A Woman's Place (42 page)

‘We have indeed. Any ideas?'

‘But did he proposition you in any way?'

Anthony shook his head.

‘Or offer you anything?'

‘No … yes. A card for the Gay Switchboard. He was trying to help, that's all.'

Sir John Merriman shifted his weight in discomfort. Police chairs were not designed for
well-padded
posteriors such as his own. His client was not being co-operative. The man seemed bowed down by shame and remorse. The lawyer longed to tell him to sit up and look him straight in the eye, as he would have to do in the magistrates' court in a couple of hours' time.

‘That gives us something to work on, at least,' Sir John murmured and made a note. ‘We could claim you believed he was about to molest you. Then it's self-defence, though it's a bit thin.'

‘No – no.' Again Anthony shook his head.

‘So what exactly do you suggest, Mr York?' An edge of sarcasm crept into his voice.

‘You don't have to invent anything. In fact I'm not sure why you're here. I intend to plead guilty.'

‘I shouldn't advise it.' The solicitor sighed and closed his file. ‘Makes it much harder to say anything in mitigation. What is this – do you want to be punished, is that it?'

There was no reply.

‘I saw it happen!'

TORY YOBBO IN GAY PUNCH-UP SCANDAL

Dramatic resignation after arrest

The lurid prose continued on several inside pages; space was filled out with library photographs of the ex-Minister mainly taken at the general election beside a large head-and-shoulders shot of Betts looking suitably solemn.

Jim Betts refolded the newspaper and hugged himself. There was something immensely satisfying about the demolition of yet another Tory Minister's career. He hoped the article, with its nuances, exaggerations and deliberate minor inaccuracies – he'd never heard the man called ‘Tony', for example, but it sounded much more camp; nor was York a direct replacement for Harrison, but so what? – would really annoy the PM, the Chief Whip, the Party Chairman and all the other uptight party functionaries.

Serve them right. That's what happened when politicians set themselves up as guardians of public morality. That's where ‘Back to Basics' got you.

Anthony York had been trouble writ large. Betts recalled with glee the look of horror on that copper's face as he, Betts, had announced the culprit's identity. A government Minister, no less. Their prisoner had been treated with kid gloves after that. One of the charmed circle. Charmed no more.

Betts picked up the phone. Pictures were on their way from the York family home showing the shocked faces of Anthony's parents. It was believed the accused would head off there after being bailed, but just in case staffers were on alert at his Battersea address and at the gateway to the House of Commons. Betts would cover the court appearance himself, though the
Globe
's legal affairs reporter was pissed off at being elbowed aside. Two photographers were lined up, one at each exit. Even if the bleeder climbed a chimney to escape they'd get a shot of him doing it.

As Betts rubbed his hands in pleasure a face appeared around his door. ‘Congratulations, Jim.' His boss was envious. ‘I don't know how you do it. That's another scalp to you. And you're a key witness, too. How did you manage to be there at the right time?'

‘Been keeping my eye on that berk. It was obvious he was going to do something stupid sooner or later.' Betts was laconic. He was after Thwaite's job, but did not intend to reveal too much about that, either.

Thwaite sidled inside the small office and helped himself to one of Betts's cigarettes.

‘Have you figured out yet why this government seems so accident-prone? Ministers have been falling by the wayside like they've been sprayed with poison gas. Don't they realise we're watching them?'

‘Well…' Betts pulled on his Silk Cut and sucked the smoke deeply into his lungs. These mild blends didn't have the kick cigarettes used to have. He pretended to think, but political analysis was neither his forte nor his passion. ‘I suppose, once they're appointed, office is such a cocoon that they get to think they're invulnerable. And the kind of bloke who gets embroiled in politics in the first place must be a risk-taker by nature. Otherwise why would anybody bother?'

‘For you, Jim, that's profound.' Thwaite teased without malice but Betts grimaced. ‘There used to be a concept of public service. What about that?'

‘Not any more! That's old hat. These Ministers are time-servers. Anybody wise would seek a simple job with a contract of employment and a pension. These chappies do exactly the opposite.
They deliberately choose a risky environment. From this year to next they've no idea whether the government will survive or if their next step will be the dole queue. Even between elections, on average Ministers last barely two years, you know. Look at them – performing monkeys, every one. Don't tell me that's normal behaviour.'

‘So give 'em half a chance and they'll act like the loonies they really are?'

‘Right.' Betts had tired of the conversation. He suspected that in a subtle way he was being patronised. ‘Now, if you don't mind, I've some articles to write. On what might have been going on in Mr York's peculiar mind, for example. On the gay conspiracy in Whitehall which even the Prime Minister doesn't know about – there isn't one, but there will be by the time I've finished. The other lot are worse. The country'll be overrun with homosexuals if Labour wins – teaching it will become compulsory in schools. We'll scare the pants off our good-living hetero readers and make life hot for the nation's queers for a bit. OK?'

‘Fine, Jim. Nobody writes it like you do.' Thwaite kept smiling. Inwardly he shivered. He hoped he would never be the target of one of his own newspaper's campaigns.

