“It’s a practical policy,” he replied. “Designed to protect people.”
She took a deep breath, forcing herself to stay patient. “Do you really believe that?”
“This is the next step in our battle with the terrorists. I need you to sort it out.”
Jennifer stared at him. She was horrified at what he was proposing.
“Why do you think that this will cut immigration? Why do you even think that immigration has security implications?”
“There’s no escaping the facts, Jennifer.”
“What facts? You’re saying you want to impose restrictions on immigration from countries you suspect of harbouring terrorist organisations.”
“Yes. We want to keep them out.”
“But that won’t stop the terrorists, if they’re determined. They just get false passports.”
“We have to do something. This sends a message. Tightens security.”
“I don’t believe you really think this.”
He said nothing.
“So which countries are you talking about?”
He swallowed. “Pakistan, Afghanistan, Saudi Arabia. A few more.”
“Muslim countries.”
“Countries harbouring terrorist organisations.”
She shook her head.
“Like I say,” he said. “If you help with this, it means a promotion. Immigration Minister. We – I – need you to push it through.”
She looked at him. The Home Office bomb had got to him, yes, but not like this, surely?
“I’m sorry,” she said, her breath shallow. “I can’t support this. We’re still the Labour Party.”
John sighed. “We’re in government, Jennifer. We have to do what it takes to keep this country safe.”
Jennifer looked at him, thinking of all the speeches she’d watched him make over the years, before and after becoming an MP herself. All that passion, all that anger; was this what it had come to? Then she thought of Michael, smooth-tongued in his expensive, perfectly tailored suits that matched his private education.
“Tell me you had nothing to do with this idea,” she said.
“That’s irrelevant, and you know it. We’re government ministers, and we act together. Or there’s chaos.”
She sighed. “I can’t believe he’d go this far.” She paused, judging the wisdom of what she was about to say. “Does it ever occur to you he’s in the wrong party?”
“Who’s in the wrong party?”
She span round to see Michael Stuart at the door. Don’t blush, she told herself. Don’t show him how rattled you are.
John spoke for her. “No one. We were just gossiping.”
Michael narrowed his eyes. “That’s not like you, John.” He turned to Jennifer. “I assume he’s told you?”
“He has,” said Jennifer. “I don’t understand why you’re here.”
Michael shrugged. “It’s handy having you in the Treasury. I can come straight through from Number 10. Maybe I should move all the Cabinet here. What do you think?”
“I think they should stay with their staff.”
“Not about that. About what John’s told you. Your chance to be in the Cabinet.”
“If I go along with these immigration proposals.”
“Yes.”
She shook her head. “It’s not right, Michael. We all know that you can’t stop terrorism by keeping innocent people from moving around. And think about what the backbenches will—”
He waved a hand. “That’s not your concern. And as for it being right, since when was protecting the people of this country not right?”
“This won’t protect anyone. It’ll just erode human rights and make us look even more right wing than Trask.”
A shrug. “Again, not your concern. My priority is security and protection. No one else will die at the hands of extremists – not on my watch.”
Jennifer looked from him to John; why was John saying nothing?
“This will happen,” Michael continued. “I’d prefer you to be involved. John believes your experience and reputation will help. But if you refuse, it won’t change anything.”
He turned and left, his footsteps muffled by the corridor’s carpet. Jennifer resisted the urge to follow, to check he hadn’t stopped to listen in.
She turned to John. “Tell me that wasn’t planned.”
“It wasn’t. He pops in here every now and then.”
“Did he know you were seeing me?”
“Yes.” A pause. “So? What’s your answer?”
She felt her palms turn sticky. Her mind was reeling and she needed to sit down. John watched, raising an eyebrow. His scars had healed now and were all but invisible. He looked healthier than she’d ever seen him.
“What Michael said. He will make this happen without you,” he said, his voice low and firm. The voice Jennifer adopted when she was trying to make the boys behave. “There are others who would be more than happy to take your place, and spearhead this.”
She closed her eyes. She knew there were other junior ministers snapping at her heels.
“Are you threatening me?” Her eyes snapped back open. “Are you sacking me?”
“No. No, Jennifer.” John stood up and their eyes locked across the desk. He glanced down at Jennifer’s knuckles, turned white as she braced herself against the desk. Then his face softened. “Please – calm down. But you have to know we will make this happen whatever. Michael has his heart set on it.”
“Don’t tell me to calm down.” She straightened up, backing away from him. Was this who she’d been working for, all along?
“ I won’t be any part of this,” she said, her voice trembling.
John shook his head. “Now, look, don’t be—”
Her chest filled with heat. She cut off the rest of his words, heat running through her.
“I resign.”
Part II
October 2020 - February 2021. London and Birmingham
16
October 2020. London and Birmingham
It was rare for Jennifer to be outdoors at this time of day.
Eight am and she was sitting on a bench in Green Park, aware that the damp wood was staining her skirt but too angry to care.
