In the Presence of the Enemy

by Elizabeth George

  “I see.” He shifted his elbow to the arm of his chair. The leather creaked, which emphasised the stillness of the entire Home Office as well as the silence of the streets outside. “Were there—” He paused thoughtfully, and his face looked pensive. He seemed to be making a selection from among several conclusions. “Eve, were there problems between you and your daughter?”

  “Problems?”

  “You said the story would be about what led to her death.”

  “This isn’t a child abuse story, if that’s what you mean,” Eve clarified. “Charlotte wasn’t abused. And what led to her death had nothing to do with me. At least, not in that way.”

  “Then perhaps you’d better tell me in what way you’re involved.”

  She began by saying, “I wanted you to know because so often in the past when the tabloids launch into someone in politics, the Government’s taken completely by surprise. I didn’t want that to happen in this case. I’m making a clean breast of it, so we can think what to do next.”

  “Advance knowledge is a useful weapon,” Hepton acknowledged. “Acquiring it has always allowed me to see with a much clearer vision.”

  Eve didn’t miss how he’d changed the pronoun to singular. She also didn’t miss the absence of any word or even guttural sound that she could take for reassurance. Sir Richard Hepton knew that something nasty was in the wind. And when an odour pervaded his well-kept house, he was a man who knew how to open windows.

  She began to talk. There was no real way to colour the story in an appealing hue. Hepton listened with his hands clasped on top of his desk and his face the same noncommittal mask that she’d seen him wear at so many meetings in the past. When she’d covered every relevant detail of her week-long Blackpool fling with Dennis Luxford—as well as every detail relating to Charlotte’s disappearance and subsequent murder—she realised how rigid her body had become. She could feel the nervous tension in the spasmodic tightening of muscles from her neck to the base of her spine. She tried to make her body relax, but she could not trick it into believing that her political fate wasn’t hanging in the balance of this one man’s interpretation of her behaviour eleven years ago.

  When she was finished speaking, Hepton rolled his leather chair away from the desk and slowly swung it to one side. He raised his head and seemed to be scrutinising the portraits of three monarchs and two prime ministers on the opposite wall. He rubbed his thumb along his jaw; his silence was so profound that Eve could hear the sandpaper sound of his whiskers as his thumb rubbed against their grain.

  She said, “I dare say Luxford’s operating with two motivations: newspaper circulation and political damage. He means to outsell the Globe. He means to wound the Government. With this story, he does both with one stroke.”

  “Perhaps. Perhaps not.” He sounded thoughtful. Eve could tell from his tone that the Home Secretary was assessing the possible responses they might make to this story. Damage containment was paramount.

  She said, “Certainly this can be turned against Luxford, Richard. If I’m painted as a hypocrite, what exactly is he? And when the police uncover him as the mastermind behind Charlotte’s abduction—”

  Hepton lifted an index finger to stop her. He continued to think. The fact that he was tossing round options without making her a party to what those options were was not lost on Eve. She knew that her best interests lay in saying nothing more, but she couldn’t keep herself from attempting a final act of salvage.

  “Let me talk to the Prime Minister. Surely if he’s fully apprised of what led up to Dennis Luxford’s writing this story—”

  “Without question,” Hepton said slowly. “The PM must be made aware of what’s happening with no delay.”

  Greatly relieved, she said, “I can go over to Downing Street straightaway. He’ll see me at once if he knows what’s at stake. And better that I go now—while it’s dark and before the newspapers arrive on the streets—than to wait until the story’s out and the reporters start gathering.”

  “He faces a Q and A at the Commons tomorrow,” Hepton went on, his voice contemplative.

  “Which is all the more reason why he needs to know about Luxford now.”

  “The Opposition—not to mention the press—will eat him alive if we’re not careful. So he can’t confront that Q and A without having this matter completely settled.”

