Fifty-First State (33 page)

Lucy had stood, silent and appalled, staring at the shouting William. Then the doorbell had rung. The Sutcliffes were back. A grim silence had fallen between the couple.

Lucy now looked at her father and said, ‘You'd better get to bed, Dad. William – do you want to come out for a walk with me?'

In the street she said, ‘God, William. Do you mean it about Spain? You'd really leave me?'

‘Lucy,' he said. ‘Lucy … You know I … Oh, fuck! I don't know what I mean. Let's go and get a drink.'

They headed silently for the local pub on Shepherd's Bush Green. William wondered whether he could really leave his wife and head for
Spain. No, he couldn't, he decided. He could not take up Felix Arnold's offer to help him with the expansion of his hotel unless Lucy came, too. But, he thought, he could sure as hell pack in his job and go there until the Sutcliffes were out of the way. He was wondering how to put his decision to Lucy when, rounding a corner, they saw police vehicles and lights on the Green and police officers and Auxiliaries clustered on the pavement opposite. They stopped, ‘Not again,' said William. ‘Looks like a quiet drink round here is out of the question. I can't face the flat again.'

They walked through quiet streets, though still hearing sirens and spotting police at intersections. ‘I didn't mean what I said about clearing out for good,' William told Lucy. ‘But I can't hang about while your parents go through all the business of a sale and buying a new place. Can you imagine your mother while all that's going on? I couldn't take it. I'm serious, Lucy. I will go. But what I've been thinking is this – this place is shite. Look at what we've just seen – cops all over the place, bombs – maybe Mo had the right idea when he got out. Agreed, he and his family were under more pressure – but the pressure's getting worse for all of us. What is this stuff about air force bases – fucked if I know? And all these rumours about the Prime Minister buying an election. And then there's going to be another war in Iraq. What I'm saying is, maybe this business with your parents is a wake-up call. Look at our lives, working all hours to save for a small flat so we can have a baby and then keep on working all hours so we can bring him up – and look what we're having to live through just to get that – bombs and terrorism, the lot. At least we've got a choice. We could go to Spain together. It's a plan, Lucy. Thousands are doing it.'

‘Yes,' said Lucy slowly. ‘We've got a choice.'

William suddenly wanted it settled quickly. He told Lucy, ‘I don't want to wait any longer. I don't want a lot of discussion about what Joe and Marie are going to do. We've got to decide soon.'

‘Give me a day or two to think,' she said.

‘OK. But don't take any longer.'

Lucy didn't like this. ‘Don't bully me,' she said.

They were walking up an avenue of houses. On the pavement outside one of them there were concrete crash barriers. A policeman was on duty in the porch.

‘Wonder who that is?' said Lucy.

‘Whoever he is, he's better defended than we are. Your parents are mad to move here – this place is a mess.'

Their mood had changed since they left the house. ‘Let's forget the pub,' she said. ‘I'm on duty at seven.'

*   *   *

When they returned, Joe was chatting to a thin young man who was sitting on the couch. ‘You weren't long,' Joe said amiably. ‘In the meantime, your friend dropped in.'

The young man looked up and said, ‘Hello, William.'

At first, William didn't recognize Jemal Al Fasi, Mo's brother, although he did recognize the T-shirt and jeans Jemal was wearing. They were his own. Jemal's hair was wet. He must have had a shower. Once he realized who Jemal was, and had got over the fact that Jemal was wearing his clothes, he was even more surprised, simply to find Jemal in his flat. He thought the whole family was in Morocco. He hardly knew Jemal. What was he doing here?

He took in Jemal's face, tired and keyed up, then looked down at the boy's feet. He was wearing his own trainers, which were battered and smeared with mud that had not been properly washed off. There was a big tear on the side of one shoe. William suddenly felt worried.

‘Hullo, Jemal,' he said carefully. ‘How's the family?'

Grosvenor Cavendish Hotel, Knightsbridge, London SW1. February 24th, 2016. 10 p.m.

