by E J Greenway
It had hit him just before the truck nearly did – events were already running away from him and perhaps he didn’t have control of them nearly as much as he thought. The Arnold story was about to break in the Engager, the newspaper edited by Colin’s old flame Rosie Lambert, and he was sure Dickenson would run the Jenny Lambert stuff soon. The editor now had Richmond over a barrel ‘with a red-hot poker up his arse’, as he had so politely put it to Colin, but Colin still had the Tristan Rivers card to play before the potentially self-destructive Plan B. Rivers was still to be useful, if he would play ball. During his last conversation with him – the briefest of chats on his mobile as he drove out of London – the man had been decidedly luke-warm over a leadership bid. To Colin’s intense frustration he had admitted he wished to put off any challenge until the New Year. It was time to turn the screws on Rivers, force him into action. The detective needed to hurry.
Cursing at his own nerves, and his sore neck, he switched on the car radio and turned up the volume on Classic FM for the Beethoven Evening Extravaganza. Dramatic thinking needed dramatic music. He vowed to sit tight that weekend and wait to see the reactions to the Arnold story and whether Jenny’s kiss-and-tell would come out in Monday’s edition of the Bulletin before he decided how to act next. Once he had used Rivers for the purpose for which he was intended and was out of the way, then in would ride Colin Scott, like Richard returning from the Crusades, ready to bring the party back from the brink of self-destruction.
*****
Cash and information exchanged hands quickly and with little fuss in the chilly semi-darkness of St James’ Park. Both men had stayed true to their word as both knew each had much to gain – and much to lose.
“You better not be bullshitting me.” McDermott muttered tersely, shooting a suspicious glance at the detective’s moonlit face.
“D’you really think I’d risk everything if I was taking you for a ride?” The detective protested. McDermott looked incredulous but raised a weak smile all the same. The detective considered that the journalist should be more accommodating towards him; he had, after all, saved him an awful lot of work.
McDermott sniffed disdainfully as he made a move to indicate their little meeting was over. “Don’t be going too far away, now. I may need you again.” He said warningly.
The detective eyed the journalist thoughtfully, wondering if he had done the right thing in handing over copies of all the evidence he had on Rivers. Colin Scott was likely to hunt him down and kill him once it had all come out, hiring a contract killer to do it of course, it wasn’t his client’s style to do any of his own dirty work. That much was evident. He would go far away until it had all died down. The money from the Bulletin was enough to sustain him abroad for a while, and he fancied a change of scenery. Maybe he could set himself up in America, he had a friend out there, in the same line of work, who owned three properties around the country and drove a Ferrari and a Lamborghini. Nice if you can get it.
“I think you’ll find, Fergus,” The detective retorted archly, “that our arrangement is now done with. I’ve given you everything I have, but be warned my client has everything I have too so you’d best be quick if you’re going to use it.”
A nearby tree rustled and a squirrel bounced briskly down its trunk, pausing suddenly as if surveying the company. The journalist laughed, a sanctimonious grin spreading across his lips. “I don’t need your advice, thanks. But if you have screwed me over I’ll find you.”
“Ooh, I’m scared.” The detective mocked as he shoved his hands back in his jacket, turning on his heels and striding away into the silence of the park. He felt the envelope of money between his fingers. Yes, this would get him far, far away. If he hadn’t begun to whistle he might have caught his contact’s last, quiet words of warning:
“You shouldn’t be scared of me, detective. You should be fucking terrified.”
*****
After a hard afternoon entertaining her local Conservative branches with her wit and wisdom, Anthea had the evening to gather her thoughts in front of Friday night television along with a shepherd’s pie, a bottle of wine and a pile of correspondence. She hadn’t heard from Rodney in the wake of Colin’s interview, but she could guess his mood. She feared Rodney might start finding others to point the finger at. What if he blamed Tristan? What if he thought in no uncertain terms that Tristan was out for revenge? If the idea had imbedded itself in Rodney’s mind then she knew from experience it would take quite a persuasive argument to shift it.