  “Settled,” Eve repeated. There was only one way to settle the matter within the time frame Hepton had established. She continued, feeling desperate, “Let me talk to him. Let me attempt to explain. If I fail to persuade him to—”

  Hepton interrupted, still in that contemplative tone of voice. Eve realised that it gave him distance from her. It was the same tone of voice a monarch would have used in reluctantly pronouncing a death sentence upon a loved one. “After the Larnsey debacle, the PM must be made to appear decisive, Eve. Conciliation is absolutely out of the question.” Then he finally looked at her, “You see that, don’t you? You do see that?”

  She felt a loosening within her as her future—as if it had been contained in her muscles, her organs, and her blood—began to drain away. Years of careful planning, years of effort, years of political machinations, were wiped out in an instant. Whatever she was to create out of the time to come, she knew that the creation would not be a person of substance in the Palace of Westminster.

  Sir Richard Hepton seemed to read this on her face. He said, “I know resignation is a blow, but it doesn’t mean you have nothing ahead of you. You can be rehabilitated. Look at John Profumo. Who would have thought one man so disgraced would be able to turn himself so much around?”

  “I don’t intend to be a puling social worker.”

  Hepton cocked his head and looked paternal. “I didn’t intend to suggest that, Eve. Besides, you’re not finished in government. You’ll still have your seat in the Commons. Standing down as Junior Minister doesn’t mean you lose everything.”

  No. Just most of everything, Eve thought.

  So she’d written the letter that the Home Secretary required of her. She wanted to think the PM would refuse to accept her resignation, but she knew otherwise. People put their trust in their elected leaders, he would intone religiously from the steps of Number Ten. When that trust is eroded, the elected leaders must go.

  She’d gone from the Home Office the short distance to Parliament Square. She was there when her assistant arrived. In that quick aversion of his eyes from hers, Eve saw that Joel Woodward had heard about the headlines. Naturally. It would have been on the morning news and Joel always watched the news while he thrust his cereal down his throat.

  It quickly became clear that everyone else in the Parliament Square building was aware of the Luxford story as well. No one addressed her, people quickly nodded and just as quickly looked away, and in her office voices spoke in the hushed tones of those who have experienced a firsthand encounter with death.

  Reporters began phoning as soon as the telephone lines were open for the day. “No comment” didn’t satisfy them. They wanted to know if the MP from Marylebone was going to refute The Source’s claim. “There can’t be ‘no comment,’” Joel carefully reported one of them as saying. “It’s either the truth or a lie, and if she doesn’t plan to file a suit for libel, I expect we know which way the wind’s blowing.”

  Joel wanted her to deny the paper’s allegations. He couldn’t believe that the object of his Tory wet dreams had a side to her that didn’t quite mesh with the Party’s stated beliefs.

  She did not hear from Joel’s father until mid-morning. And then she heard from him only through Nuala, who phoned her from the Constituency Association’s office and told her that Colonel Woodward was assembling a meeting of the Association Executive. Nuala recited the summons to appear and the time of the meeting. Then she lowered her voice and said kindly, “Are you all right, Ms. Bowen? It’s dead wild over here. When you come, try to get in the back way. Reporters are five deep on the pavement.”

  They’d bee
n ten deep by the time she’d arrived. Now in the constituency office, Eve readied herself for the worst. The Association Executive had not required that she attend their preliminary discussion. Colonel Woodward had merely stuck his head in her office and demanded to know the name of her daughter’s father. He didn’t ask the question in an amicable fashion, nor did he attempt to couch it in a euphemism. He barked it out like a military order and, in doing so, let her know unconditionally what the lay of the political landscape was.

  She attempted to go about the day’s business, but there was little enough of it. She wasn’t normally in the constituency office until Friday so aside from dealing with the post, there was nothing else to do. No one was waiting to speak to the local MP except the reporters, and one word of encouragement to them would be madness. So she read letters and answered them, and when she wasn’t doing that, she paced.

