‘You mean a deal?’
‘I mean no UKIP candidate in key selected constituencies.’
‘You’re telling me you’ll throw in the towel?’
‘Exactly. As long as the Tories do what they’re told.’
H is toying with the remains of his baked Alaska. He’s trying to make sense of all this. Finally he looks across at Willoughby again.
‘So I’m bunging money to the Tories, is that what you’re saying?’
‘You’re bunging money to us. To make sure that Brexit happens the way we want it.’
‘But the Tories spend it? To help win all these constituencies?’
‘In effect, yes. It’s nothing we’d ever own up to, and they won’t either, but that’s the way these things sometimes work. Means and ends, Hayden. We keep the Tories in Downing Street and we make sure we get out of Europe on our terms. That’s what it’s about. Just like always.’
H nods, says nothing. Even I understand the dark logic of the plan. I’m thinking of Mitch. He should be here at the table. He should be listening to all this.
I steal a glance at Malo. He’s trying to stifle a yawn. Just for a moment, Willoughby appears to have stopped banging on. I take advantage of this brief silence to make my apologies for beating a retreat. Malo’s had a heavy day. I’m exhausted. Much better that you two have the rest of the conversation in peace.
H looks up at me. His wine is virtually untouched.
‘Fucking good idea,’ he says. ‘Leave this clown to me.’
SIXTEEN
I come down early next morning after a sleepless night. I find Jessie in the kitchen. She’s filled the dishwasher with last night’s dirty plates and now she’s drawing up a tally of names on a big foolscap pad. I suspect this is the guest list for the celebration bash that H is determined to throw to mark his fiftieth birthday, and – much more importantly – the surprise acquisition of a son. It turns out I’m right.
‘How many?’ I enquire.
‘Dozens. Hundreds. Thousands. H isn’t short of mates in Pompey.’
‘Seriously …’
She shoots me a look. I sense we’ve become friends but I’m learning fast that being part of H’s teeming ménage is something you’d never take for granted. There are unspoken rules, lines you should never cross, and one of them is the need to keep your curiosity under control. There might be lots of questions you want to ask but you’ll never get the answer until H is good and ready.
This I’m beginning to understand. What comes as a surprise is Jessie’s own enquiry.
‘Did you really only meet him that one time?’
‘Yes. How did you know?’
‘H told me. France, wasn’t it?’
‘Antibes. Celeb land, even then. Not us. We were cheap hires on a movie, ten a penny if you want the truth.’
‘So what did you make of him?’
‘I thought he was funny. And bold.’
‘That’s H. Still is. Though he doesn’t laugh as much as he used to. Nice man underneath it all. Heart of gold.’
I nod, tell her I’m glad to hear it. She reaches for her pen again, remembering yet another name. Then she looks up.
‘You will be here, won’t you? For the party? H likes to pretend it’s all about being fifty and about finding Malo but I’m not sure that’s true.’
‘I’m flattered.’
‘You should be. H isn’t an easy man to get close to.’
That morning, Malo takes a break from learning to ride a motorbike. Instead, Andy takes him shooting in the woodland that fringes the estate to the west. All morning, sitting by an open window in the big library downstairs, I hear distant gunshots and by the time the two of them return for lunch, Malo has bagged his first pigeon. With some pride he shows it to his dad.
‘Top job, son. Spot of red wine gravy? Game chips? Lovely.’
I later find the poor dead thing on the compost heap beyond the vegetable garden but that doesn’t matter. What’s infinitely more important is the ease with which my son appears to be settling into his new life. Neither of us know how long we’ll be staying. The subject is never broached and in any case, apart from the BBC radio play, neither of us have other commitments. And so the days roll by, the weather holds, and Jessie and H between them conjure delicious meals. In the evenings, when we’re not watching yet more movies, we play Monopoly, or backgammon, or maybe a card game. As I say to H at the end of the first week, it feels like an endless Christmas.
