“So what do you suggest, Ben?”
“Frankie, tides turn. One minute you’re swimming for the shore, the next you’re by an outfall pipe just after I’ve flushed my toilet.”
Urquhart heard the other man swilling drink around a goblet and taking a huge draught before he continued.
“Frankie, I’m going to tell you something. This afternoon I instructed a small and extremely confidential team at the Chronicle to start contacting as many of your party’s MPs as they can get hold of to ask which way they’re going to vote. Wednesday we’re going to publish—which I confidently predict will show young Mickey Samuel with a small but clear lead over the rest of the field.”
“What? How do you know this? The poll hasn’t even been finished yet.” A sigh of understanding. “Oh, Ben, I’m being naive, aren’t I?”
“Ring-a-ding-ding, Frankie. You’re on the ball. That’s why I like you. I know what the fucking poll is going to say because I’m the fucking publisher.”
“You mean you’ve fixed it. But why are you pushing Samuel?”
“First one to get to the sewage pipe. Oh, you’ll be there somewhere, Frankie, toward the back of the field but not in bad shape for a Chief Whip. But young Mickey will be out in front, so everyone else has a target, the man they most want to beat. I reckon in a couple of weeks’ time he’s going to be amazed at the number of bad friends he’s got.”
“So where do I fit into this great plan?”
“You come from behind, as the actress said to the archbishop. The compromise candidate. While all those other bastards are drowning each other, you slip quietly through as the man they all hate least.”
“When all the other trees have been blown down, even a bush can stand tall.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Can I trust you?”
“Trust me?” He sounded horrified. “I’m a newspaperman, Francis.”
Urquhart burst into dark laughter. It was the first time the proprietor had called him by his proper name. Landless was serious.
“So aren’t you going to ask me what I want out of all this?” the proprietor asked.
“I think I already know, Ben.”
“And what’s that?”
“A friend. A friend in Downing Street. A very good friend. A friend just like me.”
Twenty-Seven
A politician should never spend too much time thinking. It distracts attention from guarding his back.
Tuesday, October 26
The Prime Minister’s private office, his inner sanctum. Urquhart found him at his desk signing a thick pile of letters. He was wearing reading glasses, something he rarely did with others around. Even more unusual, there wasn’t a single newspaper in sight.
“Henry, I haven’t had a chance to speak with you since yesterday. I can’t tell you how shocked—devastated I was.”
“No sympathy, Francis, no sackcloth and ashes. I feel strangely content with the situation. A burden lifted. And all those other clichés.”
“As I listened to you I felt as if I were…falling out of the sky, quite literally.”
“Happy landings.” The Prime Minister cast his spectacles aside and rose from his desk, leading Urquhart over to two well-stuffed armchairs overlooking the park. “Anyhow I don’t have time for self-pity. Humphrey Newlands is on his way over so we can get the leadership election under way. Then I’m off to spend the rest of the day with Charlie. It’s marvelous to have time for such things.”
Urquhart was astonished to see he meant every word of it.
“You wanted a private chat, Francis?”
“Yes, Henry. Look, I know you’re not going to support any particular candidate in the election, not publicly at least…”
“It would be most improper.”
“Yes, but that doesn’t stop you taking a keen academic interest. We both know you’ve been badly let down by some of your colleagues recently.”
“The term ‘ungrateful bastards’ does somehow spring to mind.”
“You have a right—I would argue you even have a duty—to make sure you leave the Party in safe hands. Now as Chief Whip I’m not going to stand myself, of course. Entirely neutral. But that wouldn’t stop me keeping you informed of what’s going on.”
They both knew that a prime minister in his last days still had influence—political followers and personal friends, as well as the not inconsiderable matter of his nominations for the Resignation Honors List with its peerages and knighthoods that every retiring prime minister was allowed. For many senior members of the Party this would be their last chance to rise above the mob and achieve the social status their wives had so long aspired to.
Collingridge scratched his chin. “You’re right, Francis. I haven’t worked all these years simply to watch someone throw everything away. So tell me, how do things look?”
“Early days, difficult to tell. I think most of the press is right to suggest it’s an open race. But I’d expect things to develop quickly once they get going.”
“No front runners, then?”
“Well…” Urquhart wobbled his head from side to side, just as Jhabwala had done.
“Come on, Francis. Your gut feeling is good enough for me.”
“My nose tells me Michael Samuel has something of a head start.”
“Michael? Why so?”
“In a short and furious race there’s no time for developing solid arguments. It’s all about image. Michael’s good on television.”
“A media man.”
“And inevitably he’ll have the subtle support of Teddy and Party Headquarters.”
Collingridge’s face clouded. “Yes, I see what you mean.” He drummed his fingers loudly on the arm of his chair, weighing his words carefully. “Francis, it’s not my intention to interfere but neither can I play the innocent. If the Party is to have a free and fair contest, we can’t have Party Headquarters messing about with things. Not after their recent performance; the wretched election, all those leaks, not to mention that bloody opinion poll.” He spat out the last words. For all his protestations of contentment there was still a tempest raging inside. “And one thing above all the others I won’t forgive. You know, someone leaked the news of my visit to the Palace yesterday. I’m told that came out of the back door at Smith Square. How dare they? How did I become the clown in a media circus!” His fist smacked down on the arm of his chair.
