Kitabı oku: «Prime Deception»

Chapter One

A tabloid tale

Charles Lloyd awoke as he did every morning, after a fitful night’s rest where he barely managed to sleep at all. He stretched his arms out, yawning, before rubbing his tired eyes. Beside him, his wife continued to sleep soundly, her auburn hair swept across the white pillow case like a consuming fire. Charles went to wake her and then thought better of it, deciding to let her continue to rest.

With all the stealth his weary body could manage, Charles removed himself from his marital bed and tiptoed over to his impressive ensuite bathroom, to wash and prepare himself for the inevitably manic day ahead.

The ritual was always the same: shower, shave and dress. Charles enjoyed these moments alone in the mornings; it was the calm before the storm. He relished the monotony of getting ready; it gave him comfort in a world which was growing increasingly chaotic.

For some reason, on that morning, he paused before placing the shaving foam upon his dampened cheeks and really absorbed his reflection; something he rarely felt he had the time to do. Charles Lloyd was forty-five and worn out. The bags beneath his eyes and the lines etched into his forehead declared to the world that he was a man sinking beneath an immeasurable weight. He sighed as he squinted and scrutinized the blue of his eyes which had once been so piercing but now had dulled. His wife, Elaine, always insisted that it was his eyes which had first attracted her to him. But his eyes, like the rest of him, had changed. He was no longer the man she had married twenty years ago. He cracked the door to the en-suite ever so slightly and glanced affectionately at his sleeping wife. She was happy, he knew that. He just hoped that she was happy enough for both of them.

Charles returned his attention to the task at hand; of shaving away the shadow which had formed overnight. As a young man he had found shaving a chore. He’d longed to grow some stubble, even a beard, in his desire to be ‘edgy’, but he had always been warned against it. It wasn’t befitting of a man in his line of work. Now, he found shaving therapeutic. The act was familiar and predictable and he liked that about it. So few things in his life were familiar anymore that he cherished those that were.

Dressed in one of his finest suits and his signature blue tie, Charles was at last ready to start the day. He fingered the tie dubiously as he regarded his reflection once more. He found it a rather crass addition to his ensemble, but his aides continued to assure him that it was vital. He missed being able to dress how he wanted to. Charles would have loved nothing more than to put on a pair of jeans and an old jumper but that would never do. He had an image to maintain, as everyone kept insisting to him.

‘Darling, are you going?’ Elaine stirred from her peaceful slumber long enough to see her husband about to open their bedroom door. She gazed at him through half closed eyes, not yet fully awakened.

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you,’ Charles whispered guiltily.

‘Well it’s lucky you did,’ Elaine declared, raising herself up in the bed so that she was now sat upright.

‘It is?’ Charles questioned, surprised.

‘Yes, you were about to leave without kissing me goodbye and we can’t have that now, can we?’ she smiled at her husband, her eyes now wide and teasing.

‘How very careless of me,’ Charles joked as he walked over and promptly placed a brief kiss upon Elaine’s lips.

‘You know, I much prefer it when you don’t wear lipstick,’ he commented.

‘Yes, but the cameras don’t.’ Elaine replied sternly.

‘Any big plans for the day?’ Charles asked, quickly checking the watch sat upon his left wrist; another aspect of etiquette within his outfit. He would much prefer to wear his watch upon his right wrist, as he had done growing up. but formalities dictated that a gentleman must wear his watch upon his left wrist. Goddamn formalities.

‘I’m meeting with my book club today.’

‘And what will you ladies be discussing?’

‘Lolita, by Vladimir Nabokov.’

‘Oh, how very controversial,’ Charles joked.

‘Indeed. It wasn’t my choice, it was Miranda’s I swear the woman would have us reading Mills and Boon if we’d allow it! Talk about repressed desires!’

‘Not everyone has such a stud for a husband,’ Charles said winking.

‘She should do, she’s already been through four!’ Elaine scoffed in disapproval.

‘Anyway darling, I must dash, my car will be here,’ Charles said, glancing at his watch once more.

