‘It won’t.’
‘No.’ He gently released his hand, pulled his briefcase onto his lap and opened it. He scanned the top papers, turned away and stared out of the window. She knew he needed quiet; the girls behind, sensing it too, were plugged into earphones.
Did we kill her? Totally weird. It was the we that stood out, the implication that he and Jed Fowkes were complicit. What on earth did he mean? He and Jed were not murderers. Could there possibly be someone they had made so unhappy that she had damaged herself? Committed suicide even? He certainly knew of no such thing. Mikey might have been callous at times, but that had never been part of his own nature with women. What about Jed? He had the ability to be insensitive, to put it mildly. But he had never developed relationships with women that went deep enough to cause hurt. That was always part of his problem.
After Carol and the girls were dropped off at the house in Salisbury Square, Sandford went on to Downing Street. The thought of the dinner with luminaries of British film and television, to which he had been looking forward, now irked him. There could be no pulling out.
Later that evening, as the guests finished off their meal, Sandford found he made one new friend. A director, who had devoted his life to making films on the wickedness of successive Conservative governments, congratulated him on his arms ban proposal. ‘Quite agree, Prime Minister, sod the murdering capitalists, we’ll make you a socialist yet.’ Next he found himself with the BAFTA-winning producer of a feature documentary on a serial killer who had confessed to a nationwide spate of prostitute murders thirty years back.
‘It was terrible,’ she told him. ‘Shocking. It felt like another poor young woman’s bones were being dug up every week.’
‘Awful,’ he replied, Jed Fowkes’s question ringing in his ears. ‘To think our country could breed someone like that.’
Despite the temptation to make his excuses and leave, he stuck it till 11 p.m. Twenty minutes later he was deposited, this time by Prime Ministerial Jaguar, escort motorbikes in front and behind, outside another period townhouse that was home.
He opened the front door and shut it noiselessly behind him. One advantage at least of his new life was that he didn’t need a key to unlock it; the house was under twenty-four-hour guard by armed policemen.
Carol was reading in bed, the girls sleeping, the house and square silent. She waited till he joined her.
‘What was that about with Jed?’ she asked.
He shook his head. ‘I honestly don’t know, love. He said he wanted a chat. Refused to say what about.’
‘I thought you couldn’t stand the sight of him.’
‘He cornered me. I could hardly take him outside and chuck him into the canal.’
‘That would have made a splash.’ He smiled. ‘Seriously though, he looked pretty frantic.’
‘He’s always like that.’
‘He didn’t say anything else?’
‘No. Why should there be anything else?’
She hesitated. ‘Indeed.’
He knew she didn’t want to let it go. She was his closest confidante; normally he enjoyed her curiosity. Frustrating it made him uncomfortable.
She yawned noisily. ‘I could see you were busy in the car, so I didn’t say it then. But I’ll say it now.’ She paused. ‘I truly admired you today. What you said.’
He frowned. ‘Really?’
‘It was brave. The good government. The moral government. Arms, mercenaries. It’s right.’
‘A lot of them won’t like it.’
‘That’s just the party. Ordinary people will.’
‘I’m the party’s leader. As well as Prime Minister.’
‘Yes. And it’s your moment. You’ve earned it. Ditch the fanatics.’
His eyes widened. ‘That’s a big word. They consider themselves radicals. At least the ones with the brains behind them like a certain Jed Fowkes do.’
‘It’s not as if you’re still friends.’
‘No.’ He paused. ‘I sometimes wonder if we ever really were.’
Did we kill her? Was this the first move in some kind of game? How twisted it seemed even to contemplate that. He remembered the instruction to his private office when he first stepped into Number 10. On no account allow an unaccompanied Jed Fowkes to cross this threshold for as long as I am Prime Minister. He must withdraw it. He had to know what madness was consuming Jed.
