Stamper’s chair rocked back with a clatter as he endeavoured to recover his wits. ‘Bloody Party Chairman.’
‘Don’t worry. It’s only for fourteen weeks. If all goes well you can have the pick of any Government department you want. And if not…Well, neither of us will have to worry about a political job ever again.’
CHAPTER FIVE
A politician has no friends.
‘This is truly appalling.’ Mortima Urquhart screwed up her nose with considerable violence as she surveyed the room. It had been several days since the Collingridges removed the last of their personal effects from the small apartment above 10 Downing Street reserved for the use of Prime Ministers, and the sitting room now had the ambience of a three-star hotel. It lacked any individual character, that had already been transported in the packing cases, and what was left was in good order but carried the aesthetic touch of a British Rail waiting room. ‘Simply revolting. It won’t do,’ she repeated, gazing at the wallpaper, where she half expected to find the faded impressions of a row of flying china ducks. She was momentarily distracted as she passed by a long wall mirror, surreptitiously checking the conspicuous red tint her hairdresser had applied earlier in the week as she had waited for the final leadership ballot. A celebratory highlight, the stylist had called it, but no one could any longer mistake it for a natural hue and it had left her constantly fiddling with the colour balance on the remote control, wondering whether it was time to change the television or her hair salon.
‘What extraordinary people they must have been,’ she muttered, brushing some imagined speck of dust from the front of her Chanel suit while her husband’s House of Commons secretary, who was accompanying her on the tour of inspection, buried herself in her notebook. She thought she rather liked the Collingridges; she was more definite in her views of Mortima Urquhart, whose cold eyes gave her a predatory look and whose constant diets to fend off the advance of cellulite around her expensively clad body seemed to leave her in a state of unremitting impatience, at least with other women, particularly those younger than herself.
‘Find out how we get rid of all this and see what the budget is for refurbishment,’ Mrs Urquhart snapped as she led the way briskly down the short corridor leading to the dark entrails of the apartment, fingertips tapping in rebuke the flesh beneath her chin as she walked. She gave a squawk of alarm as she passed a door on her left, behind which she discovered a tiny galley kitchen with a stainless-steel sink, red and black plastic floor tiles and no microwave. Her gloom was complete by the time she had inspected the claustrophobic dining room with the atmosphere of a locked coffin and a view directly onto a grubby attic and roof. She was back in the sitting room, seated in one of the armchairs covered in printed roses the size of elephants’ feet and shaking her head in disappointment, when there came a knock from the entrance hall.
‘Come in!’ she commanded forlornly, remembering that the front door didn’t even have a lock on it – for security reasons she had been told, but more for the convenience of civil servants as they came to and fro bearing papers and dispatches, she suspected. ‘And they call this home,’ she wailed, burying her head theatrically in her hands.
She brightened as she looked up to examine her visitor. He was in his late thirties, lean with razor-cropped hair.
‘Mrs Urquhart. I’m Inspector Robert Insall, Special Branch,’ he announced in a thick London accent. ‘I’ve been in charge of your husband’s protection detail during the leadership election and now they’ve been mug enough to make me responsible for security here in Downing Street.’ He had a grin and natural charm to which Mortima Urquhart warmed, and a build she couldn’t help but admire.
‘I’m sure we shall be in safe hands, Inspector.’
‘We’ll do our best. But things are going to be a bit different for you, now you’re here,’ he continued. ‘There are a few things I need to explain, if you’ve got a moment.’
‘Come and cover up some of this hideous furniture, Inspector, and tell me all about it…’
Landless waved as the crowd applauded. The onlookers had no idea who sat behind the darkened glass of the Silver Spur, but it was an historic day and they wanted a share in it. The heavy metal gates guarding the entrance to Downing Street drew back in respect and the duty policemen offered a smart salute. Landless felt good, even better when he saw the pavement opposite his destination crowded with cameras and reporters.
‘Is he going to offer you a job, Ben?’ a chorus of voices sang out as he prised himself from the back seat of the car.
‘Already got a job,’ he growled, showing off his well-known proprietorial glare and enjoying every minute of it. He buttoned up the jacket flapping at his sides.
