by Phil Walden
Dominic Wilson had been different. His environmental obsessions were easy to indulge and Devaney knew them to be a luxury, only popular with middle class voters, conscience stricken during times of economic plenty. They barely impinged on the lives of ordinary working people too concerned with holding down a job and providing for their families to be overly concerned with carbon emission levels and the unseen faraway melting of the polar ice caps. However, the recent floods and storms were beginning to convince many of the need for action to limit the effects of climate change but he was sure one mild summer or a drop of winter snow would see any concerns wither.
Nonetheless, he knew a degree of support for green initiatives was not only necessary but politically useful. It gave the appearance of a party tackling a key issue and looking to reform and modernise its policies. The recruitment of a recognised campaigner in Tom Catchpole was designed to bolster this image and with Wilson’s demise, he’d been more than happy to fast track the newcomer into the Shadow Cabinet. It took the heat off him. It bought him some of that valuable time Paddy Carlton was always banging on about. But could he control the competing factions, neutralise them and survive?
Three polite taps on his door interrupted his chain of thought. He looked up to see Lucy Hass, her head peering around the door. “They’re all here.”
“Thank you, Lucy. I’ll be right along.”
She edged back and shut the door. He rubbed his eyes. He had no choice now. He would have to raise the subject. The earlier leaks had affected only junior ministers. These were undoubtedly talented and possibly future leading lights but, at this stage, were dispensable and easily replaced. But most of all their demise had drawn only passing attention and caused little damage to him or the party. Wilson was different. Add in the fact that the smear was thought to have contributed to his death and that of his young daughter, it was clear. He could ignore the issue no longer.
Easing out of his chair, he grabbed his notes and took the short walk to the committee room where the Shadow Cabinet was gathered. The babble of conversation quickly fell away as he entered the room. The tension was palpable. All eyes watched his progress to the high chair at the head of the table, a position he had long favoured as it required almost everyone else to bend their heads towards him. McKenzie’s scowl barely concealed his contempt, whilst Bruce looked distinctly embarrassed. Yes, the pack was gathering for the kill. Every political antenna in his body told him so. Even Spenser looked more agitated and involved. Catchpole alone looked calm and relaxed, like a man who was at peace with his lot and confident of his destiny. Somewhere in amongst this nest of narcissistic power seeking vipers, a Brutus or Iago lay. But who was the betrayer and how would he tell?
Devaney coughed. “Let’s begin.”
He paused. He looked around the table making eye contact with each and everyone of them. What he was about to say must count. They had to listen.
“Before we move on to discuss the agenda for the forthcoming meeting of the 1900 Committee, I feel it necessary to raise an issue which clearly threatens the unity and purpose of this body and as such seriously harms the chances of future success for the party as a whole. I speak of course of leaks, leaks which I increasingly feel emanate from someone in this room.”
There was an audible gasp. Caroline Bruce looked both surprised and affronted. “What on earth leads you to think that?”
“The pattern of leaks suggests it can only be someone who is privy to discussions of a politically delicate nature.”
Spenser was less dismissive. “Then that person has the death of two people on their conscience.”
“As well as the massive damage done to the movement,” McKenzie snarled.
Bruce shook her head. “I’m sure that’s of real concern to Dominic’s widow at this particular time.”
Carlton couldn’t resist. “Do I detect a little compassion in the new Iron Lady? Now there’s a surprise.”
The palms of Devaney’s hands were held up in a calming gesture. “Please, enough.”
Catchpole caught his eye. “If I may, Jim?”
“Of course, please go ahead.”
Catchpole leant forward, his hands clenched in front of his chest. He spoke with a certainty and authority that belied his relatively short time in this forum. “I returned to this country and joined the party for one reason: to win power. Without power, we are nothing. We can do nothing and achieve nothing, nothing to alleviate the suffering, nothing to address the inequality and the widening gap between rich and poor. And nothing to bring about change, change the people, our people, drastically need if we are to realise the vision of society all of us dreamt of when we resolved to enter politics. In short, power is everything.”
A few Shadow ministers murmured in agreement.
“At the moment the public see or are eagerly shown by an unsympathetic media a party squabbling, devoid of ideas and unsure of what and whom it represents. As a result they simply aren’t willing to entrust us with that power. And without unity, without a common purpose, they never will.”
“Well said, Tom, well said,” Spenser declared.
Catchpole continued. “Our image, regrettably, is one of ruthless ambition, self-promotion and greed. Outside the Westminster bubble no one’s impressed. Voters want policies they understand, politicians they can trust and a party that unashamedly represents them and their country.”
Spontaneously hands began to tap the table in support.
“This infighting has to end. The leaks, wherever they come from, simply have to stop. We need to engage with each other. We need to go out and talk to the people. Most of all, we must stand four square behind our leader!”
