by David Belbin
2
Sarah sat in the plush Pugin Rooms, one of the House of Commons’ less busy watering holes, uncertain whether she’d chosen the right outfit. She wore a Planet navy suit, aligned with a pale cream Ghost blouse. Lately the party had taken on a fashion consultant who advised women members on what to wear. Sarah tried to follow that advice, in the Commons at least, although a lot of the suggestions made her look like an 1980s bonds trader without the shoulder pads. She avoided heels, opting for plain Clarks flats with a decent sole. When you did as much walking as she did, you couldn’t deny the need for sensible shoes.
‘You’ve changed your hair. It looks great,’ Donald said, by way of a greeting. Donald was Labour’s Chief Whip, a dapper Scot.
‘Thank you,’ Sarah said, though she hadn’t changed the style in two years. Her long, brown hair was a pain to manage. She had grown it to impress selection conferences with her femininity and she did like the way it framed her face. Having thick hair also hid her rather pointy ears, a family trait that reminded older members who her grandfather was. Sir Hugh Bone had been in Wilson’s 1960s Labour cabinet. She’d soon tired of comments about the resemblance.
‘Thanks for joining me.’ Donald summoned a waiter with much the same casual authority as he’d summoned Sarah to meet him. She knew what he wanted. Sarah was the party’s new spokesperson on miscarriages of justice. The evening before, she’d been on Newsnight accusing the Tories of wanting to abolish trial by jury. She’d gone off on one and added a line on the spread of HIV in British prisons, going a step beyond party policy. She’d expected to be admonished, but not so urgently. With an election on the way, party discipline was moving into overdrive. She listened politely to her dressing down.
‘I made it clear that I was venturing a personal opinion, not policy,’ she responded when the Chief Whip was done.
‘Needle exchanges in prisons, no matter how sensible, sound bad to the public,’ Donald told her. ‘We can’t be soft on drugs.’
‘In that case, the party has to support handing out condoms on demand,’ Sarah argued.
‘The Prison Officers Association wouldn’t even consider that,’ Donald said. ‘There are all sorts of uses for condoms. But there’s no point in getting into these operational issues until we’re in government. And government is what I want to talk to you about.’
Their tea arrived. Sarah lifted the lid off the pot, gave the tea bags a stir, then let it rest a minute before pouring.
‘You did well with that miscarriage of justice, must have done you a power of good in your constituency. Hasn’t hurt you nationally, either, though the guy doesn’t sound like a saint.’
‘He isn’t,’ Sarah said, trying to keep the weekend’s party at the back of her mind. ‘But I think he’ll keep his nose clean, not embarrass us.’
‘That’s good. You’re doing some media with him, I’m told.’
‘Nothing controversial, I promise.’
In fact, after what happened last Saturday, she had pulled out of her joint TV appearance with Ed. It was only local TV, anyway. Sarah splashed a dash of milk into her bone china cup, then poured the tea.
‘I’m sure that will be useful exposure in the run up to an election but – let’s be frank – not useful enough. That’s why I wanted to see you.’ Donald tested the temperature of his tea. ‘We’d like you in the government, Sarah. You’re exactly the kind of person Tony wants to represent New Labour. But he can only appoint you if you’re still an MP. Even our most optimistic polls show you falling short of re-election.’
‘I know.’ It had taken a big by-election swing for Sarah to get elected, two years ago. Nottingham West was normally a safe Conservative seat. Sarah stood at a time when the Tories were at only twenty-five per cent in the opinion polls and got in with a majority of five thousand. But by-election victories always reverted to the original holders. It was one of the ineluctable rules of British elections. Support for the government party would need to drop to below thirty per cent for Sarah to stand a chance this time.
‘Am I missing something here? Do you not want to continue?’
‘I want to continue. But Nottingham’s my home, as well as my constituency. I can’t let people down. After the general election, I’ll look for another seat. A by-election, maybe . . .’
‘And lose your chance? What will you do in the meantime? Work as a lobbyist while Johnnies-come-lately get the start you should have had? Wise up, Sarah. There won’t be any by-elections, not in Labour seats. Everybody who’s ill or needs pensioning off will make a sudden exit in the next few days. It’s already started. Soon it’ll be a flood. If you want a move, I’ll hold you a place. But I need to know now.’