‘A peerage, perhaps? Seat in the House of Lords?’
‘Baron Ben of Bethnal Green?’ His fleshy face sagged in disapproval. ‘Sounds more like a music hall act than an honour.’
There was much laughter, and Landless turned to walk through the glossy black door into the entrance hall but he was beaten to the step by a courier bearing a huge assortment of flowers. Inside, the hallway was covered with a profusion of bouquets and baskets, all still unwrapped, with more arriving by the minute. London’s florists, at least temporarily, could forget the recession. Landless was directed along the deep red carpet leading straight from the front door to the Cabinet Room on the other side of the narrow building, and he caught himself hurrying. He slowed his step, relishing the sensation. He couldn’t remember when he had last felt so excited. He was shown directly into the Cabinet Room by a solicitous and spotty civil servant who closed the door quietly behind him.
‘Ben, welcome. Come in.’ Urquhart waved a hand in greeting but didn’t rise. The hand indicated a chair on the other side of the table.
‘Great day, Francis. Great day for us all.’ Landless nodded towards Stamper, who was leaning against a radiator, hovering like a Praetorian Guard, and Landless found himself resenting the other man’s presence. All his previous dealings with Urquhart had been one-on-one; after all, they hadn’t invited an audience as they’d laid their plans to exhaust and overwhelm the elected head of government. On those earlier occasions Urquhart had always been the supplicant, Landless the power, yet as he looked across the table he couldn’t help but notice that things had changed, their roles reversed. Suddenly ill at ease, he stretched out a hand to offer Urquhart congratulation, but it was a clumsy gesture. Urquhart had to put down his pen, draw back his large chair, rise and stretch, only to discover that the table was too wide and all they could do was to brush fingers.
‘Well done, Francis,’ Landless muttered sheepishly, and sat down. ‘It means a lot to me, your inviting me here on your first morning as Prime Minister. Particularly the way you did. I thought I’d have to sneak in round the back by the dustbins, but I have to tell you I felt great as I passed all those cameras and TV lights. I appreciate the public sign of confidence, Francis.’
Urquhart spread his hands wide, a gesture meant to replace the words he couldn’t quite find, while Stamper jumped in.
‘Prime Minister,’ he began, with emphasis. It was meant as a rebuke at the newspaperman’s overfamiliarity, but it slid off the Landless hide without making a dent. ‘My apologies, but the new Chancellor will be here in five minutes.’
‘Forgive me, Ben. Already I’m discovering that a Prime Minister is not a master, only a slave. Of timetables, mostly. To business, if you don’t mind.’
‘That’s how I like it.’ Landless shuffled forward on his chair in expectation.
‘You control the Chronicle group and have made a takeover bid for United Newspapers, and it falls to the Government to decide whether such a takeover would be in the public interest.’ Urquhart was staring at his blotter as if reading from a script, rather like a judge delivering sentence. Landless didn’t care for this sudden formality, so unlike their previous conversations on the matter.
Urquhart’s hands were spread wide again as he sought for elusive words. Finally, he clenched his fists. ‘Sorry, Ben. You can’t have it.’
The three men turned to effigies as the words circled the room and settled like birds of prey.
‘What the ’ell do you mean I can’t bloody have it?’ The pronunciation was straight off the streets, the veneer had slipped.
‘The Government does not believe it would be in the national interest.’
‘Crap, Francis. We agreed.’
‘The Prime Minister was careful throughout the entire leadership campaign to offer no commitments on the takeover, his public record on that is clear,’ Stamper interposed. Landless ignored him, his attention rigidly on Urquhart.
‘We had a deal! You know it. I know it.’
‘As I said, Ben, a Prime Minister is not always his own master. The arguments in favour of turning the bid down are irresistible. You already own more than thirty per cent of the national press; United would give you close on forty.’
‘My thirty per cent supported you every step of the way, as will my forty. That was the deal.’
‘Which still leaves just over sixty who would never forgive or forget. You see, Ben, the figures simply don’t add up. Not in the national interest. Not for a new Government that believes in competition, in serving the consumer rather than the big corporations.’
