“No. It wasn’t for you.”
It was mine. Every word, letter, punctuation mark. Mine.
“You think you can pass this onto Majken? I’m pretty sure Ben wants it to get to her.”
She straightens her back and ice forms over her eyes. “Let’s stop playing games.”
I fold my arms. “I’m not.”
She looks at the man in front of her. “Would you get me a coffee?”
He looks at her, starstruck, and nods.
“Black. Two sugars.”
She doesn’t give him any money. He ups and leaves, not even picking up his coat.
“I see you treat your minions well.”
“You can buy your own coffee.”
I laugh and she looks at me as if I’ve grossly insulted her. “I’m not your minion, Majken, and I wouldn’t want your coffee. I’m here simply to pass on the note from your brother.”
She rubs the note between her finger and thumb.
“Why did he give you this?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. Why do you think he gave it to me? Because you know who I am. Underselling your intelligence isn’t going to work here.” I pick up the pen that’s near to me and tap it on the table with the only outcome to be to irritate her.
“He’s dead. This is fabricated.”
“Burns Night. It was left in my room at the castle.” Where Ben had been. There was no question: he’d been in there, diverted the cameras and stopped one person from getting to Blair and killed the other intruder. Micky’s team had found the body a mile away by the shores of the loch, his neck snapped and jaw broken. Micky had said nothing, apart from giving me the bare facts. No more theories or ideas. No mention of Ben.
“Then it was put there by someone else.” She looks away.
“Why are you so convinced he’s dead?”
“That was what I heard.” Her words are quick.
She knows more, or at least she thinks she does.
“Tell me, why did you steal William Goldsmith’s phone?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. Your Prime Minister is nothing to me.” She stands up. “And I’d like to continue with my work which you’re interrupting. I hope you didn’t come all this way just to see me.”
“Actually I did.”
“What a waste of your time.”
I don’t respond. The pen snaps as I press it against the table and she jumps, startled by the sudden crunch of plastic.
“If you won’t tell me anything about Ben, will you answer something about William Goldsmith’s father?”
Her eyes flash and she sits up more. “What do you want to know?”
“What do you think of him?”
“He’s a good man. The right ideas.”
