A Time to Lie

by Simon Berthon

  ‘Sorry.’ He perked up. ‘My mind was wandering. Jog me when they finally get on with it.’ Carol had already turned back to the screen.

  He wished he could place the woman. It was a long time ago. What had she just said? Cameron’s first years as leader? ’05 to ’08. His first years as an MP. Two years in he had already made an impression. The Telegraph had even run an article. ‘A LEADER ONE DAY?’ A time when he was not just working his constituency but trying to branch out to the nation beyond. Oxford. Of course he’d done visits there.

  SL: So we’re talking…

  CP: Autumn 2007.

  SL: How old were you?

  CP: Just turned twenty. I didn’t take a gap year. I wanted to get on with life.

  SL: What were your plans that autumn for the Association?

  CP: I wanted to persuade those I saw as potential long-term leaders to come and speak to us.

  SL: Right. There was one person above all you believed, even back then, could be a future leader, perhaps even Prime Minister.

  CP: Yes. I rang his Westminster office to invite him to address us, and he—

  SL: It was a he?

  CP: Yes… he asked me to send a photograph of the Association’s officers. So ‘my man will know who he’s meeting’—

  SL: Was that usual?

  CP: I was new to this but I thought nothing of it.

  SL: It didn’t strike you as odd?

  CP: No. Why should it? Anyway they got straight back that afternoon, said he’d be delighted. And we fixed a date.

  ‘Robbie?’ Carol glanced at her husband.

  ‘Yes?’ His eyes remained fixed on the interview, trying to listen even as he spoke.

  ‘Why on earth would anyone ask for photographs?’

  ‘God knows.’

  ‘Did you ever?’

  ‘Course not.’ Why lie? He had several times, it was useful preparation. ‘Can we watch?’

  She sniffed and turned back to the screen.

  SL: Let’s move on to the evening itself.

  CP: Actually I was panicking, he arrived literally with minutes to spare. He had an assistant with him—

  SL: Can you tell us who?

  CP: I’ve thought about that and would rather not name them. If that’s all right?

  SL: Yes, there’s no need. We have their statement confirming the evening and people present.

  ‘His assistant’. Sandford tried to remember who used to travel with him. Obviously at that time not Carol as she was at home with the girls. It was never one person in particular, just whoever was free and fancied the outing. He hoped he would not need to call on any of them.

  SL: Please go on.

  CP: It was brilliant. He was inspiring, responded to all the questions. I thought – I think everyone thought – this is possible, this man can really make a difference. Good speaker, attractive…

  SL: In what way attractive?

  CP: Good-looking, funny, still young enough but gave you a sense of experience.

  SL: So when the ninety minutes were up…

  CP: Actually we overran. Went on till around ten to ten, I think. I said I’d reserved a space in the bar if he was able to spare the time to carry on informally. He said, ‘I’m all yours, I’ve booked into the Randolph for the night—’

  SL: The hotel.

  CP: Yes.

  SL: Had you known that?

  CP: No. But I said, ‘Great, I know lots of them will want to continue the discussion.’ And it was great. The bar closed at eleven thirty and people began to drift off. Within a few minutes it was just me, him, the vice-president and treasurer. He said, ‘We don’t have to stop the discussion there, do we? Come back to the Randolph, drinks on me.’ I looked at the other two, we sort of shrugged shoulders and I think it was the treasurer who agreed. He was an old Etonian. It was such an opportunity. We were close up, face to face with someone who one day could be our party leader.

  SL: What then?

  CP: We got to the Randolph. He said he was worried about journalists and photographers and suggested we should go to his room. We could raid the minibar or order room service.

  SL: Didn’t that seem an odd request? Inappropriate even?

  CP: Actually no, it seemed to make perfect sense, the way he put it. And there were the three of us.

  SL: Were you finding him attractive?

  CP: (A long pause.)

  Sandford felt Carol stiffening beside him. She had put her glass down and fallen silent, concentrating more fiercely on the interview. Had she begun to grasp where this might possibly be heading? He itched to seek out his old diaries – they sat in the desk at the end of the room. At all costs he must forestall a panic attack. He began the slow rhythmic breathing, keeping it as quiet as he could.

