I’m in so far over my head I can’t see the surface from here. My natural furlong is empty houses, not Parliament. We have a vague question list and we’ll probably have about three minutes to get through it before security reaches Vane’s office. This ismad. The number of cops with guns is rather unsettling, too.
Em and I didn’t say much about our trip to Nevis in front of the others yesterday. What do you say? ‘By the way, we’re sleeping together now’? And nothing happened last night. Our new house has so many bedrooms we’d have been up half the night finding each other anyway. But this morning Elle definitely gave me a rather appraising look, as if she had to consider me more seriously now. Jonny treated me exactly as he always has done.
Vane is one of the lucky ones who’s bagged himself an office in the Palace proper; most MPs are on the other side of the main road, in Portcullis House. After a short wait in reception, an early-twenty-something assistant in a pencil skirt andgrey blouse picks us up and walks us through the warren of ancient corridors, texting constantly as she goes. Poor thing, I think. Vane’s office can’t be much fun.
Up, round, through, occasionally crossing paths with various other scurrying creatures who look just as young and nervous as our guide. Once or twice someone grand comes the other way, and our party practically flattens itself against the wall as the charismatic megafauna go by. Even the grandest grandees look pretty unimpressive. It’s easy to see the attraction of being an MP if you’re a certain kind of man. You might be far from home, overworked, underpaid (in your opinion) and physically under-blessed (in everyone else’s), but there’s subsidised booze, an agreeable clubby feel, and plenty of young people around who will worship you like an actual god.
Speaking of which, as we are ushered into Conor Vane’s office, I watch his eyes, which linger determinedly on his assistant’s bottom as she leaves the room.
The office is spectacular. It’s bigger than a studio flat, with a huge oak desk the size of a billiards table and gorgeous wood panelling. There’s also a vast Union Jack hanging limply on a stand in the corner, which he uses as the background for his self-aggrandising TikToks (his channel is called VaneyVidiVici). The walls are coated with framed news stories about the man himself, plus some cartoons of him which he clearly bought no matter how unflattering they are.
Our task is simple: ask Vane what links him and Davy. Tell him we know about Davy’s scam. See if Wallace was involved or if he might have had something to do with Davy’s death.He will almost certainly prevaricate, obfuscate, stonewall and chuck us out, but there’s a chance – just a slim one – he’ll give us something useful.
‘Please. Sit, sit. Did someone get you coffee? No? Can I … You’re sure? All right. But no hospitality is too great for the representatives of our friends from the East, ha ha …’ He’s actually rubbing his hands.
Em opens the batting. ‘Mr Vane, I’m sorry, but we’re not actually the representatives of the Emir.’
Vane’s hands stop. ‘Then … Sorry? What about the trip?’
‘There is no trip,’ says Em, patiently. ‘We’re investigating the death of David Harcourt’ – Vane groans – ‘and we have a few questions we’d like to ask.’
‘God,’ he says, looking disapprovingly at me. ‘I should have known. The Emir wouldn’t send anyone with a collar that scruffy. Vanessa!’
I love that a man as self-absorbed as Vane has managed to find an assistant with a first name almost identical to his own surname. This isn’t the time to consider that, though. And as footsteps approach Vane’s office door, Em speaks fast. ‘If you give us five minutes, we won’t go to theGuardianwith the emails of you accepting a lucrative offer from a foreign state and offering them access to British industry.’
Vane’s assistant pokes her head round the door. Vane gives us a look of deep, deep loathing, and says, ‘Never mind, Vanessa. I thought our guests wanted coffee – you would think they would – but they’ve just told me they actually want nothing of the sort. They’re very inconsistent.’
The baffled Vanessa retreats. Vane’s sneer deepens. ‘On whose behalf are you investigating the death of my old friend?’
‘We’re freelancers.’
The lip-curl deepens. ‘You’ve got four minutes.’
‘Mr Harcourt donated to your private office, correct? Did he want to keep the loophole open for firms based offshore buying properties in the UK? Did you campaign on it to keep his donations coming in?’ (This was a Jonny find. He did a deep dive into an online database called the Register of Members’ Interests, which is basically all the people bunging cash at MPs in the hope of getting a bit of influence, and found Davy had given Vane several thousand pounds a few years ago. Nobody picked up on it at the time.)
‘I declared David’s donation, perfectly within the rules. All in the register. There’s no rule against receiving donations from concerned citizens. And every time I spoke on this subject in the House, I declared my interest. I’m scrupulous on that.’
‘We’ll check.’
‘Free country. It’s all in Hansard.’
‘We know Mr Harcourt was involved in offshore sales, most likely for money-laundering.’
Vane speaks carefully now. ‘I have no knowledge of that. I assumed David’s interest was because he appreciated and valued the harmless, legal use of offshore structures. I would never accept money from anyone engaged in criminal activity.’
‘Was Rob Wallace involved in Mr Harcourt’s death?’
Vane frowns. ‘David’s business partner? I’ve never met the man.’
‘You had lunch with him at the Bombardier in Putney a few days ago.’
That pushes him back. He spends a few seconds thinking about it. ‘There are laws in this country against harassing innocent members of Parliament. And there are a lot of heavily armed police in this building who would love to practise ejecting disruptive individuals.’
‘We just want to know what happened between Rob Wallace and David Harcourt.’
‘As far as I know, both men are perfectly legitimate estate agents.’
‘We know they argued. We know Wallace got wind of whatever racket David was involved in.’
