This Honourable House (29 page)

‘Aha! The conquering ’ero returns.’

The greeting was delivered in a loud, mocking tone. Frank screwed up his eyes against the gloom and headed for the dimly lit bar. The Admiral Benbow was smaller, scruffier and smellier than he remembered it. How long had it been since his last visit, just after the election? Once it had been at the centre of his activities in this ward, the spot to which he resorted after any constituency engagement of such stupefying tedium that the memory had to be eradicated with a drink in convivial surroundings. But tonight the public bar was nearly empty, while the dusty room that passed for a lounge was devoid of activity altogether.

‘Where is everybody?’ Frank asked, as he lifted the pint glass to his lips. The beer tasted sour as if the pipes were not kept clean.

The barman shrugged. ‘Mostly at Her Majesty’s Pleasure,’ he replied. ‘Long stretches for that Post Office van job. Armed robbery, but the daft buggers got away with only a couple of thousand each. Not enough to afford a decent lawyer. They picked the wrong day. The van with the millions was the following Tuesday. They simply couldn’t count.’

‘They weren’t capable of doing a bust for millions. Don’t have me on,’ Frank scoffed. ‘Who
arranged it? Not one of them has the brains.’

The barman’s manner became wary. ‘It was suggested it was a Chinese bloke, but nobody came forward with any names.’

Frank nodded. The barman knew more than he was admitting, and he would not be alone in that, especially if some scion of the local Chinese mafia was involved. But that was another story. They reminisced on about other acquaintances, petty criminals mostly. Frank recalled why he had instinctively given the pub a wider berth in recent years. He did not want to be associated with any old lags, particularly not those with whom he had consorted as a boy. While at the start of his career it might have worked in his favour that he had hauled himself up by his bootstraps, once he had been elevated a clean record was vital. Not merely clean,
pristine.
The self-same facts that had won him admiration and votes as a salt-of-the-earth type on the way up had the power to tarnish him permanently and drag him down now. There was always room at the top.

He drank his beer in large swallows and gazed around. One bent shape at the pool table appeared familiar. Frank took his glass and stood for a moment watching the play until the set was finished. He held out his hand. ‘Mad Max. Well, well. Good to see you.’

‘Yeah, Frank. Stranger. What are you doing here?’

‘Bit of this, bit of that. I don’t need a reason to rub shoulders with me old mates, do I?’ Frank could hear his former accent returning, as it did whenever he was under pressure or tired. Hazel did not like it: she said it made him sound common. In her presence he made a conscious effort to speak more middle England, though he did not relish the lie that implied. He drew the man by the arm to a table in the corner, where they drank amiably for a while and gossiped.

‘So, where is everybody?’ Frank asked again, and was given more detail about the prosecutions and outcomes for each of his erstwhile friends. He counted them off on his fingers, then queried, ‘Hang on. What about Vic the Villain? The chap who used to be a boxer. Nasty piece of work – he knocked my front teeth out when we were kids. Did me a favour in a manner of speaking – saved me having to go to the dentist.’ His laugh was a little nervous.

Max thought for a minute. ‘Nah, that robbery wasn’t his scene. He likes a bit of pushing and shoving, does Vic. He’s been around the pub here, and some other dives nearby. But then he buggered off recently, said he had a job in France to go to.’

‘Beats me how blokes like that can make ends meet, let alone afford luxury holidays and foreign travel,’ Frank said, his tone artificially jocular.

‘He said he’d been doing a job for you, Frank.’ Max drained his glass.

‘He what?’

‘Said he’d been doing you a favour or two. Said you’d see him right eventually. Quite proud of himself, he was.’

‘What kind of job?’

‘Dunno, he never said.’

‘Blimey, Frank, you must have been busy, if he’s working for you and you don’t remember.’

‘Haven’t a clue.’ Frank was mystified. ‘Did he say anything else about this, er, job?’

Mad Max studied the dregs in his glass. Frank got the message. He fetched two more pints, then repeated his question.

‘Something about a person you wanted sorted. Taught a lesson to. A woman, maybe?’

Frank Bridges felt his heart stop. He grasped the handle of his mug as if for support. The frothy liquid slopped violently and spilled on to the table. He cursed. ‘What sort of lesson?’ he ground out.

