‘David, need I remind, you said the buck stopped with you? Another thing on which you were advised?’
‘As I recall, I took that view because I sensed I was alone in all this, and on that score I think I was correct, judging by the size of the mess.’
‘It couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy.’
Well, well, Blaylock thought, disarmed to a degree in the face of the combative glow she exuded. At length he stood up and forced a smile, keen that she see his teeth.
‘I can see, at any rate, that no one round here is inclined to the Roman way of contrition.’
Phyllida also stood, and with a bearing he could only call imperial, as one who had let slip war from the folds of that Liberty print scarf. ‘I’m sorry, you want me to fall on my sword? Like the noble Cato? You might consider that option yourself, martial type that you are.’
Geraldine rapped and entered simultaneously, a reminder to Blaylock that urgency was not entirely missing from Level Three. ‘David, after your statement Martin Pallister’s been granted an Urgent Question? “To ask the Home Secretary about the security of UK borders and the absconding of violent criminals.”’
Blaylock nodded, straining to stay self-contained. ‘Of course he has.’
‘Also, Gervaise Hawley’s being quoted by the news, he says, “Today’s reports make dismaying reading. We must have the Home Secretary, his Permanent Secretary and Immigration team before us without delay, as clearly there are many questions they must answer.”’
‘A date for you and me then, Phyllida?’ offered Blaylock, as his Permanent Secretary moved to the door.
*
Before that day Blaylock would have said he had never truly feared the House. He had been called worse names in school playgrounds, had heard far more daunting levels of din, and had never known the complete ignominy of being the baited bear in the bear-pit, guts all on the floor. But that day reset all records.
He delivered his contrite statement. ‘The error was profoundly regrettable – the public will, rightly, be angered and dismayed. I give my undertaking that the lapse will not be repeated. The unprecedented difficulties we have had with the passport system have happened. But they are already in the past, and we will move forward and make right.’
He heard himself clearly, knew he had been heard out. Martin Pallister, however, rose to the despatch box with an assurance Blaylock had rarely seen even in one so proud.
‘Today we see the scale of the incompetence under this government, the shambolic state of border controls – for all the Home Secretary’s past pledges. The government talks tough on immigration and in private it flounders. It’s all just talk. Who gets in and out of Britain? The Home Secretary should stop pretending he is in charge of our borders, he should stop sending out his troops on pointless dawn raids. Because now we learn the truth hurts so much he decides it must be suppressed, sat upon for weeks – he decides it’s too hot for the public to hear. Does he not now think that honesty was the best policy? Wasn’t it his own convenience he had uppermost in mind? An easy life for the Home Office, keeping the government out of the headlines, instead of the truth that’s owed to the British public?’
There was huge and hearty support from the Opposition benches. Blaylock knew he had to get a rise in turn from his own side.
‘It is a fact that we inherited a broken immigration system—’
Instantly he was assailed by jeers.
‘And, and, we have battled hard to fix it. The deportation system remains clogged by years of mishandled cases and unreliable records, and the conditions that permitted the current state to come about were not engineered on our watch—’
The jeers intensified – as, in truth, he had expected.
‘However, we take responsibility for our own failings and for setting the failings of the past right.’
Pallister came to the box and leaned, insouciant. ‘Can the Minister tell us how many people are currently in the United Kingdom illegally?’
‘There are no official estimates of the number of illegal immigrants in the UK’ – jeers! – ‘because by its very nature illegal immigration is hard to measure, any estimates would be speculative.’
Jeers! Pallister now had the high-nosed look of the emperor wielding say-so over outcomes in the Circus Maximus. ‘Oh, but surely the Minister could make a fair guess based on data he has at his disposal? Isn’t it the case that he knows very well? He just has no clue what to do about it?’
Blaylock felt his face burn much as if it had been slapped. ‘My position, the case I have made, as the Right Honourable Gentleman well knows, is that so many of the needless obstacles we have faced will be avoided with the introduction of identity cards.’