‘Is that a compliment?’
‘Definitely. I’ve always loved Christmas. Malo does, too. You’re spoiling us rotten. We like that.’
H nods. That slight defensiveness I’d noticed earlier has gone completely.
‘It’s convalescence,’ he says, ‘For all of us.’
On the following Monday I take a call from Mitch. I happen to be out on my morning walk, something I’ve adopted to try and keep my weight down in the face of so many meals. From where I’m standing, the house is a grey dot in the distance.
‘Are you OK?’ I ask him.
‘I’m fine. Busy but fine. Where are you?’
‘H’s place.’
‘Who’s “H”?’
I laugh. This is the measure of just how far Malo and I have come. I explain about Saucy’s new name. I can tell from Mitch’s voice that this isn’t altogether good news. I sense I’m supposed to keep him at arm’s length. Not succumb yet again to the gruff Prentice charm.
‘You’re OK with him?’
‘I’m a house guest, Mitch. And so is my son. If you want the truth it’s a bit of a break for both of us. Think Jane Austen. I’m in temporary residence. I spend most of the day with my nose in a book. I might even take up crochet-work. Aside from that I do what a good spy’s supposed to. I watch and I listen. That’s when I’m not bloody eating.’
‘And?’
‘I’m getting fat.’
‘That’s not what I meant.’
‘Of course it isn’t.’
‘So? You’ve got anything for me?’
I don’t answer, not immediately. First I want to know why he’s phoned me.
‘We have to meet,’ he says. ‘I’ve been getting some grief from my publisher. He needs to know when I can deliver.’
‘Which is what you’re asking me.’
‘Indeed.’
I tell him it might be difficult. ‘We’re down here for a while.’
‘But I thought you had something to do for the Beeb?’
‘I have. It’s been postponed.’
‘I see.’ There’s a longish silence. Then he’s back with a proposition. He has to go to Salisbury tomorrow for a meeting with a source. We could have lunch afterwards.
I tell him that might be possible. I’ve no idea how far Salisbury is and I’ve even less idea how I might get there but H is in the business of making things happen so I say yes.
‘I’ll phone to confirm,’ I tell him. ‘And you can tell me where to meet.’
Back at the house, an hour or so later, I broach the idea to H. I have a friend I need to see. We want to meet in Salisbury. Any ideas? As it happens, Jessie is going to an interior design agency in Romsey tomorrow to discuss some plans for one of the rooms upstairs. Romsey is near Southampton. She could drop me in Salisbury and pick me up on the way back home.
‘Sorted?’
‘Sorted.’
That night we’re back in the cinema. At Malo’s request, we’re watching a movie called Gravity. Sandra Bullock and George Clooney, in fetching space suits, cavort in orbit while the gods of weightlessness do their best to wreck the party. The plot line is non-existent and the dialogue is beyond parody and even the special effects aren’t enough to keep me awake. The movie over, H gently shakes me back into something approaching consciousness.
‘Who won?’ I mutter.
‘The Germans. On penalties. Same old fucking story.’ H peers down at me. ‘You want me to come? Tomorrow?’
‘Not really. It’ll be fin
e.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Yes. But thanks for the thought.’
He studies me a moment longer, half-expecting me to change my mind, then gives my elbow a little squeeze.
‘Take care out there, yeah?’
Late next morning, around twelve, Jessie drops me outside the hotel in Salisbury where I’m due to meet Mitch. We’ve chatted for most of the journey from Flixcombe Manor. H, she says, gives her all the freedom she wants when it comes to decoration. She loves muddy colours, dark greens and browns, and H indulges her passion for wood panelling, of which the house has a great deal. Budget-wise, unless she gets really silly, he simply signs the cheques.
Towards the end of the journey, with the city’s cathedral spire in sight, I’m starting to wonder whether she thinks I’m going to be some kind of threat to her monopoly on interior decoration and before she drops me outside the hotel I try to offer a little reassurance.
