“I think you’re right, you know,” his colleague said, gushing as he quenched some inner fire with a huge gulp of something white. “Young Samuel may be ahead but his campaign is going backwards. It’s between the experienced hands now, you and Patrick. And, Francis, I want you to know you have my wholehearted support.”
Which, of course, you will want me to remember when I have my hands on all that Prime Ministerial patronage, Urquhart thought to himself, chuckling as he offered his gratitude and Mortima, who was gliding seraphically around the room despite the crush, refreshed the depleted glass and offered an endearing smile.
One of his younger supporters had produced a box of lapel badges and was pushing his way through the room sticking them on jackets. The badges simply proclaimed “FU.” The young politician, who was Napoleonic in stature and flushed in face, found himself standing in front of Mortima. Excitedly he thrust one of the badges in the general direction of her chest. His eyes were endearing but, as his hand approached her bosom, increasingly uncertain. Then they met hers and he blanched as though whipped. “Oh, God. Sorry. I think this belongs elsewhere,” he blurted and disappeared back into the crowd.
“Where do you get these people from?” she whispered in mock awe into her husband’s ears.
“When he grows up he might be a great man.”
“If he grows up, send him to me. I’ll let you know.”
New arrivals were still pouring into the room.
“Where have they all come from?” Mortima asked, worried they might run out of refreshment.
“Oh, some of them have been very busy,” he replied. “They’ll already have made brief but prominent appearances at both Samuel’s and Woolton’s receptions, on the basis that we can never be too sure. And you can’t, can you, my dear? Be too sure?”
“I like to know where I stand with those around me, Francis.”
“Of course, my dear. That’s why I have a friendly Whip in both Michael’s and Patrick’s parties, counting heads, collecting faces. Making sure.”
They stared into each other’s face, oblivious for the moment of the crush around them.
“Whatever it takes, Francis.”
“Will you want to know?”
She shook her head. “No, any more than you want to know, my love.” She turned and pressed on with her duties.
In the background the telephone had been ringing persistently with messages of congratulation and inquiry. Urquhart’s secretary had been fielding the calls in between opening bottles and providing small talk, yet now she was at Urquhart’s side, a frown creasing her face. “It’s for you,” she whispered urgently. “Roger O’Neill.”
“Tell him I’m busy and that I will call him later,” he instructed.
“But he called earlier. He sounds very anxious. Asked me to tell you it was ‘very bloody hot,’ to quote his exact words.”
With an impatient curse he withdrew from his guests to the window, where his desk gave him a little shelter from the press of celebration. “Roger?” His tone was gentle as he cast a bright face around the room at his guests, not wanting them to know the irritation he felt inside. “Is this really necessary? I’ve got a room full of people.”
“She’s on to us, Francis. That bloody bitch—she knows, I’m sure. She knows it’s me and she’ll be on to you next, the cow. I haven’t told her a thing but she’s got hold of it and God knows how but…”
“Roger, listen carefully. Pull yourself together.” Urquhart’s tone remained controlled but he turned to the window, away from lip readers.
But O’Neill was gabbling, his conversation running away like a driverless express.
Urquhart interrupted, “Roger, tell me slowly and clearly what all this is about.”
Yet the gabbling began again and Urquhart was forced to listen, trying to make sense of the chaotic mixture of words, splutters and sneezes. “She came over to see me, the cow from the press lobby. I don’t know how, Francis, it’s not me and I told her nothing. I fobbed her off—think she went away happy. But somehow she’s got onto it. Everything, Francis. The Paddington address, the computer. Even that bloody leaked opinion poll. And that bastard Kendrick must’ve shot his mouth off. Jesus, Francis. I mean, what if she doesn’t believe me?”
“Hold your tongue for a second,” Urquhart seethed as he smiled. “Who, Roger? Who are we talking about?”
“Storin. Mattie Storin. And she said…”
“Did she have any firm evidence? Or is she just guessing?”
O’Neill paused for the briefest of moments. “Nothing firm, I think. Just guesswork. Except…”
“Except what?”
“She’s been told I had something to do with opening that Paddington address.”
“How on earth—?”
“I don’t know, Francis, I don’t bloody know. But it’s all right, no need to worry, she thinks I did it for Collingridge.”
“Roger I could happily—”
“Look, it’s me who’s done all the dirty jobs for you, taken all the risks. You’ve got nothing to worry about while I’m in it up to my neck. Oh, Francis, I need help, I’m scared! I’ve done too many things for you that I shouldn’t have touched, but I didn’t ask questions and just did what you said. You’ve got to get me out of this, I can’t take much more—and I won’t take much more. You’ve got to protect me, Francis. Do you hear? Oh, God, please, you’ve got to help me!”
“Roger, calm yourself,” he said quietly into the receiver, cupping it with both hands. “She has absolutely no proof and you have nothing to fear. We are in this together, you understand? And we shall get through it together, all the way to Downing Street.”
