The Facility, page 15
‘No, no, no. I’m not sneaking out anywhere. Well, I am, a bit, but not because of you.’
Julia stands. ‘I’ll let you get on. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have just turned up like this.’ She checks her bare wrist. ‘I should be leaving anyway. I have to collect Casper from nursery.’ She smiles, unconvincingly. ‘I’m always late. They always have him waiting for me in the office. Really, I don’t know what the staff there must—’
‘It’s to do with Arthur.’
Julia is at the living-room door. She turns.
‘I’m going because . . . I mean, it could be nothing. It’s almost certainly nothing, in fact, which is why I didn’t call . . . But I’m going because of Arthur.’
‘What about Arthur?’ Julia steps back into the room. She stands with her thigh against the arm of the chair, the fingertips of her left hand grazing the upholstery. ‘Did you find something? What did you find?’
‘Nothing. Really.’ Tom sighs at Julia’s frown. ‘This is why I didn’t tell you. I didn’t want you thinking I’d found out more than I have.’
‘But you’ve found something. Tell me, Tom, please.’
Tom hesitates. He glances again through the doorway towards his bag. ‘Take a look.’ He steps past Julia and leads her through the hallway and into his bedroom. ‘Excuse the mess,’ he says but Julia is not looking at the mess. Her eyes are on the stack of printouts Tom pulls from his holdall.
‘What are they?’
‘Expenses claims,’ says Tom. ‘Ministerial expenses claims. Think moat cleaning, duck islands: that sort of thing. The Freedom of Information Act is about the only civil-rights legislation the government has had to extend. You remember what happened in 2009.’
‘Why though? I don’t understand.’ Julia takes the stack from Tom and flicks through the pages. Her gaze lingers on the lines he has highlighted.
‘Just a hunch. I thought it would probably be a waste of time but I didn’t have much else to go on.’
‘It wasn’t though.’ Julia looks up. ‘Was it?’
Tom takes back the printouts. He sets the pile on his mattress and flicks until he finds the right page. ‘Almost. But then I saw this.’ He passes the sheet to Julia. There is an item highlighted and, unlike the other lines he has daubed in yellow pen, this one has an asterisk beside it, a tick, an underline. ‘Ignore my markings. I was tired and it was late and probably I got over-excited. But I still think it’s worth looking into.’
‘Ninety-three pounds and seventy-six pence,’ says Julia, reading, ‘at the Market Place Brasserie in Camelford. Where’s Camelford?’
‘The middle of nowhere. The middle of Cornwall, rather.’ Tom points. ‘But look here. Look at the name.’
‘Rupert Jenkins,’ Julia reads. ‘Wasn’t he—’
‘At the press conference. Right. Doing nothing, saying nothing. Standing beside the home secretary looking like an eight-year-old nursing a smacked bottom.’
‘You think he was responsible? You think he made the leak?’
‘I think it happened on his watch. I don’t think he was responsible but I think he was in charge at the time. Of the policy, I mean. Of the facility.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘It’s just a hunch, like I say. Probably I’m wrong. But he’s the right level: senior enough to carry some clout, junior enough that the government can cast him to the press should they need to. And he’s in the right place, politically speaking, and at the right time: it would be his remit and he’s not exactly a liberal. Also,’ Tom says and he gestures to the expenses claim, ‘there’s this.’
Julia frowns. ‘I still don’t get it. He went to Camelford; he had lunch. What’s the big deal? Maybe he was visiting his sister. His mother. A doddery old aunt.’
‘Right the first time. But that’s the point: it was a jolly. He’s hardly likely to have travelled down to Camelford for the sake of a ninety-quid lunch. He was in the area, rather. More to the point, he was in the area and it wasn’t on his itinerary.’ Tom shuffles in his bag for another clutch of papers. ‘I got hold of a copy of his schedule for that week and according to his press office Jenkins was never there. He was in London, supposedly, in “meetings”. The only thing that links him to Camelford on that particular day is his lunch receipt.’
‘The day,’ says Julia. ‘The date. It’s the day they arrested Arthur.’
‘That’s right. You’re right. I didn’t realise that.’