  Oxford. Yes, he had been a guest of both the Union and the Conservative Association more than once. He could not remember the dates. And the woman – she was definitely familiar.

  CP: Yes. Yes, I was finding him attractive.

  SL: And you’d had more to drink than you were used to.

  CP: Perhaps. But I wasn’t drunk. I’m not going to say that.

  SL: So you went to his room.

  CP: Yes. It was more like a suite. He clearly had money. It was all so unreal. He was already on the phone to room service ordering sandwiches, crisps and a couple of bottles of wine. He put the phone down and got us all drinks from the minibar.

  SL: What did you discuss?

  CP: Everything. He asked about our ambitions, said he’d always be delighted to help, he was funny about Blair and Brown – called them ‘Noddy and Big Ears’.

  ‘Didn’t you used to say that, Robbie?’

  Quick. Think. Reply. ‘Probably,’ he said smoothly, ‘it was pretty common. It did suit them.’

  ‘Hmm, I thought it was one of yours…’

  ‘May well have been. It certainly spread.’

  CP: There was serious stuff too – what he’d really do to ‘set the country free’, as he put it. Sorry, this is rather detailed…

  SL: Not at all. It shows how good your recall is.

  CP: We must have chatted for at least an hour, then the treasurer finished his drink and called it a night. The vice-president did too. And even though I was really enjoying it, I said, ‘Guess I should go too.’ He said, ‘Me too, I’m pretty much done for.’ But then he turned to me and asked if I could stay to discuss getting our committee down to Westminster. I thought, fine. There seemed nothing to it. The other two left. I don’t know what they were thinking, whether they thought I was up for something or what.

  SL: What were you thinking?

  CP: I thought he wanted – as he’d said – to discuss our trip to the Commons and then he’d want to get some sleep.

  SL: What did happen?

  CP: He sort of collapsed on an armchair – I was sitting on the sofa. Then he got up, walked over to the minibar, returned with a bottle of white wine, pulled out the cork and flopped down beside me.

  SL: Did he join you in a drink?

  CP: Actually, now you mention it, I’m not sure how much he was drinking. Then, this was where it sort of turned. He walked over to his case and took out a washbag. He took a tube from it and a razor blade. He poured a line of white powder on the table, splitting it into small sections. I was a bit stunned and said nothing. He rolled up a note and offered it to me. I said no and he took two huge sniffs. ‘Have a go,’ he said. ‘Nothing to be frightened of.’

  At the mention of white powder, Carol cast him another quick glance.

  She knew, as he’d told her, about Mikey using it in the flat. But he hadn’t. Not cocaine.

  Was this a set-up? Perhaps they’d somehow matched his dates. He’d certainly stayed at the Randolph a couple of times. But, watching the woman, a different memory was coming back. These were the months after Bella’s birth, Carol wrapped up in her, not him. Sometimes getting away from home and his own tiring responsibilities for Becca had felt like freedom.

  ‘
I’ve been realizing something,’ Carol said. ‘This was the period just after Bella was born, wasn’t it?’ My God, she was thinking the same thing. What had begun as enjoyment of a juicy piece of scandal was turning into cold calculation. For both of them.

  He tried to smile. ‘Maybe. Don’t know. She’s certainly telling some story.’

  ‘Yes, she is.’

  SL: Christine, you’re in a hotel room alone, one o’clock at night, with a man who must have been considerably older than you. He’s offering you cocaine. Didn’t you think of running?

  CP: I don’t know. I just don’t know. I think I thought it would be rude.

  SL: Rude?

  CP: I know. It sounds ridiculous. I didn’t want to spoil the evening. He told me what a great future I could have, how he’d like to help me. I said that was really kind but maybe we should just sort out the Westminster arrangements. He said there was no need to rush. Then he took my hand, I tried to pull it away, he gripped tighter and said, ‘Don’t be a tease.’

