Party Games

by E J Greenway

  “Well I always knew we had something in common. Look, I know you won’t have been paid your full amount so I’ll double what your client would be paying you.” McDermott realised he had to give him something in return at least, he wasn’t all unreasonable, although if the threat of exposure wasn’t enough to make him bend then he wasn’t feeling all that charitable.

  The detective shivered in the chill of the car, their breath steaming up the windows as the fog outside began to settle. McDermott knew he was leaving the detective with little choice.

  “It’s a red-top paper, yes, but I’m not revealing which one. I have a duty to protect my client. The money’s the deal-breaker here, you give me the fifteen grand I’m still owed and I’ll give you copies of everything I have, straight up. But that’s it. If you want my client’s name then you can go to hell and print what you like, it’ll never be as good a story as the one I’ve discovered.”

  The detective’s expression was inscrutable but his smug attitude began to grate with the journalist. McDermott didn’t think this guy should be quite so conceited considering he had him firmly over a barrel, but nevertheless decided to take the deal. If he was taking him for a ride he’d be bloody sorry. Fifteen grand was a lot. Whichever rag the detective’s client was, and he had his suspicions, they must have been sure they were onto something. Rivers was still married. So predictable, yet such a seller.

  “Fine.” McDermott snorted, sliding down the seat. It wouldn’t be long now. Soon, very soon, he’d be out of that house like a terrified rabbit. “But I want to see the proof before you get so much as a whiff of the cash. And no bloody funny business. I’ll meet you in our usual drop-off, same time tomorrow night.”

  The detective scowled, smoothening down his dark, gelled hair. It was thinning on top and it appeared the flatter he could keep it, the less obvious he thought it was.

  “Look, I’ve only got evidence for the past few days, anything further back, you’ll have to do that investigation yourself. Although from what they’ve said to each other, there’s no hint of anything long-term. His wife is well and truly out of the picture, but obviously that’s up to you if you want to write it that way.”

  “It’s got bugger all to do with you what I write, just get me the evidence.” McDermott grimaced, patting his acquaintance on the arm. “Nice doing business with you, laddie. Tomorrow. Don’t be fucking late.”

  Perhaps he could get something in Hornby’s blog - the man was often desperate for some ‘news’, his type of ‘journalism’ was all about prying into the private lives of others and Hornby had tipped him off about Miss Culverhouse and Rivers having a rather “intimate-looking” meal but decided, stupidly, not to write about it himself. McDermott guessed it had nothing to do with the possibility of libel, more to do with whom the blogger himself was dining with that afternoon - the open secret that was Patrick Hornby and one Bartholomew Phillips.

  As he headed back towards his car, McDermott thought of Richmond. He wished he hadn’t, his old boss was the last person on the planet he wanted to picture before sleep. Simmering loathing resurfaced as he shut his car door and stared into the night. It had been his story. The biggest damn scoop for months. But Richmond had stopped him, protected his own skin. McDermott didn’t believe a word of his reasoning then, and he didn’t now. Richmond’s time was nearly up. Hell hath no fury like a journalist scorned.

  Eight

  Friday, 7.30am

  Rodney had been glad to finally get out of London. It had been a hard week, one of the longest in his recent memory, and for once he relished a return to the relative peace of the constituency. There was always the nagging worry that his constituents could accuse him of ignoring their concerns if he didn’t show his face as often as he should, so liked to make himself as accessible as possible. Today was no exception. Although it was early morning, the day was already set to be a stunning autumn show of colour and glorious golden sun, the haze settling around Rodney’s detached Winchester cottage, but he hardly noticed. He had a full list of constituency engagements ahead and barely a moment’s respite in between a shower and breakfast before Clare had been on and off the phone and Robert Williams forced into bearing the brunt of Rodney’s foul mood.

  Fred pulled up in the Toyota Prius and waited patiently on the drive. The car engine purred as he tapped the steering wheel, Rodney’s bodyguard in the passenger seat, silent and wired up. Rodney waved at Fred from his sitting room window, but he felt far from sociable. He indicated five minutes, so Fred cut off the engine, pulled out his Daily Telegraph and settled down to the crossword.