‘Bullshit. We had a deal!’ His huge fists crashed down on the bare table.
‘Ben, it’s impossible. You must know that. I can’t in my first act as Prime Minister let you carve up the British newspaper industry. It’s not good business. It’s not good politics. Frankly it would make pretty awful headlines on every other front page.’
‘But carving me up will make bloody marvellous headlines, is that it?’ Landless’s head was thrust forward like a charging bull, his jowls shaking with anger. ‘So that’s why you asked me in by the front door, you bastard. They saw me coming in, and they’ll see me going out. Feet first. You’ve set up a public execution in front of the world’s cameras. Fat capitalist as sacrificial lamb. I warn you, Frankie. I’ll fight you every step of the way, everything I’ve got.’
‘Which only leaves seventy per cent of the newspapers plus every TV and radio programme applauding a publicly spirited Prime Minister,’ Stamper interjected superciliously, examining his finger nails. ‘Not afraid to turn away his closest friends if the national interest demands. Great stuff.’
Landless was getting it from both sides, both barrels. His crimson face darkened still further, his whole body shook with frustration. He could find no words with which to haggle or persuade, he could neither barter nor browbeat, and he was left with nothing but the physical argument of pounding the table with clenched fists. ‘You miserable little sh—’
Suddenly, the door opened and in walked Mortima Urquhart in full flow. ‘Francis, it’s impossible, completely impossible. The apartment’s appalling, the decorations are quite disgusting and they tell me there’s not enough money left in the budget…’ She trailed off as she noted Landless’s fists trembling six inches above the table.
‘You see, Ben, a Prime Minister is not master even in his own house.’
‘Spare me the sermon.’
‘Ben, think it through. Put this one behind you. There will be other deals, other interests you will want to pursue, in which I can help. It would be useful to have a friend in Downing Street.’
‘That’s what I thought when I backed you for Prime Minister. My mistake.’ Landless was once again in control of himself, his hands steady, his gaze glacial and fixed upon Urquhart, only the quivering of his jowls revealing the tension within.
‘I’m sorry if I’ve interrupted,’ Mortima said awkwardly.
‘Mr Landless was just about to leave, I think,’ Stamper cut in from his guard post beside the radiator.
‘I am sorry,’ Mortima repeated.
‘Don’t worry,’ replied Landless, eyes still on her husband. ‘I can’t stay. I just learned of a funeral I have to attend.’
CHAPTER SIX
A Monarch lives in a gilded cage. Happiness depends on whether he spends more time looking at the depth of the gilding or the size of the bars.
‘I won’t hear of it, David.’
It was ludicrous. Mycroft was in turmoil; there were so many unformed doubts, half-fears that he could not or dared not realize, which he needed to talk through with the King, for both their sakes. Yet he was reduced to snatching a few words along with mouthfuls of chlorinated water as they ploughed through the waves of the Palace swimming pool. The King’s only concession to the interruption in his daily exercise schedule was to switch from the crawl to the breaststroke, enabling Mycroft more easily to match his pace. It was his rigid discipline that enabled the King to maintain his excellent physical shape, and kept all those who served him struggling to keep up.
The King was a fierce defender of the forms of marriage – it came with the job, he would say – and Mycroft had felt it necessary to make the offer. ‘It’s for the best, Sir,’ he persisted. ‘I can’t afford to let you become embroiled in my personal difficulties. I need some time to sort myself out. Better for all of us if I resign.’
‘I disagree.’ The King spat out a mouthful of water, finally resolving to finish the conversation on dry land, and headed for the marbled poolside. ‘We’ve been friends since university and I’m not going to throw away the last thirty years simply because some reptilian gossip columnist might hear of your private problems. I’m surprised you should think I would consider it.’ He ducked his shiny head one last time beneath the water as he reached for the steps. ‘You’re part of the management board of this firm, and that’s how it’s going to stay.’
Mycroft shook his head like a dog, trying to clear his vision. It wasn’t just the marriage, of course, it was all the other pressures he felt crowding in on him which made him feel so apprehensive and wretched. If he couldn’t be completely honest even with himself, how could he expect the King to understand? But he had to try.
