by Chris Mullin
‘There’s another problem, too. We’ve fallen out with our so-called “brothers” at Vauxhall Cross. Relations have never recovered from all that post-9/11 torture business. They’ve lied, wriggled and obfuscated, but they were found out in the end. Millions of pounds have had to be paid to victims, some of them not particularly savoury individuals, in order to buy silence. We suspect that some of that money has found its way into terrorist networks. One my predecessors was so furious when she found out what they’d been up to that she chucked their liaison officers out of Millbank and cut off relations with them. We’ve done our best to patch things up, but the damage has never really been repaired. In a nutshell that’s why we urgently need to re-establish full co-operation with our European counterparts.’
‘What’s this got to with me?’ A fly settled on his forehead and he waved it away.
‘It may surprise you to know that you have a lot of admirers in the Service.’
‘It does surprise me.’
‘Seriously, there is enormous admiration for the stand you have taken. Plus we all know it’s not in Britain’s economic interests to go it alone. That’s becoming clearer with every day that passes.’
* * *
A tap on the door. The housekeeper with a flask of coffee and two mugs. ‘Sorry to interrupt, sir, but I’ll be knocking off soon and I thought you might like this.’ She was a large, florid, homely woman, whose accent suggested she came from somewhere up north.
‘Thank you, Mrs Parker. Just leave it on the table.’
‘The real stuff, sir. Bought the beans this morning, so I did. From that Italian shop, the one I was telling you about. In Soho. Would you like me to pour?’
‘Just leave the flask on the table, please. I’ll deal with it.’
‘Milk and sugar on the table, spoons in the drawer.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Oh, and mind you use the mat. Don’t want any rings on the table, do we now?’
She closed the door behind her.
Sir Hugh smiled benignly. ‘Presumably she’s been vetted.’
‘I assume so. One of yours, I shouldn’t be surprised. Her husband is a policeman.’
* * *
An interlude while Thompson poured the coffee and searched out the spoons. And then, ‘You were saying?’
‘I was saying that we may be able to help you.’
‘I’d rather you didn’t.’
‘Hear me out.’
‘I’m all ears.’
‘There is about to be a development which we believe may have a major political impact. The Sun is about to come out for you.’ He paused to let this news sink in. The silence was broken by the sound of a passing ambulance siren.
A sharp intake of breath and then, ‘You’ve got to be kidding.’
‘No. I am deadly serious. For some months, since old man Murdoch passed on, we’ve been talking to the younger Murdochs. They are somewhat more liberal than their father, you won’t be surprised to hear. What’s more, unlike their father, they aren’t interested in messing about in British politics and they don’t have strong opinions about the EU. In fact one of them is positively in favour, so to some extent we are pushing at an open door. Their main concern is that, in the short term at least, there will be a backlash from their readers who are heavily nationalist, though there are signs that a little light has come on in some quarters. The recent Nissan announcement was a wake-up call if ever there was one.’ Sir Hugh paused and then said quietly, ‘They do want something in return, however.’
‘Ah. So I have to sell my soul, do I?’
A mirthless grin and then Sir Hugh said quickly. ‘The Murdochs want an assurance that you will not break up their UK empire or enquire too deeply into their tax arrangements.’
‘And, if I don’t give it?’
‘Then all bets are off, I’m afraid.’
* * *
What followed is highly classified. Sir Hugh made no note of the meeting and Thompson breathed not a word, even to his closest confidantes. All that is known is that ten days later the headquarters of News Corp in New York announced that there was to be a major shake-up in the management of their British assets. The chief executive, a man who had spent thirty years in the service of the Murdoch dynasty, would be leaving forthwith with a substantial retirement package and a glowing tribute to his many years of loyal service. The brash young editor of the Sun would be departing for Sydney, Australia, where he had been offered an unspecified role in the management of the empire’s Antipodean assets. His two deputies would also be leaving with immediate effect. Finally, the editor of the Sunday Times would be leaving for a management position in New York, his move cushioned by a substantial relocation package. Most remarked upon, however – indeed, it was greeted with astonishment – was the name of the new chief executive: a former senior civil servant, author of a recent controversial report into the impact of Brexit who was said to be a close confidante of the leader of His Majesty’s opposition. Sir Matthew Bryant, no less.
