Goodfellowe MP (16 page)

‘He keeps some very interesting company at lunch, does Mr Breedon.’

‘So I’ve been hearing.’

‘Don’t have such a closed mind, Tom. Why, only
last week he was deep in discussion at this very table with one of the big Moggies.’

‘Moggies?’

‘Media Owners’ Group. The fat cats of the media world.’

‘Fascinating. What were they discussing?’

‘My dear Tom, this place is like a confessional. Couldn’t repeat what I heard. It would be breaking all sorts of professional confidences.’ She was sounding deliberately coquettish. She bent low, whispering. ‘Although it’s astonishing what you do hear. You’d be surprised how many ungrateful bloody fools treat you like the wallpaper, never notice you’re there.’

Mickey giggled. Goodfellowe flushed, but was not to be distracted from his purpose.

‘I’ve always wondered if this place might be a front for the KGB. Would it be a gross violation of professional ethics to know which of the Old Toms was taking my beloved Chairman out to lunch?’

Elizabeth puckered. When teasing men, which she did often, she had a habit of pursing her lips as if directing a kiss, then twisting her lips to one side as though to deprive them of their expected pleasure. She was teasing now, but Goodfellowe was too in earnest to notice.

‘Do you think the KGB might be interested in coming in as a partner? I’ve got a set of their handcuffs somewhere.’

‘Elizabeth!’

‘You win. It was Freddy Corsa.’

‘Damn.’ Goodfellowe uttered the word softly, as though he were slowly deflating, leaving him with
insufficient breath for more forceful expression.

‘Of course!’ Mickey exclaimed. ‘Just before Christmas. In Las Vegas. Breedon was the
Herald’s
celebrity correspondent at the heavyweight fight. You know, eight hundred words and all expenses paid? Justin stayed up all night to watch it, said it was a real dog, that I give him a better fight than he saw then. Three rounds of patacake with more clinching than you’d get in the showers at Wormwood Scrubs. Anyway, he mentioned Breedon’s article, said he was surprised he was a fight fan.’ A smile of unadulterated mischief spread across her face. ‘Come to think of it, that was the week Victoria wasn’t around either. Said she was going back home.’

‘I wonder what a first-class week for two in Las Vegas costs,’ Goodfellowe mused. ‘With or without the fight tickets.’

‘You think the
Herald
paid for Victoria too?’

He recalled his own conversation with Corsa. ‘I have a sneaking suspicion they might.’

‘That’s not against the rules, is it?’ Elizabeth asked.

‘Probably not. But maybe it should be.’

Elizabeth adopted a conspiratorial tone. ‘And I wouldn’t suppose for a moment that your Mr Breedon was having lunch in order to plan any further arduous travels he might undertake on behalf of the
Herald
. Do you? At least, not unless you’re an awful old cynic, Tom Goodfellowe.’ And with another pucker Elizabeth left to tend to her other guests.

‘You know she fancies you,’ Mickey stated, sounding almost bored.

‘Stop going on about that,’ he snapped.

‘Wasn’t aware I’d mentioned it before.’

But Goodfellowe was elsewhere. At lunch with Breedon and Corsa. At Hamley’s. In Las Vegas. And in Committee Room 10. He was suddenly aware that all was not as it once had seemed.

‘You certainly know how to show a girl a good time for her birthday treat,’ Mickey remarked, running a hand through her tousled hair.

He chose not to hear. They had returned from The Kremlin to the House of Commons, she with her skirts swirling and he with a look of great intent, switching on lights and raising the eyebrows of the duty policemen as they went. Now she was seated at her computer while he raced a finger through the bound edition of the Register of Members’ Interests, an annual publication designed, in the inevitably somewhat pompous wording of the reporting committee, ‘to provide information of any pecuniary interest or other material benefit which a Member receives which might reasonably be thought by others to influence his or her actions, speeches or vote in Parliament, or actions taken in his or her capacity as a Member of Parliament’. The Register was supposed to show who was doing what with whom in the belief that, so long as it was done in public, it must be decent. But, in many Members’ minds, it also had to be relevant.

