Body Politic

by J M Gregson

  He had been fiercely heckled by students in Manchester, but that was only par for the course, the kind of robust evening anyone making his way in the Conservative ranks must take on with enthusiasm. A hostile reception in such places even gave some kind of kudos within the Party; it indicated that the opposition in the country saw a man as a figure to be reckoned with.

  This was something altogether different. He had never seen Chris Hampson so annoyed. The fact that he had good reason did not make things easier. He wished now that he had not chosen to meet Chris with Zoe in attendance. He had thought to show her his easy mastery of a new situation, but he was now not at all sure that he was going to be seen in a good light in this.

  Like many MPs, Raymond Keane found it useful to have a source of income outside the House. It made one less dependent on the often unpredictable whims of the electorate and the Party moguls. It was also an insurance, a life that was there to be resumed if politics lost its attraction as a career or a source of interest. Many of his colleagues were lawyers, who went into city practices in the mornings when parliament was sitting. Raymond had Gloucester Electronics; until now, he had seen that as a more lucrative and worry-free income source.

  Now suddenly it was not worry-free. Chris was beginning to hector him. The fact that he had right on his side did not make the experience any easier for Raymond to bear. ‘Computer software doesn’t sell itself, you know,’ said his partner.

  Chris Hampson was five years older than Raymond, who realized guiltily that he had not seen him for over three months. His hair was greying as well as thinning; the lines round his deep-set grey eyes seemed to Raymond more numerous than he remembered them. Raymond leaned forward. ‘I know it doesn’t, Chris. I’m sorry I’ve been too busy in the House to give you the help I intended. I suppose it’s because you always seem so much on top of things that I rely on you to—’

  ‘Don’t fob me off as though I was one of your voters!’ Chris shouted angrily, hearing the words bounce off the walls of the small, low-ceilinged room in the cottage. ‘You know damn well that things are difficult. The competition your bloody Party is so keen on fostering is cutthroat.’ Hampson could hear his wife’s voice urging him on, telling him not to let his smooth partner get away with excuses.

  ‘I’m not fobbing you off, Chris.’ Raymond spoke quietly, recognizing the advantage which calmness would give him as his partner’s

  temper rose. Chris had always been the technical one, clever in developing products, but less at home with words. He could handle him, as he always had. ‘Oh, I admit I’ve not been able to give the business the attention I would have liked to, over these last months. But if you were in difficulties, you should have let me know. I’m sure—’

  ‘I did let you know. I’ve left messages on your blasted answerphone four times. I’ve faxed you at Westminster, I’ve faxed you here at the cottage. Once you faxed back that you’d be in touch. The rest of the messages you just ignored.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Chris! You knew I was going to be busy in the House. I’ve agreed to front that video for the States, and I’ll do it in the spring. Just give me a bit more notice if you need help, that’s all.’

  It sounded reasonable: Raymond was good at that. It looked to the future, to the promises of jam to come, and not to his omissions in the immediate past. Hampson was no fool, but he was a straightforward man; although he was aware that he was being outflanked and was determined to resist, he was not sure of the tactics he should adopt, whereas the man sitting relaxed on the other side of the shining oval coffee table seemed not to have to think but merely to act instinctively.

  Chris said sullenly, ‘You can’t just shrug things off. You never turned up for the meeting with that fellow who wanted to represent us in America.’ He saw his opponent raising his eyebrows in that enquiring manner, that gesture which suggested without words that his accuser was a liar, and said, ‘You must remember promising that. I was especially anxious that you should be there. You wrote it in your diary, a good six months ago. Moira was there at the time—she said she’d make sure you were in Bristol for the meeting.’

  Hampson remembered with his mention of the name that Moira’s successor as Raymond’s partner was in the room. He glanced abruptly at Zoe Renwick, that cool, intelligent presence who had sat without a word on the sofa at the side of the room, forgotten as the argument intensified and the two men became preoccupied with each other. Her pale, assured face answered his guilty glance with a small, reassuring smile, but she remained silent, as if her composure could reassure him that he had not after all made a faux pas.

