Bertie and the Kinky Politician (6 page)

‘Meaning you can bet your Aunt Fanny's mahogany dentures it's true.'

‘… But there's a persistent rumour someone's been caught with sticky fingers in appropriations. Actually, quite a few people. Strictly unconfirmed reports, of course.'

‘Oh, strictly,' he agreed genially. ‘So I wonder what that has to do with me.' James was carefully manoeuvred clear of appropriations by his two fellow ministers. Considerable influence lay there. Money was power. On the whole, he was glad. He was far better at discovering ingenious ways to save revenue than to spend it on bullets and grenades and the fussy internals of H-bombs. Being invisible had its advantages. With greater responsibility came the unwelcome stress of a high political profile, and it was already difficult enough to tread a delicate path between the demands of his career and the desire to maintain a private association with Celeste. He would become alarmingly visible if he was moved up into appropriations. The press might start digging, and boy, let's face it, did James have front page potential!

‘What time do you have to go over, Mr Timbrill?'

‘Ten. I'll leave now and take the scenic route, I think.' A walk of several hundred yards would bring him into No. 10 via the famously well-known top secret tunnel, a journey of a few minutes at most, but James decided the subterranean route was far too unsettling. ‘This could get messy and I want time to think.'

Outside, he turned his back on the frowning windows and strolled down to the Thames. Lost in thought, he gazed across the turbid waters with elbows resting on the parapet. He hadn't the faintest idea what was in the wind and no politician ever liked that, even one as inept as himself. The art of surviving depended entirely on recognising what form of poo was about to hit your own personal fan! Finally, he was forced to the distressing conclusion the secrets of his sexual preferences had been discovered at last and that he would be encouraged to slink off into political obscurity. His only hope was that the press would leave Celeste alone. He sighed unhappily. Things looked pretty bleak.

A woman stood at his elbow.

James started in surprise at her sudden and utterly silent approach, but the woman just stared out across the river with narrowed eyes. She was close enough to make it obvious she wanted to speak to him, yet had that distant, vague, look normally associated with those who were not entirely in touch with the real world. She was cadaverously tall, a lean and gaunt figure with a disproportionately long neck jutting up from the collar of a black gabardine raincoat. The sunken-cheeked head was crowned by a fringe of very bright ginger hair, shot through with grey and frizzed by neglect beneath a wide-brimmed hat protected by a transparent plastic covering. Celeste's hair was ginger, but whereas her unique tint was a glossy, rich and beautifully burnished copper, this woman's was pale by comparison, like an overcooked carrot. The hat didn't help. It seemed incongruous apparel for such a sunny morning. The stranger ignored James's stare and continued to study the Thames. How could such a gangly character be so stealthy?

Perhaps she was a ginger ninja.

‘It's going to rain,' she said suddenly, as if letting him in on a big secret. A prominent Adam's apple bobbed up and down her scrawny throat like an epileptic elevator.

His politician's reluctance to engage the woman in conversation was overcome by a powerfully inbred sense of West Country courtesy. ‘Are you sure?' he ventured, looking upwards. There wasn't a cloud in sight. His knowledge of meteorology was rudimentary, but he felt reasonably confident in his assessment. Rain had to come from somewhere and as far as he could recall, the traditional source was a cloud, but this sky was a glorious deep blue in all directions.

The old woman noticed James's perfunctory examination. ‘Not here, idiot – on Mount Wai-'ale-'ale!' James looked blank. ‘Hawaii!' she barked impatiently, snorting at his ignorance. ‘Rains there every day.'

‘Er, I believe that's some distance away,' he replied carefully, confident there were probably a couple of continents and at least a dozen time zones separating them from a place that sounded like a terminal hacking cough.

‘The rain will spread, you know. It's coming. Very soon. Better prepare yourself. The Government won't lift a finger to help. It's all a conspiracy, you see, this global warming.'

‘Quite.'

