A Parliamentary Affair (57 page)

‘We have to go tonight, Caroline. The car’s ready. How long will it take you to finish packing? Twenty minutes? Fine. We’ll leave as soon as you’re done. Take everything I might need. I have to make some phone calls. God almighty, what a business.’

As she ran back up the stairs, Dickson hesitated, waiting till the bedroom door banged shut and Caroline could be heard muttering to herself. Quickly he dialled Elaine, spoke low and urgently, told her the gist of the story. ‘There will be press everywhere. Keep your head down.’ He spoke next to Fiona, who already knew, warning her to be ready for a huge media onslaught. Then he rang Andrew and arranged to meet. He called the hotel twice but Nigel’s line was engaged. He paused, phone in hand, his eye running down the yellow departmental card with personal numbers which he kept in the inner pocket of his wallet.

His heart sank and he put the phone down quietly. It was all worse, far worse than he had first thought.

Below his own name, below the other ministers and their private secretaries and drivers and car phone numbers, below Andrew Muncastle the PPS, one name jumped out. One name whose significance he had not appreciated till now. One person who would, even more than Nigel Boswood himself, bear the brunt of the terrible fear and hatred which would pour forth as a result of tonight’s revelations: Marcus Carey, special adviser to the Department of the Environment, and Nigel’s chosen successor at Milton and Hambridge.

Caroline drove quickly through the darkness as Roger brooded and answered her scattered questions. ‘We have to do everything we can to avoid a by-election,’ he explained grimly. ‘Partly for the obvious reason that we can’t afford to lose with a tiny parliamentary majority. Look at Newbury and Christchurch. And I’m not so sure that we’ll win them all back at the general election. Do you
realise we haven’t won a by-election for five years? Not even with 20,000 majorities. Nigel’s is of that order, I think.’

BBC radio news crackled as the announcer read pallid lines about Boswood’s refusal to comment on stories about his private life, being closeted with his lawyers, yet the incitement in his voice alerted his audience. Roger turned the volume up for a moment and listened, then continued.

‘Worst, he has the Liberals second. About the only thing they’re good at is winning by-elections. They’ll use whatever methods they can. Thoroughly nasty lot. God, I hate them.’

‘I thought you hated socialists.’ Caroline was not really interested, but if Roger needed to talk her duty was to encourage him. She did not realise he was not muttering to her. In the car with him, warm, understanding and entirely on his wavelength, was a woman slightly younger than herself with a mass of blonde hair and gleaming pearl earrings, a woman who understood the complex subterfuges of politics and where the invisible shifting line was to be drawn between cynicism and decency. With her he could voice his real feelings and soothe his conscience, which Insisted that he was in part responsible both as a member of a government which had failed to deliver and as friend, colleague and ally of the hapless target.

‘I don’t like what the socialists stand for,’ he began to explain slowly. ‘But on the whole, when we fight Labour, we fight nose to nose and can recognise what we’re fighting about. There’s a clear and consistent philosophy there, however much their theoreticians and image-makers drum up the rhetoric. If you want greater equality, you tend to vote Labour. If you want greater opportunity, you tend to vote Tory. At least with Labour I understand my opponents’ beliefs and I respect them. The Liberals are a different kettle of fish altogether. You never know what they stand for, from one election to another, even from one by election to another. One minute they’re demanding carbon tax to stop global warming, the next they’re campaigning against VAT on fuel. In by-elections they can sneer and criticise and moralise and be holier than thou to their heart’s content. I hate them. I really do, far more than Labour.’

‘You think they would be strong in Milton and Hambridge?’

‘Strong? My God, they would make mincemeat out of Carey. It doesn’t bear thinking about. He’s a nice bloke, but I mean! Alison’s a good girl. Perhaps he should pull out graciously and refuse the nomination: but that’d cause a hell of a row as well. And to be truthful, if I’m right, it wouldn’t make much difference. We simply have to persuade Nigel not to resign his seat, not under any circumstances.’