  Two hours into the Executive’s meeting, Colonel Woodward came for her. He said, “You’re wanted now,” and turned on his heel, heading in the direction of the Executive’s conference room. As he walked, he brushed at the shoulders of his herringbone jacket to rid it of dandruff, of which he had an ample supply.

  The Association Executive sat round a rectangular mahogany table. Jugs of coffee, used cups, yellow pads, and pencils littered its surface. The room was greatly overheated—both by their bodies and by the intensity of the two hours of discussion—and Eve thought about asking that someone open a window. But the proximity of the reporters outside forced her to reject the idea. She took the empty place at the foot of the table and waited for Colonel Woodward to return to its head.

  “Luxford,” he said. He may as well have said dog shit. And he locked his beetle-browed gaze upon her so that she could read the force of his—and hence the Executive’s—full displeasure. “We don’t know what to make of this, Eve. An affair with an anti-monarchist. A scandal monger. A Labour supporter. For all we know, a Communist or Trotskyite or whatever else these people call themselves. You couldn’t have chosen much more abominably.”

  “It was a long time ago.”

  “Are you suggesting he wasn’t then as I’ve described him?”

  “On the contrary, I’m suggesting I wasn’t then who I am now.”

  “Praise God for small favours,” Colonel Woodward said. There was a restless stirring round the table. Eve took a moment to look each member of the Executive full in the face. In their willingness or their reluctance to return her gaze, she could see how they stood with regard to her future. The majority, it seemed, were on Colonel Woodward’s side.

  She said to them all, “I made a mistake in my past. I’ve paid for it in coin larger than anyone in public life has ever paid for an act of indiscretion: I’ve lost my child.”

  There was a general murmur of acknowledgement and expressions of sympathy from three of the women. Colonel Woodward moved quickly to quell any tide of condolence that might build to a wave of support by saying, “You’ve made more than one mistake in your past. You’ve also lied to this body, Miss Bowen.”

  “I don’t believe I’ve—”

  “Lies of omission, Miss. Lies growing out of subterfuge and hypocrisy.”

  “I’ve acted in the interests of my constituency, Colonel Woodward. I’ve given the constituency my devotion, my full attention, and my effort. If you can find an area in which I’ve been deficient when it comes to the citizens of Marylebone, you might be willing to point it out to me.”

  “Your political efficacy is not the issue,” Colonel Woodward said. “We held this seat in your first election by an eight-hundred-vote majority only.”

  “Which I increased to twelve hundred votes last time round,” Eve replied. “I told you from the first that it takes years to build the sort of majority you have in mind. If you give me the leeway to—”

  “The leeway to what?” Colonel Woodward demanded. “Surely you don’t mean the leeway to maintain your seat?”

  “That’s exactly what I mean. If I stand down right now, you’ll have a by-election on your hands. In the current climate, what do you expect the outcome of that election to be?”

  “And if you don’t stand down, if we let you stand for Parliament again after this Luxford business, we’ll lose to Labour anyway. Because despite what you may think about your ability to attain absolution from the electorate, no voter, Miss Bowen, is likely to forget the gulf between how you’ve portrayed yourself and who you actually are. And even if the voters were that forgetful, the Opposition will be only too happy to dredge up every insalubrious detail from your past as a reminder if you’re our candidate at the next election.”

  The words insalubrious detail seemed to echo round the room. Eve saw the members of the Executive look to their yellow notepads, their pencils, and their coffee cups. Discomfort wafted off them in nearly visible waves. None of them wanted this meeting to turn into a dogfight. But if they expected her to bend to their collective will, then they were going to have to make that will perfectly clear. She would make no offer to stand down at once and thereby hand her seat over to the Opposition.

  She said calmly, “Colonel Woodward, we all have the Party’s interests at heart. At least, I assume so. What is it you’d like me to do?”

  He peered at her suspiciously. It was her second sentence that set him on edge. He said, “I disapprove of you, Miss. I disapprove of who you are, of what you did, and of how you attempted to hide it. But the Party is more important than my dislike of you.”

