“A strong whisky, please, and can we go straight into dinner? I’ve got to be back at the talkshop by ten.”
Charles guided his guest toward the dining room and seated him at the side of the table before taking his place below the Holbein portrait of the first Earl of Bridgwater, an heirloom his grandfather had left him. Fiona took a seat opposite her husband. During the meal of Beef Wellington, Charles spent a great deal of time catching up on what Alexander had been doing since they had last met. Although they had spent three years together in the Guards as brother officers they rarely saw each other outside of regimental reunions since Charles had entered the House. He made no mention of the real purpose behind the meeting until Fiona provided the opportunity when she served coffee.
“I know you two have a lot to talk about, so I’ll leave you to get on with it.”
“Thank you,” said Alexander. He looked up at Fiona and smiled. “For a lovely dinner.”
She smiled back and left them alone.
“Now, Charles,” said Alexander, picking up the file he had left on the floor by his side. “I need to pick your brains.”
“Go ahead, old fellow,” said Charles, “only too delighted to be of assistance.”
“Sir Edward Mountjoy has sent me a pretty long list for us to consider, among them a Home Office minister and one or two other Members of Parliament who’ll be losing their present seats. What do you think of … ?”
Dalglish opened the file in front of him as Charles poured him a generous glass of port and offered him a cigar from a gold case that he picked up from the sideboard.
“What a magnificent object,” said Alexander, staring in awe at the crested box and the engraved C.G.S. along its top.
“A family heirloom,” said Charles. “Should have been left to my brother Rupert, but I was lucky enough to have the same initials as my grandfather.”
Alexander handed it back to his host before returning to his notes.
“Here’s the man who impresses me,” he said at last. “Kerslake, Simon Kerslake.”
Charles remained silent.
“You don’t have an opinion, Charles?”
“Yes.”
“So what do you think of Kerslake?”
“Strictly off the record?”
Dalglish nodded, but said nothing.
Charles sipped his port. “Very good,” he said.
“Kerstake?”
“No, the port. Taylor’s ’35. I’m afraid Kerslake is not the same vintage. Need I say more?”
“Well, no, I follow your drift but it’s most disappointing. He looks so good on paper.”
“On paper is one thing,” said Charles, “but having him as your member for twenty years is quite another. You want a man you can rely on. And his wife—never seen in the constituency, you know.” He frowned. “I’m afraid I’ve gone too far.”
“No, no,” said Alexander. “I’ve got the picture. Next one is Norman Lamont.”
“First class but he’s already been selected for Kingston, I’m afraid,” said Charles.
Dalglish looked down at his file once again. “Well, what about Pimkin?”
“We were at Eton together. His looks are against him, as my grandmother used to say, but he’s a sound man, and very good in the constituency, so they tell me.”
“You would recommend him then?”
“I should snap him up before another constituency adopts him.”
“That popular, is he?” said Alexander. “Thanks for the tip. Pity about Kerslake.”
“That was strictly off the record,” said Charles.
“Of course. Not a word. You can rely on me.”
“Cigar to your liking?”
“Excellent,” said Alexander, “but your judgment has always been so good. You only have to look at Fiona to realize that.”
Charles smiled.
Most of the other names Dalglish produced were either unknown, unsuitable, or easy to dismiss. When Alexander left shortly before ten Fiona asked him if the chat had been worthwhile.
“Yes, I think we’ve found the right man.”
Raymond had the locks on his flat changed that afternoon. It turned out to be more expensive than he had bargained for, and the carpenter had insisted on cash in advance.
The carpenter grinned as he pocketed the money. “I make a fortune doing this job, Guv’nor, I can tell you. At least one gentleman a day, always cash, no receipt. Means the wife and I can spend a month in Ibiza every year, tax free.”
Raymond smiled at the thought. He checked his watch; he could just catch the Thursday seven-ten from King’s Cross and be in Leeds by ten o’clock for a long weekend.