“You were owed a little dignity, Henry.”
“It’s not just me; it’s Sarah, too. She doesn’t deserve that.” He was breathing more strenuously, in anger. “No, I won’t bloody-well stand for it. I will not have Teddy’s merry men interfering in this fucking election!” He leaned toward Urquhart. “I don’t suppose you have much love for Teddy, either, not after he did such a hatchet job on your reshuffle proposals. I’m sure you guessed that at the time.”
Urquhart nodded, glad to have his suspicions confirmed.
“What can I do, Francis? How can I make sure this election is run properly?”
“My interests are like yours, I simply want to ensure fair play. People need time to think, not to be swept along in a rush to judgment.”
“So?”
“So give them a little longer to make their choice. Slow the pace down. Enjoy your last few weeks in office. I’ve got nothing against Michael but you should make sure you hand over to a successor chosen by the Party, not the media.”
“And least of all by that old goat Teddy.”
“You might say that, as Prime Minister, but as Chief Whip I couldn’t possibly comment.”
Collingridge chuckled. “I don’t want to extend the period of uncertainty any longer than necessary but I suppose an extra week or so couldn’t do any great harm.”
“Under the rules, the timing is entirely in your hands, Henry.”
Collingridge
glanced at his watch. “Look, Humphrey will be outside. Better not keep him waiting any longer. He’ll offer his advice and I shall listen to it most attentively, although I suspect his expertise is more in the area of beach resorts than leadership races. I’ll stew on it overnight, let you know in the morning what I decide. You’ll be the first to know, Francis.” He led the Chief Whip toward the door. “I’m so grateful to you. I can’t tell you how comforting it is to have someone like you around, someone with no ax to grind.”
* * *
They had come back to her apartment, kicked the door closed, laughed as they had ripped off their clothes, stumbled across the floor, hadn’t even made it as far as the bedroom. Now Mattie and Krajewski lay in a cat’s cradle of limbs. He thought he had never been happier, tangled together on her sofa; her mind was already elsewhere.
“Collingridge?” he muttered, removing his hand from her unblemished breast.
She didn’t seem to notice the edge of disappointment. “I’ve been thinking, Johnnie. About Charlie Collingridge.”
“I lie sweating between your thighs and you’re thinking of another man,” he protested, half joking.
“I know he’s an alcoholic and everything,” she continued, oblivious, “and they’re often not responsible for their actions.”
“I’m not sure I am when I’m with you.”
“But it’s all too simple.”
“Does life have to be complicated?” he begged, pressing himself into the small of her back.
“I just can’t believe Charlie Collingridge was capable of it, let alone had the means.”
“There’s only one man who knows,” Krajewski muttered, “and he’s locked away in some clinic or other.”
She turned to face him. “Where?”
He sighed as he felt his passion subside. “I think it’s supposed to be a closely guarded family secret.”
“I want to find him.”
“And how does our Reporter of the Year propose to do that?”
She pushed herself away from him, wrapped herself in a blanket and disappeared into the kitchen. He went in search of his boxer shorts, found them behind the television, and reluctantly slipped into them as she returned with two glasses of wine. They arranged themselves on the rug in front of the empty fireplace.
“When was the last time anyone saw Charles Collingridge?” she asked.
“Why, er…When he was driven away from his home over a week ago.”
“Who was he with?”
“Sarah Collingridge.”
“And…?”
“A driver.”
“Exactly. So who was the driver, Johnnie?”
“Damned if I know.”
“But it’s a place to start.” Once again she prised herself away from him and crawled over to her television, which was surrounded by a scattering of videotapes. “It’s here somewhere,” she said, making the mess still worse. She found the tape she was looking for and soon the TV screen was a blizzard of images as she fast-forwarded through a compilation of news programs. She was so engrossed that she failed to notice the blanket had slipped from her shoulders. Krajewski sat, lost in nipple awe and stretching excitement. He was considering picking up the television and throwing it out of the window when, through the blizzard, Charles Collingridge appeared, huddled in the back of the fleeing car, and the blanket was back around her shoulders.
“Look, Johnnie!”
He moaned as she pressed yet another button to run the program back to the start. And there, for less than a second, as the car swept out into the main road, they could see the face of the driver through the windscreen. She pressed the pause button and they found themselves staring at a balding and bespectacled face.
“And who the hell is he?” Krajewski muttered.
“Let’s figure out who he’s not,” Mattie said. “He’s not a Government driver—it’s not a Government car and the drivers’ pool is very gossipy, so we would have heard something. He’s not a political figure or we would have recognized him…” She turned from the screen and faced him, failing to recognize his scowl of disgust. “Johnnie, where were they going?”
