A Parliamentary Affair (61 page)

Longhurst grinned ruefully. He was not about to tell Nigel that he played darts occasionally in a pub over the river, where one of the regulars was a Mr Perkins who had stoically absorbed at home the full force of his wife’s indignation. The whole pub had had heated arguments peppered with much mirth about who was in the wrong in this case, but Perkins had stuck doggedly to his improbable tale that Nigel Boswood was a good man. It pleased Longhurst to find he was right.

‘I think that about sums it up, sir.’ He gestured to the file. ‘I am afraid he was a thoroughly bad lot. I am sorry you had to get mixed up with him.’

Part of Nigel’s brain told him he had no right to expect such a generous response. It would not be repeated, of course, if this business were removed to a courtroom. He frowned. ‘What exactly do you want me to do?’

‘If you tell me that you were guilty of this offence then I can formally caution you. It is not a light matter; it must be recorded and will form part of your police record. If you commit another offence it will be cited in any subsequent court proceedings. That means next time you could face a prison sentence, you do realise that?’

Nigel brooded. ‘That means I plead guilty, to all intents and purposes. The party takes a dim view of people who break the law. Some of the party take a very dim view indeed of these kinds of offences – most of them, in fact. I used to myself, come to that.’ He was quiet again, uncomfortable, reflective.

Then it hit him, what it all meant. With eyes full of misery he said quietly, ‘If I plead not guilty you haul me through the courts. It will take months, and I might not get off, and I could have a homophobic judge of the worst kind and get sent down. Even if the case collapses or I
am
found not guilty I face a public trial, and it never stops – it never stops. God in heaven! If I plead guilty you caution me – what? Here and now? And if I do that, I am guilty. Marked, branded, packaged up and delivered to every bigot in the country. The press will have their pound of flesh whatever I do. And I could not remain as a Member of Parliament, not under those circumstances, not for a moment. It just wouldn’t be on. How could I make speeches about the moral decline of the nation with that millstone hanging around my neck? I’d be a permanent laughing-stock. D’you know, they all ignored me out there? Paid their respects to the dead, but not even a “Good morning” to the living. And that’s before what you’re suggesting. Afterwards they would all… Oh, my God.’

Great uncontrollable sobs came from his throat, piteous and tragic. He had tried so hard to keep going, to rebuild his life, not only without Peter, but without position or influence or allies. He had determined, nevertheless, to retain some essential elements of self-respect. Within that tentative plan, to continue as an MP till the end of his term in a couple of years’ time had become a necessity, an object of faith. The wounds would take that long to heal; then he could manage. ‘Retired’ was better than ‘resigned’. One implied choice, the other denied it. Now he had abruptly come to the end of the line. Sir Nigel Boswood bowed his head, let his shoulders sag and wept noisily and heartbreakingly, like a woman.

Longhurst found a clean handkerchief and passed it mutely over the table. Boswood shook his head, for he neither wanted nor expected sympathy, instead reaching inside his pocket for his own. The white cotton stayed on the table, neither man wishing to retrieve it.

The officer waited politely for a moment, then cleared his throat. He would not be telling any funny stories at Police Federation dinners about this one. ‘When you feel ready, sir, we should bring the discussion to a close and commence the formal part of the proceedings. I will call in my people. The interview will then be taped in accordance with the Police and Criminal Evidence Act. If you want me to postpone it for half an hour while you get your solicitor, or even a friend, I should be willing to wait, and I do strongly recommend it.’

Nigel wiped his eyes and blew his nose in the complicated, nostril-clearing way he had been taught as a child, as if germs could be kept at bay by physical force.

Longhurst had a final duty first. His solid paw rested briefly on the folder. ‘One more matter, sir, while we are talking privately, man to man. I have read this file very carefully and I won’t trouble you with the details, but you would be wise to have an HIV test, if you haven’t already done so.’

It was the cruellest blow to deliver. Not that there was any information on Peter, nothing at all either way, but one or two of his friends were a different matter and the old man had to be warned. For a moment Longhurst felt it might have been easier to brush it all aside as none of his business. He watched Boswood warily. The older man was having difficulty controlling his features.