‘Alright, alright, duty calls I suppose,’ Elaine smiled as she dramatically rolled her eyes. ‘Remember that we have that gala dinner tonight for the Children’s Benefit Foundation.’

‘Oh yes, where would I be without you reminding me of all my engagements?’ He smiled fondly at his wife before dashing out of the door, down the stairs, quickly grabbing his coat and entering the crisp morning air. Charles walked over quickly to the awaiting black Bentley, noticing the look of quiet awe from his neighbours who were attending to their own early morning duties of walking their dogs or putting out the bins.

‘Good morning, sir,’ the driver greeted Charles as he settled himself in the back seat, powering up his Blackberry® in anticipation of the flurry of messages he would have received throughout the night.

‘Morning Henry.’

‘Traffic is bad this morning, sir. Might take us at least thirty minutes to get into town.’

‘Don’t worry Henry, just do your best.’

‘You can count on that, sir.’

The Bentley slid away from Charles’ house and from suburbia, teleporting him away from normality and into his hectic, professional life. Charles attempted to gather his thoughts in the car as his Blackberry® beeped at him continuously, alerting him to urgent emails which required his attention. He loved his job, he did. But lately he felt like a fraud. All the posturing drove him mad. He knew what had changed in him; he’d not been the same since it had happened. Charles closed his eyes in frustration; he had sworn to himself that he would not think about it anymore. Yet here he was, performing the same dance with his mind that he did every morning. He rubbed his temple in desperation.

‘Headache sir? There are some ibuprofen in the cabinet back there,’ Henry said, glancing at his boss in his mirror.

‘Oh right, thanks.’ Charles leant forward and found the box of capsules and took two, knowing that they would be unable to alleviate the cause of his pain.

Charles began to scroll through his Blackberry® whilst gazing out of the car window, watching London begin to rise up all around him. The city was bustling, even at this early hour.

The Bentley weaved through the city streets, sharp and black like a bullet heading for its target. The traffic wasn’t as bad as Henry had anticipated and within twenty minutes they had paused at the black gates which were eagerly parting to grant the car and its important occupant passage.

The car door opened and Charles stepped out, immediately greeted by another man in a suit who shook his hand eagerly.

‘Good morning Deputy,’ Simon Pruit smiled enthusiastically.

Charles didn’t relish being addressed as Deputy. It made him sound like he belongedin an American sheriff’s office, rather than being the British Deputy Prime Minister. He was certain that Simon used the greeting just to get under his skin.

‘Morning, Simon,’ Charles smiled in response, finding the man, as always, irritatingly eager at such an ungodly hour. He envisioned Simon thrusting caffeine straight into his veins in an attempt to keep a permanently preppy demeanour. But Simon was loyal and hardworking, if overly hyper, which were qualities Charles valued highly in his Cabinet.

‘How was your commute this morning? I hear that the traffic was terrible. I suppose it’s the price you pay if you desire to live out of the city-centre,’ Simon rambled the words out quickly as they turned and passed through the most famous door in England; number 10 Downing Street. The door was as black as the Bentley which had bought Charles there and the suit he was wearing. The only dash of colour was the striking blue of his tie, a permanent symbol of his political allegiance.

‘You’ve got the meeting with the American Ambassador at ten,’ Simon began reeling off Charles’ itinerary for the day as the man walked further into the building, delivering brief ‘hellos’ and ‘good mornings’ as they went. It always surprised Charles how many people were present so early in the day, already hard at work. It almost made him feel guilty that he hadn’t dedicated as much time, but then he wasn’t willing to give up sleep altogether, as he assumed they must have.

‘Good morning sir.’ Faye Smith, Charles’ assistant, handed him a stack of pre-opened and date-stamped letters as he rounded a corner to his office. Simon instinctively ceased to walk with him, knowing that the next half hour was when Charles was alone in his office to catch up on correspondence.

‘See you at ten,’ Simon called after him as they parted ways.

‘Good morning, Faye,’ Charles smiled at his hardworking assistant, knowing in his heart that lately there was never a ‘good’ morning.

