House of Cards (62 page)
He leapt to his feet and scrabbled about in the drawer before coming up with the list. With a broad sweep of his arm he cleared all the papers, books and assorted debris off the top of her large work table, exposing its smooth, laminated white work surface. The whiteness of the desk was like an open page waiting to be filled. He grabbed an artist's pen and began scrawling down on the laminate all the twenty-two names from the sheet.
'OK. Who could have been responsible for the leaks? Come on, Mattie. Think!' The fire had caught inside
him
now.
Mattie did not move. She was frozen in the corner, all her last reserves of energy concentrated on sorting out the jumble in her mind.
There were at least three leaks which had to come from inside the Cabinet,' she said at last. There were the Territorial Army cuts, the cancellation of the hospital expansion scheme, and the Renox drug approval. O'Neill would never have known about those first-hand. But who in Government would have?'
Slowly, she began reciting the Cabinet members who would have had early knowledge of the decisions. As she did so, Krajewski feverishly began ticking off the names on his list.
Who was on the Cabinet Committee which dealt with major military matters and would have made the decision on the TA cuts? Concentrate, Mattie, even though every part of your mind wants to go to sleep. Slowly the thoughts began to focus and take form. The Defence Secretary,, the Financial Secretary, the Chancellor possibly, and of course the Prime Minister. Damn it, who else? Right, the Employment Secretary and the Foreign Secretary, too.
Then the hospital scheme which would have been considered by another Committee including the Health Secretary and the Treasury Ministers, the Trade and Industry Secretary, Education Secretary and Environment Secretary also. She prayed she hadn't missed any names. The membership and even existence of these committees were supposed to be a state secret, which meant the information was never formally published and was left to become yet another part of the Westminster system of lobby gossip. But the system was so effective she felt sure she had missed no names.
Was she getting closer? The Renox drug approval -damn, that wouldn't have been considered by any Cabinet Committee; it was a Department of Health decision and known solely to the Health Secretary and his Ministers. And of course the Prime Minister would have been informed in advance, but who else?
She leapt up to join Krajewski, who was staring at his handiwork.
'We seem to have screwed up rather badly, I'm afraid,' he muttered quietly.
She looked at the list. There was only one name with three ticks beside it, one man with access to all three bits of leaked information, one man whom her detective work could pronounce guilty. And that was the victim himself -
the Prime Minister, Henry Collingridge! Her efforts had left them with the most absurd conclusion of all. The little flame of hope gave one last splutter and prepared to die.
She stood there staring. Something was wrong.
'Johnnie, this list of names. Why isn't Urquhart on it?'
She snorted in ridicule at herself as she provided her own answer. 'Because I'm a silly bitch and forgot that the Chief Whip is not technically a full member of Cabinet and so doesn't appear on my Cabinet list. But it makes no difference. He's not on the Defence Committee, nor could he have known about Renox
’
But she stopped with a gasp. The flame had suddenly sprung into life once again and was burning at her from deep inside.
'But of course
...
He's not formally a member, but if I remember correctly he does sit in on the committee which dealt with the hospital programme. He wouldn't
have attended the defence comm
ittee, yet as he is responsible for parliamentary discipline they would have been sure to consult him well in advance about a decision which was going to cause uproar on the backbenches
’
'But he couldn't have known abo
ut Renox,' interjected Krajewski.
She was gripping his arm so tightly now that the nails were digging into the flesh.
J
ohnnie,
every Government Department has a Junior Whip attached to it, one of Urquhart's men, to make sure there is proper liaison about Government business. Every week most Secretaries of State hold a business meeting amongst their departmen
tal Ministers to discuss the ac
tivities of the week ahead, and the Junior Whip usually attends. He then goes back and reports to the Chief Whip to ensure that Ministers don't trip over each other's feet. It is possible, Johnnie. Urquhart could have known
...'
'But what about the rest of it. How would he have known about O'Neill's drug taking? Or Woolton's sex life? Or any of the other pieces?'
