At the time she’d assumed this independence of his was strictly professional but since then she’d gathered that this was pretty much the way he led the rest of his life, playing the tables alone, piling the chips onto a particular colour or a lucky square, and hoping to God that the numbers came up. Kate adored this addiction to chance, the preparedness to look disaster in the face. Indeed, it was one of the reasons she’d felt so attracted to Barnaby in the first place. But lately she’d spotted something else in his makeup: that playing the tables was one thing but winning was quite another. Given a lucky roll of the dice, Barnaby was incapable of dealing with what followed. It had been the same with his marriage, the same in their own relationship. Once the hunt was over and the quarry run to earth, the man became somehow caged, the prisoner of his own success.
Kate watched the Mercedes round the corner and disappear, wondering whether it was anything as simple as boredom. Success, after all, could be claustrophobic: lots of money, lots of security, the sudden prospect of a risk-free life. The latter was especially relevant just now. Kate was still no closer to knowing how Liz had found out about their renewed affair but by kicking her husband out she’d certainly changed everything. For three difficult weeks, Barnaby had camped in her house, sharing her bed, her bathroom and the intimate routines she called her day. If she’d believed a tenth of the promises he’d made, the letters he’d penned, the poems he’d Blu-tacked to the windscreen of her car, this sudden plunge into domesticity should have knotted them closer than ever.
Yet the reverse had happened. He’d become secretive, and slightly irritable. He’d talked incessantly about Jessie. And last weekend, when he’d finally decamped, having taken a six-month lease on a luxury seafront apartment, it had been with barely an hour’s notice. He had some things to work out, some issues to resolve in his head. It wasn’t anything to do with her. It was simply a period of introspection, of retrieving a little perspective, a little focus. Kate had listened to it all, watching him ferrying his bags to the car and, to his visible relief, she’d expressed neither anger nor surprise. In truth, she’d felt both, though the house – and her own life – had been infinitely less oppressive since.
She felt in her bag for the front-door key, wondering where he was off to now. She admired the intelligence and sheer energy that he and Charlie Epple had brought to Pompey First. That kind of talent, in her experience, was rare in local politics. But local politics, with all its trivia, involved real consequences for real people, and she’d come to realize that the problem with the Hayden Barnabys of this world was their self-absorption. They were clever and hardworking and never ran out of zippy ideas but, in the end, she suspected, they didn’t really care at all. Not because they didn’t want to, but because they simply didn’t know how.
Harry Wilcox was sitting in the bar at the Imperial Hotel when Barnaby walked in. Wilcox nodded at one of the waitresses and the glass of Tiger beer was already on the table by the time Barnaby had peeled off his coat and sat down. Wilcox listened to his account of the afternoon at the TV studios, lifting his glass to Kate at the end. For public consumption, Wilcox was obliged to keep his personal political leanings a closely guarded secret but he’d never left Barnaby in any doubt that his heart was with Pompey First. It was, he’d confided from the outset, a defining idea. ‘And Zhu?’ he enquired. ‘Our Raymond?’
Barnaby glanced at his watch. ‘He’ll join us for the meal. We’ll go through in a minute.’
‘Any idea what he’s up to?’ He gestured towards the restaurant. ‘Why the invite?’
‘Haven’t a clue.’
Barnaby reached for his glass and swallowed a mouthful of the sharp, ice-cold Tiger beer that Zhu imported by the containerload from Singapore. In reality, he knew very well why Zhu had asked for a chat with the Sentinel’s editor but it would be both rude and imprudent to steal his host’s thunder. Zhu had been in London for most of the last week, dealing with various arms of the Ministry of Defence secretariat, and the hour he’d spent with the newly appointed minister had drained even his reserves of patience. These people, Barnaby suspected, had to be taught a lesson. And Wilcox had been chosen to do just that.
Wilcox was musing aloud about Charlie’s posters. His favourite had appeared on hoardings in the city’s shopping precinct. No parliamentary photos this time, and no anguished bleatings from the city’s self-styled ‘real’ politicians. Instead, a simple question, WHY PUT POMPEY FIRST? with the answer, BECAUSE NO ONE ELSE WILL stripped in below.