‘I’m Malo’s mum,’ I tell her. ‘Nothing else.’
The hotel is called the White Hart. There’s a bit too much red velvet and polished brass for my taste but I’m not here for the decor. I find Mitch at a table in the lounge. He makes his excuses about not being able to stretch to the restaurant down the hall but I tell him that the bar menu will be fine. Something light with salad? Perfect.
He fetches me a gin and tonic. I notice he’s drinking Perrier.
‘Liver packed up? Or are you driving?’
He says he took the train down, working non-stop on his laptop.
‘The woman opposite me was raving about the countryside. Said Wiltshire in autumn was close to perfect. I had to take her word for it.’
‘Poor you. Sayid?’
‘Sends his best. He’s had a bit of a cold these last few days. In fact we both have.’
I nod, sympathize. I’ve been wondering why he looks so peaky. He wants to know what Malo is doing with me down at Chateau Prentice.
‘He came for autumn,’ I say lightly. ‘Like your lady on the train.’
‘You’re kidding.’
‘You’re right, I am. He’s keeping his mum company. It happens sometimes. It’s a parent thing.’
‘But he’s a city kid, no?’
‘Of course.’
‘So isn’t he bored?’
‘Far from it.’
I’ve been wondering whether to tell Mitch the whole story about Malo and this would be the perfect opportunity, but it’s still something I want to keep to myself. On the other hand he already knows about Antibes and he might have drawn one or two conclusions of his own. Either way I’m keen to move the conversation on.
‘You mentioned your publisher on the phone. Is there some kind of problem?’
‘Yes.’
‘Like?’
Mitch checks left and right before answering. I find this unsettling. Life in the country has been so simple.
‘Why do you want to know?’ he asks.
‘Because there are ways I might be able to help.’
‘With the publisher?’
‘With the book. You’ve told me it’s about Prentice and some friends of his. You called them “like-minded folk”. It was an interesting phrase. I remembered it. What, exactly, does it mean?’
‘It means people who think the way he does.’
‘Politically?’
‘Yes.’
‘Coming from the same kind of background?’
‘The same pedigree, yes. Not the same city, even the same area. But the same mindset.’
‘We’re talking rich people?’ I ask.
‘By definition, yes. Without money, serious money, none of this would matter.’
‘None of what?’
‘Influence. Leverage. Putting your money to work.’
‘In the interests of what?’
‘Of yourself, in the end. But en route you kid yourself it’s for the good of the nation.’
‘You mean Brexit?’
‘Of course. But we’ve talked about that.’
I nod. He’s right. We have. I remember the pub in Ealing the day when my poor Peugeot had been towed away. On that occasion Mitch was nice enough to get it back for me, something I shouldn’t forget.
‘H had a politician to dinner the other night,’ I tell him. ‘His name was Spencer.’
‘Spencer Willoughby? UKIP?’
‘Yes. Is he big? Important? Should I have known about him before?’
‘He’s middling. Probably less important than he thinks. But he’s certainly ambitious.’ Mitch stoops to the bag beside his chair and produces a pad. ‘So what happened?’
I tell him about H’s contributions to the UKIP fighting fund over the last couple of years. Mitch appears to know about this already but when I mention Willoughby’s fresh bid for yet another cheque, Mitch scribbles himself a note.
‘Did he say how much?’
‘He wanted half a million.’
‘And Prentice?’
‘He didn’t say anything. Not while I was there.’
‘So it might have been a yes?’
‘Might have been. There was something else though, nothing to do with money.’
I tell Mitch about Willoughby’s plans for fighting the next election. How UKIP planned to leave the Tories a clear run in constituencies they might not otherwise win. And how H’s money might help make that happen.
‘You mean the money would go straight to the Tories?’ His pen is poised over the pad.
‘That wasn’t clear. You’d have to ask him. This is Willoughby talking. That’s all I can tell you.’