Julia reaches for the stack of papers on the bed and flicks through. ‘What then? The facility is in Camelford, is that what you’re saying?’
Tom laughs. He cannot help himself. ‘I doubt it. I doubt very much it will be that easy. But it seems as good a place to start as any. It’s British soil, after all. That’s what the home secretary said, right? That it was on British soil?’
‘That could mean anything. It could mean the facility – Arthur – is in . . . I don’t know. Gibraltar, for instance. Bermuda. It could be in the Antarctic – don’t you guys own some of that too?’
‘True. But Jenkins didn’t order steak in the Antarctic. And his staff – ’ Tom shuffles the pages in Julia’s hands until he comes to another highlighted section, another sprawl of asterisks and underlines ‘ – his staff didn’t take a train trip once a week from Paddington to the south pole; they went to Bodmin Parkway instead. A guy called Simpkins did. Another one called Cooke.’ He looks up and catches Julia’s expression. ‘It’s not much, I know, but it’s all I can find. It’s a pattern, at least. You know how I like to look for patterns.’
Again Julia studies the papers in her hands, as though looking for something more than Tom has given her. She glances at Tom’s half-packed holdall. ‘So you’re going to Camelford. Based on a hunch. Based on a lunch receipt and half a dozen train tickets.’
‘I told you,’ Tom says, ‘it’s not much. But look at it this way: if I’m wrong – if Jenkins went solely to have lunch with his sister – at least I know the local restaurant will be worth the trip.’
Julia fails to laugh. She is chewing on her lower lip. ‘What’s it like?’ she says, after a moment.
‘What? The restaurant?’
‘Camelford. What’s it like? Good for kids, do you think?’
‘What? No. Julia, no.’
‘We could do with a vacation, Casper and I. A fortnight away, some place quiet.’
‘You’re joking. You are joking, right?’
Julia’s gaze drifts to Tom’s feet and back again. ‘You should get changed. Finish packing. We don’t want to get caught in traffic.’
Tom grips with his left hand at the handle above the door. His right is under his thigh, clawing at the tattered leather of his low-slung seat. ‘I had a car, you know. It was all arranged.’
Julia shifts down a gear. She pulls into the inside lane of the dual carriageway, then drifts left again once the caravan is behind them. ‘It’s November. Who the hell goes caravanning in this country in November?’ She glances at Tom. ‘What car?’
‘A hire car.’ He unsticks his hand from the leather and points. ‘There’s a—’
‘I see it, Tom. Relax, would you? You’re making me nervous.’ There is a car joining the road from a lay-by and again Julia eases the BMW round it. ‘I meant, what type of car?’
‘I don’t know. The cheapest type.’
Julia gives a sniff. ‘Like a Fiesta? Like a Micra or something?’
‘Maybe. Probably.’ Tom angles himself to see the speedometer, then looks behind him. Casper is curled in his car seat, his eyes closed and his hands clasped at his chest. ‘I thought you lot all drove at fifty-five. How fast do you go when Casper isn’t on board?’
Julia rolls her eyes. ‘You sound like Arthur,’ she says. Then, as though to cover the momentary awkwardness, ‘I’m going eighty. I’m not going fast.’
‘Eighty’s fast. Eighty’s three points and a fine.’
‘Eighty’s what the speed limit should be: here, back home. Eighty – ninety, even – is what modern cars are designed to cope with. The Germans have got the right idea.’
Tom runs his eyes across the dashboard: its antiquated dials and laminated-wood panelling. ‘This isn’t a modern car, Julia. It’s old – you said it yourself.’
‘I said it was a classic. There’s a difference. And anyway, it’s a BMW. BMW have always been ten years ahead of the curve. You’re safer than you would be in a Nissan Micra, I promise you that.’ Then, as if to prove it, Julia brakes sharply, as a Volkswagen Beetle older even than the BMW cuts across the road from the opposite carriageway. She curses and Tom drives his heels into the foot well. Behind them, Casper stirs. They pass the Beetle and Tom turns. Casper moans, as though about to cry, but then falls silent again. His eyes remain closed. Tom looks towards Julia and sees her watching her son in the rear-view mirror. They seem to slow. There is a Honda estate ahead of them and they tuck in behind it. Tom glances once more at the speedo and the needle this time points to just below seventy. Julia notices Tom looking. She shrugs. ‘We wouldn’t get there any sooner.’