Nothing but uncontrollable sobbing came from the other end of the phone.
“I want you to do two things, Roger. I want you to keep remembering that knighthood. It’s just a few days away now.”
Urquhart thought he could detect a stumbling expression of gratitude.
“And in the meantime, Roger, I want you to keep well away from Miss Storin. Do you understand?”
“But—”
“Keep away!”
“Whatever you say, Francis.”
“I will deal with her,” Urquhart whispered and cut the connection.
He stood, his shoulders braced, looking out of the window, letting his emotions wash over him. From behind him came the hubbub of the powerful men who would propel him into Downing Street. To the front he gazed across the centuries-old view of the river that had inspired so many great men. And he had just put the phone down on the only man who could ruin it all for him.
Forty-One
What does a politician end up saying to St. Peter when at last they meet? Complain about the number of spoiled ballot papers? Plead that if only the polling stations had stayed open a little longer everything would be different?
I have my own plan. I intend to look him in the eye and tell the old bastard he’s fired.
He had called her later that evening. “Mattie, would you care to come round?”
“Francis, I’d love to, really love to, but won’t there be a scrum outside your house?”
“Make it late. They will all have gone.”
“And…Mrs. Urquhart? I wouldn’t want to disturb her.”
“Already returned to the country for several days.”
It was nearly midnight when she slipped quietly through the front door in Cambridge Street, making sure no one was watching. She felt somehow devious, yet expectant.
He took off her coat, very slowly, was looking closely at her. She felt awkward and suddenly kissed him on the cheek.
“Sorry,” she blushed. “It’s just…congratulations. Bit unprofessional, I suppose.”
“You might say that, Mattie. But I’m not going to complain.” And he started laughing.
Soon they were seated
in his study with its close, almost conspiratorial cracked-leather atmosphere, whiskey in hands.
“Mattie, you’ve been rather naughty, I hear.”
“What have you heard?” she asked in alarm.
“Among other things, that you’ve upset Greville Preston.”
“Oh, that. I’m afraid I have.”
“Afraid?”
“Grev won’t print anything of mine. I’ve been banished. On gardening duty.”
“That could be rather attractive.”
“Not when the whole world is changing and I’m not part of it. Not when…” She hesitated.
“When what, Mattie? I can tell something’s bothering you.”
“When something truly wicked is going on.”
“That’s politics for you.”
“No, this isn’t just politics. It’s far worse.”
“Tell me everything—if you’d like to. Treat me as a father confessor.”
“No, I could never do that, Francis.”
“I thought you said I reminded you of your father.”
“Only in your strength.”
Her cheeks brightened a little, she seemed bashful; he smiled. And suddenly for Mattie the room was filled with a swirl of colors—the crystal blue of his eyes, the swirling amber of the whiskey, the deep dark hues of the old leather, the rug of Persian purples. She could hear her heart beating in the womb-like silence. She held out her glass as he refilled it, knowing that she had started something by coming here that she would have to finish.
“I think someone deliberately targeted Collingridge.”
“I’m fascinated.”
“The leaked polls, leaked information. I think the Paddington address was a set-up, which means…”
“What does it mean?”
“The share dealing was a set-up, too.”
Urquhart looked startled, as if someone had pinched his cheek. “But why?”
“To get rid of the Prime Minister, of course!” she exclaimed, frustrated that he was being so slow to see what she had now clearly understood.
“But…but…who, Mattie? Who?”
“Roger O’Neill’s part of it.”
“Roger O’Neill?” Urquhart burst into mocking laughter. “But what on earth could he possibly have to gain from all this?”
“I don’t know!” She pounded the leather sofa with her fist, her frustration boiling over.
Urquhart rose from his own chair and came to sit by her. He took her hand, slowly unfurled each of her fingers, rubbed the palm with his thumb. “You’re upset.”
“Of course I’m upset. I’m a journalist sitting on the biggest bloody story of the century and no one will print it.”
“And I think you’re too upset to think clearly.”
“What do you mean?” she said, affronted.
“Roger O’Neill,” he repeated, his tone full of scorn. “The man can’t control his own habits let alone juggle the parts of a complicated plot.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“So…?” he prodded, encouraging her.
“He must be acting with someone else. Someone more significant, more powerful. Someone who could benefit from the change of leadership.”
He nodded in agreement. “There has to be another figure in there somewhere, pulling O’Neill’s strings.” He was pushing her down a dangerous trail but he knew she would get there eventually under her own steam. Better to hold her hand.
“So we’re looking for a mystery man with both means and the motive. In a position to control O’Neill. With access to sensitive political information.”
He looked at her with growing admiration. She was not only beautiful but, once she got going, made her way along the path with surprising skill. She gasped as she reached the end of the trail and suddenly saw the view.
“Someone who’d been engaged in a bitter battle with the Prime Minister.”
“There are plenty of those.”