  “This is total bull! Bloody outrageous! I mean Jesus, what the hell is he playing at? Cornwall, I mean - seriously! It’s just a bloody excuse, he doesn’t give a damn about it! Clare says we had no knowledge about any of it before this morning, no heads up whatsoever, not from Dickenson, not from Colin’s lot - I mean Christ!” Rodney growled, his phone pressed to his ear, that morning’s Daily Bulletin open on the coffee table, damp in one corner from a pool of milk as he sloshed around his breakfast bowl. “Robert, did you really not hear a thing? No rumour mill at all? You’re my PPS, if you don’t hear these things...”

  “No, like I said, it all came out of the blue this morning. McDermott kept the whole thing quiet, Scott certainly did.” Robert Williams said gruffly.

  “He’s not so bloody quiet on the paper’s front fucking page, though, is he?”

  “Look, Scott’s heading for a world of hurt over this.”

  “‘Never say never” about resigning? Everyone knows that’s ‘politician’ for ‘yes’!”

  The headline stared back at Rodney, bold and to the point:

  SCOTT MAY QUIT OVER CORNWALL

  By Fergus McDermott, Political Editor

  In an extraordinary interview, Colin Scott, Deputy Leader of the Conservative Party, hints for the first time he may resign over Rodney Richmond’s handling of the Cornwall Devolution Bill. Last night key allies of Mr Scott lined up to give weight to the rumours, with one MP describing the Deputy Leader as ‘incandescent’ with Mr Richmond for ‘sidelining’ his views on Cornwall, amongst other key aspects of policy.

  The two men have been locked in a political stalemate since Mr Richmond’s election as party leader 15 months ago, with Mr Scott blaming Mr Richmond for failure to engage him and his backers in policy formulation...

  “I mean, who the hell did Colin put up to comment? Bet it was Matthew shits-over-everything Gaines! Or – or bloody Rivers! Tristan’s out to get me, too!” Rodney angrily flipped the paper open to the double-page spread, a smiling, relaxed Colin Scott staring back at him, mocking him, openly declaring war.

  “Most likely Gaines, I expect.” Robert responded dolefully.

  “I don’t want ‘most likely’, Robert, I was to know, I want hard damn facts on this one! Turn it into a bloody witch hunt for all I care, but find out! I want a list of every single bastard out there who’s trying to screw me over!”

  “Look, this whole interview took us all by surprise...”

  “Get it done, Robert!”

  Rodney furiously ended the call and dialled his Press Secretary for the second time that morning. She answered quickly as he headed out to the car, his bodyguard opening the door. Fred looked mildly perplexed – the press pack had begun to arrive to doorstep the leader, hanging around his gate, shouting awkward questions about the leadership. Rodney blanked them as he threw his weight into the back of the car, the Bulletin rolled up in his grasp and Clare trying to calm him in his ear.

  Fred eased the Toyota Prius off the drive, nudging the journalists out the way as they banged on the windows and continued to shout while Rodney roughly flicked through the pages of the paper in silent rage. It was a small comfort that only one other daily had hints of dissent over the Bill, but this did nothing to relieve the irrepressible thunder etched across his face. Twitter would be full of it; every commentator worth his or her salt would have a 140 character opinion aired to the w
orld before 9am.

  Clare’s own anger was obvious; the Bulletin had, without naming Colin Scott directly, produced an editorial column arguing that a change at the top was needed to help improve the party’s wavering fortunes in the polls. Despite an improving media image for Richmond, and his suave good looks, the paper couldn’t see how it could be enough to pull back support in time for the next election.

  “Continue to play it down. We expect it to all blow over, the report isn’t accurate, etc, etc. Just find out what’s still to come.” Rodney said before ending his call. He dialled his Chief of Staff’s mobile. “Deborah, I’ve got a meeting to get to at the council, but we need to speak afterwards, so get to the office ASAP and ring me from there. Oh and do me a favour will you? Get me Jeremy on the line first.”