At last Nigel drew himself up. There would be no questions. The policeman was trying to be kind, dammit.

‘We always practised safe sex, Mr Longhurst. There should be no problem. But I will do as you suggest. And’ – he hesitated –’thank you.’

His eyes met his persecutor’s and understood, as the man about to be hanged understands the hangman, and forgives. With a slow, deliberate movement he reached for the phone.

Miranda Jamieson did not start out that morning with the intention of picking a fight with Jim Betts. After all, he had played a major role in putting the newspaper back on its feet.

Her own position at
The Globe
had changed in subtle ways. Her reputation rested on her struggles to save the paper during the terrible days a year earlier when circulation spiralled
downwards and the new computer failed. By bullying, charm, energy, and sheer bloody-minded courage she had kept the whole thing going, surviving without sleep for days on end, still looking fresh at three in the morning. Her supposed link with the proprietor gave her instant authority but was never mentioned to her face. Thus she became involved more than she had planned in the business and management side of the paper, wrote for it rather less, yet (since she was neither editor nor news or features editor) had relatively little say in its overall policy and approach. There were times when she did not like what
The Globe
had become. She had made herself at the same time both indispensable and invisible.

Betts was walking down a corridor in shirtsleeves, hands in pockets, acknowledging greetings of fellow workers on all sides, the latest
Globe
edition with Boswood’s resignation tucked ostentatiously under his arm. Had she seen him coming Miranda would have avoided him. In her current mood the paper itself seemed as much his victim. They cannoned into each other at a corner.

‘Hello, beautiful!’ Betts grinned roguishly at her. Maybe now he was the paper’s star reporter she would look on him with more favour.

Miranda eyed Betts with distaste and brushed her skirt down as if something unpleasant had rubbed off from him. He had unsightly sores around his mouth – there was always something wrong with him, some minor illness implying casual disregard for his own health or cleanliness. She shuddered inwardly.

‘Good morning. I gather congratulations are in order.’ She gestured at the newspaper under his arm.

Betts preened. ‘Sure, once we persuaded Honey Bun to make a formal complaint to the police. He wasn’t keen, I can tell you. Seemed to think he was being compromised. I ask you! Somebody like that!’

‘No doubt your persuasive powers were to the fore, Jim.’ Miranda kept any hint of sarcasm out of her voice.

‘Money, more like. Cost almost as much as the original story, but now the
Globe
will always have Boswood’s complete scalp to its credit. You know that boy was the toughest negotiator I’ve ever seen. They could use him in the Cabinet.’

‘They did,’ Miranda commented wryly, sending Betts off into raucous laughter. ‘Or at least one of them did. But I don’t know; this paper used to have a serious content. I hope we can turn our attention to the genuine issues of the day occasionally as well.’

Betts’s face darkened. Miranda was half smiling and apparently friendly but you never knew with her. He had the distinct sense that she was taking the mickey.

‘This
was
serious,’ he insisted. ‘What they all get up to in private isn’t separate, it’s part of what they do and say in public. You can’t divide them.’

‘Why not? We all keep our lives separate here. Just because the features editor is having it off with the print room supervisor doesn’t mean she can’t do her job or that he can’t push his buttons. Provided they’re not screwing when they should be working. I mean, look at you, Jim: nobody is going to criticise you just because you’re inside the knickers of Sheena on reception. It doesn’t stop you being our star reporter. Incidentally you do know her husband is a karate champion, don’t you? She showed me a photo of him, muscles everywhere. He’ll tear you limb from limb if he finds out.’

The information was news to Betts. Perhaps Miranda was lying, though it accorded with the receptionist’s tastes. He looked at her hard: there was only a wisp of mockery in the wide-open eyes. Perhaps she was hinting that he should choose someone else. It was time to call the bitch’s bluff.

‘I’ve always preferred classier women than that, Miranda, as you know. In fact you’re my ideal. No, I’m not kidding. Now that I’m no longer bottom of the heap, maybe the lovely Ms Jamieson would deign to notice me? In fact I’m free tonight and I feel like celebrating. How about it?’