  Where Hampson had been all excited, uncoordinated movement as his temper rose, Keane had hitherto remained resolutely still. Now he waved a hand in a small, dismissive gesture, as if to signify that he was above the petty concerns which dominated his business partner. ‘You needn’t be afraid to mention Moira. Zoe and I have no secrets from each other,’ he smiled, with an affectionate glance at the elegant blonde woman on the sofa. He did not wait to see if she answered his smile. His concentration was on Hampson.

  He spoke now like a statesman, explaining to a minion why lesser affairs must always be subordinate to the affairs of the nation. ‘I remember the occasion well. I was on a trade mission in Italy at the time. You should have been informed that I wasn’t available. If my secretary didn’t get in touch with you, I can only apologize.’

  His expression was artless and reasonable, his hands opened almost imperceptibly towards Hampson as they lay on the arms of his chair. Chris wanted suddenly to punch that handsome face, to shatter the careful dentistry of that slightly open mouth which seemed to be taunting him. He found himself gripping the arms of his chair to keep control. ‘This is my life, Ray. It’s all I’ve got. It may be a tinpot little business as far as you’re concerned. But it’s been a lucrative one. So far.’

  Keane ignored the implied threat. ‘Of course it has. And it isn’t tinpot, it’s very important. And I’m grateful to you for carrying the brunt of the development over the last few months, but—’

  ‘Last few years, you mean!’ Hampson almost exploded in the face of the other man’s insouciance. This time he found he was no longer concerned about the effects he made. Shouting was an outlet, and an outlet he needed if there was not to be physical violence. ‘I’m just about sick of your damned excuses. Either you pull your weight or you get out!’

  His threat rang round the room. It was followed by a silence which seemed more profound for the passion which had preceded it. Hampson’s heavy, irregular breathing was the only sound to be distinguished. He was trying unsuccessfully to control it, but succeeding only in making it even less rhythmical.

  Raymond Keane took his time, letting the interval stretch almost unbearably for the other two people in the room. Then he said, ‘Perhaps you haven’t read the details of our agreement recently, Chris. It’s a partnership, on equal terms. We split the profits as we have always done.’

  ‘Not if there isn’t equal work, we don’t.’ Hampson gasped the words out. He was so astounded at the other man’s effrontery that he could scarcely articulate them.

  Keane was at his most urbane now, riding on his opponent’s discomfiture. ‘I’m afraid you’ll find that isn’t so, Chris, if you look at the terms we agreed when we set up the firm. Nothing is said about the degree of input of the partners. It’s difficult to evaluate these things, in any case. Since you seem to have documented Moira’s presence so clearly, you will no doubt recall that she was there on another, earlier occasion, when we discussed my election to the Commons. It was agreed that my higher political profile, with its position in the public eye, would be valuable to a small firm like ours.’

  ‘It’s what you talked about at the time, not what we agreed. I didn’t get the chance—’

  ‘The public image is what I’m contributing to the firm, what I’m working hard to build up. And that is what we agreed at that time. I’m sure Moira would confirm it, if you think it’s w
orth disturbing her.’

  He glanced at Zoe for confirmation, though he knew that she could not give it: she had never met his former mistress. He managed to imply both that he lived a free and open life, so that there was no embarrassment in discussing a former lover with the woman he now planned to marry, and that Hampson might be unfeeling enough to disturb Moira, who was now an invalid, in pursuit of his selfish ends.

  Chris said harshly, ‘I’m not talking about the small print of agreements. I’m talking about what’s just and equitable.’ He was pleased he had managed to get that phrase out. He sat on the edge of his chair, glaring challengingly at his partner. He hated the smoothness which he had so admired in Ray Keane in their early days. He had never expected it to be turned upon himself.

  Keane shrugged his shoulders, smiled a smile which expressed his surprise at how little the other man understood of the world. ‘What’s just and equitable is a very vague concept. It’s capable of different interpretations by different people, Chris. As I’m sure you will appreciate, upon reflection.’