SEVENTEEN
The general election came sooner than anyone had anticipated. In these uncertain times the days of four- and five-year parliaments were long gone. For a while the government, its majority eroded by a series of by-election defeats, had been limping on, once again propped up by Ulster Unionists. Indeed, with each new crisis, the public was becoming accustomed to the sight of grim-faced Unionists marching up Downing Street to present a new list of demands to the beleaguered prime minister until finally ministers wearied of the whole business and pulled stumps.
The change in the editorial line of the Sun came about slowly. The tone of its reporting was notably more reasonable; gone were the accusations of treachery and betrayal which had been a regular feature of its reporting under the previous management. Gradually, almost imperceptibly, Sun readers were being weaned off Brexit and fed instead with more traditional fare, the antics of errant soap stars and Premier League footballers. Migration scares, which had long been a prominent feature of Sun news coverage, disappeared. Increasingly the paper focused on the downside of Brexit, the construction of the new Nissan plant in the Czech Republic, the queue of lorries at Dover and other British ports following the breakdown of the new customs technology, and the growing shortage of key workers in the NHS. The Sunday Times, meanwhile, ran feature articles on those it dubbed the ‘Brexit Billionaires’ who were moving their assets offshore to escape the consequences of the calamity they had helped bring about. It was, remarked Mrs Cook at a meeting of the shadow cabinet, as if someone had flicked a switch. Thompson just smiled and said nothing.
His stock, meanwhile, was rising. He was judged to have done well in the televised party leaders’ debate, which attracted viewing figures on a par with the royal wedding and the World Cup. Favourable profiles appeared in the Murdoch press and on Sky Television. His association with the late Harry Perkins was no longer the liability it had once been. On the contrary, Harry was often referred to in glowing terms. In death he had achieved the status of a national treasure, something he had signally failed to do in life. Thompson, however, was at pains to emphasise that he was his own man. He even made overtures to Brexit voters, taking care to distinguish between ordinary people and what he called the handful of Brexit zealots who had taken the British people on a ride to nowhere. They had been right, he said, to be concerned about migration. An annual population increase of 250,000 a year was unsustainable and must be addressed. A moratorium on free movement from eastern Europe would be a condition of any renegotiation with the EU. As for asylum seekers, while our door would remain open to those genuinely fleeing persecution, his government would clamp down hard on the rackets, and those who did not qualify would be returned to their countries of origin.
None of this could change the fact that Britain remained a deeply divided country. The traditional, class-based fault lines were rapidly eroding. What mattered now was where you stood on Brexit. You were either for or against. There was no middle ground. Th
e result was that Thompson and his party polled surprisingly well in parts of the Home Counties that had not returned Labour candidates for decades while, by contrast, disaffection ran high in what were once Labour’s northern strongholds. The departure of the Sun from the field of battle had little impact on the flow of bile that dominated the digital media, and the remaining Brexit tabloids continued to generate fear and loathing. Threats of murder and rape continued to clog the inboxes and Twitter feeds of politicians, Labour and Conservative, perceived to have strayed from the one true path.
Publication of the Labour manifesto with its promise to reopen negotiations with the EU only provoked greater paroxysms of fury. ‘TRAITOR’ screamed the Brexit tabloids over a grim-looking picture of Thompson, head down as he ran the media gauntlet between his front door and his armoured Jaguar. Posters bearing his photograph and headed ‘Wanted for Treason’ began to circulate in the pubs and clubs of Brexit strongholds. He was now accompanied everywhere by not two, but four protection officers, three in a backup Range Rover. On police advice his schedule of public meetings was drastically trimmed and those attending had to pass through metal detectors. His Sheffield office was closed and relocated to a third-floor office block with telephone entry and security cameras. From all over the country came reports of candidates faced with threats and intimidation. Half a dozen arrests were made, one of them of a man who had tried to force his way into a candidate’s office carrying a machete. Brexit, remarked one commentator, had brought out the worst in the British people. ‘It seems to have given permission to every little bedsit extremist to say out loud that which he previously only dared say in the privacy of his own four walls.’