‘It’s not bloody here.’

‘What ain’t?’ When she was tired, the gloss occasionally fell from Mickey’s accent, and it was past eleven.

‘Look. Here’s Breedon’s entry. No mention of journalism or writing. Sweet nothing about Las Vegas.’

‘Maybe he forgot. Maybe it was a one-off. Maybe he doesn’t regard his interest in boxing as having anything to do with his being a politician.’

‘What? You think he was sent all the way to Las Vegas because of his sex appeal and intimate relationship with the Marquess of Queensberry?’

‘He presumably thinks so.’

‘And what of Pennymore?’ Goodfellowe had turned at random to another page of the Register which featured a high-profile colleague. ‘He’s writing all the time, even scribbles the occasional theatre and film review, yet the only reference here is to “occasional journalism". And he reckons he earns less than ten thousand a year from all that?’

‘We can soon see.’

‘How?’

‘Would you accept that no self-respecting Member of the House is likely to sell his soul for less than a pound a word?’

He remembered that Corsa was offering more. ‘A reasonable working assumption.’

‘Then if we find the words, we’ve found your answer.’ Immediately she began tapping away at her keyboard. ‘We can log onto the newspaper libraries and see what they have on the esteemed Member. Let’s try the
Telegraph
first, shall we?’ And in a little while she had on her screen three articles that the prolific Pennymore had penned over the last year. ‘That’s three thousand, now let’s have a look at the
Herald
. Then the
Mail
.’ And so they had begun a search through Fleet Street’s finest, identifying articles, calculating both wordage and poundage and coming to a figure considerably in excess of ten thousand.

‘Is he on the fiddle?’ Mickey enquired.

Goodfellowe shook his head. ‘Perhaps not. He appears to be a bit of a tart, puts himself about, doesn’t seem to have a regular contract with anyone. So “occasional journalism” is probably technically correct. Maybe he doesn’t earn more than ten thousand from any single source. And I suspect he would argue that his television and theatre reviews have bugger all to do with politics so don’t need recording in the Register.’

‘So he’s another one with so much sex appeal he feels he has a public duty to share it.’

‘But his Register entry is so hugely misleading. And he’s on the Press Bill Standing Committee. But then, so am I. And Freddy Corsa has asked me to write for him, too.’

‘Bit of a coincidence.’

‘Strange world. If we were taking as much money from any other industry there would be cries of corruption and outrage. Led by the newspapers, of course. But so long as we keep scribbling articles they seem to have an excuse for shovelling as much money at us as they like.’

‘Dirty bath water.’

They were silent for a while, contemplating the road they had suddenly started to venture down.

‘Maybe we should pull the plug on it,’ Goodfellowe muttered. ‘Is all this press money meant to cover our votes as well as our articles? I want to find out.’ Goodfellowe continued to stare at the screen intently. Suddenly he became aware that he was leaning very closely over Mickey’s shoulder, his hot breath falling over smooth bare skin and his eyes, when lowered, being afforded a view that was beyond despair, like fruit in the Garden of Eden. Temptation tore at his roots. They were alone on their own island, cut off from the rest of the world, in a place where rules could be and often were remade. Every instinct in his body seemed to have come alive and they were all primordial, growing stronger with each passing beat of her chest. He felt he might do something stupid, something that he would bitterly regret. He could not move back, would not move on, his resolution in turmoil. At that moment, and much to his relief, she yawned.

‘But is there any fun in finding out what everyone is up to?’ she asked wearily. ‘I know it only upsets Justin.’

He drew back, the spell broken. ‘It’s too late now, but there’s work for you in the morning. I want you to go through every member of the Committee, examine their entry in the Register, then play around with your computer thingy and see what you can find.’

‘Sounds fun.’ She yawned again.

‘It may surprise you, Miss Ross, but even Members of Parliament have been known to succumb to temptation.’

‘I do hope so,’ she smiled, brightening, and switching off the screen.