  *****

  Deputy Chief Whip David Fryer didn’t give a shit what the new Chief Whip thought about him. He knew he was bloody good at his job, got the best results he could from his colleagues, and he didn’t need some woman telling him he was doing it all wrong and had to do it her way. There was little point, in his view, promoting him to Deputy Chief if all she was going to do was take him to task on every little detail, but women had always perplexed him and it was simpler to put it down to hormones and the inability to stick to a decision on anything.

  At least when Rivers was around, for all his uselessness, he let him get on with it. Rivers had made a half-hearted attempt once to calm down the then home affairs whip but Fryer had sneered at him and carried on regardless. He had been Head Boy at school, but that was only playing power; this was the real thing, grown-up and bloody sexy stuff. One more promotion in the whips office and he would be Chief himself. He was damned if he was going to let Bronwyn fucking Davies get in his way for long.

  It was only 9.45am and already Fryer was bored rigid, sat in the House of Commons at the end of the front bench by the Speaker’s chair, his broad frame lounging uncomfortably. His ample legs were crossed idly and he sported an exasperated expression which could have easily been mistaken for concentration. Fryer was stuck in the place for hours, on duty on a damn one line whip Friday. He wouldn’t have normally been on duty, but lately things in the constituency were becoming a little...awkward.

  The only fraction of interest the Chamber held for Fryer was the sponsor of the first bill printed on the order paper for debate – one Ms Laura Murphy. Someone else avoiding a constituency show-down. He couldn’t help but smile salaciously as he observed her speaking from the Government back bench. It was true she was quite fanciable, Martin Arnold had good taste, but she was used and rubbished goods, with a life on the backbench the only thing she could look forward to, at most.

  The Deputy Chief Whip’s eyes glazed over. One or two other colleagues had slipped into the Chamber and were sprawled out on the backbenches – not surprisingly, none of them were Martin Arnold. Idly Fryer cast his gaze towards the doors behind the Speaker’s chair and to his surprise saw Colin Scott heading into the Chamber. He appeared to be scurrying, as if he didn’t wish to be spotted, but he slid beside Fryer and beckoned to him to lean in.

  “Didn’t expect to see such an important face here today, especially after today’s Bulletin. Strong stuff, Colin.” Fryer muttered, but his tone was far from hostile. “Strictly off the record, of course, I like your style.” He considered Colin Scott a friend, an ally on the Right of the party, although officially the Deputy Chief Whip was as loyal to the leader as they came.

  Colin smiled surreptitiously and draped his arm across the top of the bench, scanning the empty rows behind him. He kept his voice quiet but spoke hurriedly, casting his eye towards Derek Bradbury by the despatch box, whose recent elevation to the Shadow Cabinet placed him firmly in the Richmond camp.

  “I’m not here for long, due in Romsey by this evening. Look, I was wondering….how you fixed for Monday night? It’s just I’m having a little get-together, a few drinks with colleagues, in my office. I thought it would be good, just to know what people are thinking about policy, the direction of the party in general. Bit of healthy discussion. Nothing – nothing controversial, you understand. All above board.”

  “Indeed.” Fryer agreed, although ‘above board’ and ‘nothing controversial’ weren’t phrases he often associated with this particular colleague. Scott was taking one hell of a risk inviting the Deputy Chief Whip. “Any particular colleagues in mind? I mean, I know I met with Dickenson, and yes I will come if I can, if I can get one of the lackeys to fill in on whipping duty...”

  “Obviously, but you would be very welcome. As for other colleagues – he may not be your favourite in the lobbies but Matthew Gaines will turn up, Gary Lough, Patricia Joseph, Alan Boyce, of course.”

  Fryer twitched uneasily. Attending a private party with a bunch of rebels and declared malcontents was probably not the smartest of moves, but then again if the Deputy Leader invited him why would he be disloyal by showing his face? He couldn’t control who else Scott might ask along, he would simply be there to make sure order was maintained...

  “And Tristan Rivers should be there.” Colin mumbled, almost inaudibly.

  “Rivers? Interesting.” Fryer’s eyebrows arched in amazement. If Rivers was the quality of person he was trying to get on side it was a might worrying. Maybe he had better go, partly out of interest and partly to improve the calibre of the guests.

  Fryer studied Scott for a moment. There was a silent understanding.

