A Parliamentary Affair (19 page)

‘What are you doing here?’ Nigel tried to remove all menace or alarm from his voice. This was no private place, only marginally less public than Central Lobby. The corridor was ideal for giving a nervous constituent the illusion of concerned intimacy, but that was all. They could easily be overheard. Their body language might betray them, as might snatches of conversation to anyone passing.

‘I saw your picture in the paper, Stephen, and I only wanted to say hello now I’m back in London.’ The boy piled on the charm but ensured no touching. The use of ‘Stephen’ served as reminder and warning – and offer. He turned his head slightly like an enquiring puppy, looking at the older man with clear blue eyes.

‘Are you here for long?’ Nigel was controlling himself with difficulty. The boy was so
beautiful
: so clean, tidy and fresh. He had just had a haircut, almost too short, giving him a fragile, vulnerable air. The image of razors and sharp steel scissors on Peter’s blemish-free flesh, the danger of drawing blood from that tanned neck, made Nigel gag and swallow hard.

The boy smiled. He could guess the tumult in Nigel’s brain. ‘No, not long. I came to see my sister, but there’s no room in her house for me. Then I saw your picture and wondered if you could help, or at least advise me. Is there anywhere central I could stay? So many of the hotels round here are flop-joints, really horrid. I’m looking for somewhere quiet and respectable.’

He lisped slightly on ‘horrid’, just a little, like a choirboy, reinforcing the impression of childish innocence.

Nigel felt helpless. ‘There are lots of hotels – Royal Horseguards, St Ermin’s in Caxton Street…’ His voice trailed off into a mumble, as he realised he only knew expensive places.

Peter said nothing but was gazing at him quietly, head on one side.

‘Do you need money?’ It was a challenge really, a way of pushing the boy away, of identifying his true purpose. A blackmailer, if that was his intention, would always ask for money. At
that point, even risking a scene, Nigel would rise with dignity and ask the boy to leave. Lots of people were led away from Central Lobby yelling accusations and blasphemies; since the rules allowed anybody to enter to summon an MP, even loonies, it happened all the time. There would be sympathy from the police and head-shaking from the crowd. The perpetrator would be dumped unceremoniously on the pavement, and the incident forgotten.

‘Oh, Stephen, you must know me better than that.’ Peter looked reproachful, his eyes huge in the gloomy light. Nigel’s heart turned over. ‘I have enough money. That’s not the problem. I need somewhere to stay for a few days, that’s all. Somewhere quiet, private and clean. Where I’ll be safe – do you know what I mean? London can be unpleasant for a young man trying to find a place to stay. There are young boys sleeping in doorways all the way along Victoria Street. It’s awful at the moment.’

Nigel Boswood shuddered. Peter pressed home his advantage. ‘The truth is, Stephen, I’m a little scared. I don’t really know my way around London. Can you help me?’

A strangled noise came from Sir Nigel Boswood’s throat. He sat tense, hands clasped tightly together as if he did not trust them unleashed, arms thrust between his knees. For a moment he did not speak but stared hard at the floor, trying to think. Orderly words of polite refusal would not come. Only necessity and hunger nagged, and fear of what might happen if he sent the boy away. If Peter had to sleep rough, or had to go to a hostel: with such a lovely face, the danger of attack by hard men tumbling him in the dark and stifling his cries was all too apparent. Nigel had only the most limited acquaintance with the shady world of London low life and had no desire to know more, but homosexual rape he could readily visualise. He groaned again, cleared his throat, pulled out a large handkerchief and wiped his mouth.

This would never do. He made up his mind and spoke quickly, to keep ahead of the niggling voice of common sense. ‘Look, I don’t know if this is any good to you, but there’s a basement in my house in Ebury Street which is going begging at the moment. It’s fully furnished, central heating and all that. I have to be very careful who I allow in there – security, you know. But if you only want it for a couple of days I can’t see any harm in it. We certainly don’t want you on the streets, do we?’

Peter smiled his broadest, most delightful smile and bounced up and down like a happy infant. That would do very nicely indeed.

‘That’s wonderful!’ he said quickly. ‘When would it be convenient? I have to fetch a few things from my sister’s but it won’t take long.’ Feigning concern, he added: ‘You must let me pay you. Rent, I mean. I can afford it. I don’t want to take anything from you.’