Sarah sipped her tea. She was being offered the chance to behave like a Tory. Lots of their top players were being extricated from marginal constituencies and given safe seats to contest in the forthcoming election. For example, Barrett Jones, a member of the Tory cabinet, was standing against her. His old seat had become marginal after boundary changes, so he was deserting it. But Sarah wasn’t a deserter.
‘I appreciate the offer, Donald, I really do. However, if you’re going to press me for an instant decision, it’d have to be a no. Can I have the weekend to think it over?’
Donald nodded. ‘I can’t promise, but we’d try and get you a Yorkshire or Derbyshire seat. Local roots help calm the locals when there isn’t time for a full selection contest. Talk to me on Monday.’
He left Sarah alone with her strong tea. If the party had her parachuted into a new constituency at the last minute, could she live with that? A Yorkshire seat. It was very tempting, if it could be handled adroitly. But she already had a fallback plan. Her family came from Chesterfield, where Tony Benn had hinted that he meant to stand down at the next election but one. As a local girl, she’d stand a good chance there.
That said, selection processes were never a sure thing. In Nottingham West she’d had to defeat a former council leader, an ex-MP and two favourites of the hard left when she was selected to fight a by-election that was meant to be unwinnable.
Any minute now, the division bell would sound. Sarah finished her tea and tried to remember where the nearest Ladies was. This place wasn’t designed for women – you always had to plan a pee. The Junior Trade Minister walked in. Sarah gave Jasper March the smallest nod.
‘Have you got a moment, Sarah?’ She sat on a select committee with Jasper, one of the less obnoxious Tories.
‘Thirty seconds.’
‘Could you spare me a couple of hours if I stood you dinner? Something I need to talk over. You choose the restaurant.’
Good food was a weakness of Sarah’s that she rarely had time to indulge. An MP’s salary meant she could afford to eat well, but few Labour colleagues shared her tastes and Dan wasn’t much of a gourmet. Sarah didn’t like to dine alone. She checked her diary.
‘I can do Quaglino’s after the vote on Tuesday.’
‘Brilliant.’
This use of brilliant as a synonym for ‘really good’ was unexpected in a Tory minister, even a youngish one. Sarah wondered what he wanted.
While she waited for her question to come up, Sarah tried not to think about how different her life would be if she had a safe seat. Her turn came at 3.27 p.m. This was going out live on the BBC. She had brushed back her long, brown hair and hoped that her blue tailored suit made her look slim. She gave the number of her question. The PM referred her back to his earlier answer. Then Sarah rose again.
‘Will the Prime Minister show his concern about the spread of HIV and Hepatitis B in Her Majesty’s Prisons by allowing prison governors to sanction the free distribution of condoms to all inmates who require them?’
There were boos and animal-like jeers from the government benches. The PM blathered about understanding her concerns, but not wishing to do anything that might encourage drug taking.
‘The honourable gentleman seems to have misunderstood. I am not advocating needle exchanges in pr
isons, although there are strong arguments in favour of such action. I am suggesting urgent measures to reduce the tragic and costly spread of HIV through anal sex between prisoners.’
At the mention of anal sex, the PM’s eyes glazed over.
‘I have no such plans at this time.’
The Chief Whip joined Sarah as she left the chamber.
‘I can see tomorrow’s tabloid headlines: New Labour Backs Gay Sex Orgies in Prisons. Very helpful.’
He was playing at being angry. Or so she hoped.
‘Remember,’ Donald said. ‘I need a decision by Monday.’
Sarah took the 16.29 from St Pancras.
‘How does Ed Clark feel now he’s out?’ asked Brian Hicks. Brian, formerly the crime correspondent for the Nottingham Evening Post, was now their political editor. He was a small, fifty something, roly-poly man with a dry wit and a constant thirst.
‘Haven’t you asked him?’ Sarah was surprised Clark hadn’t given Brian an interview. The paper had covered her campaign sympathetically.
‘I would, but he’s gone to Tunisia for a break. Paid for by the Mirror, who he’s sold his story to. When his compensation comes through, he should be a wealthy man. Half a million, he’s told his mates.’