Jed Fowkes, once, a long time ago, the young meteoric riser. Sandford, two years junior and thrilled at landing a job as an MP’s researcher, had held Jed in awe. An ordinary, working-class upbringing like his own but – and here was the difference – culminating in an Oxford double first and not afraid to show it. Jed had taken him under his wing, inviting him to share the flat he was about to rent on the Lewisham/Greenwich borders. There was a third bedroom and Jed suggested he find someone to fill it. Sandford’s university friend, Mikey Miller, though he was on a much higher salary in the City, agreed. ‘You might not be making money but you’re making useful connections.’ Three boys from ordinary backgrounds on the make, each bringing something to the party.
Then came the aftermath of the accident. Jed Fowkes saw it all. Jed, his guardian, the keeper of his secrets. Jed, whom he had tried to keep sweet even as, with the passing years and decades, their trajectories parted. There was never a fallout; it was just that he knew Jed would always see himself as the cleverer, the more serious, the more authentic. He came to realize that Jed had always condescended to him and would continue to do so, whatever their status. Ultimately, when he became party leader and then Prime Minister, he possessed the power to cut him out. Was that his pride? Was this now Jed’s revenge?
Did we kill her? There had been bad times but, surely, nothing like that. He shut his eyes and told himself to block it out.
4
‘Anything else, Mark?’ asked Sandford, peering down at the tweet his thumbs were composing. Brilliant news, US President to visit UK, promising new friendship. Give a great British welcome to our greatest ally!
Friday evening, the week almost over, the weekend to come. Since he had taken office as Prime Minister, any difference between the two had become more illusory than ever. He checked his watch: 8.35 p.m. Time to let his principal private secretary escape. He looked up at the serious, still youthful face of Mark Burden and, as so often, thought how lucky he had been to inherit him. Even a year in, he still marvelled at how a civil servant this close to the centre of power had been able to transfer so seamlessly from the Prime Minister of one party to the newcomer of another. Mark was proof not just of impartiality but also of enduring loyalty. Sandford tried to imagine himself like that – the picture went blank.
‘There is just one more thing, Prime Minister,’ replied Burden in a manner which, Sandford had come to understand, meant the ‘thing’ would not be a thing he wanted to hear.
‘It’s all right, Mark,’ he said gently, ‘there’s always one, isn’t there?’
Burden returned a limpid smile. ‘Jed Fowkes has been phoning…’
‘Ah.’ Already? Surely he could have given him more than a single day.
‘Of course I’ve remembered your instruction.’
‘Sorry. I should have told you. He has a personal problem he wants to discuss with me. Instruction temporarily rescinded.’
Burden’s eyebrows rose infinitesimally. ‘Of course.’
‘I’ll see him in the flat first thing Monday. Seven forty-five. Fifteen minutes max.’
‘I’ll ring him.’ Burden paused. ‘He said there had been a development.’
‘Well, I’ll do what I can,’ Sandford said, rising from his chair. ‘Thanks, Mark. For everything. There’s never any downtime…’
‘It’s worth it. You’ve built a strong team.’
‘Let’s hope enough of them go on kicking the ball in the same direction.’ He sighed. ‘At least till after the State Opening and Royal Speech.’
‘Only a month to go then.’ Burden attempted an enco
uraging smile.
‘Sure,’ said Sandford flatly.
‘Final thing, Prime Minister, you had it in mind to be home in good time for dinner. I’m afraid we’ve overrun.’
‘Yes.’ He sighed, allowing the fatigue to show. ‘It’s OK, I’ll phone.’
As the study door closed behind Burden, the prospect of being one-to-one with Fowkes loomed. He loved his family, but he was not yet ready to go home, to adjust to being the good husband and father. He walked up the stairs to the Number 10 flat. Man up, he told himself, don’t be a coward. He dialled the number.
‘Oh, hi,’ said Carol. ‘Have you done?’
‘Not quite.’
‘That’s a shame. Everything’s ready. The girls are dying to see you. Not to mention me. Anything serious?’
‘World War Three’s not imminent if that’s what you mean. But something’s come up. I need to think it through.’
‘How long?’
‘An hour. Hour and a half maybe.’
‘Oh.’ He heard her disappointment. ‘Never mind,’ she said brightly. ‘I can come over if you want. At least we could be driven back here together.’