Alexander Dalglish phoned Charles a week later to tell him Pimkin had made the short list, and that they hadn’t considered Kerslake.
“Pimkin didn’t go over very well with the committee at the first interview.”
“No, he wouldn’t,” said Charles. “I warned you his looks were again’ him and he may come over a bit right wing at times but he’s as sound as a bell and will never let you down, take my word.”
“I’ll have to, Charles. Because by getting rid of Kerslake we’ve removed his only real challenger.”
Charles put the phone down and dialed the Home Office.
“Simon Kerslake, please.”
“Who’s calling?”
“Seymour, Whips’ office.” He was put straight through.
“Simon, it’s Charles. I thought I ought to give you an update on Littlehampton.”
“That’s thoughtful of you,” said Simon.
“Not good news, I’m afraid. It turns out the chairman wants the seat for himself. He’s making sure the committee only interviews idiots.”
“How can you be so certain?”
“I’ve seen the short list and Pimkin’s the only sitting member they’re considering.”
“I can’t believe it.”
“No, I was pretty shocked myself. I pressed the case for you, but it fell on deaf ears. Didn’t care for your views on hanging or some such words. Still, I can’t believe you’ll find it hard to pick up a seat.”
“I hope you’re right, Charles, but in any case thanks for trying.”
“Any time. Let me know of any other seats you put your name in for. I have a lot of friends up and down the country.”
“Thank you, Charles. Can you pair me for next Thursday?”
Two days later Alec Pimkin was invited by the Littlehampton Conservatives to attend a short-list interview for the selection of a Tory candidate for the new constituency.
“How do I begin to thank you?” he asked Charles when they met up in the bar.
“Keep your word—and I want it in writing,” replied Charles.
“What do you mean?”
“A letter to the Chief Whip saying you’ve changed your mind on the main European vote, and you and the disciples will be abstaining on Thursday.”
Pimkin looked cocky. “And if I don’t play ball, dear thing?”
“You haven’t got the seat yet, Alec, and I might find it necessary to phone Alexander Dalglish and tell him about that awfully nice little boy you made such a fool of yourself over when you were up at Oxford.”
Three days later the Chief Whip received the letter from Pimkin. He immediately summoned his junior Whip.
“well done, Charles. How did you manage to succeed where we’ve all failed—and the disciples as well?”
“Matter of loyalty,” said Charles. “Pimkin saw that in the end.”
On the final day of the Great Debate on “the principle of entry” into Europe the Prime Minister delivered the winding-up speech. He rose at nine-thirty to cheers from both sides. At ten o’clock the House divided and voted in favor of “the principle” by a majority of 112 Sixty-nine Labour MPs, led by Roy Jenkins, had helped to swell the Government’s majority.
Raymond Could voted against the motion in accordance with his long-held beliefs. Andrew Fraser joined Simon Kerslake and Charles Seymour in the Ayes lobby.
Alec Pimkin and the twelve disciples remained in their places on the Commons benches while the vote took place.
When Charles heard the Speaker read out the final result he felt a moment of triumph, although he realized that he still had the committee stage to go through. Hundreds of clauses, any of which could go wrong and turn the bill into a farce. Nevertheless the first round belonged to him.
Ten days later Alec Pimkin defeated a keen young Conservative just down from Cambridge and a local woman councillor to be selected as prospective candidate for Littlehampton,.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
ANDREW STUDIED THE case once again and decided to make his own inquiries. Too many constituents had in the past demonstrated that they were willing to lie to him in surgery as happily as they would in the witness box to any judge.
Robert was trying to climb up on to his lap. Andrew hoisted him the remainder of the way in one tug and attempted to return to his papers. “Whose side are you on?” Andrew demanded as his son dribbled all over his freshly written notes. He stopped to pat his bottom. “Ugh,” he said, putting the case file by his side on the floor. A few minutes later Robert had been changed and left with his mother.