'Because he's Chief Whip. It's his job to know about those things. He had the means, and hell did he have a motive. From nowhere to Prime Minister in a couple of months! How on earth did we miss it?'
'But it's all still circumstantial, Mattie. You don't have a single shred of proof
’
Then let's see if we can get it!'
She grabbed the phone and began punching a number.
‘P
enny? It's Mattie Storin. I'm sorry it's so late, butl need some answers. It's very important. I think I know who got Roger into all the trouble. Where did you meet Patrick Woolton?'
'At the Bournemouth party conference
’
a sad voice replied.
'But in what circumstances? Please try to remember. Who introduced you?'
'Roger said he wanted to meet me, and took me along to a party to introduce us.'
'Where was the party?'
'At Mr Urquhart's. He had the bungalow right next door to Patrick's, and it was he who actually took me over to say hello to Patrick.'
'Did Roger know Francis Urquhart particularly well?'
'No, not really. At least not until recently. As far as I know they had scarcely spoken to each other before the election, but they have talked with each
other a couple of times on the phone since then, and they met for dinner. I don't think even now they are -were - very close, though. Last time they spoke Roger was upset. Something about a computer file which got Roger very angry.'
At last the pieces began to fit.
'One more question, Penny. I presume Francis Urquhart has a country residence as well as his house in Pimlico. Do you happen to know where that is?'
'No, I don't I'm afraid. I've only got a list of Cabinet weekend telephone numbers which I keep for Roger.'
'Can I have the Urquhart number?'
‘I
can't, Mattie, they are absolutely confidential. You must remember there have been terrorist attacks at Ministers' homes, and it would be totally wrong for me to give them out to the press, even to you. I am sorry, Mattie, truly.'
'Can you tell me
the area in which he fives? Not t
he address, just the town or even the county?'
‘I
don't know it. I've only got the telephone number.'
'Give me the dialling code, then. Just the dialling code
’
she pleaded.
There was the sound of a slight shuffling of paper at the other end of the phone.
'Mattie, I'm not sure why you want it, but it is to help Roger, isn't it?'
T promise you, Penny.'
'042128.'
Thanks. You won't regret it.'
Mattie flicked the receiver and got a new line. She punched the area code into the telephone, followed by a random set of numbers. A connection was made, and a phone started ringing at the other end.
'Lyndhurst 37428
’
a drowsy voice announced.
'Good evening. I'm sorry to bother you so late. Is that Lyndhurst, Surrey, 37428?'
'No. It's Lyndhurst in Hampshire 37428. And it's very late for you to be telephoning wrong numbers!' an irritated voice snapped before the phone was disconnected.
The fire inside Mattie was roaring brightly now as she threw herself across the room towards her bookcase, where she ripped a road atlas from its place. She scrabbled through the maps until she found the South Coast section, jabbed a finger at the page and whooped with triumph.
It's him, Johnnie. It's him!'
He looked over her shoulder at where the finger was placed It was pointing directly at the Rownhams service area on the M27 where O'Neill had died It was the first service station on the motorway back to London from Lyndhurst. O'Neill had died less than eight miles from Urquhart's country home.
TUESDAY 30
th
NOVEMBER
The
morning newspapers fell onto the doormats of a million homes like a death knell for Samuel's candidacy. One by one, editor by editor, they began to line up behind Urquhart. It was not surprising to the Chief Whip that all the newspapers in the Telegraph and United Newspapers groups came to the same conclusion - some with more enthusiasm than others, to be sure, but to the same conclusion nonetheless - but it was of even greater satisfaction that many of the others had also decided to throw their weight behind him. Editorial offices tend to provide little comfort for politicians who trail their consciences; and some still remembered how badly their papers had got their fingers burnt with Neville Chamberlain's pious bits of paper. Others had reached the same cynical conclusion as Woolton about the drawbacks of creating another 'era' so soon after Thatcher which, with Samuel's youth, could last another fifteen years or more. Phrases such as 'experience', 'maturity' and 'balance' were peppered freely around the columns. Still others wanted simply to play safe, wishing to swim with the tide which was flooding strongly in Urquhart's favour.
