Chapter 35
It was depressingly easy to get an appointment with Conor Vane MP.
We sent an initial email telling him someone from a parliamentary committee on standards wanted to meet him on an urgent matter.
Jonny tricked up a spoof address specially for it.
We got nothing back. After two hours, Jonny was getting impatient, so he set up another account pretending to be the representative of the Emir of Somewhere, saying he was putting together a Middle East trade trip.
A vital trade and outreach mission, five nights all-inclusive, seven-star hotels, perhaps twenty minutes of work a day.
In return, Vane might be asked some minor, perfectly legal questions about petrochemical refineries in the UK, and the regulatory framework surrounding them.
Vane’s secretary replied to the Emir’s secretary (Jonny) within three minutes, practically biting our fingers off and saying we could come and meet Mr Vane any time tomorrow.
So now I’m here, with Em, in a little waiting room on the other side of the Whitehall entrance to Parliament, not far from the Red Lion. Thank God I’ve still got Freddy’s passport, the gold standard.
Vane actually saw Em briefly when she was doing her waitress act at the Bombardier, but we’re going to have to take the chance, so she’s changed her hair and put on some glasses.
He doesn’t seem like he’s an especial student of women’s looks – not from the neck up, at least – so we might get away with it.
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 is mad. 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 and grey 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 the Guardian with 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.’
Vane sighs, apparently depressed at the amount we know already, and appears to fold his cards on this particular hand.
‘All right. Rob was in the middle of firing David and taking full ownership of the business, at ruinous expense. David was going along with the buy-out, as far as I know. There was a big payday coming for him, and he could have kept practising as an independent agent. There’s no reason for Rob to have taken any …
drastic action. And I can assure you this sort of thing is totally irrelevant to our little charity. Anything else?’
‘Did you know Mr Harcourt was going to the police?’
‘No. I would have thought the police would be the last people he’d want to contact, if what you say is true.’
‘When did you last speak to him?’
‘To David? A year ago. We weren’t close.
Apart from those annual lunches, we never saw each other.
He stopped donating a few years back, and my work here allows for very little socialising.
’ I don’t believe a word of this, or that Vane is incapable of socialising and getting something for himself at the same time.
‘Who killed him?’
‘I have no idea. If I knew, I’d go to the police. And speaking of the police, I’m calling security now.’
‘No need,’ says Em. ‘We’re leaving.’
Vane bestows on us a grin with all the humanity and warmth of a dental close-up. ‘Vanessa will escort you out.’
We walk back through the warren, saying nothing. Vanessa seems to have picked up on the froideur in the room and has taken her employer’s side against us. Even her back seems frosty as she leads us through the building. Once again, she’s texting as she walks.
And then, just as we’re about to leave the place and never come back:
We’re in the rather grubby side-door reception. I’m about to pass through the turnstile, and breathe freely for the first time in forty minutes. Em already has gone through.
‘Oh. One last thing.’ Vanessa holds up her phone. ‘Mr Vane wanted you to see this.’
Her phone is open on the Signal app. On the screen are the words: WALLACE DID IT. WATCH YOUR BACKS.
She presses a button, and the message disappears for ever.