His drinking companion took his time, as if seeking a tactful reply. Then, ‘You know him, Frank. Gotta be trouble of some kind. Somebody in pain. That’s what makes his life complete, innit?’
Gail waited by the car as Michael Stevens lifted her suitcase and inserted it into the boot of her car next to his own. She wanted to pinch herself. It just couldn’t be true.

It was true, though. The tickets fluttered in her hand and she checked them once more. Stansted to Tenerife, they said. Return. Outward journey today, in about four hours’ time. In the envelope in her handbag was a voucher for the hotel: seven days half-board. He had said she needed a holiday, a pick-me-up to speed her recovery from the accident; she was not required to remain in the country. The police inquiries would take some while yet. And he was due some leave, and had announced shyly that he could imagine no one better to share it with him, if she would do him the honour …?

Two rooms adjacent, he had been most insistent about that.

She ached to tell him that he needn’t have wasted his money on modesty. Had he asked her in advance, she would have smiled and said that of course they could share a room. She was not some simpering girl. Maybe she would say so on the plane when they sat arm to arm. She would squeeze his hand and whisper it quickly before her courage failed her. If all went well the holiday would feel like a honeymoon.

He was a fine, handsome man, for all that his manner was a mite careworn and he needed more colour in his cheeks. He was tall and solidly built, though not heavy. He seemed larger in a sweater and slacks, but far less intimidating than in uniform. He was not paunchy like Frank, or red-faced and blowing with the mildest exertion, or full of endless complaints. She itched to glance around, to see if any lace curtains were twitching. She yearned to call out, ‘Look at me, and look at him. Aren’t I lucky? Isn’t he a catch?’ His hair was cut and his moustache had been trimmed, though Gail wondered how he’d look cleanshaven. Too many police officers had moustaches. He had been hinting at early retirement. A new face, a new appearance, might be timely.

Her thoughts jumbled around in her head like the lottery balls on television: each equally important, in no particular order, their very randomness delicious and exciting. She was the winner, of that she was certain. Quickly she pressed her lips together with the unaccustomed lipstick, ran her tongue over her teeth, hugged the new white handbag to her bosom. She had let herself go so badly since the divorce. She would acquire a suntan, and have her hair set in one of the island’s boutiques, and choose some new dresses. With Michael’s help. With Michael holding her bag, and with Michael commenting on the outfits, saying firmly if they suited her or not. He would laugh as she pirouetted about the shop for him, and she would be glad. It was her task, at least for the next week, to make him happy. If that worked, then maybe it would continue after the holiday’s end. The future began to take shape, and it was rosy.

They had decided after some debate to take her car, but the inspector would drive. It gave her a great sense of confidence that she would be in the best hands. He helped her into the passenger seat and slid behind the wheel. She wanted to jump with joy; his presence made her feel feminine and no longer so alone.

‘Ready, dear?’ he asked, and put the key in the ignition.

‘Ready? I’m so thrilled I could burst!’ she exclaimed, then found herself giggling like a girl.

‘Tickets, passport?’ he checked gruffly.

‘Yes, everything. Suntan lotion, makeup, clean knickers.’ She giggled again.

Michael Stevens began to turn the key clockwise. It seemed to stick momentarily, then gave with a jerk and slid to make contact.

The explosion was heard three streets away. Parts of the car were flung high above the rooftops, along with the fluttering scorched tickets, Gail’s handbag and her shoes, with the heels missing. The boot of the car broke open and spilled out its contents like the guts from a carcase: shirts, sandals, shampoo, boldly striped towels torn and singed. A dog started to yowl in a back yard. The acrid smell of burning was in the air as a flash fire started under the bonnet. Alarm bells rang shrilly in
nearby cars and houses. At the bus-stop a woman uttered a thin high scream.

Then came the sound of people running, and a siren in the distance, then another.

Three hundred miles distant, Frank Bridges was frantically yelling a name into the phone, with a description, and wondering desperately what Vic the Villain might have got up to this time.

‘Conference, everybody.’

Pansy Illingworth clapped her hands and walked briskly past the main news monitors. As she entered her office and reached for the packet of cigarettes on the desk, she was gratified to note the members of staff who had anticipated the call: her newly promoted deputy Jim Betts, the features editor, the Saturday-magazine editor and those in charge of travel, sport, the business pages and the women’s section.