Edward Gott had decided that even if the vote were lost he'd throw a big party that night in the best public rooms in the smartest hotel in London. The dissident Conservative MPs, the press, the TV cameras and anyone else he could lay hands on would all be there. When he made the booking ten days earlier he did it with his party against him and his job on the line. It was pure bravado – the desire, if he was going to go down, to go down with a bang. But the vote had not been lost. The three huge interconnecting rooms of the hotel were crammed, the band was playing and the champagne was flowing. In addition, even before the vote had been taken, Gott's career had been salvaged by an age-old enemy.

A few weeks before the vote, the day after the dinner at the French Embassy and his late night at the bank, Gott had arrived early to discover what the first repercussions of his buys and sells on behalf of his clients would be. It was no surprise that what he had done had much the same impact as the bomb on Upper Thames Street the night before. The latter had taken off the side of the Baltic League Bank right up to the third floor, though, by a miracle, only the suicide bombers inside the truck driven into the building had died. No one had admitted responsibility; the assumption was that, being a suicide bomb it was probably the work of Muslim fundamentalist terrorists. But the business of the City of London – money – went on.

At Clough Whitney Credit and Commerce the majority view was that Gott had conducted his own act of terrorism. Gott had needed to summon up his nerve to walk in that morning and, as soon as he did, the problems began. He was called to an immediate meeting with the Clough Whitney CEO, Sir Basil Whitehouse, to explain his dawn raid on his clients' accounts. His boss sat stonily silent as he explained his reasons. The meeting concluded with nothing but, ‘You'll be hearing more from me later in the day.' Which Gott assumed meant that Sir Basil was waiting for the CEO of the bank's American side to call. He did not need to ask if he was still being considered as his boss's successor. Sir Basil was due to retire in a year.

That morning, Gott lost one third of his clients. Charlotte Harker,
one of the bank's other directors and herself in line for Sir Basil's job, urged the calling of an extraordinary meeting of the bank's directors to discuss Gott's activities. This was rapidly arranged and would take place in three days. Charlotte Harker would now be lobbying for votes against him.

Meanwhile, the bank was besieged by other clients, not Gott's, who had got wind of his extraordinary decisions and were anxious that the same policy, liquidation of lucrative stocks and reliable currency, and investment in less well-yielding stocks, should not be applied to their own accounts. By lunchtime the bank's traders, probably working on hints from Charlotte Harker, were beginning to say that Gott's preoccupation with politics had unhinged him, that he was no longer reliable. They asked for a same-day meeting. Gott, who was due to take a train north for a rally in York with Joshua and other MPs, agreed, and cancelled the trip.

That meeting, with the deputation of Clough Whitney traders, was less difficult than Gott had anticipated. Two of the seven traders had decided not to turn up and, of the remaining five, two – the best of the bunch – were prepared to take seriously what he told them. They might not follow him in his risky decisions, but they could see his logic and would keep an eye on events so that if there were signs he was right, they could move fast. The other three were Charlotte Harker's allies. If there had been a vote, Gott would have lost 3-2, with two abstentions. Not a terrible result. But the meeting with the traders was a minor one – the real challenge would come at the directors' meeting. Meanwhile, he was blocking calls from the
Financial Times
and from the financial editors of the other serious newspapers.

That afternoon, Gott found out, the American CEO rang Sir Basil. His next call was to Gott himself. For the third time that day Gott explained an investment strategy based on guarding his clients' money against EU sanctions and a possible split from the EU by Britain. The US CEO was incredulous. ‘That's not an investment policy, Gott – it's a movie scenario,' he said. The call ended with the American, an irate and busy man, saying with barely concealed anger that he would fly to London to attend the emergency directors' meeting.

Even Lady Margot rang from Scotland saying that ‘the boys' – the oldest was thirty-two – were concerned about the rumours involving their father's movement of money, including his own – money which would eventually, be theirs. She said they were pestering her, which Gott knew probably meant four or five phone calls. One would have been from Jamie, whose analyst wife might be suggesting that her father-in-law had become unbalanced due to the stress of his recent political involvements. Gott's wife ended her call by telling him, ‘I told them, don't you be so sure. Your father's an old fox who has survived many a hunt.' Gott had
been touched by this unexpected support from his wife, especially considering his recent admission to her.