Dutifully Caroline followed his points but was aware he was assuming more knowledge than she possessed. ‘Will he resign as Secretary of State, do you think?’

Dickson realised his lack of awareness of Boswood’s state of mind. ‘I’ve no idea till I talk to him. He was wanting to resign earlier this year but the PM wouldn’t let him. Now the PM will be the prime mover. He loathes having his Cabinet chosen for him by the press. That’s why he let Mellor drag on for months and why he didn’t make the Chancellor resign after Black Wednesday. It’s a big personal mark in the Prime Minister’s favour – Margaret used to slip the leash at the first sign of trouble – but it can prolong the uncertainty and make things worse. I can’t see that Nigel can stay, frankly. The best might be if he quits the department but not the Commons.’

He stopped suddenly, not wanting to embroil his wife; but Elaine would have leapt at once to the conclusions that wore already dancing in his own brain.

Caroline was not stupid. She drove quietly for a few minutes, clearing traffic on the M3, then settled into the middle lane of the motorway, turned down the radio and slowed slightly. Her head half turned to her husband.

‘If that happens, what then, darling? How does it affect you?’

He decided to be flippant. No point in raising her hopes. ‘Oh, nothing much, probably. If the PM thought I was ready for a leg-up he could have done it in July. I haven’t been a Minister of State all that long and it’s usual to do a fair stretch before getting into Cabinet.’

‘Huh!’ His wife’s loyalty leapt to the fore. ‘How long was Virginia a Minister of State before getting into Cabinet? Or Portillo? Or Mrs Shephard? Or Peter Lilley, come to that? One moment Lilley was stumbling around in the Budget debate as the Chancellor’s PPS, and two years later he was Secretary of State for Trade and Industry. You’ve spent three years as a whip, too, don’t forget. If the chance comes, leap at it. I’ll back you all the way. After all, you are my husband.’

Roger did not answer. Being in the right place at the right time could be all that really mattered.

Two groups of men in two rooms, late that night, a hundred miles apart. Both with lawyers and briefcases and papers.

In
The Globe
’s penthouse suite the owner was on a fleeting visit. He was making Australian wisecracks as he sipped champagne and fingered enlargements of Peter’s photographs scattered around the leather-topped desk. Behind him in a dark shiny suit the paper’s senior legal adviser hovered on tiptoe, wary and self-congratulatory. There would be no libel case, not with these photographs. A picture was worth a thousand words. And a few thousand pounds; cheap at the price. He hoped his junior partner was enjoying the boy’s company in that secluded hotel in Guernsey, well out of sight at least till Thursday. It didn’t matter much after that: the whole story would be known by then.

With the owner sat McSharry, the editor, smiling quietly to himself, a glass of orange juice untouched at his side. There would be more work to do this night before he could relax. By contrast, the news editor Nick Thwaite had spread himself expansively in a large leather armchair and cradled a treble whisky, proud that he had created this jewel in the crown. But the editor and the owner between them knew better to whom to give the credit: each naturally to the other, at least in public.

Jim Betts sat a little way from the stars, nibbling a hangnail watchfully. It was said that the editor had once been a lowly reporter on the very same newspaper, and had walked out in a blaze of glory after a spectacular row, vowing to return some day, in charge. It had taken him just ten years to do it. His elevation meant there was hope for anyone, though Betts preferred to avoid trouble if possible on his way to an editor’s chair.

Of the men in the penthouse none was driven by an overpowering interest in money. Motivations varied, but the excitement of the chase, of scenting a quarry, particularly a Cabinet minister, of forcing a resignation and thus making a dent in history, ultimately demonstrating that there was still a place for newspapers in an increasingly electronic world – and that it was still newspapers, especially the tabloids, which set the agenda of popular culture in the United Kingdom – these noble notions grabbed such men, raising their blood pressure, morale and glasses all at once.

McSharry turned over suggested layouts and enlargements, emphasising his words with swift strokes of a blue pencil.