  SL: Were you teasing?

  CP: Maybe there’d been smiles between us but we were enjoying the discussion together.

  SL: But no more?

  CP: No. As I said, he was attractive, but there was nothing more in it.

  SL: Christine, I need you to explain exactly what happened.

  CP: So he had my hand and moved it over the bulge of his crotch. I finally faced up to what was happening. ‘I need to leave now,’ I said. ‘This isn’t a good idea.’

  SL: At that point, you were clearly saying no.

  CP: Yes.

  SL: Not teasing?

  CP: No! I tried to wrench my hand away but he wouldn’t have it. He was strong. And then I remember him saying that he needed this, he was bursting. He said I owed it to him.

  Carol stood up. ‘I don’t want to hear all this.’ She was watching him with an unreadable expression. She wiped an eye with a handkerchief.

  ‘I agree,’ he said. ‘I’m not sure I believe her anyway.’

  ‘She’s completely convincing.’

  She moved to the door and hovered.

  SL: Couldn’t you have shaken him off?

  CP: I couldn’t. I was frightened. Then he moved one hand and grabbed my head. Forced me down. I suppose I could have tried to kick and scream. But all the consequences of that flashed through my mind. The shame of it. Police getting involved. The scandal. I felt it would have been the end of me. I surrendered. Gave in.

  SL: Gave in?

  CP: He guided my hand over his bulge, then up to the zip. I undid his trousers, took his thing out of his pants and went down on him.

  SL: Had you ever done this before?

  CP: No. I’d read about it. I knew what to do. I just got it over as quickly as I could.

  SL: And when it was over?

  CP: He sort of flopped and let me go. I went to the bathroom, washed my mouth out and cleaned my hands. I came back through the bedroom, walked straight to the door and left.

  SL: Did he say anything else?

  CP: He was spread over the sofa, eyes half-closed. As I was opening the door, he looked up, told me to ring the office and we’d sort out that Westminster visit.

  SL: That’s all he said?

  CP: Yes. Like it was nothing to him.

  Yes, it was at the Randolph, the date he couldn’t be sure of. But, as the woman told her story, more details of that evening were returning. A group of them had retired there for one more drink which he had bought them in the bar. They all drifted off except her. He had wanted to go up to bed but she had lingered. They’d been sitting on a sofa in a corner. She’d moved closer to him, looked around, then suddenly tried to thrust her hand inside his pants.

  ‘Hey,’ she’d said. ‘What’s this?’

  He’d tried to edge away. ‘It’s all right,’ she’d said, ‘no one will ever know. Shall we go upstairs to your room?’

  And he’d submitted. He’d enjoyed it – and felt a terrible guilt afterwards.

  He looked at her now. He wondered if there was a single male guest of the Oxford University Conservative Association during her tenure as secretary she had not tried it on with.

  If this was him, it was almost entirely a fabrication invented by Jed. Including the cocaine to ratchet it up. Surely he wasn’t that vengeful.

  He was desperate to run from the room. He had at least to move. He felt an attack might be coming. He gambled. He stood up, moved alongside Carol and put his arm round her. ‘What’s the problem, love?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said, ‘is there a problem?’

  Whatever the outcome, at this moment holding her helped.

  SL: Now, Christine, this is perhaps the most difficult part of it. You told me you first wanted to tell the story and then you thought you would know how you felt about naming this person.

  CP: Yes.

  SL: And?

  CP: It’s difficult…

  SL: No one is forcing you. You can change your mind and we can stop filming now. We don’t need to broadcast any of this. It’s your decision.

  CP: No, I’m going to do it. It’s important. If someone like me won’t speak out, who will?

  SL: You’re one hundred per cent sure?

  CP: Yes.

  SL: In that case, may I ask you who this person was?

  CP: It was Henry Morland-Cross.

  SL: The present Chancellor of the Exchequer and Deputy Prime Minister.

  CP: Yes.

  He felt her slumping beside him. ‘God, Carol, you didn’t…’

  ‘Didn’t what…’

  ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Just something silly. Stupid even to think of it.’ He hoped she was too off-balance to notice the colour returning to his cheeks.