‘Did he mention any constituencies in particular?’
‘No. Except that most of them were in the north.’
Mitch nods. He seems to think that Willoughby might be out of his depth. The word he uses is ‘flaky’. UKIP, he says, were virtually wiped out at the last election and it isn’t clear why the Tories would ever be listening to them.
I’m desperately trying to remember some of the other things Willoughby said that night at H’s table.
‘He thinks they still have a direct line to the grass roots. He told H they’re still plugged in. The way he saw it, only UKIP could guarantee a proper Brexit. Does that make sense?’
‘It does. UKIP always claim they were there at the birth, and they’re right. They also did most of the heavy lifting when it came to the referendum. That’s where donors like Prentice were so important. Now, the Tories don’t need UKIP marking their homework. They’ve got enough headbangers of their own.’
‘So Willoughby …?’ I shrug. ‘Am I wasting your time here?’
‘Not at all. Especially if you’re right about Prentice’s money ending up with the Tories. You think it did? You think that’s true?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘Can you find out?’
The question couldn’t be more direct and it puts me on the spot. Do I steal a look at his cheque book? Access his online bank account? Wait until his office is free and root through the drawers in that wonderful desk?
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘I suppose I could try.’
‘That would be helpful. Especially if you took a photo or two.’
‘Of the cheque stub? If there is one?’
‘Yes. And maybe some shots of the house, too. We call it “colour” in the trade. It sets the mood. Shows the reader just how far our Pompey boy’s come.’
Mitch gives me a shopping list: photos showing the house in the landscape, the sheer size of the estate, the motocross circuit where H came to grief. He also wants as much as I can get from inside: the baronial hall, the main reception room, the library, the newly installed cinema, the kitchen, even a taste of the bedrooms upstairs. This, of course, would be much easier for yours truly but I’m not at all sure I want to do it.
Mitch offers me a sheet of paper from his pad and a pen. He thinks I should be making a list.
‘I’ve got a perfectly good memory,’ I tell him. ‘I think I know what you want.�
��
‘Am I pissing you off?’
‘Yes, you are.’
‘So what’s changed? I was pushing at an open door when you were in London. Or at least I thought I was.’
‘It’s just …’ I’m trying to marshal my thoughts. ‘None of this is easy …’
‘You’re bloody right it isn’t. Try being on the sharp end. Try getting anywhere even half close to these people.’
‘These people?’
‘People like Prentice. Self-made. Powerful. Minds of their own. They know exactly what they’re after and they don’t care who they hurt on their way. They might corrupt the political process in getting there and you might not think that matters but there are still some people who do. Forgive me, but I assumed you were one of them. Which just goes to show how wrong us fucking scribes can be.’
Mitch very rarely swears. He’s as angry as I am. I get to my feet. I’ve had enough of this. It wasn’t me who made the phone call in the first place, who stood outside my flat and suggested breakfast. It wasn’t me who’s been on my case ever since, pushing me gently towards H and his mates.
‘You’ve been very kind to me,’ I tell him. ‘You’ve been there when it mattered and I really appreciate that. You’ve probably got me down as a spoiled celeb with more money than sense. For the record I do care about democracy and the health service and pot holes and libraries and all the rest of it, but where we’re heading at the moment is, to be frank, just a wee bit personal. So you’ll forgive me for skipping lunch.’
‘And this?’ Mitch nods at his pad. ‘Willoughby? The cheque? All that?’
‘We’ll have to see.’
‘That might not be an option. My publisher’s anticipating an election within the next six months. We have to get our ducks in order. Otherwise I’ve just wasted a year’s work, probably more.’
This is emotional blackmail and both of us know it. I’m still lingering by the table, wishing I’d hadn’t heard that last little speech.
The stand-off is becoming awkward. The barman is eyeing us with some interest. I think he may have recognized me but I can’t be sure. Finally, it’s Mitch who breaks the silence.
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