The rest filed in. Pansy frowned. Only the senior fashion writer was missing, at the Milan catwalk shows – allegedly, for the contact sheets of outlandish garments and poses came from agencies and the accompanying copy could have been dictated from an armchair in front of the TV. The hotel and travel slips could easily have been altered from last year’s; fiddling expenses in this business had grown to a fine art. Pansy resolved that for the Paris shows she would attend alongside, and reward herself by graciously accepting a lorryload of free garments.

‘Right! We have an excess of news today,’ Pansy announced. She flicked through the latest morning edition. Photographs of the mangled car, smoke rising from its bonnet, dominated the front page along with potted biographies of the victims. Much speculation accompanied the terse police information. Had Mrs Bridges been in the driving seat she would certainly have died. It was her good fortune that her male companion was almost twice her size and took the brunt of the explosion. Though seriously injured both would survive. And nobody had claimed responsibility, though both the Real IRA and Arab terrorists, said the paper, were in the frame.

Page two featured Frank’s anguished face as he returned to London, his second wife Hazel on his arm, all solicitude. He had rushed to the hospital without making a statement, so the political correspondent had made it up for him: ‘Frank Bridges will be devastated … has cancelled his engagements to be at the bedside … will be wondering now if he made the right choice in the VIP lounge at Heathrow when he abandoned his wife of twenty-five years … The Prime Minister is reported to be upset …’

On the inside pages there were views of the official residences in London and Buckinghamshire that Gail had not shared with her husband, the Secretary of State, with estimates as to their value and descriptions of their contents, juxtaposed with a snap of the plain apartment block where she had more recently resided. Elsewhere there was a poor mug-shot of Inspector Stevens and somewhat prurient speculation as to what he and Gail were doing in the car; a rumour that they had been planning to elope together was discounted, though it had been confirmed that he had taken a month’s leave and had spoken of a new woman in his life.

‘We got the ex-wife,’ said Jim Betts, unable to keep the glee out of his voice.

‘I thought she was the ex-wife? Gail, I mean?’ Pansy asked, nonplussed.

‘Nah. The other ex-wife. His. The former Mrs Stevens. The police officer’s missus.’

Pansy’s eyes lit up. ‘I’m listening.’

‘Turns out she cleared off five years or so ago, couldn’t stand him any longer. He was so engrossed in his career she never saw him. Bit of a cold stick, she says.’

‘Did he have girlfriends? Boyfriends? Dodgy habits?’

‘Unfortunately, no.’

‘Hmm. What’s she like, this ex-wife? Presentable? Would she make a decent photo-spread?’

The pictures editor shook his head. ‘Middle-aged, grey-haired, shapeless,’ he announced.

‘Darn. This is not proving fruitful,’ Pansy grunted. ‘Okay, then, we need a small piece from her, as much colour as you can manage. No payments, mind.’ The men nodded. She switched back to Betts. ‘But Mrs Bridges herself. The original ex-wife, the classic model. We have a lot on her, don’t we?’

He sniggered. ‘As you would expect, we have had her PR adviser Mr Clifford Maxwell on the phone with a proposition.’

Eyes were rolled to the ceiling and muttered oaths were heard. Pansy berated them: ‘Hush, children. This is our bread and butter. Go on, Jim.’

‘The saga of Mrs B’s dispute with her former husband can be resurrected. It has gone quiet in recent months. But there’s a chance that a three-thousand-word extract from her forthcoming book on the subject could be published in our weekend edition.’

Pansy punched the air in delight. Betts continued, ‘Don’t celebrate just yet. Mr Clifford Maxwell regards that as a distinct possibility, provided he can lay hands on the unfinished manuscript.’

Groans came all round. ‘He says it’ll be safe, inside the flat. Assuming it exists, of course, though he does insist there was a contract signed and sealed with one of our top publishing houses. He says Gail swore she’d written quite a chunk.’

Pansy became decisive. ‘If it isn’t ready for press, the
Globe
will provide a ghost writer immediately, tell him. Plus a reporter to take down any additional information from the patient as she lies in her bed. We have sent her a bouquet, I hope?’ Betts grinned. Pansy pushed on: ‘Exclusivity would have to be guaranteed, naturally, but money is no object. Savvy? I want that piece, and I want it
yesterday
.’

The news editor coughed gently. ‘We still have some mileage in the Ashworth story, if you’re interested.’