Agreement was now enthusiastic and widespread. Spenser inwardly smiled. He alone knew that his friend, whatever his professed doubts, had crossed his personal Rubicon, that he had overcome any self-doubts. Tom would enter the fray and be there, fighting fit and ready, whenever battle commenced. Spenser glanced around the table. Devaney was looking grateful, probably in the false belief that this show of fulsome support boosted his own position. McKenzie sat motionless, unimpressed, his look contemptuous. Bruce, however, reached across to touch Catchpole’s arm, hoping thereby to associate herself with the thrust and sentiment of what he was saying. But her forced grin and narrowing eyes betrayed her.
Spenser could see it all clearly. Inwardly they were dismissing Tom, treating him as a novice, some new kid on the block to be indulged, tolerated, cultivated even if it helped their cause, especially if it helped their cause. Well, let them think that. He, more than anyone, knew they were badly mistaken. Because history told him that what Tom Catchpole wanted, Tom Catchpole invariably got. The contest was most definitely on.
Chapter Ten
The prospect of breaking the law had in turn both appalled and exhilarated Olivia. Appalled, because throughout the bulk of her school years, she had always been a model of good behaviour and impeccable manners and any transgressions, however slight, had seen her racked with guilt and shame. Even her teenage rebellion had taken the mild form of a short dalliance with blue hair and the frequent use of the word ‘like’ to punctuate her speech. University had emboldened her, exposing her mind to new ideas and doctrines. But rather than enrich her, they had merely strengthened her belief in the status quo, almost as if such a stance was a form of tribute to her late parents, a way of maintaining their memory, a link to her past. As a result, for all her subsequent sojourns, she remained a straight down the line sort of woman. What Start was suggesting was wrong and totally out of order.
However, she could not deny that breaking into Hereward College filled her with a frisson of excitement. Judging by the equipment he had thrown into a bag, Start probably did this sort of thing all the time. Her desire to learn and no little curiosity demanded she participate. But there was something else, something she was less willing to acknowledge. Despite doting grandparents and the tough, confident front carefully constructed and maintained during years
of independent travel to some of the world’s more challenging countries, she remained at heart deeply insecure. The loss of her parents came at a difficult time in her teenage years. She had been robbed of their invaluable support and advice. Since then she’d pushed herself to the limit in everything she undertook, as if in denial of what she had lost and would never have. Some people saw her as driven, an opinion echoed by a string of discarded boyfriends. Even now there were moments when she doubted whether she had what it took to succeed in journalism, whether she would be resilient enough to deal with the pressures necessary to survive.
Perversely, Start had given her a sense of security and certainty. Possibly she drew strength from him, or maybe it was his hostility that had made her stronger, provoking her to fight back. But hard as it was to admit, she knew it was more than that. Perhaps it was his own vulnerability, barely disguised beneath the gruff exterior, or those tantalising glimpses of a deeper and more sensitive soul he tried so hard to deny, something which was visible in his occasional silences, where his mind seemed to disappear into prolonged thought and reflection. In those moments her stomach churned, no doubt, she told herself, because she felt sorry for him. Yes, that was it, she merely felt sorry for him. Whatever it was, breaking into a school building with him, however at odds with her accepted mores, now became acceptable, enticing and necessary. Surely this was proper investigative journalism, justified in any pursuit of the truth. She just hoped, if it came to it, the police would see it that way.
Heavy cloud cover led the sky to seamlessly merge into the land. Stars pierced through and specks of light leaked from nearby farms. A faint orange glow from the distant city was just visible on the horizon. Even the lines of hedgerows were indiscernible from the surrounding gloom. This allowed the black cab, with headlights doused, to surreptitiously park in a lane to the side of the main school building.
They crouched down to the side of the college gates and peered into the dark, eerily silent quad, the low lamp above the entrance the sole source of light.
Start jabbed her sharply in the ribs. “Ready?” Panic shot through her body, hesitancy evident in her questioning eyes. “Look, if you’re not up to this, I’m best on my own.”
His cocky and patronising tone crushed any doubts. “No way!” Olivia snapped.
“Ok. Let’s go.”
Dressed head to toe in black and bending low, they dashed across the quad. The large entrance hall protruded from the main building. Its flat roof was decorated by an ornate parapet and Faversham’s office lay just above it. Start reckoned they could gain access by climbing onto the roof and forcing open the small side window. He lifted a rope ladder from the bag.
“Stand back,” he ordered, grasping the two hooks at one end.
He threw the hooks over the parapet. There was a dull thud as they hit the tarmac surface of the roof. He pulled down on the ladder carefully. He felt the hooks grip on the stones of the parapet. He tugged hard. The ladder held.
“You first,” he whispered.
“Me?”
“Why not?”
She couldn’t argue with that and he knew it. In truth he felt a duty to watch her back. He pulled the sides taut.
“Go on then!” he growled.
She scowled back at him, whilst acknowledging to herself that his brusque demand and especially his decision to bring her along in the first place was in some way a vote of confidence. Whilst his initial objections were ridden with the barely disguised misogyny so typical of men his age, he had soon capitulated, almost as if he relished the prospect of initiating her into the darker side of the business. Well, she would show him that she was as good and as tough as any man, especially one approaching the threshold of forty and no doubt heading towards his first mid-life crisis.