‘Suddenly, everything looks different. The house. The street. My friends. Even I look different, to myself. It’s as if my marriage was a lens which gave the world a particular perspective over all these years, and now that it’s gone nothing seems quite the same. It’s a little frightening…’
‘I’m sorry, truly, about Fiona. After all, I’m godfather to your eldest, I’m involved.’ The King reached for his towel. ‘But, dammit, women have their own extraordinary ways and I can’t profess to understand them. What I do know, David, is that it would make no sense for you to try to get through your problems on your own, to cut yourself off not only from your marriage but also from what you have here.’ He placed a hand on Mycroft’s dripping shoulder. The contact was very close, his voice concerned. ‘You understand me, David, you always have. I am known by the whole world yet understood by so few. You do, you understand. I need you. I will not allow you to resign.’
Mycroft stared into his friend’s angular face. He found himself thinking the King’s leanness made him look drawn and older than his years, particularly with his hair grown so thin. It was as if a furnace inside was burning the King up too quickly. Perhaps he cared too much.
Care too much – was it possible? Fiona had tossed Mycroft back into the pool and he was struggling in the deep waters, unable to touch bottom. It dawned on him that he had never touched bottom, not once in his life. Far from caring too much, he realized he had never really cared at all and the sudden understanding made him panic, want to escape before he drowned. His emotional life had been shapeless, without substance or roots. Except here at the Palace, which now provided his only support. The man he had once tossed fully clothed through the ice of the college fountain and who had come up spitting bindweed and clutching a lavatory seat was saying, in the only way a lifetime of self-control allowed, that he cared. Suddenly it mattered, very much.
‘Thank you, Sir.’
‘I don’t know a single marriage, Royal, common or just plain vulgar, which hasn’t been through the wringer; it’s so easy to think you’re on your own, to forget that practically everyone you know has jumped through the same hoops.’
Mycroft remembered just how many nights of their marriage he and Fiona had spent apart, and imagined what she had been up to on every one of those nights. There really had been a lot of hoops. He didn’t care, not even about that. So what did he care about?
‘I need you, David. I’ve waited all my life to be where I am today. Don’t you remember the endless nights at university when we would sit either side of a bottle of college port and discuss what we would do when we had the opportunity? We, David, you and me. Now the opportunity has arrived, we can’t throw it away.’ He paused while a liveried footman deposited a silver tray with two mugs of herbal tea on the poolside table. ‘If it’s really over with Fiona, try to put it behind you. Look ahead, with me. I can’t start on the most important period of my life by losing one of my oldest and most trusted friends. There’s so much to do, for us both.’ He began towelling himself vigorously as though determined to start that very minute. ‘Don’t make any decisions now. Stick with it for a couple of months and, if you still feel you need a break, we’ll sort it out. But trust me, stay with me. All will be fine, I promise.’
Mycroft was unconvinced. He wanted to run, but he had nowhere and no one he wanted to run to. And the thought of what he might find if he ran too far overwhelmed him. After so many years he was free, and he didn’t know if he could handle freedom. He stood, water dripping from the end of his nose and through his moustache, weighing his doubts against the Sovereign’s certainty. He could find no sense of direction, only his sense of duty.
‘So, what do you feel, old friend?’
‘Bloody cold, Sir.’ He managed a weak smile. ‘Let’s go and have a shower.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
Of course I have principles. I like to dust them down regularly. With a trowel.
‘Circulate, Francis. And smile. This is supposed to be a celebration, remember.’
Urquhart acknowledged his wife’s instruction and began forcing his way slowly through the crowded room. He hated these occasions. It was supposed to be a party to thank those who had helped him into Downing Street, but inevitably Mortima had intervened and turned it into another of her evenings for rubbing shoulders with anyone from the pages of the social columns she wanted to meet. ‘The voters love a little glamour,’ she argued, and like any self-respecting Colquhoun she had always wanted to preside over her own Court. So instead of a small gathering of colleagues he had been thrust into a maelstrom of actresses, opera stars, editors, businessmen and assorted socialites, and he knew his small talk couldn’t last the evening.