‘Shoot.’

‘The caretaker has been in contact from his hideaway in Spain. Says he was wrong last time and that he did see some naughty goings-on. The tapes have long since been wiped, so he’s the sole person with any evidence. Not that it’s a crime, these days.’

Pansy considered. ‘Bit thin?’

The news editor shrugged. ‘We can make something of it. He’s asking for ten grand before he’ll sing.’

‘And presumably if we say no thanks he’ll go elsewhere?’

‘I imagine so. He hasn’t made any threats, but he wasn’t the sweetest guy we’ve dealt with. Probably spent every penny already.’

‘Offer him five. He took a packet from us and we have full rights to those pictures till kingdom come. Can’t keep feeding him. This newspaper is not a milch-cow.’ The news editor seemed about to argue, then thought better of it.

Pansy lit another cigarette. ‘What I would like, chaps,’ she said, ‘is an in-depth interview with the Ashworth ladies. Either or both, preferably. How does the hard-nosed Christine react to the revelation that her husband’s been having a gay affair throughout her marriage? Does she feel deceived? Is she furious, or does she still love him? And that harridan of a mother. What did she know about her precious son’s amorous tendencies, and did she cover them up? Will she stand by him? What will her friends at the Women’s Institute think? Pictures at home, lace curtains, doilies on the plate, that sort of thing.’

‘Crap,’ came a murmur from the back of the room. Pansy ignored the remark.

The foreign editor held up a tentative hand. ‘I have some excellent material on the intergovernmental conference in Stockholm,’ he ventured. ‘Big stuff about our veto.’

‘Can we do a headline: PM Sells Us Down The River?’

‘Sure. Whatever you want. That’ll get a rise from Downing Street.’

Pansy considered. ‘Okay, that’ll do for page ten. And a leader piece, please, a hundred words or so. No more. This is a popular newspaper, not the bloody
Herald Tribune
. Got it?’

‘Gail. Gail, can you hear me?’

Frank spoke quietly, but with an edge of authority. It had its effect: the limp, pale figure shifted slightly and the eyes half opened. It was hot in the IC unit; his palms were clammy. The equipment above her bleeped rhythmically. He touched her knuckles, careful not to disturb the cannula of the drip. ‘Gail, I’m sorry. For all this, for everything I’ve done to you. I wish from the bottom of my heart that none of it had ever happened.’

The eyes closed, as if in acknowledgement. Frank leaned closer, choosing his words with care. ‘We think we know who did it. He’s gone abroad. He thought I told him to.’

The eyes opened again, wider this time. The breathing seemed to quicken and a flush spread over the features. The bleep became faster. Hurriedly, Frank continued, ‘I didn’t – I didn’t – I wouldn’t hurt a fly, you know me. But it was somebody from my past. He believed he was doing me a favour. God, I could rip my tongue out!’

He felt a slight squeeze under his fingers. ‘Oh, Gail, I can’t ask you to forgive me. I did a terrible thing to you. You’ll have to live with the consequences for the rest of your life, and so will I. But when this is over …’

He lifted the hand to his lips and kissed it gently, the tears streaming down his face. ‘You’ve got a new man, and he’ll survive. He’ll give you a better future than I ever could. But I hope someday we can be friends, you and I. I hope so.’

Gail closed her eyes and her hand slipped away from his. The bleep slowed. He sat for several minutes, his back to the exit, then found a crumpled handkerchief and dabbed at his cheeks. He rose abruptly. ‘’Bye.’

Outside he breathed deeply, then approached the uniformed officer who was seated on a creaking chair in the corridor, helmet in hand. Since the suspect had not yet been located and had a record of finishing off a job, a police guard had been deemed essential. The two men spoke briefly, then Frank was startled to see a more senior man down the hall, a heavy, thick-set figure in uniform with a great deal of silver braid on his shoulder flaps and round the edge of the cap held in
leather-gloved
hands.

‘Mr Bridges? I’m Assistant Commissioner Moore. Can we have a word? Quite informally, you understand.’

They found an empty office and perched in the cramped space between filing cabinets and a laden desk. Staff scurried past, too busy to pay them any attention. A crackling came from the assistant commissioner’s radio, bursts of staccato, until he turned down the volume.