His boldness was offensive and unexpected. Now it was her turn to laugh. Pushing past him she delivered what she hoped was a telling parting shot.

‘You’ve got balls, Jim, I’ll say that for you. But right now the pimples on your face are bigger, did you know that? When you have grown up I may be interested. But not tonight, sweetheart.’

Miranda swept away, her tight skirt outlining a full bottom which sneered at him as she walked off. She would have been uneasy had she seen his frozen expression and recognised in it a hatred born of humiliation. He caught the stare of a junior reporter in a nearby office. From the boy’s smirk it was clear the tale would be all over the canteen before the hour was out.

It was a strange Christmas, the first Elaine had ever spent alone. After much discussion Karen decided to accept her father’s invitation to spend part of the holiday with him in Florida. Visiting Disneyworld was a suitably adolescent thing to do and it seemed a shame to have an airline pilot father and not take advantage of him. There would be other people present, so the occasion could not get too fraught. It would also help her assess the chances of her parents ever coming together again.

Elaine could have passed the time with friends, and toyed with the idea of going skiing or on a package tour. Yet she was also becoming accustomed to being solitary, and secretly welcomed the opportunity. That she did
not
have to eat turkey or chipolatas or Christmas pudding was a terrific bonus.

Was she becoming completely selfish? The thought caused her some anxiety. She already knew her capacity for extremes of both altruism and self-centredness. Her job required her to listen to dozens of ordinary people week by week, then exert herself without stint or measure to help them. Had she not liked people in a genuinely unselfish way – and responded to them with natural warmth – she would have found that aspect of the MP’s job impossibly frustrating. Instead it was the part where she felt most fulfilled.

Yet to have got even this far required real ambition. Even she had no idea where this drive came from or why she felt so single-minded. Some of it she could rationalise. If she became cross on behalf of a widow on income support, she might solve the problem more quickly, for the old lady and everyone else, were she a minister in the Department of Social Security. Since the answers always had financial considerations, she daydreamed of promotion to the Treasury. She could even wriggle inside Roger’s head as he took his seat at the Cabinet table. There must be moments when, having lost an argument or failed to persuade the Prime Minister, he must look across and reflect that there was always room at the top. Ambition, she was sure, was not lacking in the man she loved. That was one of the deepest springs of her love for him.

As Boxing Day slid peacefully by, one article in
The Economist
caught her eye. To amuse its readers over the holiday an opinion poll had been commissioned, inviting respondents to put names to famous faces. Predictably pop stars such as Madonna and Michael Jackson came top – their appearance was almost a trademark. The Prime Minister was only a little behind. Sir Nigel Boswood scored high but then the poll was taken soon after the fuss. By contrast Roger was known to fewer than one person in five. That would irritate him, even if it did mean he ranked ahead of most of the Cabinet. Then, to her surprise, she saw her own name. It appeared she was better known than anyone in government with the sole exception of the Prime Minister himself.

Elaine reached for another glass of sparkling Saumur and hugged herself, for there was no one else to do it for her. Then she fell into a slightly tipsy reverie. The finding did not mean a lot, and would only cause jealousy. Nor did it make her personal life any easier.

As it grew dark Elaine dozed on the sofa, the magazine fallen from her lap. A Marks & Spencer stuffed lobster had made a moderately satisfying Boxing Day lunch. Half a bottle of wine remained, slowly getting warm and losing its fizz. Karen had phoned to wish her Happy Christmas.
There really was no reason to do anything more than choose a movie or good book and then retire to bed. The plan was to get up early and clear out the garage and prepare the spare room for painting. At least when Karen returned, she would see her mother had not wasted her time.

Slowly Elaine emerged from her slumber to hear the phone in the hall. How long had it been ringing? She woke with a start.

‘Hello, sweetheart. Happy Christmas.’

It was Roger. Her heart leapt, and her voice despite her self-control fluttered with delight.

‘And to you. I wasn’t expecting to hear from you. Are you well? Is everything all right?’