‘Money can’t replace five lost years of freedom.’
‘Don’t get sentimental on me,’ Brian said. ‘Ed Clark was always a scrote. Half a million pounds is untold riches for someone like him.’
‘Ed did A levels in prison. He’s intelligent enough to use the money well.’
‘If you say so,’ Brian replied. ‘I presume now it’s established that Clark didn’t do it, you’ll be campaigning for the police to find the real killer.’
‘That’s for the police, not me.’
‘Off the record, the police are saying they’re not looking for anyone else. You know what that means, don’t you?’
‘I really can’t comment, Brian, on or off the record. I’m sorry.’
‘Either they’re still convinced Ed did it, or they blame the wife.’
Brian left the train at Leicester. He was heading for Derbyshire, where he and his wife had a weekend cottage. But his question wouldn’t go away. A police officer and his wife were dead. They had two children and wider families, all of whom deserved answers. Ed Clark was a scrote, a minor villain who’d picked up a handful of burglary and violence convictions over the years. The first four had resulted in non-custodial sentences. The day after Ed was released from a six-month sentence for his fifth offence, Terry Shanks, the policeman who’d put him in prison, had been murdered. His wife, Liv, who had recently had sex, was found dead beside their bed. Both victims had been shot. Terry had also been bashed in the head, almost certainly before the shooting. The bodies were discovered when a neighbour brought the Shanks’ children home from primary school because their mother had failed to collect them.
There had been no direct evidence that Liv Shanks was raped. She had some vaginal tearing, a couple of bruises, and traces of a lubricant used on Durex. If Ed had raped Liv Shanks, he’d worn a condom. Some of Ed’s defenders suggested that Terry Shanks, the other murder victim, had raped his own wife and was also responsible for the bruises. Forensics showed that Terry had had sex within the previous twenty-four hours. In this theory, Liv knocked him out with a heavy blow to the head, then shot both him and herself with the unregistered gun Terry had recently bought for protection. According to the defence at Ed’s appeal, only a dodgy copper would keep such a gun. Liv, in the defence’s version, had killed Terry as retribution for marital rape, then killed herself rather than let the children know their mother had killed their father.
Forensics was not as exact a science as the TV shows suggested. Sarah didn’t have a theory as to who had killed the husband and wife. She only knew that the evidence against Clark, her constituent, was incredibly flimsy. DNA testing was in its infancy when the murders took place, but it was established that a used condom found in the bedroom bin contained Terry Shanks’ sperm. The prosecution had motivation, a disputed hair on the carpet and a dodgy witness – a neighbour who claimed she saw Clark leave the house half an hour before the bodies were found. In court, the defence drew out several inconsistencies in her testimony.
When Sarah first heard about the case, early in her by-election campaign, she figured that the imprisoned man was probably guilty. Ed Clark, a taxi driver, had a poor alibi. His girlfriend at the time worked as a prostitute on the Woodborough Road. She claimed Ed was watching out for her, but she had been with clients on and off that day. The Shanks lived less than two miles away, in Mapperley. Ed could have been there and back in half an hour.
By taking on Ed’s case, she turned a few friends into enemies. Some were police officers who had been colleagues during her brief stint in the force, ten years before. Privately, other officers told Sarah that they shared her doubts. The new evidence that swung the appeal was proof that the murder weapon, far from belonging to Ed, had been in Terry Shanks’ possession for several months before the murders.
If Ed didn’t do it, what had really happened? Sarah never did make up her mind. She didn’t think that Liv Shanks had killed her husband, then herself. There was no motive for that. A burglary gone wrong? Nothing had been taken. After Ed’s drunken boasts, Sarah had even less idea what to think. She only knew that the evidence against him was wafer-thin. The Law Lords agreed and he had won his appeal. Therefore Ed deserved to go free.
The appeal wouldn’t have happened but for Sarah. Most of the campaign’s supporters believed in her far more than they did in the alleged victim of injustice. If Ed committed new crimes, people would hold Sarah responsible. And rightly so.