The Fisher ‘situation’ and the tiff during Shadow Cabinet had obviously been leaked by the usual suspect, and Rodney’s talk of a referendum had left her seething. Poor Peter had been run far too ragged for a Friday, but Deborah had insisted the leader wasn’t forming policy on the hoof. Peter had argued that if the Tory leader was putting it about to a major donor that a referendum on Cornish devolution would be an acceptable position to take, then this most certainly was making policy on the hoof.
As well as tackling her workload, Anthea felt she should do her daughterly duty and call her mother. Anthea had always been close to her mother but Mrs Culverhouse had become even more prying into her daughter’s life since Anthea’s father died; the never-ending questions about men – or lack of. She had a knack of dropping Rodney’s name into conversation; how lovely he looked on television, what a nice manner he had and a naughty glint in his brown eyes meaning he was definitely on the look-out for a woman. Anthea’s lame response of “he’s just a friend and colleague, Mother” would only elicit a knowing chuckle from the older woman and a rather curt: “You’re not getting any younger you know, darling, and if you want children! I’m sure Rodney would make an excellent father.”
“Well if you think he’s so wonderful then why don’t you marry him?” Anthea joked sarcastically once, but her mother’s response of “don’t think I haven’t thought about it, darling” made sure she now simply humoured her on the subject. It was best, she decided, not to mention Tristan’s name just yet. It was still early days and the fewer people who knew the better, and that most certainly included her mother.
The dullness of the patron dinner and the shock of hearing Rodney freely bandying about referendums with Simon Clarke had made for a bad evening, but once her and Tristan got talking, once they had gone back to her flat, once they had progressed from colleagues, to friends, to lovers, Anthea could not have felt more alive. They had made love twice before their urges were finally satisfied, their legs entwined, the rhythmic beating of his heart in her ear as she lay on his chest. He felt warm and safe, rescuing her from yet another night alone. The London traffic rumbled in the distance as he softly brushed her hair and bare back with tired fingers until eventually giving out to sleep.
Tristan was up and dressed early Friday morning, sitting in her living room with a large mug of strong coffee as she came through, bleary-eyed.
“Someone looks shagged out.” He grinned. Anthea slouched next to him in her robe and kissed his neck.
“Fine greeting.” She murmured, giving his waist a small tickle. “And someone is back in the same dinner suit he wore the night before. Naughty, naughty.”
Tristan gave a laugh, but he was thumbing his BlackBerry, looking thoughtful. He rested a gentle, soothing hand on her thigh, and although Anthea urged him to talk about the unexpected phone call, all he would say was that McDermott kept asking him about Martin Arnold’s resignation. She knew there was more, but didn’t wish to push him. Yet. In the cold light of day, she decided that a weekend apart might give them some breathing space, it had been a whirlwind romance so far and she needed time to reflect.
She nearly jumped out of her skin when he mobile rang and vibrated on the table next to her, resulting in mashed potato dropping down her jumper. The phone flashed up the Party Chairman’s number.
“Hi Jeremy.” She answered, scratching flakes of melted cheese from the fibres. “Quiet day?”
“Gosh, you’re funny.”
“How’s he doing?”
“He’s not called you, then?”
“No. He probably thinks I’m not talking to him after Clarke.”
“And aren’t you?”
“He cocked up, Jeremy. He handed the whole thing to Colin on a plate.” Anthea knew she sounded harsh, but she could be completely frank with Jeremy about their mutual friend and have him understand.
“Look, I know Rodney feels bad about the way he spoke to you in Shadow Cabinet.”
Anthea fell silent, unsure what to say.
“It’s not that he doesn’t trust you on the Bill, of course he does, he values your judgement. He needs you.”
Anthea knew Jeremy was aware just how Rodney felt about her, but he would never say it. He didn’t need to. But this was a professional matter, and Anthea felt she had every right to be genuinely angry.