‘Don’t worry, love, it’s one of those things I’d best sort myself.’
‘All right. We’ll see you when we see you.’ The phone clicked.
There’s been a development… Just like Jed to leave a sting in the tail. Here he was – the most powerful man in the land, still in the afterglow of his greatest triumph, paralysed by a secret he must keep to himself.
Sandford went into the flat’s modest kitchen that led off the sitting room. He had asked that it be kept stocked with basic provisions. He opened the fridge. In addition to the red-topped pint of skimmed milk there was fizzy water and orange juice. He removed them both, took a glass tumbler and mixed them half-in-half, fighting to maintain calm.
What could a ‘development’ possibly be? Perhaps this girl had turned up in Tahiti safe and sound. No, whatever else, he knew it was not going to bring relief.
He needed mindless distraction and switched on the kitchen TV screen – a bleak-sounding drama with a policeman interrogating a father about his schoolgirl daughter who had gone missing. For God’s sake… He finally alighted on an indoor tennis tournament. How long was it since he’d played? To remain sane, he must build in proper leisure time, time too with family and friends. They must make more use of Chequers as an escape. He would tell Mark first thing Monday that future diary planning must be based around a minimum of two weekends every month at the Prime Minister’s country retreat.
He turned off the television and switched on the radio. Henry Morland-Cross pontificating on Any Questions. He tried to think of ways the evening could get worse and hit the off button on that too. In the silence he felt his heart thumping – all too audible in bullet- as well as sound-proofed Downing Street. The fear of its racing beat came back to him; the searching for the pulse, the not understanding why.
There was nothing to be achieved by delaying further. He must go home to his family.
5
‘Hello,’ he cried, closing the front door. He went down into the extended kitchen/dining room that occupied the semi-basement and a large swathe of former garden. Carol stood at the hob, the outline of her back and hips facing him.
She turned and looked down at her watch. ‘Not too bad.’
‘Sorry.’
She walked towards him; he didn’t know what to expect. She put her hands on his shoulders and planted a light kiss on his lips. ‘We’ll talk later. The girls want to congratulate you properly.’
‘Congratulate?’
‘Of course. Your speech. You’ll be glad to hear they approved.’
They had met in 2002. MPs and parliamentary candidates from the Bristol area had been invited to a presentation at the London HQ of a worldwide firm of recruitment consultants. Robin Sandford, thirty-four years old and just selected as his party’s parliamentary candidate for the constituency of Bristol Central – traditionally Conservative but lost to Labour in Blair’s first two victories – was on the list. He had seemed an unusual selection – a Durham man in a west of England seat – but it turned out that the difference, the small lilt in the voice, the life narrative beginning ‘born in a council house’ had favoured him. A different sort of Tory to win the seat back.
Sandford noted that one of the two female speakers from the global headhunters was called Carol van Kroon – also the familiar name of a once modest Dutch family grocer that had relocated to Britain in the late 1930s and since grown into a vast, multinational food and drinks manufacturer.
Carol van Kroon spoke fluently and confidently, without a trace of nerves. She was in her mid to late twenties, Sandford judged, medium height, with blonde hair, expensive-looking designer spectacles, a black business skirt falling just above her knees, below which Betty Grable legs extended into black and white patterned, low-heeled shoes.
As she finished speaking, Sandford suddenly realized he was enthusiastically leading the applause. The crowd began to clear and he made his way over to her. ‘Good speech,’ he said. Close up, her glasses now off, he could see the deep brown of her eyes, so unusual and striking against her blonde hair.
‘Thank you.’ She peered at his name tag. ‘And you are…’
‘Robin Sandford,’ he said, offering a hand. ‘Usually known as Robbie.’ She looked him up and down: over six foot, dark wavy hair in slight retreat each side of the widow’s peak, and, above all, a smile that illuminated the entire room.
‘Carol van Kroon.’ She shook his hand. ‘Usually known as Carol. So you’re the new man for Bristol Central.’
‘Well remembered.’ They held each other’s look for that split second that can change lives. ‘We’ll win it back next time.’