He felt himself torn between his own journalistic curiosity and his desire to throw himself at her. Damn, grow up, Krajewski, he scolded himself. “OK, not to Downing Street. And not to some hotel or other public place.” He pondered the options. “To the clinic, I suppose.”
“Precisely! That man is from the clinic. If we can find out who he is, we’ll know where they’ve taken Charlie!”
“I suppose I could get a hard copy of the face off the video tape and show it around. We could try Freddie, our old staff photographer. He’s got an excellent memory for faces and he’s also an alcoholic who dried out a couple of years ago. Still goes every week to Alcoholics Anonymous. Might be able to put us on the right track. There aren’t that many treatment centers. We should be able to make some progress.”
“You’re the best, Johnnie.”
And for the first time that evening, he felt she meant it.
“I’m a mercenary bastard. I require payment,” he ventured. “Mattie, can I stay the night?”
Her eyes filled with regret, she shook her head. “Johnnie, remember our ground rules.”
“No romance. Right. Well, if you’ve got what you want from me I suppose I’d better be going,” he snapped, eaten away with what he called “nipple rage.” He sprang to his feet and dressed hurriedly, but as he was halfway toward the door his shoulders sagged in defeat. “Sorry, Mattie,” he said. “It’s just that…you’re someone very special for me. I live in hope.”
He was at the door. He turned. “Is there anyone else, Mattie?”
“No, Johnnie, of course there isn’t,” she said. “That’s not what this is about.”
But as he closed the door behind him, she wondered if she was being honest with him. How could she be? She wasn’t sure she was being honest with herself. It wasn’t the sort of conversation nice girls had.
Twenty-Eight
Some political campaigns hit the ground running. Others simply hit the ground.
Wednesday, October 27
Daily Chronicle. Page 1: Samuel Ahead. Takes Shock Lead.
• • •
Michael Samuel, the youthful Environment Secretary, was last night emerging as the front runner in the race to become Prime Minister.
In an exclusive poll conducted during the last two days by the Chronicle among almost two-thirds of Government MPs, 24 percent nominated him as their first choice, well ahead of other potential candidates.
Samuel is expected to announce his candidacy within days. In a bitter blow to his rivals, he is expected to get the backing of influential party figures such as Lord Williams, the Party Chairman. Sources predict such support could be crucial.
No other name attracted more than 16 percent. Five potential candidates obtained between 10 percent and 16 percent. These were Patrick Woolton (Foreign Secretary), Arnold Dollis (Home Secretary), Harold Earle (Education), Paul McKenzie (Health), and Francis Urquhart, the Chief Whip.
Urquhart’s inclusion in the list at 12 percent caused surprise at Westminster. He is not even a full member of the Cabinet but as Chief Whip has a strong base in the Parliamentary party. Observers say he could prove a strong outside candidate. However, sources close to Urquhart last night emphasized he had made no decision to enter the contest, and is expected to clarify his position sometime today…”
* * *
The Prime Minister had changed his mind. He read all the newspapers that morning. The commentaries which a week before had been ripping his flesh off in strips were now, in their fickle and inconstant fashion, praising his self-sacrifice that would enable the Government to make a fresh start—“although he must still resolve many outstanding personal and family issues to the public’s satisfaction,” thundered The Times
. As always, the press had no shame in sleeping on both sides of the bed, like tarts.
He read the Chronicle particularly carefully, as clearly had others. A consensus seemed to be emerging: it was an open race but Samuel was the front runner. Collingridge cast the paper into a corner, where it flapped like a dying swan, and summoned his political secretary.
“Grahame. An instruction to Lord Williams, copy to Humphrey Newlands. He is to issue a press release at twelve-thirty this afternoon for the lunchtime news. Nominations for leadership election will close in three weeks’ time on Thursday, November 18, with the first ballot to take place on the following Tuesday, November 23. If a second ballot is required it will be held as prescribed by the Party’s rules on the following Tuesday, November 30, with any final run-off ballot two days later. Have you got that?”
“Yes, Prime Minister.” The secretary nodded but hid his eyes. It was the first time since his resignation announcement that they had been alone and able to talk.
“You know what that means, Grahame? In exactly six weeks and one day, you and I will be out of a job. I haven’t always found time to thank you properly these past years, but I want you to know how bloody grateful I am.”
The aide shuffled with embarrassment.
“You must start thinking about your own future. There will be my Resignation Honors List. You’ll be on it. As will several newly knighted gentlemen in the City who will be happy to make you a generous offer. I’ll make sure of it. Think about what you want, let me know. I still have a few favors to cash in.”
The secretary raised eyes filled with regret and gratitude.
“By the way, Grahame, it’s possible Teddy Williams might want to get hold of me and encourage me to shorten the election process. I will not be available. You are to make it clear to him that these are instructions, not terms for negotiation, and they are to be issued without fail by twelve-thirty.”
There was a short pause.
“Otherwise, tell him, I shall be forced to leak them myself.”
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