It was gone midnight as the duty policemen saluted the Member and his young lady companion with tousled hair and careful mascara and a figure which, even with her coat on, demanded their attention. The girl swung her hips as she passed.

Neither man took his eyes off her retreating form. One moistened his lips. ‘You know, Baz, think I’ll get myself elected.’

‘What, all that unpaid overtime?’

‘Yeah, you’re right. Could wear you out, all those late nights. Could be a real killer,’ he smiled wistfully.

The sun had yet to disperse the late spring mist that was clinging to Whitehall like fog on an undeveloped film. It was not yet eleven, an uncommon time for guests to be found in The Kremlin. Yet when Elizabeth walked in bearing the spoils of her trip to the Tachbrook Street market Goodfellowe had already been waiting for some time.

‘I invited myself. Sorry,’ he offered, and nothing more.

She looked searchingly at him – the sapless cheeks, the rim of sleeplessness around the eyes, the hurriedly knotted tie. Elizabeth said nothing, disappearing into the kitchen with her carrier bags of meat and herbs and reappearing moments later bearing two huge glasses – bowls, almost – of oranged-renched champagne. ‘You obviously need it. I’ve a feeling I may be in need of it, too.
Nazdarovie.’

They raised the glasses and continued to sit silently
for a while. He’d rehearsed his thoughts in fine detail throughout the night, yet the lack of sleep had caused their rhythm to disappear and with it his resolution. He needed the drink.

‘Is that piano for real?’ he asked, searching for somewhere, anywhere, to start.

‘What are you, from Trading Standards? You want to know whether my piano is a genuine Tsar Nicholas with authentic Bolshevik bullet holes? The twenty pounds I paid for it in a Ukrainian street market says it is, and I consider it entirely possible that the date of 1932 on the maker’s stamp inside is a wicked forgery. But you know me, I’m just a gullible wee girl.’

‘Do I know you? Truth is, I know very little about you.’

‘A maid of mystery.’

‘De Vries. Is that a maiden name, a married name?’

‘Neither. But I was scarcely likely to flourish on Planet Westminster with a name like Molly O’Malley, was I now? We came from County Carlow, my parents were great traditionalists. Molly was good enough for Daddy’s grandmother, so it was good enough for me. Elizabeth de Vries is a stage name that I use in this little basement theatre. On the other side of the water I’m Molly O’Malley and proud of it.’

‘Unusual. Someone in Westminster who seems to know precisely who they are.’

His maudlin observation was interrupted as the door swung open. In came a street cleaner – highway sanitation officer, in the jargon of Westminster City Council’s multiple employment codes, complete with
luminous overjacket and cigarette wedged behind his ear. His strides, languorous and loose, brought him clumping across the floor to a point where he stood distractedly in front of Elizabeth, clutching his cap and conducting a patient examination of his nails.

‘Mornin’, Libby.’ He ignored Goodfellowe completely.

‘Good morning to you, Ted,’ she replied, extracting a folded ten-pound note from the pocket on her blouse and handing it across.

Ted replaced his cap with a gesture that might have been a form of awkward salute and, without passing another word, departed.

Goodfellowe sat mesmerized. ‘A man of restricted vocabulary,’ he muttered, ‘but apparently very flexible understanding of the street sweeper’s book of rules. Have I just seen a backhander being passed?’

‘Backhanders are for cynics,’ Elizabeth chided, ‘and totally unnecessary in this island of opportunity which you politicians have created, where the streets are not only paved with gold but always swept scrupulously clean. Particularly outside busy restaurants.’

‘Tell me that wasn’t a backhander.’

Elizabeth gave the point careful, even extravagant consideration before replying. ‘This is the way it works. Ted is my turf adviser. He advises me on the turf. Once a week I give him ten pounds to place on a horse he fancies – after all, what do we Irish lasses understand about such things? He’s very conscientious, regular as rain. Never offers an ungentlemanly word. And who knows, one day I might even win. In the meantime he and his crew do a wonderful job
with those messy black bags on the pavement outside, don’t you think?’