‘Good. As it happens,’ she said, ‘I’m in line to head up our new operation out of Bristol. Great city.’
‘I’m looking forward to getting to know it.’
‘So, when will the election be?’
‘Well, I guess Blair could go the full term but I expect he’ll cut and run again after four years, so 2005.’
‘And will they win again?’
‘Sadly, but not by so much.’ He smiled. ‘Our trouble is Hague was bald, IDS is bald, and if we get Michael next, he’s pretty hairless too. We’ll never get in till we find a leader with hair.’
She laughed. ‘Should be a good while before you have a problem there.’ She brushed a speck of fluff off his breast pocket. ‘Nice to meet you, Robbie. I’d better circulate.’
And she was off. For a second, he stood leaden-footed, the stroke of her hand like a bolt of lightning. A parliamentary colleague sidled up to him. ‘Go for it, Robbie. She’s a real van Kroon, she doesn’t need the money. But you will.’
‘Never occurred to me,’ he replied without a beat. ‘She’s a bit of a goddess, isn’t she?’
For him, it was a coup de foudre. He’d run naked to the North Pole if she felt anything like the same.
Watching her now move between oven and hob, he felt a surge of that adoration but also a twinge of sadness at a nervousness that had developed between them. The absences from home in a Prime Minister’s life, the competing demands for his attention, the constant grind of meetings, never quite allowed the time to re-enter the innocence of early marriage. A voice within urged him to put his arms around her, to rest his face on her shoulder and close his eyes.
‘Can I do anything?’ he asked.
‘It’s fine. Just spag bol.’ She suddenly turned. ‘I need a hug.’
‘So do I,’ he said. Why couldn’t he instantly revert to the ease they had once had? He shouldn’t just blame it on the pressures of his success. Prime Ministers were like everyone else. They had no special immunity. He thought of Churchill and the ‘black dog’ of depression; Eden’s bag of nerves; Wilson’s early onset dementia. In his own case, however irrational it might be, the fear that the attacks could one day come back.
He had
thought its origin would be the hardest thing to explain at their first date. She suggested the Italian place near the flat her parents had bought for her in Holland Park.
‘What would you like to drink?’ he asked, staring down at the wine list.
‘You choose,’ she answered. ‘Red or white both fine by me.’ Her eyes sparkled. ‘Chianti perhaps? I’m sure we can manage a bottle.’
‘As long as you drink most of it,’ he said.
‘Oh?’ He soon found that this simple ‘Oh?’ with a soft smile and rise of inflection was her favoured mode of interrogation.
He grinned. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not a secret member of the temperance movement. I just don’t do it so much these days.’
‘I imagine you have to be careful in the limelight.’
‘I’m nowhere near that yet.’
‘It won’t be long.’
They looked down at their menus. She needed no more than seconds, then examined him with a directness he found electric. He knew she had spotted it. Probably when she had first set eyes on him.
‘This?’ He ran a finger along it, a just visible, uneven semicircle around the top of his forehead.
‘Yes. You can hardly see it.’
‘It’s still there.’ He paused. ‘Car smash.’
‘I’m sorry. Bad one?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you want to talk about it?’
His smile waned. ‘Not usually.’
‘There’s no need.’
‘No, you’ve noticed. And it matters. It was after finals. Mid-morning. Clear summer’s day. My best friend, Leo, was driving. We were going to pick up his girlfriend in Hampshire. On the way to the Isle of Wight festival. There was a girl in the front, Heather, who I’d invited. We’d met once or twice. The way she said yes sort of made us both think we could be getting together that weekend.
‘Leo was well-off, I’d never had the money for a car. It was an Audi coupé. No back doors. It went fast. Too fast. We were on a road going south from Guildford through those pretty villages. Leo put his foot down and overtook on a straight. Then he went for the next car too. We were coming up to a blind corner. I thought of yelling, “Get in.” But I didn’t. I’ve never forgiven myself. A car came round. Leo tried to duck back in, but he was going over seventy. That poor guy in the other car… They crashed head-on, driver’s side to driver’s side.’
A Time to Lie Page 2