Charles Lloyd’s office was the epitome of opulent grandeur. The furniture was made from the finest mahogany wood and his chair, and the couches which lined the other two walls, of the softest, most exquisite leather. It was the same office which had hosted Deputy Prime Ministers for decades before him and little had changed.

Personally, Charles was not fond of his office. The décor was not to his taste but he knew better than to attempt to alter it or even vocalise his opinion. The office, and everything in it, was a part of British history; it was he who was interchangeable. The men in the chair came and went, none naïve enough to make the space their own.

In the grand scheme of things, Charles spent very little time in his office; even less time over recent months and that suited him just fine. He found the room almost oppressive. It reminded him too much of his grandfather’s old study; all that was missing was the constant cloud of cigar smoke misting the air. Charles had never been fond of his grandfather, finding the old man far too judgemental of those he was supposed to love and cherish, and sitting each day in a room more befitting to his tastes than his own made him feel uncomfortable and out of place. The office symbolised everything in Charles which he tried to forget; the history, the tradition. He had been born into the elite, and studied at Eton College. From a young age he had shown leadership skills and therefore had been groomed for his current role for many years. His grandfather did not live to see his grandson’s triumph, not that it mattered – he had already done enough during his lifetime to orchestrate the event.

The presence of Charles’ coffee, bagel and morning papers were a welcome distraction from the barrage of thoughts which had begun to penetrate his mind. They rarely stopped these days, with even sleep refusing to offer him the solace he so desperately needed. Faye, ever efficient, always ensured that he had a copy of each of the broadsheets on his desk almost the second after they had been pressed, along with a coffee – black, two sugars – and a bagel with a side helping of cream cheese. The bagel was a relatively new addition to Charles’ breakfast. He acquired a taste for them after a trip to meet with the new American President. He’d also grown particularly fond of pancakes, but he knew that he could not indulge that desire every morning if he intended to keep fitting into all of his suits.

One thing Charles did like about his office was the quiet. He welcomed the solitude he found in there. Outside of the office, people constantly had questions for him, urgent matters they simply had to discuss. Charles never shied away from his duties, always embracing them with dignified sincerity which made him popular amongst the people of England. But he liked that, for half an hour each morning, Faye would intercept his phone calls and he could be truly alone with only the newspapers for company.

Faye would usually highlight key pages which he should read. Whilst Charles was grateful for her zeal, he did sometimes worry that she had little semblance of a life beyond the duties of her job. He had once tried to make idle small talk about her plans for the weekend but the poor woman had appeared so uncomfortable that he chosenever to attempt it again. He would gently berate her if she worked late or emailed him on the weekends but it fell on deaf ears. Elaine would point out when he raised his concerns to her that it was not that she was working too hard, but rather that he lacked the required level of dedication.

In those moments, where Elaine would insinuate that Charles did not work hard enough, he would feel the anger rise up inside him to the point where he had to leave the room for fear of boiling over. Charles had all but forgotten who he was, so consuming was the role of Deputy Prime Minister. He barely had a moment to himself. His circle of friends had thinned to the point where it barely existed, as people tired of his lack of availability. Evenwhen he was available, his security always had to go and survey venues first and often accompany him on trips, which didn’t go down well when he was merely attending a friend’s child’s birthday party. If Charles worked any harder, he would completely fade away and he was determined not to lose himself. He clung on to the tiny shreds of his personality which remained with an intense ferocity.

Recently, things had been even more intense after there was a terrorist threat made on Downing Street. It turned out to be a hoax but now Charles was constantly monitored by his security. A part of him felt sickened to be a target. He valued his life as much as any man and felt foolish to have so openly put himself out there, to become a public figure. But this had never been his dream. His natural charisma and charm had just made him a perfect candidate and those around him who were supposed to love and nurture him had modelled him in their desire to satiate their own needs.