Phone lines buzzed as MPs, deprived by the recess of their usual gossip, shared their prejudices and relief that this time some other poor fool was in the frame.

‘He was being attacked. He must have been.'

‘Anthony? Always so po-faced. Remember his maiden speech – all about family values. It's usually that sort. Butter wouldn't melt. At least you know where you are with a Harrison.'

‘Not the first time this has happened on Hampstead Heath. That young chap from the north-east. Hexham, wasn't it?'

‘Yeah, but he was caught screwing. Bit different!'

‘
He
said it was childish. Not what I'd call it.'

‘Broad daylight, that one. Beats me why they do it.'

‘God knows. Maybe they can only get it up when somebody's gawping.'

‘Some of us wish we could get it up at all. What a waste.'

‘You had a phone call yet?'

‘Who, me? What for – character reference?'

‘No – don't be daft. Who's going to take his place? There has to be somebody. That's a busy department.'

‘Health, Welfare and the Family. Ghastly. I'd prefer a real job like defence or transport.'

‘Well, it won't be me. I'm too outspoken for my own good. And they'll be looking for somebody absolutely whistle-clean.'

‘Narrows the field, doesn't it?'

Roger Dickson waited until the dumpy woman who brought the coffee had set it down and arranged the cream jug and sugar at his elbow. As the door closed behind her he pushed a plate of biscuits towards his Secretary of State.

‘Have one. It's taken me a year to persuade the kitchen that Hobnobs are not a drain on the economy.'

Ted Bampton shook his head but helped himself to coffee. He longed to light up a cigar to calm his nerves but the Prime Minister's views on smoking were too well known to defy. Although it was his Parliamentary Under-Secretary who had quit office in disgrace he had an obscure feeling that he himself was in the dock.

‘So do we know what happened, Ted?'

Bampton shrugged. ‘I've not spoken to him. Bloody stupid, if you ask me.'

‘He had strong opinions. My office were up early this morning and have briefed me on one or
two things he's said in public.'

Dickson tossed over the photocopied pages of Hansard marked with fluorescent pen. The Cabinet Minister glanced through them, blew what in less polite society might have passed for a raspberry and handed them back.

Dickson decided to rub it in. ‘For example, in the debate on the Matrimonial Bill, he set himself up as a proper little Mary Whitehouse. “We should set a moral tone,” he says. “I for one disapprove of many aspects of today's society.” And later: “We should at all times be in the business of raising personal and moral standards.”'

Bampton roused himself. ‘Plenty of us would agree with that,' he growled.

Roger could feel himself growing angry. Not only had he lost another member of his government in as yet unexplained circumstances, but the chap in charge of one of the most sensitive departments of state held similar views.

‘Those, Ted, are the excuses of the fanatic through the ages. That sort of thing leads
anti-abortionists
in America to kill clinic workers. In the UK we've had animal rights campaigners picketing ports to save calves that would otherwise go for dog food, and putting lorry drivers in hospital as they did it. It's yet another version of the end justifying the means, don't you see?'

‘No, I don't.' Bampton defended himself with some asperity. Why on earth was the Prime Minister, at this moment of all times, spouting left-wing philosophy? ‘And I don't see what it's got to do with Anthony York, either.'

‘Let me put it this way, then. What the bloody hell was he doing on Hampstead Heath beating up homosexuals? Was it some kind of personal crusade? Trying to clean the place up – was that it? Appointed himself a morality policeman?'

‘God knows. You'd have to ask him. But it wasn't his style. He wasn't demonstrative like that. Very buttoned up. Kept himself to himself.'

‘So was it a … a brainstorm? Had he been acting in a peculiar way lately?'

Bampton pursed his lips. ‘Not exactly. But he was taking time to settle. Didn't get on with the civil servants.'

Roger raised an eyebrow. ‘Be more specific. Was he having rows with them, or what?'

‘Couldn't say. But he'd had a word with me, yes.'

Roger sat back. He was beginning to understand. ‘So he tells you he's having difficulties. All the civil servants – or only one or two? And you, of course, were the soul of sympathy.'

Bampton shuffled uncomfortably.

‘Oh, so you weren't all that sympathetic. Told him to slop snivelling and pull his socks up, did you?'

‘Look, Roger, you can't nanny them the whole time.'

The Prime Minister's eyes became steely. ‘What about Harrison – did you know he was in cahoots with Bhadeshia?' Bampton shook his head. ‘Tell me, Ted, do you ever spend any time with your Ministers, other than the absolute minimum? Do you ever just sit and chat with them?'

‘Can't see why I should. They have their work to get on with and I have mine.'

Dickson frowned. Although Bampton was several years his senior he allowed himself to sound cutting, like a headmaster with a floundering pupil.

‘You've lost two Ministers in the space of a couple of months, Ted. Your department is patently not a happy place. I originally asked you here to get your suggestion on York's replacement. Before we agree any names, I must tell you that you need to try harder with your people. You're supposed to create a team – everyone pulling together. Naturally there'll be problems, personality clashes and the like. But you should know these individuals backwards, their strengths and foibles, and be able to anticipate trouble. It shouldn't hit you between the eyes. Preferably not once – and certainly not twice.'