To Wilcox, these two lines had caught the essence of the new politics. From his perch on top of the city’s daily newspaper, he’d been ideally placed to monitor the astonishing upsurge of grass-roots political activity. The Sentinel’s files were stuffed full of copy from community schools, urban villages, self-help groups, neighbourhood patrols, housing co-operatives, credit unions and local campaigning organizations of all kinds. These were people who’d grown tired of waiting for help from Westminster or Whitehall. Instead, they were making things happen for themselves. Together, this swelling tide of community involvement was now cutting across traditional party lines and, if it lacked anything, then it was a coherent political voice. By putting the interests of the city before all others, Pompey First supplied exactly that voice. Hence, in Wilcox’s judgement, the extraordinary calibre of the candidates who’d stepped forward to put their names and faces on Charlie Epple’s ward-by-ward posters.
‘Power’s leaking upwards and downwards,’ he’d told Barnaby, ‘upwards to Brussels and downwards to the street. One day the London politicians will wake up to all this and it’ll frighten them shitless. You mark my words. Shitless.’
That had been on the phone. Next day, over a drink, he’d gone even further.
‘Pompey First,’ he’d confirmed, ‘could change the political map. Potentially you’re playing with dynamite.’
Now, his glass nearly empty, he was asking about funding. ‘Your billboards must cost a fortune,’ he said. ‘So who’s paying?’
Barnaby did his best to sidestep the question. Membership had been far healthier than anyone had anticipated. Charlie had done a wonderful deal with the billboard people. Contacts of his in the printing trade had cut production costs to the bone.
Wilcox butted in. ‘You’re not telling me that subs pay for all that advertising?’
‘Not all of it, no.’
‘Half? A quarter? Ten per cent?’
‘A proportion,’ Barnaby conceded.
‘And the rest?’
‘We have our backers.’
‘I’m sure,’ Wilcox grunted. ‘Like who?’
Barnaby named a couple of ageing rock stars who’d left the city for greater things. Charlie knew them both and had extracted smallish sums on the promise of a monster victory party and an endless supply of art college students the night the polls were declared.
‘A grand’s fuck all.’ Wilcox was playing the hard-bitten reporter. ‘What about the rest of it?’
Barnaby said nothing. Wilcox emptied his glass. Then Zhu appeared from the restaurant, shuffling slowly towards them. Last month he’d flown to mainland China on a lengthy business trip and had returned with a broken ankle. Three weeks later, he was still walking with a stick.
Barnaby got up, buttoning his jacket and extending a hand. Wilcox did the same. Zhu touched each hand briefly, in an almost regal gesture, and offered a small, formal bow in return.
‘You’re welcome,’ he said to Wilcox, slipping his arm through Barnaby’s for support as he turned to limp back to the restaurant.
Like most Englishmen Barnaby knew, Harry Wilcox was awed by the presence of serious money. For the first half of the meal, while the surrounding tables filled up with Saturday-evening couples, he treated Zhu to an expansive review of Pompey life, calculated to flatter both men’s sense of self-importance. How the city had been crying out for a bit of class and a bit of style. How impressed friends of his had been with the Imperial’s unflagging excellence. How
relieved he was to be able to guarantee visiting VIPs an overnight berth in a truly first-class hotel. Much of this nonsense was lost on Zhu, who picked at his boiled rice with tepid enthusiasm, favouring Wilcox with an occasional smile.
At length, as Wilcox spooned up the last of the sauce from his garlic and chilli prawns, Zhu leaned forward over the table and left a twist of paper beside his plate. Wilcox wiped his mouth with his napkin and picked it up. Unwrapping it, he found a metal bolt inside, the size of his little finger.
He held it up, looking puzzled. The bolt, flaky and ochre with rust, had seen better days.
‘For you.’ Zhu nodded. ‘To keep.’
Glancing at Barnaby, Zhu explained that the bolt had come from the naval dockyard, a gift from an old man in one of the plating shops. ‘A gift to whom?’ Wilcox was lost now.
‘Your Mr Samuels. Your new minister.’
‘The old man gave it to Samuels?’
‘Yes.’
‘And Samuels …’
‘Gave it to me.’ Zhu nodded again. ‘Yes.’