Only two newspapers stood out amongst the quality ' press, the
Guardian
for its habit of deliberately swimming against the tide, requiring it to support Samuel, and the
Independent
which stood proud and isolated like a rock withstanding the battering of storms and tide, refusing to endorse either.
The mood was reflected in the two camps, with Urquhart's supporters finding it difficult to hide their air of q
uiet confidence, and Samuel's fin
ding it impossible in private to disguise their sense of looming disappointment.
As the tall doors of Committee Room 14 swung open at 10 a.m. to accept the first batch of MPs waiting outside to vote, neither Sir Humphrey nor others present expected any disappointments.
In best traditional style it would be an orderly and gentlemanly ballot; the loser would be gracious and the winner even more so. The covering of snow which was beginning steadily to blanket Westminster gave the proceedings a surrealistic calm. It would be Christmas soon, it reminded them, and the lights had already long been switched on in Oxford Street Time soon for the winter break, for family reunions and peace on earth. The long period of indecision
would
be
over in a few hours and ordinary folk could return to their normal lives. In public there would be handshakes and congratulations all the way round when the result was announced, even as in private the victors planned their recriminations and the losers plotted their revenge.
When Mattie walked towards the office of Benjamin Landless just off Charterhouse Square, the snow was several inches thick. Outside the capital the snow had settled much more deeply, making travel difficult and persuading many commuters simply to stay at home. The streets of the City of London were strangely quiet in their white cocoon as the falling flakes muffled all sound and the few cars crept quietly about their business. She felt unreal, as if she were on a film set acting out a role, hoping she would wake up in the morning and discover that the script had been changed. Even now she was tempted to turn around and forget all about it, to let others concern themselves about the great affairs of state while she concentrated on paying her mortgage and whether she could afford a holiday next year.
Then a flurry of snow blew into her face, blinding her and transporting her ba
ck many years before she was born
to an isolated Norwegian fjord and her grandfather setting off in a leaking fishing boat to risk his life on the tides of war. He could have collaborated, turned a blind eye, left it to others to sort out the world while he got on with his own life. But something had driven him on, just as she was being driven now.
When at first she had realised the necessity of confronting Landless, she had discovered all the many reasons why it would be futile - she wouldn't even get to see him; if she did he would ruthlessly ensure that she would never work as a journalist again, and she wouldn't be the first such victim. She had seen
him bully and in
timidate so many, how could she expect to succeed where so many other more experienced and powerful hands had failed? She had to confront him yet she desperately needed his help. And how was she supposed to squeeze support from a man who instinctively would prefer to throttle her with his own huge hands?
It was only when she realised that she had run out of time and alternatives that she summoned up the courage to unravel her excuses and deal with them one by one. Her first problem was access to the heavily protected businessman. He may depict himself as a man of the people, but he took elaborate and expensive precautions to ensure that he did not have to rub shoulders with them.
So she had phoned the writer of the
Telegraph's
diary column, the keeper of society's gossip and scandal. Had Landless recently had any close female friends, women of whom he was known to be particularly fond? Fine! A lady twenty years younger than him, now safely ensconced in Wiltshire with a new husband and brood, but known to have been the favoured recipient of a large measure of the magnate's hugely expensive overtime. Mrs Susannah Richards. Yes, she hoped that would do nicely.
But nothing seemed easy as she walked along the strange, empty streets. She arrived at her destination and shook the snow from her boots and hair. She was surprised to see how small were the offices from which Landless ran his many empires, and how opulently the East-Ender had learned to live. The place reeked of British tradition. The small foyer and reception area was cloaked almost entirely in English carved oak panelling, on which were hung several fine oil paintings of old London scenes and a vast portrait of the Queen. The carpeting was thick, the electronics sophisticated and the commissionaire very ex-military.