Struggling to remember how she had found her way here, she looked around, numbed by the normality of the surroundings. A tree overhung the bench, the last leaves clinging to it. An expanse of grass glistened in the thin sunlight, and beyond that a layer of mist cloaked a silver-grey pond. Jennifer shivered, realising she’d forgotten her coat. How cosseted she’d been, hidden away in a ministerial car or first class rail carriage.
Around her, people were enjoying the bright chill of the autumn day. A pair of disheveled women sat on the next bench along. Their grey-rimmed eyes followed a trio of toddlers running around on the grass in front of them, bulky in their fluffy pink coats. A teenage couple giggled between syrupy kisses, sitting on a leather jacket spread on the grass. People were exercising dogs, jogging, power-walking, or just taking a diversion on their way to work.
Jennifer picked her phone out of her bag and brought up Yusuf in her contacts. She stared at the phone for a moment, thinking. Slowly she tapped his name and then held the phone to her ear.
She waited while the phone rang out twice then shifted to voicemail. She slumped and snapped the phone off, putting it back in her bag.
She shivered again, and not just from the cold. What have I done?
She didn’t regret her decision. What John had proposed was a step too far. Jennifer couldn’t live with herself if she played the leading role he was asking of her. Let alone live with Yusuf.
But embarrassment at her response was already gnawing at her. Storming out like that made her look petty and emotional. And, what was worse, she would have to go back. She had exploded from John’s office, momentum pushing her out onto the street, avoiding the gaze of the puzzled front desk staff asking if they should call a car. She hadn’t taken a detour via her own office o
r picked up any of her things. She hadn’t even formally resigned. John would be assuming this was a fit of pique, that she would sidle back later, tail between her legs, agreeing to do the PM’s dirty work.
That wasn’t going to happen. But she owed John the courtesy of making her resignation official. And she didn’t want to lose what few of her own belongings were among the packing cases.
She stood and turned towards the street, hailing a taxi.
Back at the Treasury building, she slipped in via a side entrance and managed to make it to her desk without speaking to anyone. She turned on the PC she’d barely used to type a resignation letter: one copy for John and the other, more formal version, addressed to the Prime Minister. She found a plastic bag in a bottom drawer and swept her personal belongings into it: a photo of Yusuf, more of the kids, a couple of paperweights; her Law certificates, framed. Not much to show for a glittering career.
She left the office, easing the door closed behind her. She stopped to place the sealed envelopes on Donna’s desk. Donna looked up from her screen. But Jennifer didn’t have the words – or the nerve – to tell her.
She swallowed. “Make sure those are sent to John and Michael Stuart immediately, please.”
“Certainly, Minister.”
“Thanks.”
Donna looked at the envelopes and then back up at Jennifer. There was a question in her eyes, but she said nothing. Jennifer berated herself for being such a coward; for not being able to tell her staff, who had been so hard-working and loyal, for not giving them the satisfaction of a proper farewell.
She forced a smile and tugged on her coat as she left the little suite of offices for the last time.
As Jennifer walked through the door of her empty London flat, her mobile buzzed: Yusuf.
“Hello love, what’s going on? You’re on the TV. Is it true?”
“Is what true?” She wedged the phone under her ear and turned on the news. Sure enough, archive footage of her was being shown: speaking at party conference, visiting a school, campaigning in the constituency. The film cut back to the studio.
“We’ve heard that Ms Sinclair has resigned to spend more time with her family, but we haven’t had official confirmation from the Home Office, nor have we heard anything from the former minister herself.” The presenter turned to a pundit sitting next to him. “Vanessa, do you think we should be reading between the lines here?”
“Well, Tom. Many a politician has resigned to ‘spend more time with their family’. And it normally means something else. But in this case, Jennifer Sinclair’s family situation, with her Muslim husband and sons, could be making things more complicated.”
The phone dangled from Jennifer’s hand. She heard the tinny sound of Yusuf’s voice and lifted it back to her ear.
“What’s going on? Is it true? Have you resigned? Why didn’t you talk to me about it?”
“Yes, it is true. But not because of what they’re saying. Believe me, you’ll be glad when I tell you.”
She recounted her morning to him: the summons to John’s office, the hasty resignation, the trip back to pick up her things.
“Shit. You did the right thing. But what can we do to try and stop them?”
“Nothing, at the moment. Nothing I can think of. They haven’t made their intentions public yet. Now I’ve resigned, I don’t have access to that sort of information any more.”
She paused, her head thick with a threatening headache. “Yusuf, did I do the wrong thing? Should I have stayed and tried to stop it from the inside?”
“No, love. There’s a line you don’t cross. You know John wouldn’t let you undermine him like that. At least you had the satisfaction of walking out before they sacked you, which it sounds like he was threatening to do.”
“You’re right, I know you are. But first I want to clear up all this family rubbish. I won’t lie down and let them say that your faith means I can’t be a government minister.”
“Just be careful. You don’t want to say anything that’ll be misquoted. They’ll be frantically briefing against you.”
“I’ll be careful – I promise. I’m going to make a couple of calls and then I’ll be on the first train.”
She hung up and called John.