Jeers!
‘The fact, the fact is that the law requires employers to determine if people they hire have permission to work in the UK. Likewise banks accepting new customers, likewise private landlords renting properties … But once we have identity cards and the national register I believe we will be where we need to be to see the end of this sort of farrago.’
Pallister shook his head, commanding the high tide behind him. ‘A farrago indeed, Mr Speaker – when people have suffered tragedies they might have been spared. When it could have been avoided by simple competence within a government department. This demands action. How many foreign national offenders are currently in the country? How many dangerous individuals have gone missing since this government took office? The Minister tells us often enough his number one priority is to protect our society and citizens. When he has failed so clearly, does he not feel his position is untenable?’
Blaylock got to his feet, aware he was flailing, aware of the subdued mood at his back, hating the sound of his own voice. The clamour in the Chamber was exceptional, his sense of sinking worsened by knowing there was no hole to swallow him. As he prepared to tell the House that he was the man to sort out the problem, he realised his own view was that he was nothing of the sort.
*
The battering done, he peeled himself off the canvas and retreated to his Commons office, where his PPS Trevor Parry – another ally appearing visibly queasy about his own fortunes – made a show of a ringside exhortation.
‘That was a poor effort in there by our side. I am going to bloody well get onto some people and tell them support is needed.’
Blaylock sent Parry on his way in time to receive the Prime Minister, a drop-in for which he had prepared the painful words that seemed necessary.
‘Patrick, I want you to know that if you think it’s right then I’m ready to resign. I said the buck stops with me, and I will sort it out. I am fully focused on rectifying the situation. However, I appreciate public confidence is vital, and I’ve no wish to harm the government.’
Vaughan looked thoughtful. ‘We don’t throw in the towel in round one. What I need to know is, what’s actually going to make the difference here, David?’
Blaylock opened his mouth to speak then closed it. The difference would be the public having heard his apology, believing what had not been done before would be done now; the agenda moving on, no more front pages; and nobody else losing their lives as a result of bureaucratic failure. In all, it was a tall order. And it occurred to Blaylock that, even if he could pull it off, he would not survive if Vaughan had someone in mind to fill his shoes.
*
Back at Shovell Street he found that Eric Manning had been swift in uncovering the fate of the document trail. However, the outcome was yet more dismal. ‘Yes, the letter sent to Sally Duffett came to us from the police. We replied to the police that he “was no longer of interest to us”.’
‘Because we were just happy he was gone.’
Eric nodded. ‘However, it’s not clear the police had relayed that message to Ms Duffett before … what happened last week.’
Mark Tallis entered, cheerlessly bearing updates. ‘Quarmby has given a press conference saying he stands by all his figures in the original report. Pallister’s
reiterated the call for your resignation on the BBC. “If the standards to which we hold ministers have any meaning then the Home Secretary needs to consider his position.”’
Blaylock shrugged.
‘What irks me is this, from some mouthy anonymous. “Someone has to get a grip at the Home Office. Whether that person should be David Blaylock is debatable. If it’s such a long-term problem then let someone else try.” See, I reckon that’s Paul Payne.’
Blaylock’s mobile pulsed. He saw that it was Abby, but decided not to wave Mark away.
‘David, is this an okay time?’
‘There won’t be one of those for a little while, I don’t think.’
He heard her exhale. ‘Listen, I haven’t felt great over how things have … come to pass. I wanted you to know that.’
‘I … appreciate that.’ He saw Mark watching him, evidently wishing he was listening in on an extension.
‘So I wanted to let you know, so you understand, so you’re ready. There’s more to come. The Correspondent will be running more.’
‘Look, I know Quarmby’s report, obviously. They haven’t held anything back I can see.’
‘It’s not just the report, David. There’s other stuff. About your department. About you. You’d just better get your tin hat on, okay?’
*
He cast a baleful eye over the nightly news and saw Jason Malahide, on his way out of the Palace of Westminster, yet allowing himself to be flagged down by a microphone-waving reporter: ‘David Blaylock is an honourable man, he can be trusted to do the honourable thing.’