'Can I help you, Miss?' he asked from beneath his pencil-line moustache.
'My name is Mrs Susannah Richards. I am a personal friend of Mr Landless, you understand,' she explained with a hint of intrigue, 'and I was passing in the vicinity. He's not expecting me, but could you see if he has five minutes free? I have an important personal message for him.'
The commissionaire was all discretion and efficiency-it was so rare that one of the boss's 'personal friends' came to the office, and he was eager to make a good impression. He relayed the message to Landless's secretary precisely and with just the right degree of enthusiasm. No doubt the secretary passed on the message in similar fashion, for within a few seconds Mattie was being ushered into the lift with instructions to proceed to the top floor.
As she stood in the doorway of the penthouse suite, Landless was seated behind his desk in the middle of a vast office which had been designed to accommodate his own huge bulk. She had time to take in none of the detail before an animal growl of rage began erupting from his throat.
‘
You
miserable bloody cow
...'
She had to cut him short. Before he had time to make up his mind, let alone utter the angry words of dismissal, she had to take control. It was her only slender chance.
‘
It's your takeover of United.'
‘
The takeover? What about it?' he shouted, betraying only the slightest edge of interest. It's finished.'
'What on earth do you mean?' he snarled, but a little less loudly this time.
She stood there, silent, challenging him to decide whether his curiosity would overcome his anger. It took a moment before she knew she had won the first round. With a snort, he waved a fleshy hand in the direction of a chair. It was a good six inches lower than his own, down onto which he could glower from beneath his huge, eruptive eyebrows and stare its occupant into submission. She moved slowly into the room, but away from the chair. She wasn't going to give him the advantag
e of physically in
timidating her on the low, uncomfortable perch. Anyway, she felt better moving around.
'You've backed the wrong horse. Francis Urquhart has cheated and lied his way to the party leadership, and possibly much worse. By the time that all gets out, his endorsement of the takeover won't be worth a bean.'
'But he hasn't endorsed the takeover. He said he wouldn't decide until after the leadership election.'
'But you and I know that is only part of the deal you did with
him
- the support of your newspapers in return for his approval of the takeover after he had won.'
'What the hell are you talking about? You listen to me, you little bitch
...'
'No, Mr Landless. It's you who's going to have to listen to me!' She was smiling now, trying to display the quiet confidence of a poker player intent on persuading her opponent that the cards she held were of much higher value than his own. She had no proof, of course, only the coincidence of
timing
to suggest a deal had been done, but now she understood about Urquhart it was the only scenario which made sense. Anyway, she had to keep raising the stakes, she had to force him to show his hand.
You
see, you are not the first proprietor to put puppets into their newspapers as editors, but you made a great mistake when you chose Greville Preston. The man is so weak that every time you pulled the strings he started jerking around totally out of control. He couldn't possibly pretend that he was his own boss. So when you, Mr Landless, decided to go gunning for Henry Collingridge at the party conference, there was no chance that Preston could pretend it was his own decision or hide the fact that he was acting under your direct instructions. And when
you,
Mr Landless, decided to propel Francis Urquhart into the leadership
race at the last, dramatic m
inute through the editorial columns of the
Telegraph,
there was no chance that Preston could justify it to the staff. He had to slip it into the edition on a Sunday evening without any consultation, skulking around his own newspaper like a thief in the night. You see, he's very good at doing what he's told, but he simply doesn't understand half the time why he's been told to do it. If you like to put it that way, Mr Landless, in spite of all his university education you're too good for him.'
Landless did not respond to the backhanded compliment. His fleshy features were set uncharacteristically rigid.
‘
You made Urquhart's candidacy. Put quite simply - as I am sure you have put it to him yourself - he could not be on the point of becoming Prime Minister without your help. And for that you would have got something in return - his agreement to turn the Government's competition policy on its head and to endorse your takeover of United Newspapers.'
At last Landless came to life, calling her bluff.
'What proof do you have of this extraordinary tale, Miss Storin?'
