This Honourable House (13 page)

It should have been no surprise. The most senior members of government do not use trains. They do not send their children to the nearest council school. They pay their dentist for porcelain veneers and purchase the smartest spectacles. They do not, by and large, live in the more desperate parts of the capital, but in the centre in serviced flats or in the leafier suburbs where the shops stock Brie, chorizo and fresh pasta. Their advisers own shares. Their closest friends are wealthy men. They holiday in private villas for which they do not have to pay. They move in congenial company, and are bewildered when they are accused of losing touch.

Their most devoted supporters could express their disapproval in one way: they might exercise their limited choice by staying at home on polling day. For the most burdened sector of society, doing nothing was always an effective option.

Diane and Edward were eating a sandwich lunch in her office before she was due in the Commons for Question Time.

‘You see,’ she explained in a low voice, glancing at the door, ‘the Prime Minister and I will take opposing views over this. He’ll faff around worrying about presentation and PR. He’s probably closeted right now with Alistair and Melvyn and the whole gamut of pollsters and focus-group pundits. They’ll be asking how they can improve tomorrow’s headlines and wondering which key journalist to grant an exclusive interview to. The strategic centre of government. They’re mad. I hate the lot of them.’

Edward blinked. He had not expected to hear a senior Cabinet minister express such a stark opinion of her leader. He ate his turkey sandwich slowly.

‘It’s no wonder everyone gets cross with us,’ she continued. ‘Never mind the Dome – that’s a fiasco engraved on every heart – we spend ten million quid a year running Ten Downing Street alone. Just the Prime Minister’s office. The bill’s risen three times over since the last lot were in. Dozens and dozens of “special advisers,” all useless, all at taxpayers’ expense. That kind of money every year would improve a clutch of schools in my constituency. I can’t bear to think what we might be doing with it. And it’s counterproductive, a complete fucking waste.’

‘But we have to be on top of the media. They’ll do us no favours,’ Edward protested mildly.

‘That’s crap. We should take no notice.’ Diane’s eyes burned, her mouth twisted in anger. ‘The press are there to torment us. That’s their job. And if we continually make obeisance to what the papers say the public say they want, we’ll go round and round in circles for ever. Till the voters get fed up and turf us out. And they’d be quite right to do so.’

Edward nearly choked. The sandwich had come from the departmental canteen and was not of the highest quality. He pulled a piece of gristle from his mouth. ‘So what
is
the answer?’

‘Bloody obvious.’ Diane almost shrugged. ‘As old Mrs T found. Ignore the polls, get on with your manifesto, push it through, whatever the howls and squeals. They’ll hate you, but they sense the integrity, I guess. Then, on election day, you stand back and say sweetly, “See? We’ve done it. You said it couldn’t be done, but here’s the evidence. Now vote for us.” And they do.’

‘Mrs T wasn’t such a runaway success,’ Edward argued gently. ‘She never had a majority in the country. More people opposed her than supported her, in every single election she fought.’

‘Sure. Undeniable. But we were split down the middle. We couldn’t agree on how to fight that kind of aggression. Whether to be more extreme, or to take on board the bits that were popular, however evil. In the end we had to accept that she’d changed the political face of the country, and pretend we could do the same only better.
Awful
. But she succeeded by driving home her agenda, and we should do the same.’

‘Takes a lot of courage,’ Edward murmured.

‘Yeah.’ Diane pushed away the remains of her sandwich. ‘Courage. And belief. You have to believe in what you’re doing in the first place. That’s the trouble with some of my colleagues.’ She halted, as if discovering an unpleasant truth.

Edward prompted her. ‘Go on.’

Diane sighed, sadly. ‘They don’t have any beliefs, any convictions. Nothing. No bedrock of philosophy as to how society ought to be run, only a vague feeling that it should be “better”, whatever that means. So they ask the public, and monitor their progress through the opinion polls. But the poor geezer in the bus shelter or the single mum hanging out her washing from a tenth-floor flat hasn’t the foggiest. That’s why they put us up here, in power: we’re supposed to know without endlessly consulting them. Otherwise we’re just chasing our own tails. And meanwhile nothing gets done.’

