by Phil Walden
Devaney himself had spent the time deep in thought. A few friends and allies had come and gone, suggesting ideas, outlining possible strategies and presenting alternative draft speeches he might use in response to the attack. There was even talk, at this late stage, of arranging meetings with influential personnel, dangling the carrot of Shadow Ministerial responsibility in an attempt to buy off or at least weaken the forces encircling their embattled leader. Eventually he had dismissed them all. The last to leave had been Patrick Carlton. He had shouted and raged with his usual bluster, threatening dire retribution on those deserting the sinking ship.
The walk along the long corridor to the committee room lacked the customary hustle and bustle, the throng of well wishers and sycophants. Instead, people, some of whom Devaney had known all his political life, avoided eye contact as they paced past, shuffling into alcoves or turning down corridors, anything to deny association with someone who had become a political untouchable. At least, the door was swung open for him as he approached, and he was escorted to the podium, much as a man destined for hanging is shown respectfully to the gallows.
The assembly fell silent as they saw their leader enter and stride down the aisle. A stern faced Harry Spenser had positioned himself on the front row. He would be in his direct line of sight, as if to remind him of what was expected, of what had been agreed. To his left sat Alex McKenzie, equally expectant. Between them, Caroline Bruce, missing from the earlier session, had returned, keen, no doubt, to witness the slaughter and breathe in the sweet scent of revenge.
As he reached the front of the hall, Devaney glanced along the row at an anxious looking Patrick Carlton. Paddy had no idea what was to come. Devaney could not tell him. His decision and resolve had come too late and, anyway, he did not want his intentions known. But Paddy claimed to have done his bit. His dealings with the leading contenders, designed to forestall any leadership challenge, would buy his friend crucial time, he said, time to think and time to plan. Only Lucy Hass, resplendent in a bright red suit at the back of the hall, looked composed and relaxed. But then only Lucy knew what he was about to do.
Because, where others foresaw defeat, Devaney at last saw opportunity. Catchpole’s actions meant there was no need for a coterie of speechwriters to be rushed in, no need for a panel of advisers to outline what he could or should say, or give advice on people he might court or censure. This time Devaney had nothing to lose. This time he was going to return to his roots, to the values and beliefs which had drawn him into politics and which had lain ignored and compromised for far too long. For the first time in his entire public life, he now felt the climate was right both within the party and in the country as a whole. He had waited for this moment, he told himself. James Devaney was about to make the speech of his life.
He mounted the steps and stood at the podium. At first he did and said nothing, looking down as if studying notes or prompts, neither of which he had. Wait, he told himself, wait. Whatever you do, you must have control. The mounting tension was palpable but silence eventually gripped the hall. He then looked up and surveyed the packed audience before him.
Devaney began. “When I became leader it was very much seen by me as a caretaker role. My brief was simple. Establish the reasons for our defeat at the last election. Stabilise the movement in terms of its membership and finance. Finally initiate policy change to prepare this party for a swift return to government. The first two tasks are complete. We now have a sound basis upon which to move on and tackle the third, that of reaffirming and refining the very principles for which this movement stands. I am aware that there are those who doubt my radical credentials and indeed, some who even question my stomach for the fight. I intend to answer those who have sown doubts and strengthen those who have shown faith.”
He went on to talk of his youth, his family and his upbringing, laying out the roots of his beliefs and his love for politics and for what it could achieve. Indeed, he claimed to have been a political animal all his life. From cutting his teeth as a fifteen year old protesting against the Vietnam War in Grosvenor Square, he had moved on to “help” the miners during the strikes of 1972 and 1974. He had been able to play a more official role in the 1984 dispute, garnering political support nationally for their grievances and organising practical help in the hard pressed communities themselves. Having entered Parliament in 1987, he took a prominent role in the anti Poll tax movement.
“No one,” he declared, “can question my loyalty to and concern for the working people of this country. Admittedly, along the way, there have been compromises, concessions and a degree of pragmatism, not always wanted, never easy and sometimes unpalatable but necessary in the climate of the times. The global, industrial and self interested forces, which have often aligned themselves against democratic governments, have been difficult to combat. However, the worldwide recession has exposed the dubious standards and downright illegality of some of the practices pursued by big business. It is the duty of governments to curb that abuse and restore trust in democracy’s ability to properly represent and improve the lot of all in society.”
Devaney paused and then raised his voice. “Tom Catchpole is right. Now is the time to act. Now is the time to deliver radical and fundamental change.”
At first the change in the reaction of the audience was almost imperceptible with a few mumblings of agreement mixed with the odd bout of muted applause. But as he continued to speak, these turned to supportive shouts and long bursts of hand clapping as the party, increasingly enthusiastic about what they were hearing, started to rally around him. They had never heard their leader speak like this before. But if what had been said so far had led to a transformation of the mood in the hall, then what was about to follow amounted to a metamorphosis.