  He looked again at Zoe, smiled at her over Hampson’s downcast head, trying to assess what effect this was having on her. Power was supposed to be the ultimate aphrodisiac for women, and he was asserting his power now in this quiet, almost claustrophobic setting. He had no doubt whose will would prevail in this conflict, however much right Chris might have on his side. Zoe stared back at him steadily for a moment, then switched her gaze to the man sitting frustrated on the edge of his chair.

  Keane had won now, and all three people in the room knew that. Hampson said dully, ‘We can’t go on being successful if you don’t pull your weight. We’ll need to talk about it.’

  ‘Of course we shall. Let’s just give it a few days, for both of us to cool down.’ His smile said that only one of them really needed time to cool down, but that he, Raymond Keane, successful businessman and rising MP, was used to being magnanimous about these things.

  He stood up, signifying that their business was concluded. Successfully, as far as he was concerned. He ushered Hampson to the door, preventing himself with difficulty from throwing an arm across the other man’s shoulders. The rigidity of the taller man’s torso and arms warned him that Hampson was still seething, so that any form of physical contact might be a mistake.

  Keane said, ‘I’ll be in touch, Chris. At the end of the coming week. I’ll definitely phone you this time, I promise.’ It was his first acknowledgement that there had been substance in the older man’s complaint.

  He stood in the doorway of the old cottage to watch his partner drive away, beaming a false fondness as he waved him into the distance.

  Zoe Renwick watched Hampson’s departure from behind the low leaded-light window. She had seen a ruthless display of power by Raymond Keane which bordered on cruelty. And what was worse, he had revelled in it. It was a facet of her husband-to-be that she had not even suspected. She found it quite disturbing.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The man in the trees watched Chris Hampson drive away from the cottage. He was curious about this visitor for a little while, as he had been curious when he watched him arrive forty minutes earlier. But his interest in this stranger did not last for very long. It could not contend in his mind with the hatred, steady and intense, which he felt for the man who remained within the house.

  There were still a few leaves on the beeches and oaks, and the rich orange needles of the larches had not yet dropped to the dry ground beneath them, as they would do by the year end as the frosts grew sharper. They gave him concealment enough, but whenever he felt the need of it, the tall firs on the edge of the wood provided him with deeper cover.

  It was dark as he moved beneath these, dark as in those northern forests of Europe, where the trolls controlled a darker world and the nights scarcely conceded daylight at all at this time of the year. On some days now, the man felt that he would be happier if it were dark all the time.

  He flapped his arms occasionally behind his screen. His sparse frame should have shivered, but he wore so many layers against the cold of the December day that he scarcely felt it. He was warmed by the fire of hatred which burned within him against Raymond Keane, MP and hypocrite, who had proved a false friend and a smiling, polished enemy.

  Well, he could play that game too. A man could smile and smile, and be a villain. The man who had first said that had also been a little uncertain about how he should proceed with his revenge, at first. But he had killed his man in the end. The people who gave him such curious looks as he went in and out of his house nowadays would be surprised to know that he knew about things like that.

  The man in the woods went on another of his small, slow perambulations, his hands deep in his pockets, his lips lifting slightly at their edges.

  *

  Sunday morning was not a fair time to spring unwelcome surprises upon a man.

  Detective Sergeant Hook was struggling hard, but he was a fish that was already hooked and only had to be landed. He knew the rules of the game, and as a sportsman he knew that when the wriggling was over he would have to accept them.

  ‘Eleanor had no right to say that I’d do any such thing!’ he said gruffly.

  ‘But she did. And now you must,’ said John Lambert gleefully. ‘As your superintendent, I have to insist upon your completing the bargain, however reluctantly.’

  ‘But golf. Bloody golf,’ said Bert gloomily. ‘Bloody, bloody, bloody GOLF!’

  ‘There you are. You’re beginning to get the vocabulary already. You could be a natural for this game.’

