by Phil Walden
“You’ve got a moral code then?” she enquired.
“I could suspend it for one night.”
They embraced and fell into a deep and prolonged kiss, the photograph of Start slipping from her grasp. For Trisha the past was finally being left behind. For Catchpole this was another in a long list of attempts to come to terms with it.
*
Closeted in a dark corner of the Members Bar deep in the bowels of Westminster Palace, Alex McKenzie cut a concerned figure. He wasn’t deluded. He knew his purpose was to salve the party’s conscience, link them once again to the values and ideals forged by the founding fathers almost one hundred and twenty years ago. Sure, the faithful loved him but inwardly many believed he belonged to an age and a world which had passed and would never return.
However, the last electoral defeat had given him renewed hope that his vision for the future might still triumph. The Third Way had perished with the demise of the previous leader and none of the other pretenders appeared to offer anything radically different. He could not help but like Caroline Bruce. Who didn’t? She had risen through sheer stint of hard work, succeeding in never getting her hands dirty, never making an enemy. But she committed to everything and nothing. It was said that she was like a pillow, bearing the imprint of the last person to lie on it. Rumour had it that in the past James Devaney had been one such person, which to McKenzie would explain a lot, particularly her rapid rise to prominence under his leadership.
Nonetheless, Bruce had built a sound powerbase within the ranks at Westminster and was a genuine threat. McKenzie had been relieved that Dominic Wilson had also nailed his colours to the prospective leadership mast. Whatever he did discern about Bruce’s fundamental political beliefs appeared to be closer to those spouted by Wilson. Steeped in the philosophy of the nineties the pair both clung to what seemed to him a discredited version of centre ground politics. They could not accept it as a failure. Instead they believed that events both at home and abroad had conspired to firstly disrupt and then derail the project. With the eventual and inevitable economic recovery the same approach would lead to a resumption of power and return to government.
McKenzie passionately believed they were wrong. The economic crisis had driven a wider gap between rich and poor, impoverished millions of the working population, concentrated huge wealth in the capital and severely damaged the concept of society and the unity of Britain as a whole. The time was ripe again for revolutionary solutions to drastic problems. People were ready to listen and act. He yearned not just to be the soul of the party but its beating heart, delivering real socialism in thought, word and deed as leader. The alternative was oblivion: the role of elder statesman, tolerated, indulged, even loved but to all intent and purposes ignored.
He was confident that votes from the right and centre of the party would be pretty evenly split between these two rivals, allowing him to win a victory with the support of the left wing, the bulk of the membership and the trade unions. Devaney had proved ineffectual. It was no surprise. He was only ever a stop gap, a mere minder of the shop through difficult times whilst the succession was fought out. McKenzie’s moment was coming.
Two events shook this promising scenario. Wilson’s tragic death had cleared the way for Bruce to harvest his support and declare herself the sole leader of the moderate wing of the party. And then there was Tom Catchpole. His meteoric rise was staggering, eclipsing even that of Bruce. He had grown in stature and importance within the party, after several impressive performances in Parliament and his contributions in Shadow Cabinet were eagerly anticipated, warmly welcomed and supported. His brand of radicalism rivalled his own but was perceived and accepted as modern, relevant and appealing to an electorate hungry for a fresh approach. It had particularly captured the imagination of disaffected young people, anxious to embrace an ideology which broke from what they saw as the tired and failed policies of the past. His relative youth increased his appeal. Seen as handsome and personable, his rumoured romance with a top newsreader bought him column inches across the full range of the media, raising his profile and popularity.
So, surprised as he was to receive the invitation, McKenzie had agreed to meet with Patrick Carlton. He was curious. Paddy’s time in the party and his long political experience still commanded much respect. The man could have some influence over the succession. His reputation for wheeling and dealing behind the scenes was feared and respected. If they hadn’t been so damaging to Devaney’s leadership, he wouldn’t have put it past the wily old dog to be behind the rash of leaks.
McKenzie straightened in his seat as he saw the Shadow Leader of the House enter the bar, order drinks and pace enthusiastically towards him.
“Alex. Good to see you,” Carlton gushed.
“I’d given up on you.”
“My apologies, held up at the office. You know how it is.”
“Cut to the chase. What do you want?”
“Same old Alex, straight down to business, eh?” He sighed. “Well, to be frank, I’m worried.”
“The state the country’s in. You have good reason to be.”
“I agree. But it’s not that. It’s Jim.”
“What about him?”
“This isn’t easy for me to say. You know how close he and I have been over the years, how close we still are.”
McKenzie glanced at his watch. “Spit it out, Paddy. I haven’t got all day.”
“Listen. We both know a leadership challenge is likely.”
“I’d say certain.”
“So you’re making a challenge?”
McKenzie shrugged. “You obviously think so or why would you be here?”
“I’ll take that as a yes. You don’t know how pleased I am to hear that.”
McKenzie looked surprised. “Are you here for Jim or yourself?”
“I’m here for the party and its future.” Carlton leaned forward, his voice dropping. “Look. I don’t expect you to reveal your hand.” He paused as the waiter delivered the drinks to the table. “Just hear me out. At heart you know I’m a radical, always have been. I was raised in the old traditions of the party just like you. I’ve never been one for this Third Way nonsense.”