A look of misery crossed Nigel’s jowly face as the memory surfaced of the previous time money had changed hands with this boy. As with all his sexual adventures there was a terrible moment when anxiety and self-disgust soured the pleasure to come. Controlling himself with an effort he consulted his diary.

‘There are no votes tonight so I plan to be home about nine. You can’t get in before then. Here’s the address.’ Nigel wrote on the back of the green card and handed it back to the boy. ‘Wait around till I’m safely inside and my car and driver have gone, then knock. That would be safest. Don’t worry about rent – we can settle that when I see you. Will you be all right till then?’

The boy nodded, smiled with pleasure and rose to leave. The gentlemanly suit hung well on those young shoulders; he looked like a male model. Nigel heaved himself to his own feet and formally shook hands. At last their eyes met.

‘Thank you so much for coming,’ Nigel said, a little loudly.

‘Thank you for being so kind, sir.’ Peter was unsure of the appropriate style for speaking to MPs and plumped for a similar mode of address to a wealthy customer in a gents’ outfitters. It seemed to work. Nigel beamed and showed him back to the Lobby.

Sir Nigel Boswood watched as the boy headed off down St Stephen’s Hall towards the street entrance, one hand in his pocket, lifting the flap of his jacket to reveal a neat flannelled posterior, swinging the slim hips just enough to make his sexual orientation unmistakable. Nigel allowed himself a moment of dismal longing. It had been a long stretch since Amsterdam.

It was like sitting in Rapunzel’s tiny cell at the top of her tower and wondering how to get out. Alternatively, this could be a basement chamber, for there were no windows. The claustrophobic cubby-hole was in one of the oldest parts of the Palace, its mouldy walls lined with numbered black files and red manuals. Above were unusually large hooks hung with black leather jackets, belts, gloves, handcuffs and ancient weapons. Souvenirs of crime, mostly. Opposite her chair were charts of mugshots and a collection of curling photographs of a woman’s dismembered body. The air was redolent of old sweat and fear. Under her chair the rug was sticky. Elaine was fascinated but apprehensive.

Chief Inspector Collis was grey-haired, clean-shaven and taciturn. He could sense the scared curiosity in the pretty woman sitting opposite. The room had been a police post since the days of the Bow Street Runners, when murder had been foul and the penalty death by hanging. Better, really, that she did not know too much about the bloodstained hammer nailed over the door, or who exactly was pinned up on the wall for him to remember. The reality of modern terrorist crime was far worse. His job was to protect the public, and VIPs like Elaine Stalker, from finding out from their own experience.

‘I must impress on you, Mrs Stalker, the necessity of checking underneath your car. Keep a newspaper with you and put it on the ground before you turn a key in the lock; get down on your knees and have a thorough look. Don’t be embarrassed about it – better sheepish than in smithereens. Next time you take it in for service, ask the garage if you can get in the pit underneath, and try to memorise what your car looks like from below. You’re more likely then to spot something unfamiliar. If you do, don’t touch it – and don’t let anyone near it. Call us immediately.’

‘Are we all targets? All MPs?’ Elaine wanted to salvage something from this stony man in his horrific cavern.

‘Yes, but some are more at risk than others. Members of the government, of course, especially the Home Secretary and Lord Chancellor. Judges, high-ups in the armed forces. Anyone that has anything to do with Northern Ireland. Now: have you got a proper alarm system at your home – one wired up to the local cop shop? I’ll put the chaps in your area in touch with you. Your local Special Branch sergeant is a woman, you’ll be pleased to hear. Whatever else you economise on, get the best system you can afford. You especially, Mrs Stalker. In the end, however, your best protection is common sense.’

She was troubled. ‘Why me?’

The chief inspector sighed. They all said that, these arrogant MPs, making his job almost impossible. They all believed themselves protected with a cloak of invisibility inside which speeches and attacks on the IRA could be made with impunity.

‘You’re just a name on a list, Mrs Stalker.’

‘Am I really on a list, or do you do this for everyone?’ She had sensed he did not want to tell her too much.

‘We do this for everyone – at least, all those who take it seriously and will listen … and, yes, I am afraid you are on a list. A real one. I have to tell you, Mrs Stalker, that your involvement with this backbench committee on Northern Ireland is putting you into a higher-risk category. Everything you say is noted and gives offence somewhere, you know. We found your address on a piece of paper in the dustbin behind an IRA safe house in Winchester not long ago.’