“He told you to say that, Jeremy?” She asked sarcastically. “You saw how he was, and then to go off-message with Simon bloody Clarke, ad-libbing on the policy – Peter can’t get a word of sense out of Deborah over it. A referendum was spoken about after First Reading, but I don’t just want to lap up everything Fisher wants.”
Now it was Jeremy’s turn at silence.
“Don’t you agree with me?”
“I think you should, perhaps, speak to Fisher soon.” The Chairman finally offered. “Especially now there is this perceived confusion in the press over our position. He’ll think we’re dithering – look, I know we’re not, and I agree Rodney shouldn’t have said what he said to Clarke and Colin fanned the flames on purpose – but, from the rebels’ point of view, we need to be clear.”
Anthea sighed heavily. “Ok, ok. I’ll set up a meeting for mid-week.”
“I heard that the Labour rebels are meeting later next week, so perhaps get in there with Fisher beforehand.” Jeremy said. “I think you could make a good deal with them. I agree with Rodney –we could knock this thing out of the water.”
“Unless – well, there is, of course, our other problem.” Anthea said slowly.
“Hmm. Little local difficulty and all that.”
“Bloody liability, more like. We need to stop the bastard, bar tying bricks to his feet and throwing him into the Thames.” Anthea lazily chased peas around her plate with her fork. “The last thing I have time for is another leadership election.”
“You and me both. Rodney would win handsomely, of course, but Colin’s now far more than a fly in the ointment. I’m going to try one last attempt to stop him through diplomatic means, but if that fails...”
“Then we need to ‘go to the mattresses’?”
Anthea was sure she could almost hear Jeremy smile.
“That’s certainly one way of putting it. We all know Gaines is involved in this, but Robert is going to keep Fryer under surveillance next week. Hopefully we can take limited damage over the Arnold story tomorrow and Rodney’s education speech on Monday should get good coverage.”
“Well, if anyone can persuade Colin, it’s you.” Anthea said. She abandoned her food, suddenly no longer hungry.
“Yes. The only other person died a long time ago now…wait a minute, George, go and find Mummy, I’m just speaking to Auntie Anthea.”
Anthea smiled on hearing George in the background. She enjoyed a good cuddle with her little godson, and she adored his garbled chatter and wide-eyed innocence. She still hoped for her own and didn’t need her mother reinforcing the point.
“Sorry about that.” Jeremy sighed wearily. “George is excited about starting school.”
“I bet he is. I’m looking forward to lunch with Linda next week. Give her my love.”
“I will...look, how worried are you about Rodney? Just between us.” Jeremy sounded serious, almost sad. Anthea rubbed her face and topped up her wine.
“He’s changed, Jeremy.” She said quietly. “I just can’t talk to him the same anymore. I’m not one of the ‘quad’ or ‘big four’ or whatever the press calls it, but you are. You, Deborah and Heidi are the only ones he really talks to these days.”
“Rodney’s just having a tough couple of weeks. You know how he gets, how his moods can be. He’ll be fine, he’s still the same Rodney, underneath all that hair spray and moisturiser.”
Anthea laughed. She loved Jeremy’s eternal optimism and wished she shared it. It was probably why he made such an excellent Chairman, without such positive vibes at the top of the party she doubted it would have survived at all much past polling day. Even still, it wasn’t enough. Rodney himself worked harder than anyone else, but he had handled Tristan’s sacking shockingly badly, his judgement over Jack Fisher was hot-headed and Colin was simply playing for time. Anthea relied on her political intuition and this time it was giving her bad vibes. Time would tell.
*****
Tristan Rivers had left his new lover’s apartment that morning in a rather better mood than he thought he might, his tiredness merely a sign of a good night’s activity in delightful company. But, as Friday wore on and the sparkle of the morning disappeared, he became irritable again. Driving to the constituency took considerable effort, the clunking of his Volvo estate reminding him that it was time for a service – or a new Volvo. Much was playing on his mind but, as he drove, the light fading, drawing him nearer to the confrontation that awaited him, he dwelled on the negatives. He would need to speak to Nicole again, plead with her to cut the legal cord of their dead relationship.