Sighing, Charles shook his head and tried to shake away the angry thoughts which were brewing like a storm. He took a bite from his bagel and began chewing on it as he shifted through the first of his papers. He hadn’t always felt this bitter. It was only recently that he had begun to think about things differently. He loved his job, he loved being a voice for the people, but his heart didn’t feel in it anymore. He felt numb. He was only too aware of the cause of his despondency but he refused to acknowledge it. He hoped that if he ignored the problem it would go away but each day felt a little bit harder than the one before, the lines around his eyes growing deeper, the shadow over his heart darkening.

The first paper offered nothing unexpected. There was a brief mention of the latest arguments brewing about changes to NHS funding which Faye had dutifully highlighted. Charles drank his coffee, the warm fluid as dark as his furniture giving him a welcomed increase in energy levels. Caffeine was his only vice these days. As a young man he had smoked and drank in frighteningly large quantities, but these were attributes which were not befitting a man in power and so he was forced to stamp them out to the point where it was never talked of, like some dirty illegitimate secret. He couldn’t even enjoy a whisky on a plane or at a gala event. Elaine handled his life with such military precision that he never even had the opportunity to be tempted. He remembered fondly how she had gone away for a spa weekend, and home alone he’d drank and smoked to his heart’s content, feeling like a naughty teenager which added to the excitement of it all. The day before her return Simon had helped him air his house and destroy all the evidence. Charles had really enjoyed that weekend.

The first tentative rays of morning sunlight snaked their way across the carpet lining Charles’ office. Aware that time, ever the inpatient mistress, was fading fast, he began to shift through his pile of papers with increased vigour. With his coffee cup now drained, Charles felt renewed and alert. He consumed the remainder of his bagel as he scanned the third paper in the pile before reaching down to pick up the fourth and usually final paper. To his surprise, a fifth paper was concealed beneath the last of the broadsheets, a paper he did not normally read. Bemused, Charles picked up the copy of The Shadow, a notorious tabloid which revelled in stories of smut and scandal. He wondered if perhaps Faye had accidentally placed it there; maybe it was the paper she normally read and had bought it with his own papers and merely forgotten to remove it from the pile. But that wasn’t like Faye; she rarely ever made a mistake. If she had put the paper on his desk there must be something in it she felt he should see.

Charles riffled through the pages of The Shadow but didn’t spot any articles highlighted for his attention. He furrowed his brow in both frustration and annoyance. It simply wouldn’t do for him to be seen reading a tabloid newspaper. He wondered what on earth Faye was playing at? Determined to believe that the presence of the paper was deliberate, he began reading through it once more, this time in more detail. He found himself blushing at the young woman topless on the opening pages; it was so brazen and un-ladylike. He felt that it cheapened sex when women would remove their clothes for money; Charles preferred the mystery of it all and the act of seduction itself.

The second read through still failed to offer any explanation for the paper being on Charles’ desk. Exasperated, he put it down, his hand hovering over the phone on his desk, wondering whether he should call Faye and ask her what, exactly, he was supposed to be looking at.

He cast his eyes over the page which was currently spread open across his desk and he felt his heart momentarily stop beating in his chest. There it was, small and seemingly insignificant, tucked up in the far corner. To everyone else it was barely newsworthy, but to Charles, it was everything. He re-read the same section of the paper over and over again, not quite believing the words which lay before him in stark black and white.

Tears began to gather behind his tired blue eyes and Charles felt his throat throb and ache with the exertion of suppressing a sob. He ran a shaking hand across his face in an attempt to calm himself before reading the words again; trying to absorb the information they held, trying to accept the reality of it.

22-year-old Lorna Thomas of Kent was found dead in her car in the early hours of this morning. Police have ruled that she committed suicide.

The statement was so clinical, so simple. To the world, Lorna Thomas was no-one, just another tragic young death. Her suicide was so inconsequential in the grand scheme of national news that her death didn’t even warrant the inclusion of a picture. Charles was grateful for the omission of her image. If she had been there, gazing up at him from beyond the grave, the news would have been all the harder to bear. Charles reached down and let his fingers rest over the words. They lingered there longingly, as if wishing the subject would somehow manifest herself right there in the office.