Wilcox picked up the bolt, revolving it in his fingers as Zhu recounted its history. According to the old man, the bolt had come from HMS Hood, extracted for replacement during the battle-cruiser’s last pre-war refit. The old man’s uncle had been part of the refit crew and the bolt, in due course, had become a family heirloom.
Barnaby watched Wilcox wiping the rust stains from his hands. Clive Samuels was the new Secretary of State for defence, a young right-wing ideologue who’d come from nowhere to a seat in the cabinet.
Barnaby caught Zhu’s eye. The bolt was back on the table-cloth.
‘So when did Samuels lay hands on it?’ he asked.
‘Wednesday. When he came down to the dockyard.’
‘And he gave it away again? Just like that?’
For once, Zhu looked flustered. Embarrassment simply wasn’t part of his make-up but Barnaby was sure he detected a slight pinking of the pale yellow skin stretched tight across his cheekbones.
Wilcox interrupted, keen to make his mark. ‘The Hood went down in nineteen forty-one,’ he growled. ‘She was sunk by the Bismarck. Fourteen hundred blokes went down with her.’ He poked a finger at the bolt. ‘Which must make this little fella pretty lucky.’
Zhu was still nodding. ‘I think your Mr Samuels is superstitious,’ he said. ‘He told me about the Hood. He said he wanted the bolt to come back to Portsmouth. Please,’ he smiled, ‘keep it.’
Wilcox wrapped it up again, beaming with pleasure. Slipping it into his pocket, he asked about Samuels. Wednesday’s Sentinel had carried a report on the ministerial visit to the dockyard. Asked about rumours of a sale, or possible closure, Samuels had categorically denied both.
Wilcox looked at Zhu. ‘True or false?’ he asked.
Zhu went through the motions of looking pained at Wilcox’s bluntness, though Barnaby suspected that this was precisely the question he’d convened the meal to answer. For a moment or two, he tidied the remains of his rice. Then he looked up. ‘Your government are strange people. Sometimes nothing happens. Sometimes they hurry, hurry. Why?’ He shrugged, letting the question answer itself. Negotiating with Whitehall was plainly a nightmare. One week, one priority. The next week, another.
‘And the dockyard? This week?’ Wilcox pressed.
‘This week it’s for sale, very definitely for sale.’
‘He said that? Samuels? He told you?’
‘Of course. That’s why we talk. That’s why I spend so much time with his people. Talk, talk, talk. Sell, sell, sell.’
‘But he denied it,’ Wilcox pointed out. ‘On Wednesday, he denied it.’
‘So I understand.’
‘He was lying, then?’
‘Perhaps not. Perhaps on Wednesday he believed it. Who knows?’ Zhu leaned back, his hands an inch apart, a prayerful gesture that seemed to ask for some kind of forgiveness. Presumably on Samuels’s behalf.
Wilcox was confused. It had been common knowledge for months that Zhu was bidding for the dockyard but the Ministry of Defence had always denied that negotiations had advanced beyond the bare preliminaries. The naval dockyard was a national asset. The sale had to go out to tender. Other bidders would be involved. There were formal procedures here and it would take more than Dr Zhu to hurry Whitehall into a hasty decision.
Wilcox had abandoned the last of his noodles, determined to tie down the details.
‘Just run me through this thing one more time,’ he said. ‘We know you’re bidding to buy the dockyard.’
‘That’s right. It’s been complicated, of course, but in essence that’s correct.’
‘Is there now a sum involved? Have you got that far?’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘May I ask how much?’
Zhu hesitated for long enough to keep Wilcox on the hook. Then he produced a small notepad. Scribbling a figure, he passed it across.
Wilcox stared at it. ‘A hundred million? Isn’t that on the cheap side?’
Zhu smiled. ‘They’re paying me.’ He corrected himself, ‘You’re paying me.’
‘We’re paying you?’
‘Yes, this is taxpayer’s money. There’s a saving, of course. The money it costs each year to run the yard. And that, as it happens, is slightly more than a hundred million.’
‘But what’s the money for?’
‘Mr Samuels calls it a green dowry. Your dockyard has all kinds of problems, poisons mainly. A hundred million is a down payment for the liability, for the sins of your fathers.’ He beamed with pleasure at the phrase. ‘Maybe you should see the environmental report. Mr Samuels is lucky to find a buyer at all.’