  SL: Do you have concrete evidence of this visit?

  CP: As I told you before we started this I’ve kept all my diaries. I have that year’s with me.

  SL: Perhaps you could show it to the camera and read what it says.

  CP: If you want me to. It says, ‘8 p.m. Henry Morland-Cross talk. Room A3. 9.30–11.00 p.m. space in bar reserved.’

  SL: You wrote that in blue?

  CP: Yes. Just anything to do with the Association. Colour coding.

  SL: I must ask this. Why now? Why have you decided to speak out now?

  CP: I should have spoken out years ago.

  SL: Yes but—

  CP: I understand. People will ask. I failed. When Henry Morland-Cross became Chancellor, I knew I should say something but failed again. Now, the government is preparing for the next four years. A new Parliament. About to set out its agenda. It’s a really important time. People have the right to know exactly what sort of man is deciding our country’s economic future.

  SL: Finally, has anyone put pressure on you to come forward and speak out?

  CP: No, not at all. I’d never allow that. I’m the only person responsible for my life and my decisions.

  SL: Christine Patterson, thank you.

  The credits rolled. Carol returned to the table, poured herself a third glass of wine and took a large gulp. ‘Didn’t you visit Oxford a couple of times?’

  ‘Yes, more than a couple. It was the one invite worth accepting.’

  ‘She was convincing, wasn’t she?’

  ‘Yes, by the end.’ He sat down beside her. ‘M-C’s in a spot, that’s for sure.’

  ‘I’ve no sympathy,’ she said fiercely. ‘If he behaved like that, he can go to hell.’

  ‘There could be another way of seeing it.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Maybe she’s overegging it. She could have been primed.’

  ‘What do you mean primed?’

  ‘She might not be acting alone.’

  ‘Either way, she can still be telling the truth. So,’ she screwed up her eyes, ‘I was right. M-C. You – Jed Fowkes rather – suspected something. Quine. The secrecy, the private email. That’s why you’ve been so out of it.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ he replied cautiously. ‘I mean,
no one minds M-C being a shagger but force is different.’

  ‘It’s more than force, it’s rape,’ Carol said.

  ‘If true. Her word against his. The coke could be more damaging. He gave solemn assurances he’d never used it after he became an MP.’

  ‘At least it’s all out in the open now and you can restore order.’

  ‘If only,’ he said mysteriously. ‘It may just be the beginning.’ With that, he went into the bathroom, the convenient bolt-hole. Action, reaction. Jed had lit the fuse; he had counter-attacked through the unwitting proxy of Henry Morland-Cross. If this was Jed’s next move, where was it leading?

  His mobile bleeped – a text from Suzy Lancaster.

  Hi Robbie, Sorry, I was in lockdown. Orders from on high. Hey, you didn’t ever think… no, course you didn’t, you silly boy. Love, Suzy xx

  25

  One person had been informed in advance of the identity of the ‘major national figure’, but by phone not text. The call took place at 3 p.m., six hours before transmission. The recipient was Henry Morland-Cross. The moment had been carefully chosen to allow him the opportunity to respond, but limited time to mount an offensive in advance against the programme.

  ‘Hello,’ Morland-Cross had answered weakly, seeing a familiar name on his phone screen.

  ‘It’s Roger Boyd, BBC Head of News, here. I take it this is Henry Morland-Cross.’

  ‘Yes, Roger, you know it is.’

  ‘Chancellor—’

  ‘Cut the crap.’

  ‘Look, this is difficult for me too. I have to keep an element of formality.’

  ‘Go on then, who’s been sneaking?’

  ‘May I come to that? M-C, this is primarily a courtesy call to tell you that a letter for your personal attention has just been hand-delivered to Treasury reception and is awaiting your collection. Because this is not a government matter it’s not going via the press office. It describes an allegation that will be made in tonight’s Panorama by a woman called Christine Patterson—’

  ‘Never heard of her.’

  ‘May I just finish?’