She clambered up the ladder, one sure foot at a time with her hands and arms powering her body upwards. She reached the top, rolled over the parapet and dropped onto the roof. Slinging the bag across his back, Start followed, his weight causing the ladder to strain and sway as he struggled to join her. As he flopped over the stone ledge, perspiration discernible on his forehead, he was breathing heavily. She allowed herself a smug grin. She was in better physical shape than him. He looked down into the empty quad, quickly drew up the ladder and pushed it against the parapet. He dropped the bag down onto the roof surface, dragged back the zip and lifted out a short crowbar.
“Keep your head low,” he gasped.
He crawled towards Faversham’s office. She followed and watched as he levered the crowbar in between the window and its surround. He slid it up until it connected with the latch inside. A forceful crack saw the window swing free. They froze and listened. In the woods fighting foxes screeched and cried and a roe deer barked. Start hooked his leg over the sill and clambered in.
By the time Olivia had crawled through to join him, Start’s torch was searching the four corners of the study.
“Pull the curtains.” He pushed another torch towards her. “Take this. You start with the shelves. Go through every book. See if there’s anything hidden amongst the pages.”
She dragged the curtains tight together before turning on the torch. Her heart sank as its beam revealed what looked like hundreds of weighty tomes stretching the full length of the wall. “This’ll take forever,” she wailed.
“Just get on with it. We’re working, remember.” The sharp tone of his voice brooked no argument. He moved to the filing cabinet behind Faversham’s desk. “The list he showed me came from here.”
Start pulled at its top drawer. It was locked. He turned to the desk where Faversham had quickly returned the cabinet keys. Again it was locked. He picked up the jemmy, and rammed it into the small gap above the keyhole. The lock shot from its slot. The torchlight flickered at the exposed contents. He grasped the cabinet keys, unlocked the cabinet and began to work his way through file after file neatly stacked in each of the four drawers.
Over an hour later they were slumped down in chairs, torches extinguished, staring across at each other in bitter frustration. Olivia had painstakingly withdrawn and flicked through six shelves worth of books all without success. She had moved onto a stack of files piled high on racks to the side of the desk, turning page after page, the beam of her torch sweeping across the text in the hope of finding anything relevant to their search. Equally Start had combed through every folder in the filing cabinet, before moving on to the desk, again with the same outcome.
“They’re here somewhere, I just know it,” Start moaned.
“What if he’s destroyed them?”
“He’s not the type.”
“Isn’t it the sort of thing a bursar would keep? We might be looking in the wrong place.”
“He said all the records were in this office. In this!” He kicked the half open bottom drawer of the filing cabinet shut. Immediately, he regretted the action expecting the clunk of metal on metal to reverberate around the room, possibly alerting anyone nearby. Except the noise never came. Start leant forward, pulled the draw out and pushed it again, this time with his hand. He noticed that just before it was about to slot home, the drawer sprang back a little.
“That’s strange.” He moved it again, this time more gently. It stopped a fraction from the frame.
Olivia aimed her torch down. She saw that it was not quite flush with the frame of the cabinet. “Something’s probably twisted. It happens when these things get old.”
“But this looks brand new.” He continued to open and shut the draw. “No, it’s hitting against something. I can feel it.”
Again Start dragged the drawer back, now to its full extent and carefully manoeuvred it clear. He lifted his torch, bent down and shone it inside. The light picked out a package, heavily taped to the back of the frame. The colour of the tape was fresh and its adhesive held firm on all sides, suggesting to him that it had been placed there recently. Start reached in and ripped a broad, thick envelope from the surface.
Olivia said, “What is it?�
��
“A bundle of some sort.”
“Quick. Open it.”
Start’s fingers slid along the flap of the envelope.
“Don’t get too excited. In my experience people hide a lot of things.”
He reached in and pulled out a wodge of papers.
Olivia beamed as her torch revealed the heading on the first of the sheets. It read: Hereward College: Records of Employment 1993-95.
She tore the sheets from him. “Angel’s in here. I’m sure of it.” She began to skim through the stapled pages in front of her.
Instantly Start grabbed her arm.
A car engine growled in the distance. It grew steadily louder. Tyres screeched as the vehicle swerved through the school gates. They heard it skid to a halt in the quad below. Blue lights flashed across the ceiling of the study. “Turn off the torch!”
Start crawled to the window, lifting his head just enough to catch sight of the scene below. Two policemen jumped from a squad car and ran towards the school entrance.
Start felt Olivia’s hand on his shoulder. “Get back!” he whispered. “Pack the bag. Stay low.”
The main door of the entrance creaked open. His head edged a little higher as he watched a surprised Faversham, dressing gown wrapped tightly around him, greet the policemen.
“What is it, officer?” Faversham asked.
The porter, dragging a coat across his shoulders, followed hurriedly in his footsteps.
One of the policemen began to march around the quad. The other spoke to Faversham. “Your alarm triggered at the station.”
“We’ve noticed nothing here. All the doors are secure?” asked Faversham, his sharp look behind bringing a nodding confirmation from the porter.
“It could be one of your boys messing around.”
“I can assure you my pupils are not in the habit of carrying out pranks.”
