Lifting the Lid(79)

Sandra forced the corners of her mouth downwards and frowned in a theatrical display of gravity. ‘Sorry, Trevor,’ she said, her voice almost masculine in pitch. ‘It won’t happen again. Promise.’

‘You see. That’s exactly what I—’

‘Have a look through his pockets.’

Trevor recognised the sudden shift in her tone from sarcastic to businesslike. He understood exactly what she was asking him to do but decided he needed further confirmation. ‘Pardon?’

‘We need to find out who he is, don’t we?’

Assuming that the question was rhetorical, he didn’t reply. Besides, he was busy contemplating whether they really did need to find out the guy’s identity. What did it matter? He was dead. End of story. Or perhaps it wasn’t. The end of the story – or the beginning of the end – might be when the police or Harry and his cronies or some other bunch of psychopathic lunatics turned up and found them with a dead body. Why should he care who the bloke was? Far better that they left it a mystery and got the hell out of there.

‘He’s not going to bite,’ said Sandra with evident impatience.

‘Why don’t you do it then?’

‘I’m covering you.’

‘From a dead man?’

‘From any unexpected visitors.’ Sandra waved her gun vaguely in the direction of the apartment door.

She was right of course. It wasn’t as if a corpse could do him any harm as such. It was just that—

‘Oh for goodness’ sake,’ said Sandra and reached towards the body with her gun-free hand.

‘Okay, okay, I’m doing it,’ said Trevor, deflecting her outstretched arm with his own and placing himself between her and the chair.

He avoided looking at the man’s face and concentrated instead on the lapel of his charcoal grey jacket. Careful not to make any direct physical contact with the body itself, he slowly peeled the lapel backwards until the inside pocket was revealed.

‘Expensive,’ he said, more to himself than to Sandra when he spotted the Savile Row label.

He slid his fingers into the pocket and felt the edge of some kind of wallet. With all the caution of someone removing the trigger mechanism from a nuclear bomb, he eased it out and saw that it was indeed a slim, black leather wallet and had the initials G.M.Q. embossed in gold in one corner. He flipped it open. The main section contained a dozen or so banknotes, and all the other compartments were filled with an assortment of business cards and credit cards. He selected one of the latter at random.

‘Mr Gerald M. Quicke,’ he read aloud. ‘Mean anything to you?’

Sandra shrugged. ‘The Quicke and the dead? Never heard of him. See if there’s something else.’

Trevor looked again, and although only the top edges of the cards were visible, he noticed that one of them was slightly different from the others. It was fractionally larger than a standard credit card, and the upper part of a gold-coloured crest seemed strangely familiar. He slipped the card from its compartment.

‘Bloody Nora,’ he said, almost dropping the card.

‘Well?’ Sandra’s patience was clearly being tried to the limits.

‘Gerald Montague Quicke—’

‘Yes, you’ve said that already,’ she snapped.

‘—Member of Parliament for Baileyhill and Redbridge.’

Sandra whistled softly through her teeth and pursed her lips. ‘As you say, bloody Nora,’ she said and took the card from him to examine it for herself.

‘Right,’ said Trevor, trying to sound assertive but the quaver in his voice giving him away. ‘There’s nothing else we can do here, so I suggest we get out before someone turns up.’

But his attempt to take control of the situation fell on deaf ears, and Sandra ignored him.

‘At least that explains why MI5 are involved,’ she said, looking from the photograph on the identity card to the ashen features of the man in the chair and back again as if to verify they really were one and the same.

‘Oh?’ said Trevor, realising that unless he walked out of the flat on his own, he’d just have to wait until Sandra was good and ready to go with him.

She nodded towards the body in the chair. ‘This isn’t just any old stiff. This is a Member of bloody Parliament. The duly elected representative of the good people of Baileyhill and…’

‘Redbridge.’

‘Whatever. You want me to draw you a picture?’

Trevor guessed his expression must have conveyed mystified bemusement, but this was far from being the case. He knew as well as she did how all of the pieces had suddenly fallen into place. Or nearly all.

‘The bit I don’t get though…’ he said, hoping this would indicate that he understood all the rest of it and so wasn’t as stupid as she seemed to think. ‘The thing I can’t get my head round is why Harry’s mob would want to kidnap an MP. I mean, he’s not even a well known one, is he? Why not go for a Cabinet Minister or one that’s never got their mug off the telly?’