‘It's true, I tell you,' she snapped. There was an intense fervour in her pale eyes. ‘They know all about it. Forget greenhouse gases – that's just a cover-up to raise fuel prices and taxes. No, climate change is really caused by something much more insidious.' Again, the look of total incomprehension on James's face elicited a further reluctant release of information. The old woman reminded him of his school physics master patiently trying to explain Fleming's Left-Hand Rule to a class of foundering pupils. ‘Mobile phones. They use microwaves. Ever heard of microwave ovens, moron? We're cooking the atmosphere. Warm air holds more moisture. The hotter it gets, the more clouds are formed, the more rain we get. Take my advice and head for the high ground. Government knows all about it. Still, at least
I'm
protected.'

She touched the brim of her hat and seemed to regard James's lack of preparation against the oncoming tempest as a personal insult. ‘I know you work in that faceless office yonder.' She jerked her head back at Whitehall, an action that threatened to snap her emaciated neck and send her head rolling across the pavement. ‘I did once myself – until I found out what was going on and got booted out for my troubles. Dig deep, sonny, and you'll soon find out that I'm right. I must hurry home now before the heavens open. Come along, Agnes.'

She strode away with some urgency, one hand shaking out an umbrella, and James noticed for the first time a big fat pigeon sitting in the pocket of her gabardine, its head jerking this way and that. She was a dozen paces away when she turned back, pointing a bony, accusing finger. ‘There's a lot more going on than you can ever hope to discover, but one day you will find yourself in a position where you can do something about it. You'll do well to remember me then, James Timbrill!' She turned on her heel and was gone.

James stared in slightly shell-shocked disbelief. She
knew
him. That had never happened before. His accountant camouflage offered no protection this time. James watched woman and bird scuttle off to prepare for the Biblical deluge and couldn't help but feel a certain foreboding. Mobile phones? Surely the old girl was cracked.

Wasn't she?

The traffic along Whitehall was heavy. Fumes smarted in his nose and he knew London was in for another Black Snot Day. James showed his pass at Thatcher's Gates and strode up the crooked length of Downing Street. None of the reporters gathered opposite No. 10 even bothered to peer in his direction. He looked like a minor functionary. A clerk. Perhaps someone delivering pizzas. As he approached the famous old house, several men hurried out of the front door and clambered into a Jaguar to the staccato supernovae of flash guns. Cameras swung in choreographed unison as the car accelerated away and swept past. James stopped in his tracks and stared, goggle-eyed. Inside, partially hidden by raised arms, were Quentin Austerly and Wallace Sharples, their faces frozen masks of anguish. A sudden fear gripped him and he had to force himself forward again on legs distinctly wobbly.

‘Oi! Who are you?' The stolid policeman on duty gazed suspiciously at James. His voice was as friendly as a nail-spiked cudgel. No wonder, really. To stand there all day and look like you're actually enjoying your job would have tried the patience of a saint.

‘Timbrill. MoD.' James stared straight ahead at the middle of the man's chest. He was as big and solid as the polished black door behind him.

‘Tringbowl to come in,' said the bobby into his lapel mic. James couldn't be bothered to correct him. He wasn't planning on being a regular visitor. The policeman knocked once and the gleaming door opened. Constructed from armoured steel but painted to look like wood, it was without doubt the most recognised door on earth. He stepped over the threshold, glad to be out of sight, but once inside immediately detected a definite atmosphere in the place. People scurried past in silence with handfuls of buff folders and lowered heads. Nobody even looked at him.

A sage advisor beckoned, elderly but still well-built. The man was from Scotland, decided James. The kilt was a big giveaway. Legs emerged from below the swaying hem like the mighty towers of the Forth Bridge. The proper bridge, not that spindly upstart next door. There was something about a Scotsman's knees James found faintly intimidating. They always seemed unnaturally muscular, possessing huge sinews and corded tendons bunching and flowing across gnarled, hirsute surfaces, implying resolute strength, fortitude, and brutal Pictish virility. These were the sort of knees you wanted on your side in times of crisis. These knees were the real reason why James VI was asked if he wouldn't mind warming his chuff on the English throne. The Union came into existence through fear of Scottish knees. Let's face it, when you're close up and personal with your enemy and things are looking tough, there's nothing more stirring for you – or terrifying for your opponents – than the sounds of approaching bagpipes skirling down the breeze accompanied by hordes of heavily armed, pumped-up, glassy-eyed and hairy-arsed Scotsmen wearing skirts and waving their woad-tinted testicles at you!