That's the beauty of it. I don't need proof. I need just enough to stir up the most awful public row and you will find the politicians deserting your camp and heading for the hills, no matter what they have been saying during the leadership contest. You will find yourself without a single friend.'
'But according to your weird and wonderful hypothesis,
Francis Urquhart is my friend, and he will be in 10 Downing Street
’
Landless smiled mockingly.
'But not for long, Mr Landless, not for long. I'm afraid you know less about him than you think. Did you know, when you instructed Preston to use the opinion poll to undermine the Prime Minister, that it was Urquhart who had leaked it in the first place? He set you up.'
There was a sufficient look of surprise on Landless's face to let Mattie know that she was right and he resented being used like that.
'But all politicians leak
’
Landless responded. It's not criminal, certainly not enough to throw
him
out of Downing Street.'
'No, but insider share dealing, fraud, blackmail and theft are!' She delighted in the look of concern spreading across his fat jowls.
‘I
can show beyond a reasonable doubt that it was Urquhart who set up Charles Collingridge by buying Renox shares in his name in a deliberate and very successful attempt to implicate the Prime Minister. That Urquhart blackmailed Patrick Woolton into standing down by bugging his room at Bournemouth. And ordered, the theft of confidential personal files on Michael Samuel from party headquarters.' She was bluffing on the Samuel file, she had no proof only inner certainty, but she knew her bluff would not be called from the way in which Landless had by now lost his air of confidence. Yet he was one of nature's fighters. He hadn't given in yet.
'What makes you think anyone is going to believe you? By tonight Francis Urquhart will be Prime Minister, and who do you think is going to want to see the Prime Minister and the country dragged down by a political scandal of that sort? I think you underestimate the Establishment and its powers of self-protection, Miss Storin. If the Prime Minister is dragged down, confidence in the whole system suffers. It's not justice which wins, but the radicals and the revolutionaries. Not even the Opposition would welcome that. So you'll find it damned difficult to get any newspaper to print your allegations, and next to impossible to get a law officer to proceed on them.'
He was beginning to relish his own argument now, regaining his confidence.
'Why, it took them seven years before they were forced to indict Jeremy Thorpe who was only Leader of the Liberal Party, not even the Prime Minister. And he was arrested for attempted murder, which makes your charges of petty theft and blackmail look really rather pathetic. You don't even have a body on which to build your case!'
'Oh, but I do, Mr Landless,' she said softly.
‘I
believe he killed Roger O'Neill to silence him, and although I'm not
sure I can prove it yet, I can raise such a storm as w
ill blow down the shutters of Downing Street and will quite overwhelm your little business venture. Someone in the Thorpe case shot a dog. Here we are talking about murder. Do you really think your Establishment is going to keep quiet about that?'
Landless levered his great girth out of his chair and walked across to the large picture window. From it he could see the chimneys, steeples and hideous tower blocks of Bethnal Green less than two
miles away where he had been born
and where in the slums of his childhood he had learnt all he needed to know about survival He had never wanted to move far away from the area even with all his wealth; his roots were there, and if he screwed it all up that was where he knew he would have to return.
When he turned around to face her once more, she thought she could detect the signs of defeat etched deep into his features.
‘
What are you going to do, Miss Storin?'.
‘I
am too late to stop Urquhart getting elected. But I intend to make sure he stays in office for as short a time as possible. And for that I want your help.'
'My help! I
...
I don't understand. You accuse me of causing all this bleedin' chaos and then you ask for my help. Christ all bloody Mighty!' he spluttered in broadest cockney, his defences in tatters.
‘
Let me explain. You may be a rogue, Mr Landless, and you may run a rotten newspaper, but I suspect that deep down you care for the idea of a man like Urquhart running this country as little as I do. You have worked very hard to develop the reputation of a working class patriot. Corny to some people, perhaps, but I suspect you mean it - and if I'm right, you would never dream of conspiring to put a murderer in Downing Street.'