The innuendo was typical, Blaylock thought. He checked his watch, 10.35 p.m., and regular as the school bell Mark Tallis called with what he had gleaned of tomorrow’s papers, starting with the Correspondent’s line of attack.
‘“A blind eye has been turned to illegal immigrants cleared to work in sensitive Whitehall security jobs, including at David Blaylock’s under-fire Home Office. One such employee, subsequently dismissed, is 25-year-old Nigerian national Fusi Solaragu, who was on such friendly terms with Blaylock that the blundering Home Secretary gifted him a gratis hospitality package to a top Premier League football match.”’
‘My god. I’d wondered what had happened to that guy.’
‘So, you didn’t declare those tickets, patrón?’
‘No, Mark, I forgot all the fuck about them.’
‘To be fair,’ Tallis coughed, ‘people might say it was decent of you.’
‘Come on, Mark, I just told the House every employer in the land has a duty not to hire illegals. This is just cutting me off at the knees.’
‘Yeah, I’ve talked to the guy who wrote the story, I told him, “You and me are going to seriously fall out.” He said, “That’s politics, Mark,” like he was my fucking dad or something. Then he tells me, “My boss said your boss has a target on his back and we’d not be doing our job if we didn’t keep firing.”’
Blaylock’s eye was drawn back to the muted TV screen where the presenter was showing off tomorrow’s headlines. ‘BLAYLOCK’S BLUNDERS.’ ‘KNIVES OUT FOR BLAYLOCK.’ It was as if they wished to bury him under a welter of alliterative crisis-cliché. He could see that a study of disarray was being painted in thick strokes, with him in the centre as an ad hoc, skin-saving, trouble-dodging chancer. Worse, the longer he looked at the story, the more he seemed to recognise himself.
2
On the second morning of the debacle Blaylock disturbed Phyllida Cox bright and early, seeking to arm himself with some clarity in advance of a live interrogation he had agreed to undergo on Today.
‘Yes, David, some weeks ago we were alerted to some problems with our subcontractor of security services, I ordered a recheck of all credentials, Mr Solaragu had a professional licence, what he didn’t have was leave to remain – his documents were false. Obviously he had to be dismissed and deported.’
‘Nobody thought to tell me this?’
‘There was a desire not to bother you, a concern for what would be your reaction—’
‘You’re saying it was my fault?’
‘Of course not, what I mean—’
‘Forget it, I see where we’re going.’
Mere minutes after his ramparts had been reduced to smoking ruins by Laura Hampshire he stepped out of his front door to be met by a jostle of shouting press. ‘Are you going to resign, Home Secretary …!?’
*
Arriving at the Cabinet Room antechamber close to the wire for the start of proceedings he observed his fellow holders of the great offices of state, Tennant and Moorhouse, in a tight conference with the Captain and Sir Alan Ruthven. He had a sudden, paining premonition of his removal from the top table – and sidling up to this group revived in him some adolescent sense of trying to fit in with a set of indifferent peers. Belatedly he realised they had been discussing the planned gathering of ministers on Sunday at Vaughan’s rural fastness in Dorset. Only when Vaughan made eye contact did Blaylock have any sense that his presence was still expected or required.
In Cabinet he directed a grimace at the table for the four-item forty-five-minute agenda, aware that at the bottom of a slough it was a forlorn hope to find company. What was clear was that for the moment he was leprous, radioactive; and he could imagine that some round the table would happily put a hundred quid on his being gone by the weekend, and uncap a good bottle of something in the event.
