The Buddha of Brewer Street (15 page)

The letter, on cheap off-coloured paper and written in a neat but rather archaic hand, was from Lhamo, who introduced himself as the late Dalai Lama’s private secretary.

‘We did not meet during His Holiness’s last trip to Britain but I am, of course, aware of your close personal association with him …’

What close association? Goodfellowe wondered. Why were they always trying to treat him as part of the family?

‘Through the means of this letter I have the honour of introducing to you Representative Gompo Chérdrol Khendro, one of His Holiness’s most intimate associates who is currently engaged on a vital mission on behalf of the late Dalai Lama …’

And taking one hell of a time to finish the job, Goodfellowe considered. The Lama’d been dead three years.

‘I regret to inform you that, sadly, this mission has become one of considerable danger. Another colleague engaged on the same task was recently murdered, we believe by forces opposed to a Free Tibet. I must therefore ask you to treat the contents of this letter as an issue of the gravest consequence, indeed a matter of life and death …’

Goodfellowe found himself uttering a highly unimaginative oath.

‘Representative Gompo is currently hiding in St Petersburg.’

Russia? Why on earth Russia …?

‘We wish to obtain for him a visitor’s visa to your country, but believe there may be extreme danger in applying through the orthodox channels. The purpose of this letter is therefore to ask you to use your good offices to secure for him a visa in a manner that is both speedy and completely confidential.’

This was a joke. A hoax. Had to be. ‘You still got the envelope?’

‘Yes. Pretty stamp. From India.’

So a long-distance joke. But he didn’t know anybody in India. Except, of course, for the …

He found himself fingering the prayer beads in his pocket, slipping them along their silk cord. It seemed to help him order his thoughts, get them into line, one after the other. Mickey was still leaning over the desk. In his mind her cleavage had been transformed into images of great valleys. Mountains. Fields of snow. Strange lands. And the Dalai Lama’s face, laughing at him.

‘I need to see Paddy Baader. Today, if he’s in town.’

‘I think I heard he’s in town.’

‘Then try to arrange five minutes for me.’

She was very businesslike. ‘I might be able to pull a few strings.’

‘Pull them, will you? I’ve got a funny feeling about this one …’

Mickey decided not to mention her own funny little feeling.

They found a quiet corner of the Smoking Room early that evening, before the vote. Mind you, every corner of the Smoking Room was quiet nowadays. The influx of women into the House seemed to have drained the place of much of its conspiratorial mood, and the old leather sofas of the Smoking Room no longer creaked beneath the weight of collusion and cabal. It had become an echoing relic of an era when plots were laid most publicly and Ministerial reputations mauled before dinner. Nowadays the plots were hatched underground. In quiet corners. From houses in Gayfere Street and beneath duvets in Dolphin Square, where their intent was all too easily diverted. Progress, of a sort. But it left Ministers with untied hands and encouraged arrogance in office. Life on the backbenches should be like that of a pack of hounds, thought Goodfellowe. Better stirred up, quarrelling, fractious, snapping at the heels of Ministers, than lying supine at their feet. But Parliament had developed into one great powder room. Even the Prime Minister had his own personal compact. As for the Smoking Room, they’d probably convert it into a crèche.

They sat in the corner by the window. A storm was sweeping up from the estuary and the great velvet curtains were drawn, obscuring the view across the river and adding to the atmosphere of intimacy. The leaded windows rattled against the wind.

‘Drink, Tom?’

‘Maybe some tea. I’m trying to cut down on the alcohol. Lose a bit of weight.’

‘A sinner come to repentance! But I’ll have a whisky, if you don’t mind. After a day playing the bloody white man I deserve it. And need it. I’ll have the usual three boxes of telegrams and Foreign Office tittle-tattle waiting for me when I get home. Never a dull moment.’

‘I think I can remember …’ – with only a trace of wistfulness.

‘You know, Tom, I’ve always been grateful to you,’ Baader began. ‘My predecessor. A damn good one. Would’ve been all too easy for you to double-guess, to offer me “helpful suggestions” from the backbenches that always implied you knew better. You never have. I appreciate that.’

‘Don’t think I haven’t been tempted.’

‘Ah, Temptation, whither hast thou fled? When I was a college lecturer I was surrounded by it. So much young, raw, unharnessed talent.’ He sighed wistfully.

‘And now?’