* * *
As for Elizabeth, she was conspicuous by her absence. By mutual agreement she would remain in seclusion at her parents’ home until election night when she had magnanimously agreed to appear alongside her husband at the count.
EIGHTEEN
As usual, Sunderland South was the first seat to declare and, despite earlier misgivings, the Labour vote held up well, although to the dismay of some observers the English Nationalist candidate polled more than 3,000 votes. In Torquay the Conservative candidate, a hard-line Brexiteer, regained the seat from the Liberal Democrats and promptly treated the nation to a bloodcurdling prediction of the social breakdown that he confidently anticipated in the event of a Labour victory. The first results from the Home Counties were generally good, with Labour picking up seats they had not held for twenty years in places like Hastings, Harwich and Dartford. The Lib Dems recaptured Richmond. Sheffield Hallam returned to Labour, along with several Tory-held marginals in the West Midlands. The shock announcement two days previously by the director general of the CBI that he and his fellow council members were, for the first time ever, advising a vote for Labour was thought to have carried particular weight in the industrial heartlands, but the Sun’s declaration earlier in the week that ‘WE’RE BACKING HARRY’S BOY’ was generally thought to be the turning point of the campaign
In Sheffield, Thompson and Elizabeth watched events unfold from the comfort of the mayor’s parlour in the company of Vera Clarke, and a handful of local loyalists. Lucy, in her best dress adorned with a red rosette, had fallen asleep on a sofa. Elizabeth had tried to persuade her to stay home with Granny and Grandpa, but Lucy had insisted. ‘I want to see Daddy become prime minister,’ she said. ‘I told everyone at school that my daddy is going to be famous.’ A uniformed police officer was on guard outside the door. On the television a noticeably aged David Dimbleby was predicting a substantial Labour majority. ‘A seminal moment in British politics,’ he remarked, ‘the Brexit tide has turned. From outside, the cheers of the crowd were just audible in the inner sanctum, growing louder with each new result.
Thompson’s phone began to vibrate. It didn’t ring often. Only a dozen members of his inner circle had the number. It was Jock Steeples, who had just been returned with a record majority, ‘Well, son, you’ve done it. Congratulations.’
‘A bit early yet, Jock. The night is young.’
‘Bullshit, son. You’ve won. You’re going to be prime minister. I hope you know what you’ve let yourself in for.’ He rang off, chuckling.
‘Oh, Fred,’ said Elizabeth. She kissed him lightly on the cheek. The first spontaneous sign of affection in months.
‘Is Daddy prime minister yet?’ It was Lucy calling from the couch.
‘Not yet, darling.’
One of the minders put his head round the door. ‘You’re wanted in the council chamber, sir.’
* * *
In recent years the counting of votes for the six or seven parliamentary seats in and around Sheffield had taken place in the antiseptic surroundings of the English Institute of Sport, a vast concoction of concrete and steel, which, although ideal for turning out Olympic champions, imposes a somewhat deadening atmosphere on the excitement surrounding a general election. Thompson was therefore relieved when, for security reasons, his minders insisted that his result and his alone should be declared in the more sedate surroundings of Sheffield’s Victorian Town Hall, the very place that a generation ago had witnessed the rise of his old mentor, Harry Perkins.
Accompanied by Elizabeth and a by now wide-awake Lucy, two vigilant minders, the redoubtable Vera Clarke and his much put-upon constituency secretary, Mrs Jeffries, his passage illuminated by television arc lights, Thompson made his way slowly along the marble corridor to the anteroom, noting as he did so the epigram carved above the door, ‘Be Ye Wise as Serpents and Harmless as Doves’.