James followed the taciturn man up the stairs, the portraits of former prime ministers staring down at him in frosty silence. He wondered how many of them ever had their backsides striped like a stick of Blackpool rock once the bedroom curtains were pulled.

Probably quite a few.

His guide knocked and gravely ushered him into the prime minister's spacious study.

James took a deep breath to steady his nerves and stepped through the door. This was it …

Chapter Four

‘James, have a seat, I won't be a minute.' The PM sat alone at his leather-tooled desk surrounded by a clutter of files, laptops, and open despatch boxes. James waited in silence, glancing around at the choice of art on the walls. Each premier who lived in the grand old house could decorate to their own personal taste. None of the paintings were permanent fixtures but were selected by the current PM from the Government Art Collection, a stately and dignified body which cared for thousands of paintings, sculptures, and other sundry works of art, all for use in official buildings and embassies across the globe. Getting to hang a few genuine masterpieces on your walls instead of cheap prints from John Lewis like the rest of the country was a real perk of the job, even though it was widely suspected the finest paintings were quietly put to one side whenever a prime minister came shopping. James discovered the PM had a diverse taste; there were classical portraits of Walpole, Nelson, Gladstone, and Sir Isaac Newton, a very fine bust of Charles Darwin, several dreamy Turner landscapes, a surprisingly racy Russell Flint, and a bright, cheerful Hockney. Not bad at all.

The PM ignored James for a full minute. He waited patiently, watching his leader scribble. Having already experienced one of the premier's pathetic psychological tricks that morning, the second proved merely tiresome. Eventually, the files were shuffled into order and dropped onto the floor beside his chair.

‘You wanted to see me.' Cool and collected. James was a good actor when occasion called.

‘Yes.' The two stared at each other for a moment, then the PM stood and walked slowly around the desk, hands in pockets and looking down at the floor. He was a very tall, solid man about ten years older than James, heavy in the shoulders and arms, who'd once played in the pack for Wasps. The famous broken nose was easily the most prominent feature of his face. Dramatic white eyebrows underpinned a broad forehead, their exaggerated bushiness compensating for the very few silver hairs still stubbornly refusing to decamp from his lofty crown. His lips were thin and firm. Decisive. A massive intellect lurked behind those guarded grey eyes, precise, sharp, and formidably penetrating, yet despite these advantages the PM was widely perceived as grey and monodimensional. ‘This is a delicate matter, James. As you know, we've suffered from a run of extremely bad luck over the last few months and can ill afford to be subject to media scrutiny again.'

James thought it unwise to correct the PM. For
months
read
years
. Actually, things had started to go spectacularly pear-shaped with the last election, which had reduced the PM's previously comfortable majority of fifty-eight to a worryingly tiny nine. He'd soldiered on, however, as politicians addicted to power always do, but it was hard going. Several unexpected and frankly disappointing by-elections had eaten into that disastrously inadequate number. Then came a massive financial scandal in the Department for Business, Innovation and Skills, resulting in a dozen arrests when the money was finally traced back to organised criminal gangs. This was followed in short order by the exposure of several MPs who had invested in a dubious Russian casino and its associated brothel. In an effort to re-establish moral authority and improve its popularity with the electorate, the Government then introduced a series of inflation-busting tax hikes and a natty selection of ill-advised schemes for raising extra capital, capital desperately needed by an administration hopelessly addicted to spending more than its income, just like any frivolous, credit-hungry teenager.

Some of these methods were described as ‘inventive' by the Government and ‘unfair' by the populace, such as the introduction of an MoT test and mandatory fully comprehensive insurance for bicycles, skateboards, roller blades and even children's scooters, but what really angered every voter in the land was the unexpected arrival of a new and universally loathed levy on property – in an attempt to alleviate the chronic housing shortage by encouraging more people to move, the Government introduced a hefty annual charge to penalise householders for
not
putting their properties on the market!