‘We’re on the trail of the gentleman in question, Mr Bridges. That much is reassuring. As far as we’re aware he isn’t back in the UK yet, but he’s a clever bastard so we aren’t taking any chances. Your own protection has been augmented, and obviously you should be cautious about who you open the door to, and so on.’

Frank assented, then waited.

‘Mr Bridges, this is an informal conversation. But you do realise you could be charged with conspiracy to murder, don’t you?’

Frank fell back and clutched at the cabinet behind him. ‘What? But I didn’t conspire with anyone.’

‘You don’t have to agree to a conspiracy to be in one,’ the AC said gnomically. ‘If we charge our villain with GBH and attempted murder, we’ll put him away for eight years or so and he’ll be out in four. But he’d go down for a lot longer on conspiracy. That’s a life sentence, and given his peculiar tendencies he might never get out. To do that, however, we’d probably need to charge you both.’ He registered Frank’s stricken face without a flicker on his own. ‘Of course, it isn’t my decision. The Crown Prosecution Service take it on board. They can, as you know, be rather unpredictable.’

‘But I’m innocent!’ Frank shouted.

‘That might just be for a jury to decide,’ the AC said, his head up. ‘My advice to you, sir, is to get yourself the best lawyer you can afford. Pronto.’

At the Cabinet meeting the mood was subdued. Many of those present knew Gail well. Though they liked Frank and were automatically on his side (whatever that might mean), there was room enough in every heart for them to be appalled at the tragedy. Several had also been through divorce; for each of them it had been painful and had involved much soul-searching. They were glad that in most cases their marital disputes had not had to be conducted quite as vividly and publicly as Gail and Frank’s. If pressed, the older ones might have said they preferred the original Mrs Bridges to her replacement, and that Frank would have been better off had he stayed faithful. Then, perhaps, none of these ghastly incidents would have taken place.

Another factor played on every mind. While anybody could be the target of a lunatic, this attack had not been random. It had happened precisely because of who they were. The inspector was particularly unfortunate, for he was a friend, a mere bystander. Next week, next month, somebody might step out of a crowd and hurl a tomato, a bag of flour, a knife or a bomb, to make a point, to splatter, mutilate or destroy. Here was a constant worry never mentioned in polite company yet hovering, endlessly present, like a sulphurous grey fog: the downside of being famous, the price paid by those who sought public office.

The mixed sense of collective guilt and fear was voiced by the Prime Minister as he explained Frank’s absence; a junior minister would give the reports of that department. But he was not expecting any changes in government as a result. Flowers had been sent and a message on their behalf. It was time to move on.

Diane Clark found it difficult to concentrate. Her department had items on the agenda, but nothing so controversial that she was anticipating problems. In some ways she felt marginalised. The important matters of state, the economic issues, the Home Office and education, were settled at inner Cabinet meetings earlier in the week. That was efficient and acknowledged as such, but it did mean that she and colleagues from other parts of government were at a disadvantage if they tried to put their oar in. A powerful triumvirate ruled apart from the Prime Minister: the Chancellor, the Home Secretary and the Education Secretary. Strictly speaking, it wasn’t a triumvirate, it was four men. She glanced at the Prime Minister, so adept at uttering the right words, so troubled and anxious. He had aged since the election. Despite his young family, the impression he gave was not one of confident experience but of weariness. Secretly he was regarded as under the thumb of his most powerful ministers. Perhaps a triumvirate was accurate: decisions were taken by the three strong men, particularly Andrew Marquand the Chancellor, and the PM had been reduced to a grey-haired figurehead.

If that were so, it was a depressing prospect. It raised in her mind exactly what her own position might be. For years now she had done all that had been asked of her. She had worked hard and enthusiastically at the department and had been proud of its achievements. The civil servants treated her with respect, she had more invitations to speak both at home and abroad than she could possibly manage, her life peerage in the House of Lords, should she want it, was guaranteed. She could earn a fine living from the backbenches as a consultant; many of those speeches for which she was famed would have payments attached and could be quite lucrative, others would be for charities but with expenses paid. The lecture circuit in the USA beckoned. She could write her memoirs: plenty of meaty stuff there. Later, when her nest-egg was secure, she could opt out, help run a worthy organisation, make her expertise and prowess available to those in need. Her obituary in
The Times
would be effusive. Even her mother might come grudgingly to admire what she had become.