‘St Matthew’s Gospel,’ whispered one of the loyalists, a Sunday school teacher. He added with a smirk, ‘The bit that comes before is more relevant in our case, “I send you forth as a sheep among wolves . . .” ’
Outside, the baying of the crowd grew louder. ‘WE WANT FRED, WE WANT FRED.’
‘They’re calling your name, Daddy,’ said Lucy, her face aglow.
They passed into the council chamber. A space designed to impress. A relic of the days when councillors enjoyed power and status, when they had money to spend, patronage to dispense. Nowadays it was all cuts, cuts, cuts. The glory days had long gone. Only the trappings remained.
The councillors’ desks had been reorganised into a semicircle around which tellers sat idly, trays empty, chatting, their work done. All that remained was to sit back, soak up the atmosphere and await the result. To one side a stack of now redundant ballot boxes. On a table in the centre, ballot papers neatly bundled into batches of 100, in trays labelled with the names of each candidate. A glance was sufficient to confirm the outcome. Only the size of Thompson’s majority remained to be announced.
As he entered the hubbub faded. A ripple of applause. In the gallery, a wall of cameras recording his every step as he strode confidently towards the dais where the returning officer and the other candidates were already assembled. Elizabeth, Lucy and the rest of the little party now fell behind. He walked alone, all eyes on him. The screen above the platform, streaming results from around the country, switched live to Sheffield Parkside, cameras briefly scanning the faces of the expectant crowd outside and then back into the council chamber as Thompson mounted the stage.
He paused to shake hands with each of the other candidates: a motley lot, each anxious to claim their fifteen seconds of fame. Only the English Nationalist, fresh from a recent court appearance, refused Thompson’s proffered hand. Ordinarily the declaration of an election result in a safe seat such as this would be of no great interest, but by now everyone present knew that they were on the eve of a great event. A moment that would be remembered for years to come.
Below the stage, corralled behind a rope barrier, 200 heavily vetted election observers – each party had their quota. The English Nationalists, sharp-suited, shaven headed, red, white and blue rosettes, standing slightly apart from the rest. Among the Labour supporters, little Lucy, her face shining, stood clutching her mother’s hand. She waved at her dad and he winked back at h
er.
A distinguished-looking man, with a good head of grey hair and gold-rimmed spectacles perched on the end of his nose, stepped up to the lectern. The crowd fell silent. He made a little show of adjusting his spectacles. This was his big moment. The eyes of the nation were upon him. The words rolled slowly from his tongue. ‘I . . . Peter James Baldwin . . . returning officer for the constituency of Sheffield Parkside . . . hereby give notice that the number of votes cast is as follows:
‘Jonathan Algernon Crispin Blagdon, The Green Party’.
At the mention of his name a pleasant-looking, rosy-cheeked young man in a tweed jacket and corduroy trousers raised both hands to be greeted with a mixture of polite applause and, from the uncouth, mild sniggering at the mention of the candidate’s middle names. ‘Not from round these parts,’ someone said in a loud stage whisper.
‘743 votes.’
‘Michael Francis Bonham Carter, Liberal Democrat . . . 2,120.’
Cue ironic cheers from some quarters matched by frantic cheering from a handful of the assembled. There were not a lot of Liberal Democrats in Parkside.
‘Richard Francis Dixon, Anti-Fascist Alliance . . . 980.’
Another ripple of applause in which some Labour supporters joined, drowned out by the jeers of the English Nationalists.
The returning officer raised his hand for silence.
‘Melissa Catherine Farrow, Conservative candidate . . .’ The camera focused briefly on smart young woman in a blue trouser suit, blond hair swept back in an Alice band.
‘. . . 4,780.’
Polite applause and a few ‘hear-hears’ from a posse of well-dressed pensioners and a couple of posh-looking youths in open-necked shirts. Despite a heroic effort to pretend otherwise, Melissa, an investment analyst, was a fish out of water in Sheffield. Tomorrow she would be going home to the more comfortable climes of West Sussex and would not be returning.
‘Frank Oswald Lawton, English Nationalist Party . . . 3,941.’