on your electronic notepad. The rest is just the usual nonsense from a couple of Nought Forever pinheads threatening you with all sorts for prosecuting one of their members last year.’
‘Oh, boohoo!’ I exclaimed, unimpressed. ‘God, that lot need to be dropped down a deep mineshaft.’
‘Amen to that,’ Stacy agreed. ‘They’re worse than the Liberation Militia, and God knows the L.M. were bad enough.’
‘Yeah, but Nought Forever have denounced violence,’ I quoted, deadpan.
‘My arse!’ Stacy said at once. ‘They’ve just put a suit and tie on it, is all.’
I nodded and headed into my office behind Stacy’s desk. Funny, I didn’t remember closing the door. I very rarely did that during the day; only when making confidential phone calls or conducting sensitive interviews, neither of which I’d done. It was only as I sat down at my desk that I noticed him sitting on my sofa, which he’d pushed back against the wall.
Jon Duba – who had the uncanny knack of turning up unexpectedly, alarm systems and secretaries be damned. I shook my head as he winked at me. This was exactly the way we’d met two years ago, with him turning up at my office unannounced and uninvited.
There he’d sat, a middle-aged Nought guy with close-cut, salt-and-pepper hair, wearing round glasses, black trousers, a dark brown polo shirt and a black leather jacket. I’d stared in shock. Behind those glasses, lime-green eyes watched me, unconcerned. Then he’d smiled.
‘Who are you and how the hell did you get into my office?’
‘Hello, Miss Hadley. I’m Jon Duba, rhymes with tuba. Employ me as your covert investigator and I’ll tell you anything you want to know.’
‘How about I phone for security and have your arse arrested? Then you can tell the police how you got in here.’
Jon shrugged. ‘Feel free. By the way, I’m an ex-copper. You’ll find that useful when I work for you.’
I stood up slowly and started edging towards the door. This was obviously a nutty-nut, and the sooner I took myself out of arm’s reach, the better.
‘I took early retirement due to injury on the job. After that, I did a few courses. One was in computer science, and now there’s not a computer on the planet that I can’t hack into. You’ll find that useful also,’ said Jon.
‘And why should I take you on?’ I couldn’t help asking.
‘Because you need me. You just don’t know how much yet,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell you what – I’ll work for you for free for the rest of the month. If you then decide that you can do without me, I’m gone with no hard feelings.’ He dusted off his hands as he spoke to emphasize his words. ‘However, if you decide to keep me, you pay me for my first month’s work. Deal?’
‘No.’ Was this man for real? ‘I don’t know you from a hole in the ground.’
‘How about I prove to you right here and now how good I am?’
‘How d’you propose to do that?’
‘Ask me three things about you, your work, your life that you think I won’t know,’ said Jon. ‘If I answer all three correctly, you give me a job.’
OK, I admit it. I was intrigued. I stopped edging towards the door and eyed Jon speculatively. He smiled, knowing he had me.
‘All right. I’ll play. What was my dad’s middle name?’
‘Ryan.’
I stared. How the hell …? My dad’s middle name was a matter of public record: after all he’d had to give his full name when he appeared in court. But the fact that this man before me had done enough research to know that …
‘OK, OK. Second question.’
‘This is fun,’ said Jon, settling back in his chair.
‘What’s the love of my life?’
‘The law.’
‘Too easy.’
‘You asked it,’ Jon pointed out.
‘Right. Third question.’ I racked my brains for some obscure question to which only I knew the answer. Then this nutjob would be out of my office, hopefully without ructions. ‘What’s the biggest regret of my life?’