Tom laughs. ‘You don’t believe that.’
A moment later there is a roar and a motorbike, then two more, speeds past them. Julia murmurs, as much in frustration perhaps as appreciation. Tom laughs again.
‘What?’
‘Nothing.’ Tom directs his grin towards the passing countryside.
‘Motorbikes,’ says a voice behind and both Tom and Julia turn.
‘Hey, honey,’ says Julia. ‘Are you okay?’
But Casper is asleep again. He sleeps on until they reach Camelford, his mother watching him as much as the road and driving inside the speed limit the rest of the way.
It is dark and it is drizzling as they pull into the village. There seems at first to be little to Camelford but mist-shrouded street-lamps and curtained cottages. The main road is also the only road, as far as Tom can tell: high street and bypass all in one. Eventually the cottages give way to a truncated row of shops: a cafe, a hairdresser’s, a post office, all closed. They pass the Market Place Brasserie too and the number of empty tables in the window confirms in Tom’s mind that the minister of state was unlikely to have been lured by the restaurant’s reputation. After the brasserie it is cottages again and Tom is about to suggest to Julia that they turn around. There must be a B&B somewhere, he is about to say; maybe they passed it. But ahead the road widens and splits and wraps itself around a pond and a patch of grass. There is a pub, larger than the church next door and with a car park the size of the village green it overlooks. Rooms available, a sign proclaims. Families welcome.
They fool no one, Tom is sure. A man and a woman and a child seated for an early dinner but it is clear, surely, that there is something amiss about their group. Tom shuffles; Julia prattles; Casper says nothing and prods at his baked beans. He glances at Tom periodically but only as though to check Tom has not edged any closer since the last time he looked. Tom attempts conversation. He asks Casper how his dinner is. He asks him twice, in fact, forgetting the second time that he has asked once already. The first time Casper is non-committal. The second time he ignores Tom completely.
As they finish their meal, the dining area of the pub begins to fill up. There are couples, mostly, of about the same age as Tom’s parents. They have the look of locals, regulars, who do not need the menu and whose drinks appear apparently without being ordered.
Tom asks for the bill and makes to pay. Julia protests and they argue for a while but settle on splitting it fifty–fifty, which satisfies neither of them. ‘So,’ Tom says. He suggests a walk. A drink maybe? ‘A Coke, I mean,’ he says when Julia glances at Casper.
‘It’s been a long day,’ says Julia and Tom takes the hint. He accompanies the two of them to their room. Casper is asleep in Julia’s arms even as they climb the stairs.
‘He’s worn out,’ says Tom because it is the type of thing, he thinks, that responsible adults say.
‘He hasn’t been sleeping. Neither of us has.’
Tom waits outside the doorway as Julia parcels Casper in the duvet of their double bed. She kisses him and strokes his head and then she stands. She checks about the darkened room, as though uncertain what to do next.
Tom holds his own key, to the room two doors down. He taps the fob against his thigh. ‘You sure you don’t fancy a drink? I mean, the bar’s just downstairs.’
‘I would,’ says Julia. She looks at her son.
‘Right. Of course. Well. Sleep tight.’
‘Wait,’ says Julia. She reaches into her handbag. She pulls out her mobile and crosses to the bedside table. Beside the clock-radio there is a phone: a three-decades-old hunk of Formica with tangled wires and a rotary dial. Julia hovers one hand over the receiver and with her other hand keys her mobile. The room phone barely has a chance to ring before Julia has snatched up the receiver. She sets it down, at the edge of the table and angled towards her son’s parted lips, and sets her mobile to speaker. She holds it aloft and smiles at Tom. ‘Better than a baby monitor.’
They take a table in a corner of the bar area, out of the light but close to the failing fire. Julia insists on getting the drinks and Tom asks for a pint of the local ale. They sit and raise their glasses to their lips.
‘I don’t think he likes me,’ Tom says. He laughs, like it is no big deal.
Don’t be silly, is Julia’s line. Of course he likes you. ‘Are you surprised?’ she says instead.