3
Quaglino’s was half empty, which suited Sarah fine. She told Jasper March about Donald Dewar’s offer of the week before.
‘He gave me until yesterday. I thought of discussing it with my agent. The local party probably would have let me go, wished me well, all that. But they wouldn’t have meant it and I’d have hated myself for ever. So I called him and said that I was staying in Nottingham West.’
‘You did the right thing,’ Jasper March told Sarah, then drained his espresso. ‘I can see the decision’s starting to eat away at you. Don’t let it. Once you show the whips you’ll put ambition over everything else, they’ve got you.’
‘That’s reassuring,’ Sarah said.
They were on after-dinner brandies. March, ten years her senior, was an old fashioned Tory with old-fashioned good looks: square jaw, jet black hair, not too much tummy. Their conversation had been absorbing enough for the food to be of secondary importance. They’d had two bottles of Madiran: a complex, tannin-rich wine that complemented the game they’d eaten. Jasper had drunk more than her, but only a little. Sarah was pissed enough to be relaxed. Pissed enough to fancy him a little, even though he was too smooth to be her type. She’d been surprised when he asked her to dinner.
Jasper hadn’t given the slightest hint of flirtation all evening, so she was probably safe from making a drunken fool of herself. She could count the number of men she’d slept with after drinking too much on the fingers of one hand. All three she regretted. Jasper was a barrister, she reminded herself, searching for something to talk about.
‘Do you still practise?’
‘No need to practise. I’m pretty good at it by now.’
She forced a smile. Jasper had made it clear to her that his marriage was over, that he would divorce after the election regardless of whether he held his seat. So maybe he was flirting, in a cack-handed way.
‘I meant the law.’
‘Not since I joined the government. But I’ll keep my hand in – when – I mean if – we get shown the door. Politics isn’t the be-all-and-end-all. Why do you ask?’
‘Oh, nothing.’ A waiter returned with Jasper’s credit card. ‘Why did you ask . . . me out to dinner, I mean,’ Sarah said, as the minister helped her on with her coat. ‘I got the impression you had a specific thi
ng you wanted to discuss with me.’
‘I did have an excuse worked out,’ Jasper said, with a rehearsed chuckle. ‘Do you know, I can’t for the life of me remember what it was.’
It didn’t matter how pissed she was, or how long it had been since she had had a shag, Sarah would not sleep with Jasper tonight. But she decided not to rule out the possibility of sleeping with him in the future. When he put an arm around her waist as they were leaving the restaurant, she didn’t remove it. She didn’t quite reciprocate either, only leant into him enough to let him see that his attentions weren’t entirely unwelcome. Then the flashbulbs started going off.
Twenty minutes later, when she got back to her one-bedroom retreat in Parliament View, she rang Dan.
‘I thought I ought to warn you, there’ll be some press sniffing around tomorrow. They might even try to get to you at work.’
She explained what had happened with Jasper March.
‘You don’t waste much time, do you? I only moved out yesterday.’
‘He said he wanted advice, not a date. Or a beard for the tabloids.’
‘They won’t get to me, but thanks for the warning. You ought to tell Winston.’
Winston was Sarah’s electoral agent. She poured herself a pint of water before getting into bed. It was a double bed, though Dan had rarely come over from Nottingham to share it with her. His social-work job kept him there in the week and often left him drained at the weekends. They had been together for two years and could easily have drifted on for another two. Until one of them met somebody who really excited them. But Sarah was too busy to meet new people and Dan quite enjoyed having an MP as his partner. He didn’t seem to mind theirs being a weekend-only relationship. Nor did he object vociferously when Sarah suggested that he move out. Indeed, he’d managed the whole thing in less than a month.
‘At least they called you “a rising star”,’ Steve Carter told Sarah, six days later. Steve Carter was the closest friend Sarah had on the Labour benches. They were having a late lunch in Sarah’s favourite small Italian restaurant, at a table well away from the window. The purpose of the lunch was to discuss damage limitation after the Jasper March story had been splashed all over the Tory tabloids. Sarah often acted as a soundboard for Steve and he, less often, did the same for her. ‘And the serious Sundays didn’t touch it,’ he went on. ‘They could tell that the story was a crock.’