“No? You’ve served it well enough over the years.”
“A necessary compromise. You go with the flow or you influence nothing. But I’m not blind. I see the need for a change of direction and I’m sorry to say a change of leader.”
“The sooner the better,” agreed McKenzie.
“The problem is getting the right leader to deliver that change of direction.”
“If you’re such a closet socialist, why not run yourself?”
“I’m too old. My time has gone. But I know for a fact that, with you, the party would be in good hands.”
“What are you saying? You’ll back me?”
“Yes. That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
“Come off it. You’ve spent the last twenty years briefing against me and my kind. Why the sudden change?”
“Jim won’t deliver. Nor will the others.”
“You think I will?”
“I’ve not the slightest doubt. You’re the last chance for socialism in this country.”
“Let’s just pretend you’re serious. I have to win first.”
“That’s where I can help. You know I have important friends right across the party and the movement.”
“I won’t deny that.”
“I can deliver all the votes you need.”
“What are you proposing?”
“Let me do the footwork on your behalf. I’ll need time, of course. You’ll have to be patient.”
“I’ve been patient enough.”
“Agreed. But come the 1900 Committee, leave me to speak up for you.
“I’m supposed to trust you to do that?”
Carlton nodded. “I’ll prepare the ground…behind the scenes. For now say nowt.”
“What about Bruce? You know she has more support.”
> “Don’t worry about Caroline. Have faith, Alex. Leave me to sound folk out. By the end of the meeting, you’ll be the front runner.”
They talked on, Carlton, persuading and cajoling, dismissing the prospects of the other potential rivals. Catchpole was too young, too idealistic. Harry Spenser didn’t inspire trust or loyalty beyond the right wing of the party. The irritating little weasel had no chance.
Anyone watching from afar would have taken the final clink of spirit glasses held aloft as a celebratory toast to the past, to shared memories from two seasoned campaigners. But if they could have crept nearer and eavesdropped on the whispered conversation, the lack of laughter and the intensity of the discussion, they would have seen the meeting as nothing less than the declaration of a pact for the future of their party.
Chapter Thirteen
Olivia would have much preferred to have accompanied Start to London but she could see the logic of his thinking. Angel’s disappearance, the failure of the police to find her and the fact that two strong leads in the investigation had emerged, meant time was imperative.
Posing as a cleaner may have been the quickest way in which to gain regular access to the school but it hardly gave her much contact with the teaching staff. A mixture of Start’s predicted East Europeans and also Portuguese, supplementing their meagre income from sub minimum wage day jobs, mothers in search of evening work and sixth form students, Olivia fitted in with no problem. The rapid turnover in staff meant that no one took any particular notice of or interest in her. She would be here today and gone tomorrow, not worth the time or investment deserved by a more long term and loyal workforce. Initially she was allotted three classrooms, a connecting corridor and the chapel as her designated area, all to be completed within a three hour period. Floors mopped, desks wiped, glass polished, it proved hard and exhausting work and left her little time to search for the elusive caller.
The college prospectus had given her details and even photographs of all staff. There were over forty who taught, three quarters of them men, but of those barely half were old enough to have known Angel. A quick survey of an empty staff room at the end of her second shift had given Olivia the numbers of the classrooms where each took the bulk of their lessons. Several teachers were in the habit of preparing and marking into the early evening in those rooms. It was then a question of becoming efficient enough to complete her area as speedily as possible and then visit the classrooms identified. If she could in some way engage them in conversation, she felt confident she would at best get her man and at worst eliminate some targets from the search. Deacon had played her the voice. She knew its tone, speed and, most important of all, its stutter. She would be out of here within the week, she told herself.
However, locating her quarry proved more difficult than she had imagined. Finding the time wasn’t an issue. Olivia worked smoothly and efficiently, blitzing on through the lengthy tea and cigarette breaks enjoyed by most of the others, quickly drawing plaudits from her supervisor and even praise from Faversham as he entered the chapel at the end of her first week. He cut a somewhat portly and squat figure as he went on to curtly dismiss her before rounding up “my boys”, as he insisted upon calling them, and beginning the customary choir practice. Having finished, she would pick up a black bin liner and head for each of the classrooms she had identified, being careful not to be seen by the regular cleaners in those areas.
Talking to the staff proved problematic. Most barely looked up from their work as she knocked, entered each room, apologised for the interruption, and moved to empty a notionally full wastepaper bin. Those who did speak said so little that she could neither identify nor eliminate them from her list of suspects. Also it became clear that the teachers staying behind to work in their classrooms were those who lived away from the school. Those closeted on site took themselves back to their living quarters and were out of reach.
So by the end of her first week, she was no nearer succeeding in her quest. Over the weekend she resolved on a new course of action. She would have to flirt. Not in a romantic or sexual manner but merely wide eyed with interest and admiration for their intelligence and unstinting hard work. What man, she told herself, could resist that.