  ‘Who wants to be a natural in such a damned stupid game? It’s the worst thing that could happen to a man. You’ll have me drinking gins and tonics and voting Conservative within a year, if you have your way.’

  ‘A man’s politics are his own business,’ said Lambert sententiously. ‘There’s no reason why golf should affect your brain, if you keep it under proper control.’

  ‘A man’s soul lost, for the sake of a night’s baby-sitting,’ said Hook glumly.

  ‘All this talk about souls is an overreaction. I blame this Open University degree of yours. Is Ibsen on your course, by any chance?’

  ‘Ibsen wouldn’t have gone anywhere near golf,’ mused the downtrodden Hook.

  ‘That explains a lot. Most of his characters talk like people short of a physical challenge,’ said Lambert breezily. He decided to turn the knife. ‘You were bought very cheaply, actually. The boys were quite charming. We chatted about football for a while, and then they went to bed like lambs when we told them it was time.’

  ‘Damned little traitors,’ Hook moaned. ‘They never do that for us.’

  ‘I expect they’d been threatened with all kinds of retribution if they didn’t behave,’ smiled Lambert, thinking back ten years and more, to the days when he needed baby-sitters for two lively daughters. ‘Anyway, I want you to know that they were as good as gold. But that doesn’t mean you don’t have to pay the forfeit. A basket of fifty balls at the driving range.’

  ‘Not today. I need time to adjust to the idea,’ Hook said firmly.

  ‘Right, you shall have it. We’ll leave it until after Christmas and the New Year. That’ll let you dwell on the challenge to come. Monday, January the second. We’ll lunch at the Miller’s Arms afterwards. If you’ve any appetite left after you’ve compromised your soul and your afterlife.’

  Lambert pushed himself back against the seat of the old Vauxhall Senator and eased the car away from the kerb. That date would give him a full two weeks of teasing, in a period which seemed likely to be thin on serious crime.

  ‘All right. Monday the second of January it is, if that will shut you up,’ said Hook dolefully. It would never do to let Lambert know that he was beginning to look forward to the activity. Hitting a dead ball when you decided you were ready to hit it must be quite easy and exhilarating.

  And it would be a one-off, of course. He would never ever join a golf club.

  *

 
; Inside the warm thatched cottage with its cheerful fire, Raymond Keane found after Chris Hampson had gone that his display of power was not quite the aphrodisiac the sexual pundits said it should be.

  Zoe Renwick was cool, even apparently abstracted. He followed her into the small, neat kitchen and clasped his arms round her waist from behind her. ‘Penny for them?’ he murmured into her ear. He was excited already by a scent which might have been no more than expensive soap, by the soft touch of her hair and her neck. She tossed her fair hair in a gesture of dismissal, and he had more sense than to pursue any sexual plans in the face of her coolness.

  Zoe made them sandwiches and a pot of tea for lunch. She came and sat carefully opposite him rather than beside him, holding her hands out briefly for a moment towards the fire, though the room was already warm from the central heating.

  The lounge had two windows, but they were quite small, designed in the days when the primary concern in these thick-walled dwellings was to keep in all the available heat. In the soft half-light, with the reflection of the fire flickering against her pale face, Zoe’s strong features had a Scandinavian beauty.

  He could imagine her wrapped in thick woollens in a ski-hut, her long legs curled beneath her after an exhilarating day on the piste. Or even off it, on runs they had found for themselves: they were both strong, experienced skiers, and that would allow them a more private place to spend the long, contented nights. Raymond stretched his legs towards the fire, revelling in the thought.

  Later, when her mood softened, he would take her to bed.

  When she did not speak to him, he picked up the Sunday paper; turning automatically to the business section and its thoughts upon the Chancellor’s latest strategy. Zoe looked for a moment at his square face, studying the nose which had been broken and reset a fraction off centre. She thought for a while about how little you could sometimes deduce of what went on behind features which were so familiar to you. Then she said, ‘I think we should go to see Moira together.’