‘You know I can’t do anything without the say-so of my bloody private office. Temptation isn’t one of the “Lines to Take”. And there’s no room for it in my diary. Simply no time for it.’

They both started laughing in recognition of flagrant bullshit.

‘Anyway, now I’ve landed up on the side of the angels, what can I do for you, Tom?’

Over Baader’s second whisky, Goodfellowe had explained his purpose, about Gompo and St Petersburg and the letter he had received.

‘So what is the mission this fellow is supposed to be on?’

‘I’m not entirely sure. I know it’s all a bit flimsy. But I’ll vouch for him. I’d be grateful if you’d have a look at it. See what you can do. As a personal favour.’

‘Well, I owe you that much.’

‘And these people are decent. Not troublemakers.’

‘Tell that to the Chinese. You know, you’ve got to consider that angle, Tom. If we help the Tibetans we hack off one billion Chinese. We’re negotiating huge contracts with Beijing right now. New docks, hotel projects, aero engines. It’s the first big breakthrough we’ve had in that market since we fell out over Hong Kong. Putting that at risk isn’t one of our great national priorities.’

‘I’m not asking you to declare war, simply look at one individual case.’

‘Not that easy, Tom. I’ll have a look at it, of course, get the Consular & Visa boys on to it …’

‘Quietly, please,’ Goodfellowe insisted. ‘This is very sensitive. Dangerous, perhaps.’

‘Which makes it all the more mysterious …’ He stopped in mid-sentence. The message pager he wore at his belt was vibrating, someone was trying to make contact. ‘Forgive me, I’ve got to go,’ he explained, studying the message. ‘I’ll look into it. Do my best. I promise.’

‘Be careful,’ Goodfellowe urged.

‘You know me, Tom. I’m always careful.’

Which, in matters of diplomacy, was perhaps true. But not in other areas of his life. The message had been from Mickey. Fifteen minutes later Baader was guiding her down to the crypt beneath the Palace of Westminster.

‘So we’re into sightseeing,’ she muttered, perplexed.

‘You ever seen the crypt before?’

‘Only in horror movies.’

‘Not this one.’ And he was right. Ancient stone stairs led down from the Great Hall to a low-ceilinged chapel the likes of which Mickey had never seen. A Gothic extravaganza of gilded frescoes and tiling and metalwork which threw everything at the eye in blinding confusion. ‘What do you think?’ he enquired.

‘You can think with all this around you?’

He laughed. ‘Actually, I didn’t bring you down here to think.’

‘Nor to pray for forgiveness, I hope.’

‘No. To show you the finest cupboard in the Palace.’

A little way from the vestibule, near the font, he opened the panelled oak door to a large walk-in cupboard. For the cleaners. Where they kept the tools of their trade – mops, brooms, buckets and a large commercial vacuum cleaner.

‘You brought me here to show me a vacuum cleaner?’

‘Stop being so blindingly impatient. Look around. This is a place of history.’ He switched on the light and ran his hand across a commemorative brass plaque on the inside of the door, as though he were back at university giving a tutorial. ‘In the good old days, before we men went soft in the head and allowed women into this place, a certain Mrs Emily Wilding Davison decided she was going to make complete idiots of us. She wanted the 1911 census to record that even though she couldn’t be a Member of Parliament and didn’t have a vote, she spent the night in the House of Commons. So on the night the census was taken’ – he closed the door behind them – ‘she hid in here.’

With the door closed they were suddenly in much closer physical proximity. Yes, as though he were back at university giving a tutorial in that cramped room of his overlooking the river. A room of so many memories. So many tutorials. So much temptation …

Baader was never destined to stay in that room for long. Partly because he wanted so much more for himself. And partly because he had never been able to command the full respect of his university colleagues. He was an intellectual cuckoo, with the sort of mind that was capable of arguing any case but incapable of sticking to one. Less of a problem in politics, he had discovered. He had also been too fond of screwing a large proportion of the many young women he found around him. Again, less of a problem in politics. And, surprisingly, in his marriage. His wife didn’t share his flexible approach to fidelity but she was too intimidated by his intellectual agility and too comfortable with the established order of their lives to object. She had demanded only discretion, that he ‘be careful’. They’d discussed it quite openly. Which in itself created a problem. For his wife’s acceptance had made commonplace adultery almost bland, put it within the rules. And Baader’s excitement and inspiration came not from fitting in with the rules but in bending, bruising and where necessary breaking them. Most Ministers took cover, Baader took risks. That’s what motivated him. Risk. A bit like Emily Wilding Davison. He rather admired her. Would like to have known her. Well.