“I’m afraid your son is not overanxious to help me in my desire to secure the release of an innocent man,” Andrew shouted over his shoulder.
He settled down to go over the papers once more, something about the case didn’t ring true … Andrew dialed the Procurator Fiscal’s number. There was one man who could cut his work in half with a sentence.
“Good morning, Mr. Fraser. What can I do for you, sir?”
Andrew had to smile. Angus Sinclair was a contemporary of his father and had known Andrew all his life, but once he was in his office he treated everyone as a stranger, making no exception.
“He even calls his wife ‘Mrs. Sinclair’ when she rings the office,” Sir Duncan once told him. Andrew was willing to join in the game.
“Good morning, Mr. Sinclair. I need your advice as Procurator Fiscal.”
“Always happy to be of service, sir.”
“I want to talk to you off the record about the Paddy O’Halloran case. Do you remember it?”
“Of course, everyone in this office remembers that case.”
“Good,” said Andrew. “Then you’ll know what a help you can be to me in cutting through the thicket.”
“Thank you, sir,” the slight burr came back down the telephone.
“A group of my constituents, whom I wouldn’t trust further than I could toss a caber, claim O’Halloran was framed for the Princes Street bank robbery last year. They don’t deny he has criminal tendencies”—Andrew would have chuckled if he hadn’t been speaking to Angus Sinclair—“but they say he never left a pub called the Sir Walter Scott the entire time the robbery was taking place. All you have to tell me, Mr. Sinclair, is that you have no doubt that O’Halloran was guilty and I’ll drop my inquiries. If you say nothing, I shall dig deeper.”
Andrew waited, but he received no reply.
“Thank you, Mr. Sinclair.” Although he knew it would elicit no response, he couldn’t resist adding: “No doubt I’ll see you at the golf club some time over the weekend.” The silence continued.
“Good-bye, Mr. Sinclair.”
“Good day, Mr. Fraser.”
Andrew settled back: it was going to be a lengthy exercise. He started by checking with all the people who had confirmed O’Halloran’s alibi that night but after interviewing the first eight he came to the reluctant conclusion that none of them could be trusted as a witness. Whenever he came across another of O’Halloran’s friends the expression “anyone’s for a pint” kept crossing his mind. The time had come to talk with the landlord of the Sir Walter Scott.
“I couldn’t be sure, Mr. Fraser, but I think he was here that evening. Trouble is, O’Halloran came almost every night. It’s hard to recall.”
“Do you know anyone who might remember? Someone you could trust with your cash register?”
“That’d be pushing your luck in this pub, Mr. Fraser.” The landlord thought for a moment. “However, there’s old Mrs. Bloxham,” he said at last, slapping the drying-up cloth over his shoulder. “She sits in that corner every night.” He pointed to a small round table that would have been crowded had it seated more than two people. “If she says he was here, he was.”
Andrew asked the landlord where Mrs. Bloxham lived and then, hoping she was in, made his way to 43 Mafeking Road, neatly sidestepping a gang of young children playing football in the middle of the street. He climbed some steps that badly needed repairing and knocked on the door of number forty-three.
“Is it another general election already, Mr. Fraser?” asked a disbelieving old lady as she peered through the letterbox.
“No, it’s nothing to do with politics, Mrs. Bloxham,” said Andrew, bending down. “I came round to seek your advice on a personal matter.”
“A personal matter? Better come on in out of the cold then,” she said, opening the door to him. “There’s a terrible draft rushes through this corridor.”
Andrew followed the old lady as she shuffled down the dingy corridor in her carpet slippers to a room that he would have said was colder than it had been outside on the street. There were no ornaments in the room save a crucifix that stood on a narrow mantelpiece below a pastel print of the Virgin Mary. Mrs. Bloxham beckoned Andrew to a wooden seat by a table yet unlaid. She eased her plump frame into an ancient stuffed armchair. It groaned under her weight and a strand of horsehair fell to the floor. Andrew looked more carefully at the old lady. She was wearing a black shawl over a dress she must have worn a thousand times. Once settled in her chair, she kicked off her slippers.