There was an unhappy silence. Diane twiddled the limp salad garnish on her plate.

‘Diane,’ Edward said slowly, ‘the most popular figure in the polls is you. Has been for ages. You mentioned integrity, and you’ve got it, in spades. You would make a great Leader of the party. Have you ever thought about it?’

‘Balls,’ said Diane bluntly. ‘I don’t have the Oxbridge education, I don’t have the talent, I’m
not slippery enough. And I’ve made too many enemies in my time.’ She grinned. ‘You forget you’re talking to the vilest lady in the country, if the venerable
Globe
is to be believed.’

‘Just for the sake of argument, then. If you were in charge – it could happen some day – what do you think? What would
you
do?’

Diane roused herself. ‘That’s easy, Edward. Shoot the spin doctors and buy a handbag. Come on, let’s go, we’ll be late.’

Gail waited in the wings, fidgeting nervously with her sleeve. On the set another interview was under way, with the author of a book on babies. The monitor to the left showed the soundless pictures, the gesticulations, the author intense, the presenter attentive but vapid. No live babies who might squall or otherwise misbehave were within a mile of the studio, only colour stills. The presentation was all.

It was her turn next: instead of watching television alone in the weary empty afternoons, she would soon be on it. Behind her, the handsome grey-haired man with the watchful eyes and the professional smile took a step, careful to avoid the cameras, and whispered to her. Gail listened attentively and nodded. She was ready.

Dear Mr Clifford Maxwell. He was described in the press as a ‘PR adviser’, but he was so much more. He was so kind. He had been the most helpful person imaginable. The decision to consult him, back in the darkest days of the marriage break-up, had been the wisest she could have made. He was a genuinely nice man who cared about injustice. He had never asked her for money, never pressed on her the sordid business of contracts and legal documents. His anger was directed at the people who misused their power to crush those they regarded as beneath them. He understood how dreadfully hurt a woman must feel, and had been the soul of discretion as she had poured out her heart to him. He could be trusted absolutely. It was only a pity that others were not as considerate.

If Frank had once phoned to ask how she was … Maybe she was wrong. Was it possible that she had jumped to the wrong conclusions, that it wasn’t Frank who had been attacking her? The police thought secretly that she was doing it herself and took her for a hysteric, an attention-seeker. Their indifference was outrageous, but somehow she had failed to convince them. Perhaps she had not tried hard enough; her manner had not been conducive in recent months to convincing anybody about anything. If they mounted a surveillance operation they would see, but even as the image of a policeman outside her flat formed in her mind, Gail recognised it as improbable. The police simply did not have the resources. They had no problems providing Frank and his VIP pals with Special Branch officers armed to the teeth, but the needs of lesser mortals were way down their list of priorities.

She was an ordinary person now. That hurt. She had been the adjunct of an important politician for so long. Although that meant she was living her life in another’s shade and was seldom appreciated for herself, it had suited her. She did not have to strive or work the crazy hours, or put up with the endless criticism and intrusive scrutiny that were Frank’s lot. Her position had had its attractions: a police officer was indeed in evidence at the entrance to their London home whenever Frank was in the news, or at election time. Gail was unsure whether that applied to every prominent public figure, but it was certainly routine by the time Frank was a frontbencher and a leading protagonist on television. And the police had been deferential and friendly to her. To Frank they had been comradely. Once a policeman, always a policeman. That stood to reason.

Sooner or later she would have to give up being Frank Bridges’ wronged ex-wife. She was feeling better, more secure and less frightened; or at least, that would be true if it weren’t for the attacks on her person and property. Those would terrify anybody. Gail reminded herself that her reaction was reasonable: to be a target for a deranged maniac whose sole objective is to scare you is very scary. It undermined her efforts to help herself. She wanted the man caught. Stopped. Arrested, charged, imprisoned. Whoever it was. But, somehow, there had to be a connection to Frank. If she
made enough fuss, if she embarrassed Frank enough, he would have to accept that publicly. And then he’d have to insist that his pals in the force took action to protect her, even if the trail led straight back to himself.

The floor manager touched her arm. The previous guest was whisked out clutching her coffee-table book of baby pictures. The presenter was mouthing words at the camera. Gail heard Frank’s name, and then her own. A burst of applause came from the studio audience. She was on.