‘But you’re going ahead?’
‘Of course. Subject to contract.’
‘And he’s driven it through? Samuels?’
‘Absolutely. I understand there’s an election ahead. I think he needs the money he’ll save.’
‘But he’s spending money, not saving it.’
‘He’s only spending money once, Mr Wilcox. Every year that passes he saves a good deal more. That money might be useful… especially if taxes are to fall.’
Wilcox had located the phone, tucked discreetly into an alcove at the back of the restaurant. Barnaby wondered whether he’d have the bottle to use it. The Sentinel didn’t publish until Monday. Could Wilcox’s little scoop wait that long?
Zhu was describing his plans for the dockyard. He planned to maintain some of the major ship-repair services, perhaps even expand them. Part of the deal with Samuels hinged on a guaranteed facility for naval warships.
At this, Wilcox pulled his chair a little closer to the table. ‘You’re telling me the Navy stays? As your guests?’
‘As my customers,’ Zhu answered him. ‘Of course.’
‘What about a war? Some kind of emergency? Say the Argies have another go at the Falklands?’
‘Then we’d do our best to help,’ Zhu smiled, ‘everything else permitting.’
‘Everything else permitting? What permitting?’
Zhu looked briefly grave and Barnaby wondered whether he’d rehearsed for this. He was playing his role for all it was worth, the diligent businessman musing about a tricky investment.
‘Tell me,’ Wilcox insisted. ‘Please.’
‘About a war situation?’
‘Yes.’
‘I can’t. We’d do our best, of course. Contractually, we’d have no choice.’
Wilcox stared at him, then sat back in the chair, mopping his face with his napkin.
‘Is this on the record?’ he said at last.
‘Record?’
‘Can I write it down? Quote you? Put it in the paper?’
‘Of course.’
‘It won’t damage your … ah … negotiations?’
‘Not at all.’
Barnaby glanced at Zhu. Even he hadn’t expected quite such candour. Wilcox had produced a pad. His shorthand was slow. Eventually, he asked Zhu about the rest of his plans for the dockya
rd, and the Chinese obliged with a list of would-be developments. They included hotels, offices and a major expansion for the city’s commercial ferryport.
Wilcox’s biro paused. ‘Have you talked to anyone about the ferryport?’
‘No.’ Zhu smiled. ‘But it’s very sensible. The figures speak for themselves.’
‘And these offices? These hotels? Are we talking a major investment here?’
‘Absolutely. A brand new financial district.’
‘But what about jobs?’ Wilcox asked. ‘All those mateys in the dockyard.’
Zhu was grave again. ‘We’ll be adding jobs. Not taking them away.’
‘But different jobs, surely. Different kinds of jobs.’
‘Of course. We must be flexible.’
‘So some of the present jobs will go?’
‘Some of them, perhaps, yes.’
‘And Samuels knows this?’
‘I’m sure he must be aware that things will change, yes.’
‘With respect that’s not an answer.’
Zhu held out his hand. Wilcox gazed at it. ‘The bolt, please.’
Wilcox produced the twist of paper. Zhu disentangled the bolt, depositing it in the china ashtray between them. ‘Your Mr Samuels believes that history is moving on,’ he said quietly. ‘And I have to say that I agree with him.’
Later the same evening, responding to a summons by telephone, the sitting MP for Portsmouth West, Philip Biscoe, slipped out of a Knightsbridge dinner party and took a taxi to Conservative Party Central Office in Smith Square. There, a young researcher met him in the lobby. She worked on one of the local government desks in the campaign department, and the exhaustion on her face confirmed everything that Biscoe had feared. After the carnage of last year’s local elections, with the Tories reduced to third place nationwide, the rout was evidently due for completion. Confidential polling samples were indicating an electoral wipe-out of historic proportions, with Tory local councillors becoming an endangered species. This, of course, wasn’t a direct threat to Biscoe’s constituency seat but a disaster next week could all too easily set the scene for something similar at a general election. In which case he’d be looking for a job, rather than fantasizing about red briefcases and a seat in the back of the ministerial limo.
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