‘Last Thursday, Friday and Saturday we led on the front page with the blown-up photograph of Boswood as Queen Nefertiti with a thousand-pound prize for guessing who it was. We had several correct answers including one from Switzerland faxed in this morning – could have been a waiter at the party, I suppose. Tonight’s edition has six pages devoted to the story, and the next day’s the same. Not quite as good as a topless royal, but almost.’

Thwaite leaned over and picked up a proof sheet. ‘You’ll love this.’ He winked at the owner, and began to read out loud:

NAUGHTY NIGEL NOBBLED

Betts wriggled and smirked. His deathless prose sounded rather fine. Thwaite put down the newspaper, chortling.

The owner was intrigued. ‘You’re going to take him over two things – hiding his love life and exploiting this kid? What about the police?’

‘The police can’t act without a complaint, and right now we have the complainant,’ Thwaite replied. ‘We plan to bring the boy back midweek. He still won’t say if he’ll press charges, and without him there’s not much of a case; the photos may be enough to convince the general public and sell a few more newspapers, but they might not stand up in a court of law. I mean, none of the pics shows them actually doing it, do they? If the boy says he was just posing, with a good brief the jury might throw it out. The Director of Public Prosecutions has suffered enough setbacks recently without risking any more. It doesn’t matter much to us, anyway. The contract is exclusive with or without the police.’

‘I know him best and I don’t think he will press charges,’ Betts averred. The four looked at him; they had almost forgotten his existence. ‘I mean, it stands to reason. He’s a tart, isn’t he? Had a few more lovers than old Nigel, I’ll bet. If there’s enough money flying around from the other papers, some bright spark will come forward to tell the true tale of Blue Peter, whoever he is.’

‘Murky waters,’ said the owner, and chuckled again. Tomorrow he would be off to Los Angeles and then to Beijing, where lucrative contracts for cable television were being dangled by the Chinese government. The Americans were also interested in a new satellite voice of America operation, now that so many Chinese owned TVs. With a bit of luck and hard bargaining he might land both.

In another penthouse suite on the coast a group of deeply worried men sat in high-backed chairs arranged in an awkward semicircle. Their conversation would be exceedingly tricky, every word chosen with the utmost care. There was no champagne. The floor was littered with newspapers, turned face down in a tactful gesture.

Nigel Boswood slumped forward wretchedly, head in his hands. Dickson and Muncastle, both troubled and anxious, sat at a respectful distance almost opposite. In the background, trying to be invisible, was the special adviser, torn between shock at the night’s revelations and excitement at their possible effect on his own life, his features composed into non-judgemental sympathy. The suite belonged to the Chief Whip, who stood near Nigel, a hand briefly on the man’s shoulder. His considerable negotiating skills had helped the government survive in this ghastly, difficult parliament, so far. On one occasion he threatened refuseniks with being shopped to their wives. There was no such scenario now. Nigel may have landed the government in a pile of ordure, but he needed help, not condemnation.

Two lawyers conferred in hushed tones. One, the Attorney-General, was charged with giving the government legal advice. He was often in attendance at Cabinet though not a member of the
Cabinet himself. He was tall, burly and good-natured. The other was better known, often pictured in the tabloids during lurid Old Bailey cases: a spare, bloodless man in a dusty black suit and a shirt with a frayed cuff, well into his sixties but not locking it. Since the Attorney’s responsibilities were restricted to advising the government, a distinction adhered to scrupulously, Mr Wharton had been hurriedly retained on Nigel’s behalf. As a successful practitioner in the esoteric world of libel law, he would charge his client over £250 for each hour’s service. The clock had been ticking since the first phone call.

Earlier that evening Andrew had cautiously phoned Miranda, who had been willing to volunteer information, which now he shared, without revealing its source. ‘
The Globe
intends, I understand, to run next a complete interview with the boy who calls himself Peter, complete with more photographs. Skiing in Switzerland last winter, all very ordinary, the idea being to show it was a longstanding relationship, not a one-night stand.’