The guests had clattered through the dark December night into the narrow confines of Downing Street, where they found a large Christmas tree outside the door of Number Ten, placed at Mortima Urquhart’s instructions to give TV-viewers the impression that this was simply another family eagerly waiting to celebrate Christmas. Inside Number Ten, the glitterati had crossed the threshold, unaware they had already been scanned by hidden devices for weapons and explosives. They handed over their cloaks and overcoats in exchange for a smile and a cloakroom ticket, and waited patiently in line on the stairs which led to the Green Room, where the Urquharts were receiving their guests. As they wound their way slowly up the stairs and past its walls covered in portraits of previous Prime Ministers, they tried not to stare too hard at the other guests or their surroundings. Staring implied you hadn’t done this a hundred times before. Most had little to do with politics, some were not even supporters of the Government, but the enthusiasm with which they were greeted by Mortima Urquhart left them all impressed. The atmosphere was sucking them in, making them honorary members of the team. If power were a conspiracy, they wanted to be part of it too.
For ten minutes, Urquhart struggled with the confusion of guests, his eyes never resting, darting rapidly from one fixed point to another as if always on guard, or on the attack, forced to listen to the complaints of businessmen and the half-baked social prescriptions of chat-show hosts. At last he reached gratefully for the arm of Tim Stamper and dragged him into a corner.
‘Something on your mind, Francis?’
‘I was just reflecting on how relieved Henry must be not to have to put up with all this any longer. Is it really worth it?’
‘Ambition should be made of more solid stuff.’
‘If you must quote Shakespeare, for God’s sake get it right. And I’d prefer it if you chose some other play than Julius Caesar. You’ll remember they’d had him butchered well before the interval.’
‘I am suitably reproached. In future in your presence I shall quote only from Macbeth.’
Urquhart smiled grimly at the cold humour, wishing he could spend the rest of the evening crossing swords with Stamper and plotting the next election. In less than a week, the polls had already placed them three points ahead as the voters responded to the fresh faces, the renewed sense of urgency throughout Whitehall, the public dispatch of a few of the less acceptable faces of Government. ‘They like the colour of the honeymoon bed linen,’ Stamper had reported. ‘Fresh, crisp, with just enough blood to show you’re doing your job.’ He had a style all his own, did Stamper.
Across the chatter of the crowded room they could hear Mortima Urquhart laughing. She was immersed in conversation with an Italian tenor, one of the more competent and certainly the most fashionable opera star to have arrived in London in recent years. She was persuading him through a mixture of flattery and feminine charm to give a rendition later in the evening. Mortima was nearing fifty yet she was well preserved and carefully presented, and already the Italian was acquiescing. She rushed off to enquire whether there was a piano in Downing Street.
‘Ah, Dickie,’ Urquhart chanted, reaching out for the arm of a short, undersized man with a disproportionately large head and serious eyes who had thrust purposefully through the crowd towards him. Dickie was the new Secretary of State for the Environment, the youngest member of the new Cabinet, a marathon runner, an enthusiast and an intervener, and he had been deeply impressed by Urquhart’s admonition that he was to be the defender of the Government’s green credentials. His appointment had already been greeted with acclaim from all but the most militant pressure groups, yet at this moment he was looking none too happy. There were beads of moisture on his brow; something was bothering him.
‘Was hoping to have a word with you, Dickie,’ said Urquhart before the other had a chance to unburden himself. ‘What about this development site in Victoria Street? Had a chance to look into it yet? Are you going to cover it in concrete, or what?’
‘Good heavens, no, Prime Minister. I’ve studied all the options carefully, and I really think it would be best if we dispense with the more extravagant options and go for something traditional. Not one of these steel and glass air-conditioning units.’
‘Will it provide the most modern office environment?’ Stamper intervened.
‘It’ll fit into the Westminster environment,’ Dickie continued a little uneasily.
‘Scarcely the same thing,’ the Party Chairman responded.
‘We’d get a howl of protest from the heritage groups if we tried to turn Westminster into downtown Chicago,’ Dickie offered defensively.