  He needed to castigate her, Eve realised. He needed to do it in as public a forum as the situation and their mutual interest in damage control would allow. She could feel the angry blood pounding through her veins, but she remained motionless in her chair, saying, “I completely agree to the importance of the Party, Colonel Woodward.” And again added, “What is it that you’d like me to do?”

  “We have only one option. You’re to remain in your seat until the Prime Minister next calls a General Election.”

  “And then?”

  “Then we’re through with you. You’re through with Parliament. You’ll stand down in favour of whomever we select to run.”

  She looked round the table. She could see that this plan was a compromise, the unhappy marriage of demanding her immediate resignation and allowing her to continue at her post indefinitely. It bought her as much time as the Prime Minister could string out before the winds of political change that had been building for months forced him into calling a General Election. When that election rolled round, her career was finished. It was finished as of this moment, actually. She’d keep her seat in the House of Commons for a time, but everyone sitting in the meeting room knew who among them would be wielding the real power.

  “You’ve always disliked me, haven’t you?” she said to Colonel Woodward.

  “Not without good reason,” the colonel replied.

  26

  BARBARA HAVERS SENSED that she was getting closer to the truth the moment she located Stanton St. Bernard. The village was a collection of farms, barns, and cottages strung along five intersecting tracks and country lanes. It hosted a spring, a well, a shoe box of a post office, and the modest church which had sponsored the fête whose jumble stall had contained the bag of rags in which Charlotte Bowen’s school uniform had been found. But it wasn’t the presence of this church that stimulated Barbara’s interest. It was the location of the village itself. A mere half mile to its south, the Kennet and Avon Canal flowed between fields planted with hay and with maize, and it rolled tranquilly towards Allington, a little more than two miles to the west. Barbara made a brief circuit of the village to ascertain these details before heading to the church. By the time she had parked her Mini and climbed out to breathe the manure-hung air, she felt confident that she was tracing the path walked by a killer.

  She found the vicar and his wife in the garden of a narrow-windowed house identified by a sign as The Rectory. They were both on their knees in front of an abundantly planted flower bed, and for a mom
ent Barbara thought that they were praying. She waited at the gate, which seemed a respectful enough distance, but then their voices carried over to where she was standing.

  The vicar said, “We should have a fine show from the ranunculi, my dear, if the weather cooperates,” to which his wife replied, “But we’ve seen the best of the ornithogalum, haven’t we? You must pull it out. With the women’s league tea coming fast upon us, I must have the garden in order, pet.”

  Hearing this clearly non-theological exchange, Barbara called out a hullo and pushed the gate open. The vicar and his wife sat back on their heels. They were kneeling on a tartan car rug. As she got closer, Barbara saw that the vicar had a hole in the ankle of one of his black socks.

  They were apparently preparing to do some work. They’d laid out an array of pristine gardening tools at their knees. These tools were arranged on a large square of wrapping paper. On the paper was drawn what appeared to be an overall plan for the garden. It was heavily smudged and marked with countless notations. The vicar and his wife, it seemed, took to the soil with the passion of zealots.

  Barbara introduced herself and produced her identification. The vicar brushed his hands together and got to his feet. He helped his wife up, and as she tidied everything from her denim skirt to her greying hair, he introduced himself as the Reverend Mr. Matheson and identified his wife as “my bride Rose.”

  His wife laughed shyly at this appellation and took her husband’s arm. She slid her hand down it till their fingers met and twined. The vicar said to Barbara, “How may we help you, my dear?”

  Barbara told them she’d come to talk about the recent church fête, and Rose suggested they do their talking while she and the vicar attended to the garden. “It’s difficult enough to carve an hour from Mr. Matheson’s day to see to our plants,” she confided, “especially when he’d do just about anything to avoid a grub round the flower beds. So now I’ve got him here, I must strike while the iron is hot.”