Gott's day did not improve. Before he left the office the calls from the financial editors were still continuing unanswered. Jasmine Dottrell put her head round his door. One glance at her face told Gott he was in trouble. ‘It's the
Sun,
' she said.

Gott spoke to the editor of the
Sun.
The Downing Street Press Office had released the story of Gott's illegitimate child, exclusively, to the paper. The story would be published next day and the editor asked for Gott's comments. Gott told him, ‘It's old news. My family knows about it. And you know this is Alan Petherbridge's revenge.'

‘Revenge for the vote against his bill in Parliament, but also to show he means business if you start trying to kick the Yanks off those bases. Any comment on that one, by the way?'

‘Just stick to scandal,' Gott advised. ‘And, Darren, this isn't earth-shattering. Are you doing it as a favour?'

Obviously Downing Street was giving every help. Gott's daughter, Chloe, her husband and their boy were being stalked in Brighton by reporters. Photographs had been taken outside the primary school where Chloe worked. The headmistress was very angry. Gott's daughter said she loved her father. Chloe's mother, a London solicitor, said she had a friendly relationship with him. Lady Margot told journalists she had known of the matter for many years. Gott knew she would have made this statement anyway, out of loyalty to him – and he would probably never find out if it were true.

Gott called Jeremy in to deal with the fallout. He had other work to do and would not be able to leave Clough Whitney until very late that night. Jeremy took over a small connecting office next to Gott's. This contained a sofa, a coffee table and little else and was normally used in an emergency when it was important to keep two visitors to the office apart.

‘Tory Party Treasurer in Thirty-year-old Love Tangle,' Jeremy said when he walked in.

Jasmine said, ‘He ran away, that's what the story says.'

Gott defended himself. ‘I came back.'

‘Not soon enough,' Jasmine said.

‘Just get on with your work,' her employer told her.

It wasn't news by tabloid standards. Gott understood that. But even if those involved in his unsensational little tale were all helping to kill it for lack of oxygen, the story could not have come at a worse time. With his professional judgement heavily questioned and his job on the line, the real story was whether a man who had been proved unreliable in his private life would be the same in his public life. As no doubt the Prime Minister had known when he lit the fuse.

The Clough Whitney directors' meeting was as bad as Gott had expected, if not worse. He was given a month to put his clients' affairs on a suitable basis. Then there would be a review. He knew he would be expected to resign before the results of the review were announced. For the next two weeks Gott did almost nothing. He was still backing his own judgement over his clients' money, but after the first rush to get out, the seepage of clients continued. He lived in a limbo of declining influence, not handing in his resignation only because he was too obstinate.

Two weeks into this nightmare of meetings to which he was not invited and conversations which ended abruptly as he approached, Jeremy Saunders called him at his office, where he was tying up loose ends in anticipation of the day when he would pass through Clough Whitney's door for the last time, broken and unemployable. Jeremy told Gott that Lord Haver's private secretary had rung and asked, could Lord Gott spare the time to have lunch with Lord Haver that day? ‘He's got something big to tell you, I'm sure of it,' Jeremy told Gott.

After the Haver House treachery Gott had no reason to like or trust Haver, or want ever to meet him again if he could help it. But he trusted Jeremy's instincts enough to agree to the meeting.

Haver was wheeled into the old-fashioned fish restaurant he favoured. The muscly attendant disappeared after settling him at the table. Gott looked across at the lined face and steely blue eyes of his host and wondered if Haver had anything useful to say. Possibly, because Haver was a profoundly vindictive man, he had arranged the meeting only to crow over him or to ram the knife deeper into his already-bleeding back. Well, Gott thought, he could always leave. With this in mind, although he seldom drank at lunchtime on a working day, he agreed when Haver suggested wine. Haver ordered and, unusually for him, took a glass himself. The meal seemed to be almost cordial, Gott thought, and reminded himself to watch his step.