“Friends, never forget the moral argument was, is and always will be ours. It is time to march again. We are a movement full of talent. Who will lead us on that journey is, of course, a decision for the party, and the party alone to make. I take note of the resounding welcome given, this morning, to Tom’s key note speech. But my past, my record and my beliefs chime with the radical policies so passionately delivered. I possess the expertise as well as the experience of many years in government. I am the means to unite the old party with the new, ensure solidarity, foster cooperation and bring about lasting change. And so I offer you this future: James Devaney and Tom Catchpole together, as leader and deputy leader, in an irresistible combination, certain to restore this great party to where it belongs….in government, in power and at the service of the people!”
Devaney stood ramrod straight, grim determination written across his face. The applause began, accompanied by foot stamping before the entire gathering rose in a rapturous and prolonged standing ovation. The same audience which in previous addresses had regularly struggled to manage more than one or two minutes, was now unstoppable in its adulation. For the first time in years Devaney felt clean. He began to applaud the audience before raising his hands aloft and receiving the congratulations of those who rushed to join him on the stage. An effusive Patrick Carlton was one of them. At that, Alex McKenzie shot from his chair and stormed from the hall. He’d been duped and he knew it. The Scot was followed by a more sanguine Caroline Bruce. There was no point protesting. The future for her was clear. A seat in the House of Lords or oblivion. However, a furious Harry Spenser stayed rooted to his seat.
Devaney glanced across at Lucy Hass. Only then did he break into a smile. She beamed back at him. It had all gone perfectly to plan.
*
Spenser paced the corridor. The throng of MPs marched past him keen to discuss the startling events of the day over drinks and supper, but to him they went unnoticed. He was waiting for one man only. At last his leader emerged, flanked by Lucy Hass and Patrick Carlton.
“Why, Harry. You’re looking a little flushed,” observed a beaming Devaney.
“Are you unwell?” Carlton mocked.
Spenser wagged an excusing finger. “You leav
e me no choice. I’ll bring Catchpole down. I’ll bring you all down.”
“I doubt that very much,” Devaney replied. “What was it you said? Another scandal would destroy the party and ruin us all. Not you, Harry, not you.”
“Face it. What would you do? Where would you go?” Carlton added.
“You’ll see, in time, I promise you that,” snarled Spenser.
“I would look to your own survival first,” Devaney advised.
“If only you knew how ridiculous that sounds.”
“Really, then listen. Catchpole’s arrival, whilst welcome, was always suspicious. I asked myself. Why would Harry Spenser recommend someone whose potential threatened to knock him further down the leadership pecking order? It didn’t make sense. So I took the precaution of having someone monitor him…and you, just in case.”
Spenser looked stunned. All his bluster instantly evaporated.
“Of course, you had no idea,” Devaney said.
“You can’t work with him, surely?” a now rueful
Spenser asked. “What about his speech? He tore into you.”
“You forget that politics is the art of the possible. Tom’s attack raised his status. What better way to show strength and conviction than to take on the leader of the party. It was the opportunity I’d been waiting for. An open challenge at last, a chance to fight back and show my mettle.”
“And what makes you so sure he’ll cooperate?” Spenser added.
“Tom will welcome my endorsement. He has no choice. Our members have spoken. We’ll aim for that smooth transition of yours.”
“And who knows how long that might take?” Carlton asked.
“Should whatever little scandal you say you have on him subsequently emerge, well, that would just leave me and a bright, new vision, a vision shared by the whole party for the first time in seventy years,” added Devaney. “And who would believe you anyway? Your reputation will be in tatters.”
“I don’t understand,” Spenser said. Beads of sweat now glistened on his brow.
“Remember the leaks? I couldn’t be sure. So you were fed the Bruce story. It served a dual purpose. It took Caroline out of the picture but also confirmed you to be their source.”
Spenser reeled back in shock. Lucy Hass moved alongside Devaney. They linked arms. She smiled up at him.
He kissed her gently on the cheek. “You’ve met my daughter, haven’t you? Splendid result of a little youthful fling… and so very loyal.”
Chapter Twenty Three
The light had begun to fade by the time the Ford Mustang left the low slopes of North Essex and drove onto the sparse flatlands of the Fens. The short journey west across to his old school was relatively quiet, the frantic evening exodus from the nearby city already past. But his first sight of the building in over twenty years troubled Catchpole. There should have been recollections of happy times, his scholastic achievements, sporting prowess and a host of good friends. Instead the shame roared back, shame that something in him had warmed to the attention from an adult but also disgust and revulsion at what had been done to him in that place. It had made any grown up relationship difficult if not impossible, any hope of trust or genuine love lost in the legacy of abuse. And so he had drifted from woman to woman, lover to lover, unable to sustain a meaningful partnership or close friendship with anyone, instead devoting himself to his political work and advancement. Now Trisha had entered his life. She was good for him. He was not going to lose her.