‘Terrorists in Winchester?!’

‘Certainly. Why not? Ideal place. These blokes – and there are women too – could be anywhere, even in this building. It’s a good job Mr Gerry Adams never took his seat in the last Parliament – his mates could all have had passes to get in here, legit. Then there are sleepers. It’s long-standing IRA practice to put sympathisers into sensitive jobs and leave them there, absolutely clean as a whistle and above suspicion, with exemplary records, for years, until the time comes. Cleaners in army barracks, porters in hospitals, waiters in clubs, that sort of thing. Very hard to discover unless we have a tip-off. The best approach is to take no chances whatsoever. The bastards make progress every time someone else is blown to kingdom come, and you, Mrs Stalker, have placed yourself in the firing line by your political involvement with the province.’

Elaine felt annoyed at the inference that she had been foolish, then calmed her flicker of temper. Whatever she might inadvertently have done, this policeman was on her side. He must have seen terrible things.

‘Have you worked on this for a long time?’ she asked, more gently. He looked weary.

‘Me? Yes, about fourteen years. I was first on the scene down in the Commons car park when Airey Neave was blown up. He was still alive when we got to him, but we couldn’t identify him from what was left of his face till we picked up some papers blowing around. You be careful, Mrs Stalker, you hear?’

That was enough. Collis rose and showed her the door, nodding curtly as she left. He sat down heavily again in his den and tried to wipe from his mind the memory of the mess they had made of the old war hero. It would not fade, even after all these years.

Elaine rested her head against the cold stone. No one had told her on the selection weekend that she must prepare for a life of caution, of looking over her shoulder and under her car, of looking askance at parcels with an Irish postmark, of poising her finger above the record button in case a sinister voice came over the telephone. Over a hundred people had been killed by the IRA on the mainland, most of them innocent civilians. Most, including dead children in Warrington and elsewhere, had no idea they were targets: yet she knew.

Slowly Elaine found her way down the stairs and out into daylight. The mysterious smell had permeated her hair and left her queasy. If it ever happened – if she woke to find a gun in her face, or if she crawled away having seen something underneath her car – she hoped she would react with bravery and dignity as well as cunning. With a whispered prayer to whatever deity had guarded her this far, she hoped never to find out.

Stephen – as Peter still thought of him – was late. Lounging under a street lamp, he had been waiting nearly half an hour, pretending to read the
Evening Standard
. Already he had been propositioned by two men in cars, and warned off by a transvestite prostitute in fishnet tights and a miniskirt. It had been hard not to laugh at the over-rouged cheeks and false eyelashes, even while offering nervous assurances that, seriously, he was waiting for a friend. He hoped Stephen – Nigel – had not played a dirty trick on him, given the wrong address perhaps. Time to call him Nigel now: no need to pretend any longer.

Peter Manley was not entirely sure what he wanted from this arrangement other than a comfortable bed and a soft touch in return for the usual. He had not been brought up to plan more than a few weeks ahead. His work so far had depended on fleeting contacts, perhaps repeated, certainly, but had anyone asked where he expected to be in a year’s time he would have been genuinely hard put to answer. A lot depended on money. There was plenty in the bank now, dollars and guilders and marks, giving a feeling of security. His needs were meagre: no mortgage, no bank loans, no insurance, no dependants, no car. It suited him to acknowledge the role of his clients – let them pay, let them take him out, fetch him, send a car for him. Buy him clothes, gifts, a good watch, gold cufflinks. They could afford it. He had no time for freeloaders. Life was too short for love, and anyway it had never
found him, so far. Such largesse did not get in the way of the relationship – rather the contrary. The clients felt marginally less anxious when asking for something in return, which not everyone else – perhaps no one else – could provide. It was a business arrangement involving value for money and payment for services rendered, nothing more, nothing less.

Peter was debating whether to head for a nearby pub when at last a sleek Jaguar slid to a halt on the other side of the street. A chauffeur in government-issue grey peaked cap got out and held the door open for Sir Nigel Boswood. Two red boxes were removed from the boot and deposited with their owner inside the lighted hall. Sir Nigel glanced briefly outside as the car pulled away, and shut the door. A light in a red shade went on in an upstairs room. Peter counted to fifty, crossed the road, mounted the whitewashed steps and rang the bell.