*
Since his meeting with Olivia to discuss her findings from the scrutiny of Coburn’s voicemails, Deacon had repeatedly gone to the safe at the end of each working day and, after checking that he was alone, begun to listen to the remainder of the tapes. He had sat long into the night, hours after the rest of his workforce had gone home. Paula King had been puzzled at the amount of time he spent locked away, even during the day. It was not like him. He would normally be out and about the office, with his familiar hangdog look, cursing and cajoling, forever warning them to look lively and work harder because their jobs were on the line. Worried, she occasionally looked in, but he always summoned a cheerful and relaxed demeanour and waved her away.
Beginning at the point Olivia left off, Deacon plodded his way through the minutiae of his former proprietor’s life, the arranged meetings, the cancelled appointments, the building of bridges and the all too frequent demolition of people. It was easier than the first time he had attempted such an exercise, back in London when the tapes were delivered, or latterly when Ed Donnelly had dropped his bombshell. This time he knew what he was looking for. Simon, Judas, James and John were already in the bag. Somewhere maybe the other eight disciples were waiting to be discovered and with them a clue to the possible reason for the existence of this most secretive of clubs.
All of which made the disappointment that much more acute when, after several days toil, he had unearthed nothing. No sign of a Thomas, Matthew, Andrew, Philip or Bartholomew. Two additional gatherings were mentioned, one in Suffolk and the other in God’s own county of Yorkshire. So, there had been a total of four meetings in the year or so leading up to his and Joe Start’s dismissals. Had there been more since? He had no way of knowing.
Deacon remembered that Coburn, when in London, had a habit of regularly calling into The Globe’s offices in the early hours of Sunday morning to view the first editions of the paper. A quick phone call to Donnelly brought an instant response. Coburn’s presence, much to the relief of all, had become a rarity in recent months, an occasional interference rather than the almost obligatory visitation they had expected and feared.
“Sometimes where Max goes is a complete mystery,” Donnelly explained. “Normally he leaves a location or an address but some weekends it’s just a mobile number.”
Deacon knew Donnelly was cut from the same block as him. He kept every email he had ever sent or received as a form of protection, covering his back, trusting no one. “How many times in the last year has it been just the mobile?” he asked.
“On six separate occasions,” Donnelly replied.
The frequency of the meetings appeared to be intensifying, thought Deacon. Could anything be read into that? He was tight lipped about the reason for his call and Ed knew better than to ask. The less he knew the better. He would never refuse Jack a favour but nor did he want to get too closely involved. He sensed this was big and he had a family, a mortgage and London to pay for.
The earlier tapes gave up one more name but it merely served to complicate matters. The get-together in Yorkshire had been confirmed and one “Barabbas” was earmarked to speak. Short, clipped and to the point as always, Simon gave little away. However, his words did blast a hole in Deacon’s fledging theory. Barabbas was not one of the disciples, far from it. He was the murderer, who, to the annoyance of Pontius Pilate in his efforts to save Jesus, had been spared from crucifixion by the baying crowd. And the more Deacon thought about it, what group in its right mind, whatever its purpose, would include the traitorous Judas in its ranks. He laughed at his stupidity, before breathing a resigned sigh. It was clear he was still a long way from cracking this one.
*
It was a walk and a vista Start had frequently enjoyed during his years in London, especially when, s
oon after their marriage, he and Trisha had settled in the borough. Okay, so it required a long trek up the hill to the Royal Observatory but the physical effort was soon justified. Their gaze would focus on the O2 Arena to the right before their eyes swept left to encompass the towering structures of the Canary Wharf complex. Then up along the river, the line of newly constructed flats and hotels gave way to the huge dome of St Pauls Cathedral with the elegant curve of the Millennium Bridge reaching back out across the water. The view was impressive by day, but they both preferred it by night. The lights of the skyscrapers would blaze back, their reflection shimmering in the fast moving tidal stream, the whole city alive with the expectation of the night ahead.
In better times, after a long working day, Start and Trisha were in the habit of meeting there, to vent their respective spleens, argue, confide, joke and laugh. They would then saunter downhill, spirits refreshed and minds cleansed, to eat at one of the many restaurants spreading across this increasingly gentrified corner of the capital.
His mood had been somewhat different in the immediate aftermath of his sacking. Then he had slumped on the bench underneath the walls of the Astronomer Royal’s home and fumed at the perceived injustice of it all. It struck him now as ironic that the outward beauty of the buildings laid out before him, hid the grotesque underside of city life. Bankers on huge salaries with mind boggling bonuses worked within metres of some of the most deprived neighbourhoods in Britain. Millions of pounds were effectively gambled every day in the pursuit of quick profits. No end product was ever made or seen because it simply didn’t exist. His own industry had followed the banks, largely deserting Fleet Street, relocating to this district and completing its headlong dive into the sordid gutter.
Now he was back in London. Back on the very same seat looking out on the same nest of vipers, unchanged and unreformed, despite its pivotal role in the collapse of so many economies and the decline of living standards across the Western world. And still they built. The relentless thud of piles being driven down to the bedrock of the Isle of Dogs was testament to at least two more glass clad monoliths, destined to be dedicated to the shameless worship of Mammon.