*
The evening paper piled onto his predicament with reports that his ‘closest allies’ were apparently as frantic and accident-prone as Blaylock himself had been painted. ‘YOU DON’T WANT TO MAKE HIM ANGRY!’ was the headline splash. Their reporter had recorded a call in which Mark Tallis had warned the hack away from further incurring Blaylock’s wrath. The paper had also obtained verbatim accounts of texts sent to backbenchers by Trevor Parry, urging loyalty and claiming Blaylock was being witch-hunted. Blaylock winced at the terms used. ‘For god’s sake ask yourselves why DB being targeted!? You think certain jealous parties aren’t out to get him?’ The implication that these loyal foot-soldiers were ventriloquist dummies for their boss was clear.
Tallis was excruciatingly contrite. ‘I know, patrón, if I become the story it’s the worst outcome, I mean I feel I’m the cause of all this—’
‘Oh, lay off, Mark, it’s a venial sin in the scheme of things.’
A text pinged to Blaylock’s phone: David can you talk? If so please call. J. Fully expecting Jennie to add to his pains he went out and found a vacant soundproofed pod.
*
‘How’s Bea?’ he asked her, and knew at once that he had touched the exquisite point.
‘The cancer’s back. And it’s spreading, rapidly. The oncologist said even an aggressive treatment might only give her a few months …’
‘I’m so sorry, Jennie. What will she do?’
‘Well, you know her view. We’re just talking about … managing it.’
‘If I can help in any way.’
‘Thank you.’
They were silent for some moments.
‘David … why I really got in touch, a journalist tried to reach me at chambers today, by false pretences I might add. And when I called them back they just wanted to ask me about you, and our marriage. I’m sorry to say they must have got to a few other people who may have, I don’t know, hinted at stuff … about your temper and the police getting called that time. I told them it was all beneath contempt and I had no comment.’
‘That was … good of you, Jennie. I mean …’
‘Oh, it makes me sick. This hack has the nerve to say to me, “If that sort of thing went on don’t you owe it to your kids to be honest about it?”’
‘Well, I mean, it’s not for me to say he hasn’t maybe got a point.’
‘David, I honestly don’t think it’s any other bugger’s business. Not now.’
*
At 11.36 Tallis phoned him with the news that the Correspondent’s morning offensive would focus on passport chaos:
‘FRESH BLOW LEAVES HOME OFFICE POLICY IN TATTERS.’
‘Yeah, they managed to find the one fucking border agent on a passport kiosk who’s an illegal immigrant.’
‘That’s a pretty good one,’ Blaylock sighed. ‘I have to admit.’
‘Yeah, well, the rest of it is just the most abject sniffing about. They put a hotline up for people’s stories and you’ve got people talking rot about all the times they arrived into airports to find deserted customs halls and empty desks.’
‘We know that happens, it’s not us, but, hey – what can we do?’
‘Not just take it, is what, patrón. The thing that’s out of order, they’ve hashed up a sort of a sidebar on you with stuff about your divorce, your kids—’
‘Yeah, I know. Whatever. There are no skeletons there. There were only two people in my marriage, and Jennie will not be talking.’
Tallis, seeming to feel the sudden bite in Blaylock’s tone, was pacified.
*
On the third day of the debacle he began to wonder if he was paranoid, or whether, in spite of his freefall, his department had actually acquired a collective spring in its step. He kept seeing slight smiles on people’s faces as if, in the teeth of catastrophe, their day had been made.
There was no tremendous hurry, the size of the current crisis seemed to defeat urgency. Rather, the die was cast, the Fates had chosen and the Minister was about to get hanged. Such urgency as there was, he felt, could easily be about how to cleanly show him to the door, what to get him as a light-hearted leaving gift. Who would buy the card, who would arrange the covert collection?
He was grateful when Geraldine put Lord Orchard through on the phone, with an offer of dinner at the nearby Spice of Life on Vauxhall Bridge Road. Blaylock fancied he might ask Jim for his advice on the possibilities of life after politics.
Duty told him he needed to keep focused on departmental work: after all, it still mattered. And yet it was absurd to him that he should act as though there was not a massive chance he would be out of the job by Friday. Preparing for Select Committee he found himself silent when asked for his thoughts. I could say any number of things, but so what?
The Knives Page 34