“Feet still giving you trouble, then?” he inquired.
“Doctor doesn’t seem to be able to explain the swellings,” she said, without bitterness.
Andrew leaned on the table and noticed what a fine piece of furniture it was, and how incongruous it looked in its present surroundings. He was struck by the craftsmanship of the carved Georgian legs. She noticed he was admiring it. “My great-grandfather gave that to my great-grandmother the day they were married, Mr. Fraser.”
“It’s magnificent,” said Andrew.
She didn’t seem to hear because all she said was, “What can I do for you, sir?” The second time that day he had been addressed by an elder in that way.
Andrew went over the O’Halloran story again. Mrs. Bloxham listened intently, leaning forward slightly and cupping her hand round her ear to be sure she could hear every word.
“That O’Halloran’s an evil one,” she said, “not to be trusted. Our Blessed Lady will have to be very forgiving to allow the likes of him to enter the kingdom of heavens.” Andrew smiled. “Not that I’m expecting to meet all that many politicians when I get there either,” she added, giving Andrew a toothless grin.
“Could O’Halloran possibly have been there that Friday night as all his friends claim?” Andrew asked.
“He was there all right,” said Mrs. Bloxham. “No doubt about that—saw him with my own eyes.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Spilled his beer over my best dress, and I knew something bad would happen on the thirteenth, especially with it being a Friday. I won’t forgive him for that. I still haven’t been able to get the stain out despite what those washing-powder ads tell you on the telly.”
“Why didn’t you inform the police immediately?”
“Didn’t ask,” she said simply. “They’ve been after him for a long time for a lot of things they couldn’t pin on him, but for once he was in the clear.”
Andrew finished writing his notes and then rose to leave. Mrs. Bloxham heaved herself out of the chair, dispensing yet more horsehair on to the floor. They walked to the door together. “I’m sorry I couldn’t offer you a cup of tea but I’m right out at the moment,” she said. “If you had come tomorrow it would have been all right.”
Andrew paused on the doorstep.
“I get the pension tomorrow, you see,” she replied to his unasked question.
It took Elizabeth some time to find a locum to cover for her so that she could travel to Redcorn for the interview. Once again the children had to be left with a baby-sitter. The local and national press had made him the hot favorite for the new seat. Elizabeth put on what she called her best Conservative outfit, a pale blue suit with a dark blue collar that hid everything on top and reached well below her knees.
The journey from King’s Cross to Newcastle took three hours and twenty minutes, on what was described in the timetable as “the express.” At least Simon was able to catch up with a great deal of the paperwork that had been stuffed into his red box. Civil servants, he reflected, rarely allowed politicians time to involve themselves in politics. They wouldn’t have been pleased to learn that he spent an hour of the journey reading the last four weekly copies of the Redcorn News.
At Newcastle they were met by the wife of the Association treasurer, who had volunteered to escort the minister and Mrs. Kerslake to the constituency to be sure they were in time for the interview. “That’s very thoughtful of you,” said Elizabeth, as she stared at the mode of transport that had been chosen to take them the next forty miles.
The ancient Austin Mini took a further hour and a half through the winding B-roads before they reached their destination, and the treasurer’s wife never drew breath once throughout the entire journey. When Simon and Elizabeth piled out of the car at the market town of Redcorn they were physically and mentally exhausted.
The treasurer’s wife took them through to the constituency headquarters and introduced them both to the agent.
“Good of you to come,” he said. “Hell of a journey, isn’t it?”
Elizabeth felt unable to disagree with his judgment. But on this occasion she made no comment, feeling that if this was to be Simon’s best chance of returning to Parliament she had already decided to give him every support possible. Nevertheless she dreaded the thought of her husband making the journey to Redcorn twice a month as she feared they would see even less of each other than they did at present, let alone the children.
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