Tom stares for a moment. He shrugs with his eyebrows. ‘No. I guess not.’
‘So how do we do this?’ says Julia, after a pause.
For an instant, half, Tom thinks she has in mind the same thing he does. ‘The facility,’ he says, catching up. ‘How do we find it, you mean?’
Julia sips her beer at him. She folds her lower lip across the top one to catch some foam.
‘I don’t know. Just drive about, I guess. Look for likely spots and head to them.’ He tips his chin towards the regulars at the bar. ‘Maybe chat up a few of the locals, see if they’ve heard any rumours. You know what these villages are like.’
Julia shakes her head. ‘We need a plan. We need a system.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like, talk to the locals – that’s fine. But we can’t just drive about. I grew up in countryside like this. We’ll get lost and get nowhere and spend the rest of our time trying to find our way back to Camelford.’
‘I thought you grew up in Boston?’
‘I was born in Boston. I grew up in rural Massachusetts. Which is even worse. Or better, depending on how you look at it.’
‘How do you look at it?’
Julia has beer on her nose now. She wipes it with a knuckle. ‘Worse. Definitely worse. These days Ealing is about as rural as I can handle.’
‘Right. I know what you mean. A break from the city for me is a ride on the Northern Line to zone four.’
Julia smiles. ‘So we’re agreed: there’s no place like home. All the more reason we need a plan.’ She reaches into her handbag and pulls out a map. It has been folded so that Camelford is at the centre of the topmost page. ‘I bought this at the gas station. Also, these.’ This time she takes out what looks like a child’s stationery set. ‘Ruler, highlighter, compass and . . . er . . .’
‘Triangle thing.’
‘Right. Triangle thing.’ She sets it aside. ‘We decide on a perimeter,’ she says, demonstrating with the compass as she speaks. ‘Camelford is the hub and the roads are the spokes. We drive up one spoke, down another, taking the occasional detour as we go. That way, we don’t miss anything. We don’t go round in circles.’
‘We go round one circle instead.’
‘Right. But it’s our circle. Once we’ve covered it, we draw a new one, further out. Then we start again.’ She reclines in her chair and picks up her glass.
Tom stares at the map. ‘What do you do?’ He looks up. ‘I mean, you’re a mother, I know that. But before. What did you do?’
Julia tilts her head. ‘You mean your research didn’t cover that?’
‘I wasn’t researching you. I was researching Arthur.’
Julia looks for a moment like she does not believe him. ‘I came over here to study politics,’ she says. ‘I ended up training as a teacher.’
‘You teach? What age?’
‘Reception.’
‘In London?’
Julia nods. ‘Acton.’
‘Was it a good school?’
‘It wasn’t private, if that’s what you mean. It was just . . . I don’t know. A London school. The good comes with the bad.’
‘Are you going back? You were good at it, I bet.’
‘I’ll have to,’ says Julia. Then, ‘Are you mocking me?’
Tom shakes his head as he drinks. ‘Not at all. You’re good with kids. I can see you are. Me, I never know what to say to them. In my mind I sound either patronising or boring.’
‘You’re young,’ says Julia. ‘You probably haven’t been around kids much.’
‘Young? Who’s young? I’m your age.’
‘Gee, thanks.’
‘I didn’t mean . . . I’m not saying you’re . . .’
Julia smiles. ‘You’re what? Twenty-seven?’
‘Twenty-eight, actually.’
‘That’s young,’ says Julia.
‘Who’s being patronising now?’
Julia makes a face.
‘So how old are you?’ says Tom. ‘You must be—’
‘Careful.’
‘—twenty-nine?’
‘That’ll do,’ says Julia.
‘What then? Thirty? No way you’re older than thirty.’
‘Wow. You’re smooth.’
‘Thirty-one?’
‘Try thirty-two. Then add one.’
‘Thirty-three? No way. You’re thirty-three?’
Julia takes another sip of her beer. Tom drops his gaze to his, arithmetic running through his mind. He looks up when Julia laughs. ‘I’m flattered, Tom. You genuinely seem surprised.’
‘I just thought, I don’t know. I figured you were the same age as Arthur. He’s thirty, right?’