Colin had telephoned him just as he was throwing his weekend bag into the car. The call took him by surprise and annoyed the hell out of him, the man was like a dog with a bloody bone, he couldn’t just leave it. Tristan had seen his Bulletin interview and felt like talking to Colin even less than usual. He began to palm him off, tell him that perhaps it could all wait until the New Year, but once again he was finding it difficult to say ‘no’. Colin Scott just simply failed to understand the delicacies of some people’s situations. Or maybe he did – he just didn’t care. Tristan agreed yet again to come to some gathering or another the following week, just to get him off the phone. It worked, and he was left to drive the rest of the way in solitude, the clunk of the car and Radio 2 his only companions. It was bliss.
That evening, unimpressed, accusing faces greeted him at the emergency meeting of his local Conservative Association. Tristan may as well have stood naked on the top of Big Ben while publicly denouncing the Leader through a megaphone rather than resigning from a post he no longer enjoyed or benefited from.
“Are you sure there was nothing you could have done to prevent your resignation?” The Treasurer Jane Douglas asked him in a quiet, almost disappointed voice. ‘Personality clash’ with his colleagues had been translated into ‘betrayal of the leadership’ and that, to loyal party members like Jane Douglas, could be a hanging offence.
“No. Really, believe me, no.” Tristan shook his head emphatically as Mrs Douglas sucked in her cheeks and cast a glance at Marjorie Baker, the efficient Association Chairman. She hadn’t liked it any more than Mrs Douglas. The official photograph of Rodney Richmond, smiling but professional, hung just above the Chairman’s head, and seemed to Tristan to loom even more prominent than usual in the small hall. His agent, a very capable man with abundance of energy, looked rather lacklustre. He had obviously been beaten down by the two women before the meeting, and Tristan’s begging glances were met with a knotted brow. Seven years after his selection as a candidate, Marjorie Baker needed any excuse to start de-selection proceedings against him. It was a ‘personality clash’ of the worst kind – in so far as much as the old crow didn’t seem to have one.
“Look, I’ve been honest with you all, Rodney had a different idea of how he wanted the Whips Office to be run and I disagreed, so rather than dragging it out and risking public attention I decided it was in the best interests of everyone concerned to resign. I’m sorry I couldn’t have given prior warning but it all happened so quickly.”
“That’s politics, I suppose.” Mrs Douglas said, but her ex
pression remained unconvinced.
A few of the Association members nodded in mute sympathy, the young female chairman of Conservative Future even raising a reassuring smile, but Marjorie Baker and Mrs Douglas remained distinctly frosty. It had been, in the end, one of the most unsatisfactory Association meetings Tristan had ever attended. Even caffeine junkie Ted Evans didn’t move from his seat to boil the kettle for the obligatory after-meeting coffee.
That night, he was simply exhausted. He had been far too focussed on the meeting for it to even occur to him to send Anthea so much as a text message until two post-meeting beers and half a take-away pizza had found their way down to his grumbling stomach. Even then he had hesitated before abandoning his mobile in exchange for the TV guide and a glass of port. What could he have said to her? ‘I love you’? ‘I’m missing you’? ‘I think that journalist knows about us’? ‘I’m still married’?
The next day, Tristan tried to call Nicole, but, as always, she wasn’t home. Or just not answering. He needed to send his son’s birthday present, although knowing what to buy a 13 year old he barely knew was almost impossible. Nicole would probably send it back anyway, but he felt there was no harm in trying, even though Daniel lived with a man he now called his step-father. Tristan blamed himself for not remaining in contact; he was at least telling Anthea the truth when he said he tried to fight for access, but Daniel was only six at the time and he had felt he had caused the child more than enough upset. It would have been best for everyone if he had simply walked away, so in the end he did. Regret could be a powerful emotion. If Nicole wasn’t prepared to be civilised then he would have to take more drastic action before it was too late. He was already in love with Anthea and he was damned if Nicole was going to ruin it out of a spite which he thought was done with years ago. He desperately wanted Anthea to understand. He would tell her. Next week.