  “Thanks, David. I knew I could count on you. I’ll leave you to your fun. See you Monday.” Colin patted Fryer firmly on the shoulder and flashing him a knowing smile leapt up from the bench. Fryer knew already. A brute with known results, the Deputy Chief Whip was to be Colin Scott’s leadership campaign manager. He smiled at Bradbury, who merely frowned. Everyone now knew. Open conflict was close.

  *****

  Up in his North Yorkshire constituency home, with a feeling of trepidation, Jeremy Cheeser replaced the receiver. He kept his hand hovering above it momentarily as he pondered the rather unsatisfactory outcome of the conversation with his leader. He munched slowly on an egg and cress sandwich, keeping his gaze fixed on the telephone.

  “I just don’t think it’s Tristan’s style to brief against you. To be frank, he doesn’t have the balls.” Jeremy had said to his friend. That didn’t mean, however, Rivers wouldn’t get wind of plotting. Jeremy had heard on the Westminster grapevine that Colin was to hold one of his legendary gatherings for sympathetic colleagues, and he suggested to Rodney that he wait to see just who attended and what was said. “I’m not suggesting you don’t deal with Colin, all I’m suggesting is that you don’t appear rattled too soon. He’s goading you, all talk and no action. Let me speak to him. I’m playing a supposedly friendly game of tennis with him next week, I’ll pull him into line.”

  “Good luck with that. I don’t think he’s listening to anyone, not even you.” Rodney had responded indignantly.

  As Jeremy slowly chewed his sandwich, his gaze trailed out of his Wensleydale living room and into his expansive garden where the autumnal leaves swirled before his eyes. A Scott-lead Tory Party would be a disaster, unthinkable. Jeremy couldn’t contemplate working alongside him, he would have to go to the back benches, the Shadow Cabinet would resign en mass...

  “Right. First thing’s first.” Jeremy said to himself, brushing aside thoughts of impending doom. Reaching for his BlackBerry, he had some calls to make and some colleagues to placate. In a week’s time, he could be backing Rodney’s second election campaign within two years. Sweeping the leaves had now moved to number two on the morning’s agenda.

  *****

  Colin was deep in concentration as he ran the red light, but as a lorry sounded its horn in alarm, missing the bonnet of the Deputy Leader’s BMW with barely inches to spare, his brain shocked itself back to reality. He slammed hard on the brakes with a piercing screech, coming to a sudden halt in the middle of the box junction, the back wheels raised off the ground as the fram
e of the car jolted with the force of the emergency stop. With an intense wave of nausea he wondered if the momentary terror he had just felt on hearing the lorry’s horn was similar to the terrible fear she might have endured, all those years ago.

  He was shaking, damnit, the cold sweat slippery in his palms and between his toes. His heart thumped desperately against his rib cage and he gasped, resting his head on the steering wheel before tentatively glancing out of the thankfully intact windscreen. He had just about avoided the flow of traffic coming from the left but that didn’t stop drivers glaring at him angrily and shaking their heads as they sped past, their expressions creased in annoyance rather than recognition of the politician who craved to be one of the most recognised faces in British politics.

  The lights seemed to take forever to change, but Colin took the time to compose himself. He did some of his best thinking while driving, but his sudden craving for caffeine took him to the next service station. He passed the news stand, keeping his gaze away from the glaring Bulletin headline, and bought himself a strong Americano. Once back in the car, Colin scrolled the messages and missed calls on his phone. He had put it on silent to stop the incessant ringing; every hack in the universe seemed to have tried to get hold of him for the next big exclusive. Still feeling sick, he sipped his coffee gratefully and continued to check for angry messages from the Richmond camp. There were none.

  “Playing the long, silent game, are we, Rodney?” Colin said softly to himself. If Richmond was going to play hard to get, then Colin would follow suit. Matthew Gaines had left a message, asking him to call. The poor guy would be on the receiving end of Richmond’s wrath soon enough, but he knew Gaines could handle himself, as his little private chat with McDermott had proved. The extra quotes had worked wonders. Fortunately for Colin, Gaines was a former spin doctor, so Colin would rely on his advice over the coming days.