‘What d’you reckon, then?’ Pansy and Betts were standing by the television monitor, smoking companionably. Behind their backs a young sub-editor irritably waved away the smoke of the Gauloise and scowled. Pansy pointed, cigarette in hand. ‘Is she telling the truth?’

‘The first Mrs Bridges. Great scenario, isn’t it?’ Betts was noncommittal. He was unlikely to jump till he saw which way his editor’s mind was leaning.

‘Someone is making her life a nightmare. It’s because she refused to back down. That much is entirely plausible. The question is, who?’

‘If it is Frank it’s a hell of a story.’

‘How well do you know him? Is he the type who could order revenge attacks on his ex-wife?’

‘Blimey. That’s a question. We could ask our tame psychiatrist for an opinion.’

‘Better broaden it a bit. “What kind of mentality would do such a thing?” Plenty of other examples to quote. Hell hath no fury,
et cetera
.’

‘Yeah, but she’s no posh bint. Remember that city wife who cut her husband’s Savile Row suits to ribbons and distributed his wine cellar among the neighbours when he said he was going off with his floozy? Mrs Bridges is a forlorn little dope. If we’re after examples of men who decide to shut their wives or ex-wives up, intimidation is the key here.’

‘Great story, as you say, Jim, if there’s a grain of truth in it. Me, I wouldn’t put it past our Frank. You get cynical in this profession: anyone could do
anything
. He may be the salt of the earth, these days, but he’s got a history as a bruiser. Gotta watch the libel, though.’

Betts stubbed out the cigarette in an empty coffee cup. ‘You don’t usually worry about that, Pansy.’

‘Yeah, well.’ Pansy moved away from the desk and motioned Betts to join her. ‘The proprietor’s getting twitchy. Doesn’t want any more rows with the government. Genuine press freedom’s one thing, he says, we can criticise, publish the polls as we like. But getting embroiled in court cases and defamation is another matter and he’d much rather we didn’t. Been made clear.’

‘I thought he gave us a free hand – no editorial control?’ Betts raised his eyebrows. He might not be working for ever for the
Globe
; who could tell to which commercial rivals life might lead him? Such titbits were to be inscribed in the little black book at the furthest recesses of his mind.

‘He wants to be ennobled,’ Pansy said, emphasising each syllable. ‘He’s miffed that everybody under the sun in the media has been except him. His mates. Some of whom, you can bet, swore at leftie dinner parties they would
never
accept a peerage. The moment the vellum envelope arrives with the embossed crest, they’re jelly. So he wants his. He’s forked out plenty to party headquarters in the past and wants it recognised. And we’re to lay off the guys who are in command.’

‘Does that include Diane Clark?’

Pansy grunted. ‘Probably. It goes against the grain, believe me, Jim. She’s a tart and a whore. Abuses the boys who slave for her and corrupts their lives. A wicked woman. I stand by everything you wrote about her. But we may have to make a fulsome apology. With a bit of luck, she won’t press for damages.’

Betts did not miss the emphasis. It told him everything about possible blame.

‘Anyway, that’s inside information.’ Pansy spoke more loudly. ‘As far as Mrs Bridges is concerned I suggest a sycophantic interview. Could you manage that, Jim?’

The man with the strong Scouse accent was fretful. His mouth moved, his tongue flickering over brown, cracked teeth. Slashing the tyres had achieved an objective, but it had revived in him the old edgy sensation. It was one thing to set up a master plan and work his way steadily through it. Normal people would get great satisfaction from simply following it, step by step. Normal people would not allow their vision to become distorted by dreams of blood and torn flesh. But he was not normal.

He cracked his knuckles. In the smoky pub, nobody took any notice. But no one approached him, either. His demeanour was too threatening, as if he were wrestling with private devils.

The prison psychiatrist had said he was not stupid. He had cunning, self-discipline, a clear sense of direction. There had been women, but his heroes were exclusively male. He loved Frank, almost longed to be him: for both their entire lives, as their accents diverged, he had dreamed of being under his friend’s skin, of being him, and had awoken to a wistful feeling that it had nearly been possible, once.