Catchpole had parked his car, stumbled out and phoned Faversham, hoping that the sound of his voice might soften the blow, make a meeting easier to negotiate and pave the way for the help he so desperately needed. One mention of his name and the college secretary had put him through straightaway. Initially Catchpole had sounded calm. He’d told Faversham of the events of the day, the speech he had made, the reception he’d received from his fellow MPs and his hopes for the evening session, before the shock discovery of Angel in the boot of his car. He was at a complete loss as to how she had got there and who might be responsible. At that moment Faversham had appeared at the window of his study. Catchpole panicked at the sight of the man who had been a friend and a father to him but the nature of whose love proved a betrayal of both those roles. The mature man had once again become the vulnerable and obedient child, words spiralling out of his mouth describing his dilemma, blaming himself, begging for help. But help from Faversham was impossible. Coming back to the college had been a mistake. Catchpole could not countenance seeing, let alone being close to the man again. He had to get away.
He got back into the car and fled east, exchanging the haunting memories of his soiled youth for the black fields and darkening skies of the fens, where frequent forks of lightning began to flash across the distant horizon. So now Faversham was aware he had the woman but he would never say anything, for fear of what Catchpole could reveal. Whoever had seized Angel could well be intent on blackmail. He couldn’t be certain how much they knew but placing her in the trunk was a stark message of intent. Whatever their motive, they were hardly likely to go to the police. Any threat which subsequently emerged could be strenuously denied if it was his word against theirs. A plan of escape began to take shape in his mind. He would have to be careful and meticulous. But, he convinced himself, it could be done.
After fifteen miles he turned north. The road ran straight, cutting through the expanse of rivers and dykes draining the swathes of land on either side. Wipers now thrashed across a rain lashed windscreen. The car paused at a junction. Its headlights settled on a loose sign, swaying in the strengthening northerly wind. ‘Welcome to Fenland’, it mocked. Catchpole peered into the gloom, searching in vain for directions. The car moved across, the road immediately narrowing, the steering wheel jumping from his grasp as the chassis bumped against the rough, undulating surface beneath.
The choice was stark. The life of one woman, mentally deranged and beyond hope, against the well-being of the entire British people? He would take Angel deep into this wilderness, where no one could possibly find her. There would be no body, no proof and no punishment. And who would be looking anyway? The hospital, the police and, indeed, anyone else concerned would eventually assume she had discharged herself, left voluntarily and moved away to begin a new life. He was on the verge of greatness, the fulfilment of all his hopes and dreams. It would take at least another hour for him to get there, longer for him to locate the exact spot, the place where he could once again attempt to banish the past and start anew.
*
Top Fen had somehow escaped the village expansions and new housing programmes which had begun to alter the nature of the land further to the south. Sparsely populated with one road villages and little infrastructure, it would have been instantly recognisable to the old eel fishers and migratory land workers of old. The landscape was forbidding and unforgiving for those who lived there, dangerous and hostile to those who didn’t.
Hence, Catchpole was relieved to see the shape of an abandoned dark brick water tower, the one landmark he could recall, looming out of the darkness. He took the next right turn onto a narrow drove, alongside which ran a forty foot drain. Immediately, he slammed on the car brakes and slid to a halt. He jumped out of the car. The tarmac surface ahead had collapsed into the river, leaving a gaping hole in the road. He rammed the car into first gear, swung to the right and, with wheels slipping in the cloying mud, slotted the car through the narrow grass verge between the track and the dyke.
The Ford Mustang bumped along the track until it reached a small, low stone bridge, the only river crossing for miles. Not wide enough for modern day vehicles, it had in the past been a crossing point for livestock, either moving between grazing fields or heading east to market. Now it served as a bridleway and footpath but, in truth, it was rarely used. The site was remote, with not a single building nearby.
Catchpole pulled off the track, halted and ratcheted up the handbrake. He was here. Images flashed into his mind. The porter’s car
tumbling over and over, crashing into the water, the screams, the sheer terror, his feet smashing into the windscreen, his escape to the surface, his fruitless attempts to save the baby and the girl, and his younger self struggling across the field, carrying a little bundle, before breaking off a short stubby branch to scrape a shallow grave deep within a thick, overgrown copse. Catchpole wanted to cry, to accept the guilt, to make some sort of peace with himself but he could not. He steeled himself for what must be done, what he was sure Faversham would have suggested, had he stayed to beg his advice. The answer was simple. Angel must disappear.
Catchpole reached across and picked up the parcel resting on the passenger seat. He unwrapped the loosely tied brown paper and carefully unfurled the cloth beneath. He took out a Smith and Weston revolver and began methodically to load the cylinder with bullets.
*
Rain pummelled the roof of the cab. An exasperated Olivia tossed down her mobile. “It’s no good. I can’t get a signal. We’ll have to stop.”
“There’s no time,” Start said, as he struggled to hold the vehicle straight. “We’ll do this on our own.” The car’s headlights picked out the dark outline of the water tower. “Look out for a right turn somewhere around here.”
Olivia leant forward, searching. She felt sick to the pit of her stomach. A lone roe deer sped along the road in front of them before cutting across into the fields beyond, following the line of a narrow side track. “There!”