“Ms Sinclair.” It was Amanda, his PA, who normally addressed her as ‘Minister’. It felt like she’d been erased.
“Hello, Amanda. Can I speak to John please?”
Amanda didn’t miss a beat. “I’m sorry, but he’s unavailable at the moment.”
“Well, can I leave a message?”
“I’ll tell him you called.”
“Thanks.”
Amanda’s tone made it clear that the call wouldn’t be returned. Jennifer still didn’t know where the news story had come from; had the Home Office told them she’d resigned to be with her family, or had they jumped to their own conclusions?
She dialled Lucy Snape, a political correspondent on the Guardian. Someone she’d been able to trust in the past.
“Lucy, I need to ask you something off the record. Do you know why they’re saying I resigned because of my family? Is that what they’ve had from the Home Office, or are they making it up?”
“Don’t you know? I thought the Home Office would be working from a statement you prepared.”
“No, they’re not.”
“I just got a press release. Says you’ve decided you need to spend more time with your family, and that you’re taking a break for a while.”
“What?”
“Jennifer, is there something going on here? Why did you resign, exactly? I take it you did resign?”
“Yes, I did resign.” She thought fast, sifting through options, deciding not to act. Not yet. “But I can’t tell you why.”
“You sure? I’d have thought you’d want to tell your side of the story.”
“Yes. No. Sorry. Look, we’ve worked together before. If I tell anyone it’ll be you. But I’m not ready. Not now.”
“OK.” Lucy sounded wary, but excited. “You know where I am, yes?”
“Yes, I do. Thanks.”
So, thought Jennifer. John had chosen to hide his own plans by releasing lies about her.
She was angry and not in a fit state to make clear decisions. Yusuf’s rational head was what she needed, so she packed a bag and phoned for a taxi.
Outside, the press pack had started to gather. She could hear their voices through the door before she even opened it. She steeled herself to push through them, then opened the door. The noise exploded.
She made her way down the steps, feeling the press of their bodies as they threw questions at her, making her chest tighten. She avoided eye contact and elbowed her way through.
“I’ll speak to you when I’m ready!” She dove into the welcome depths of the cab. “Euston,” she snapped at the driver, turning her face away from the cameras.
Three hours later, she arrived home in Birmingham, in another taxi. They were waiting there, too. Two men bounced out of separate cars, falling over each other in their haste to get at her. She flew to the front door, grateful that Yusuf was ready.
“Let me in,” she panted, slamming the door behind her and turning the lock.
In silence, they walked through to the kitchen. It was gone six o’clock, and as Yusuf turned on the lights the windows blackened. Jennifer felt a stab of anxiety that someone might be out there, watching from the dark of the garden. She shook her head, reminding herself that they had lights with motion sensors. She wished they’d thought to install blinds. She slumped down at the table.
Yusuf sat next to her, his hand enveloping hers. He’d pulled a chair round to face her.
“Yusuf, what have I done?”
She collapsed into him, trembling. They sat like this, until her breathing slowed.
At last she let go.
“I bet you haven’t eaten, have you?” he asked, standing. As she watched him move around the kitchen, she realised she hadn’t seen the boys yet.
<
br /> “The boys are at my mum’s,” he said, as though reading her thoughts.
She left Yusuf stirring pasta sauce and slipped upstairs. She needed to change her clothes.
“Hi there.” Yusuf had appeared in the doorway. “Food’s ready.”
She walked to him, her arms out, and gave him a hug. He smelt of garlic mixed with aftershave. It was true, she hadn’t eaten since a snatched breakfast at six.
They ate in silence. As Jennifer cleared the plates away, Yusuf broached the subject of John’s proposals. She didn’t feel ready to think about it, but they needed to start planning.
She sat down and put a notepad between them, chewing a pen she’d pulled out of a drawer.
“What’s he planning to do next?” Yusuf asked. “We need to anticipate and respond.”
Jennifer sighed. Her mind felt thick and heavy. “I’ve no idea.”
Yusuf gave her a concerned look. “But you can work it out, can’t you? How did he seem? Worried? Pressurised?”
She thought of John’s body language over the last few months, the way he had changed before her eyes. She had no idea if he was the same man Yusuf had been at university with, the same man they’d sat round tables with late into the night, drinking whisky and putting the world to rights.
“He’s frazzled,” she said. “Michael’s putting him under pressure.”
“OK,” said Yusuf. “So they’re probably going to start the ball rolling sooner rather than later.”
Jennifer sighed. She wanted a break, some time to rest and get her energy back. She nodded. “You’re right.”
“So, what will you do?”
“Talk to the press. Clear up this family nonsense first.” She took a long sip at her mug of tea, throwing ideas around in her head. “If there’s nothing in the Guardian tomorrow, nothing about my conversation with Lucy Snape, I’ll give it to her.”
Yusuf frowned. Jennifer looked at him. “I rang her. I needed to know who’d told them about my resignation.”
“Was that wise?”
She felt herself stiffen. “I had to. It’s fine. It’ll be fine.”
The Division Bell Trilogy Page 8