“No! No! Don’t you see? There’s only one man who fits that whole bill.” She was panting with the excitement of discovery. “Only one. Teddy Williams.”
He sat back on the sofa, his jaw sagging. “Dear God. This is appalling.”
It was her turn to take his hand, squeezing it. “Now can you understand why I’m so frustrated. This extraordinary story, but Grev won’t touch it.”
“Why?”
“Because I can’t prove it. There’s no hard evidence. So I’m stuffed. I just don’t know what to do, Francis.”
“That’s one of the reasons I asked you round here tonight, Mattie. You’re going through a difficult time. I think I might be able to help.”
“Really?”
“You need something else to offer Preston, something he’ll be unable to resist.”
“What’s that?”
“The inside story of the Urquhart campaign. Who knows, I might even win. And if I do, afterwards those who have favored access would be in a very powerful position in Fleet Street. And I can assure you, Mattie, that if I win, you will have particularly favorable access.”
“You’re serious, Francis? You would do that for me?”
“Most certainly.”
“But why?”
“Because!” His eyes lit up in amusement, then became serious once again, looking deep inside her. “Because you are quite brilliant at your job, Mattie. Because you are exquisitely beautiful—am I allowed to venture that opinion?”
She smiled coquettishly. “You are very much allowed to say that. I couldn’t possibly comment.”
“And because, Mattie, I like you. Very much.”
“Thank you, Francis.” She leaned forward, kissed him, not on the cheek this time but on the lips. She drew back. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that.”
He hadn’t moved, steady, like a rock. She kissed him again.
* * *
It was much later that evening, well after one, after Mattie had returned to her home, that Urquhart left his house and went back to his room in the Commons. His secretary had already emptied the ashtrays, cleared the glasses, straightened the cushions. It had still been boiling with noise when he had left but now it was a silent as the dead. He closed the door behind him, locked it carefully. He crossed to the four-drawer filing cabinet with its stout security bar and combination lock. He twirled the dial four times, back and forth, until there was a gentle click and the security bar fell away into his hands. He removed it and bent down to open the bottom drawer.
The drawer creaked as it came open. It was stuffed full of files, each with the name of a different MP, each containing embarrassing and even incriminating material he had carefully withdrawn from the safe in the Whips’ Office. It had taken him nearly three years to amass these secrets, these acts of utter stupidity.
He knelt on the floor while he sorted through the files. He found what he was looking for, a padded envelope, already addressed and sealed. He put it to one side, then he closed the drawer and secured the filing cabinet, testing as he always did to make sure the lock and security bar had caught properly.
He didn’t drive straight home. Instead he drove to one of the twenty-four-hour motorcycle messenger services that flourish among the seedier basements of Soho. He dropped the envelope off and paid in cash for it to be delivered to its destination. It would have been easier, of course, for him to have posted it in the House of Commons where they have one of the most efficient post offices in the country. But he didn’t want a House of Commons postmark anywhere near this envelope.
Forty-Two
Cruelty of any kind is unforgivable. That’s why there is no point at all in being cruel in half-measure.
Wednesday, November 24
The letters and newspapers arrived almost simultaneously with a dull thud on Woolton’s Chelsea doormat. Hearing the early-morning clatt
er, he came downstairs in his dressing gown and gathered them up, spreading the newspapers across the kitchen table while he left the post on a small antique bench in the hallway. He received more than three hundred letters a week from his constituents and other correspondents and had long since given up trying to read them all. So he left them for his wife, who was also his constituency secretary and for whom he got a generous secretarial allowance from the parliamentary authorities to supplement his Cabinet minister’s stipend.
Inevitably, the newspapers were dominated by the leadership election. The headlines seemed to have been written by journalists moonlighting from the Sporting Life and phrases such as “Neck and Neck,” “Three Horse Race,” and “Photo Finish” were splashed across the front pages. Inside, the less feverish commentaries explained that it was difficult to predict which of the three leading contenders was now best placed. He bent over the analysis in the Guardian, not normally his first port of call. It often hopped around uselessly on its left leg but, since it wouldn’t end up supporting any of the candidates at the next election, it was arguably more measured and objective about the outcome.
The Party is now presented with a clear choice. Michael Samuel is by far the most popular and polished of the three, with a clear record of being able to pursue a political career without throwing out his social conscience. The fact that he has been attacked by some elements of the Party as being “too liberal by half” is a badge he should wear with pride.
Patrick Woolton is an altogether different politician. Immensely proud of his Northern origins, he poses as a man who could unite the two halves of the country. Whether his robust style of politics could unite the two halves of his own Party is altogether more debatable. Despite his time in the Foreign Office, he professes to have little patience with diplomacy and plays his politics as if he were still hooking for his old rugby league club. The Leader of the Opposition once described him as a man wandering the streets of Westminster in search of a fight, and not particularly bothered with whom.
Woolton let out a muffled roar of appreciation, demolished half a slice of toast and rustled the paper once more.
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