‘So … was the delightful Mrs Davison on her own in the cupboard?’ Mickey asked, as though picking up on his thoughts.

‘Sadly, yes.’

‘Then she didn’t come to a sticky end?’

‘Oh, but she did. A couple of years later she threw herself in front of the King’s horse at the Derby. Got herself trampled to death.’

‘Ouch. Not a nice way to go.’ She could feel the heat of his breath.

‘Can think of better.’

‘Such as?’

And they were in each other’s arms. A bucket full of brooms toppled as they fumbled.

‘You want it here, Patrick? In the bloody cupboard? In the crypt?’

‘I like living dangerously.’

‘Is there a lock on the door?’

‘No way.’

‘You’ve been here before.’ Suddenly Mickey drew back.

‘What’s the matter?’ he asked. ‘Jealous?’

‘I don’t do jealousy.’

‘Then what?’

‘The visa.’

Exasperated – ‘What about the bloody visa?’

‘Have you agreed to give it to Tom?’

‘You trying to blackmail me?’

‘No, just trying to mix a little business with pleasure. Satisfying mutual desires. So, do we get the visa?’

He ran his fingers up the crease of her back, tickling, tempting. ‘You and Tom hunt as a pack?’

‘Not on all things.’ She grabbed his hands, which had moved to her breasts, and held them away from her. ‘Do we get the visa?’

‘I have my principles to think of,’ he objected.

‘So think of your principles. Then think of these …’ – she placed his hands back on her breasts, cold fingers on warm flesh that sprang to attention at the touch – ‘and make up your mind.’

He closed his eyes against temptation, considering the options, particularly the hard nipples. No contest. Slowly he nodded.

‘Promise?’ she demanded.

‘I promise. If you will.’

She did, and kept her promise, too.

Afterwards, as they readjusted themselves and picked up the fallen brooms and mops, he turned to her.

‘You drive a hard bargain,’ he complained. ‘But you know something? I was going to let you have it anyway.’

‘That’s funny,’ she smiled in triumph. ‘I was going to let you have it too.’

Goodfellowe and Sam spent the weekend at the family home in Marshwood.

Memories.

Sam had been born here. And near here Stevie had died. In this house they had once been a family. Now the family was no more. Just he and Sam.

There had been a tension at the breakfast table. Things, difficult things, needed saying.

‘I’d like your help this weekend, Sam. To clear a few wardrobes.’

‘Mum’s things?’

He sipped his tea carefully as though tasting it for the first time. ‘The doctors are very clear. Mummy’s not coming home, not for a long time. And if she does, she won’t be the person we’ve known.’

‘I don’t think she’s ever coming home,’ she said. Sam’s voice was matter-of-fact but her eyes remained fixed on her cereal bowl. Around this table there had once been so much noise and banter, so many plans laid, so many arguments started and settled.

His mind went back almost ten years, when he had been sitting at this same table. Then the conversation had been of horses and dolls, pigtails and party dresses. And rabbits. At least, one rabbit. It had been so wonderfully ludicrous. They had a Jack Russell, and next door had a rabbit. One day, when the neighbours were off for a weekend break, the Jack Russell had come back with the rabbit in its mouth, very dirty and very, very dead. Sam had burst into tears. She was inconsolable, convinced the neighbours would demand that her own pet be destroyed just as he had destroyed theirs. An eye for an eye. But Goodfellowe had been a match for the task. Together they had washed the rabbit in the kitchen sink, carefully dried its fur with Elinor’s hair dryer, then like thieves in the night had sneaked into the neighbours’ garden to replace the rabbit in its hutch. All seemed well, until the neighbours returned.

‘Anything strange been going on this weekend?’ they had demanded.

He had squeezed Sam’s hand tightly. This was an appalling exercise in deceit for such a young girl, but not a bad lesson in survival.

‘Why do you ask?’

‘Something damned funny with the rabbit,’ the neighbour had complained, troubled. ‘It died just before we left, so we buried it. Blow me down, but it’s back in its hutch looking like it’s about to enter a Beautiful Bunny competition.’