A Parliamentary Affair (74 page)

‘You still there, Mum?’ Karen rolled over and sat up. Her dark hair stood up spiky and sleep-knotted around her head. She rubbed her eyes and grinned.

Elaine moved to the door. ‘I’m just going. Leave the bathroom tidy and scrub the bath, will you? Life in close proximity with you, young lady, is like living with a grubby elephant at times. I bet your Gerry would not be impressed. I will see you later.’

The phone rang in his flat. Gerry Keown picked it up.

‘Yes?’

He did not give his name. Hardly anyone knew his personal number, for security reasons. It might be his supervisor, needing a few extra hours of overtime. Or possibly his mother in Belfast, wittering on about the news and wondering if he was in one piece. But no friends or acquaintances: for them he had no phone, and the number did not appear in any directory.

‘Volunteer?’

The voice was male, the accent harsh, guttural.

Keown swallowed.

‘Yes.’

‘Do you have your code word?’

Keown gave it. A boy’s name, never forgotten. He let his mind roll back to the memory of the bullet-torn body of his twelve-year-old brother, shot one Sunday in Derry by British soldiers on the rampage. He had asked in his grief if there was anything he could do. It had been a long time, starting
as a ward orderly, then training as a psychiatric nurse, then making the smooth transfer to Broadmoor, which was always short of male nurses. It had been his duty to stay out of politics, not join any organisation other than the Prison Officers’ Association as did all the other uniformed staff. Never say a word.

The vetting procedure for the House of Commons had been the biggest hurdle. Asked about this brother’s death, Keown had grimaced, looked at the floor and told the interviewers that it had put him off politics of all kinds and he never voted. Easy.

‘Are you ready, Volunteer? We have a commission for you.’

He was ready. It was time to repay.

It was here somewhere. Betts began rummaging in his old desk in the untidy room adjacent to his bedroom. Nobody ever came up here apart from his landlady, who clucked and wiped and went away again. She was not permitted to tidy his papers and nothing was ever put away. That meant it was wherever he had put it, two and a half years ago. With an election in the offing he must find it.

At last it turned up inside a tatty dossier marked ‘GOK’. That had been a joke from the
Liverpool Echo
days, an annotation for those miscellaneous or murky items which might someday earn their keep. The letters stood for ‘God Only Knows’. But if he handled this delicate piece of business well, everybody would know in due course, and he would gain enormously in the sight of all those who mattered.

The problem was how to do it and avoid trouble at the same time. Betts considered, frowning, then tipped the folder out on the table.

There it was: the letter on House of Commons notepaper, written by Roger Dickson to Elaine Stalker, which Betts had obtained from Karen Stalker the night of – but he did not want to remember too much. The pieces had been torn, then carefully sellotaped together. The writing was still clear. It was obvious who it came from and to whom it was addressed. The tone was still warm and loving. It was still dynamite, whether the affair was continuing or not, though much better if the two were still bedfellows.

There was always the question of his source and her threat to see him in court if he divulged a word. But it was a long time ago. If her appearance at that by-election was any guide she was now a young woman with a light in her eye who might easily waver under hostile cross-questioning. It would be her word against his – with the obvious question put to the jury of why she did not report the alleged rape at the time. In any case, he might be able to use the letter to force a confession out of Dickson, or Stalker, without actually having to publish it. Then Karen would not feature at all.

He sat at the desk and pondered. Then he put the letter back in its envelope, placed it in his wallet and went out.

The last important vote would be at seven, then the evening would be clear. Men appeared in the lobby wearing dinner jackets and impatient expressions, as if there could be anything more important than the final version of the Shopping Hours (Amendment) Bill. The tea room was busy but the main dining rooms would be nearly empty, apart from the unlucky minister who had drawn the short straw for the adjournment debate at the tail end.

In his comfortable office in the Department of the Environment, waiting for the division bell, Andrew Muncastle signed the last letter in his box with a flourish. Another two boxes awaited his attention but could be dealt with at home. The content of the boxes was much more interesting since his promotion to number two in the department, especially since the Secretary of State was so often on speaking tours up and down the country. Only the trickiest matters would be kept for full ‘Prayers’, which were now held only once a week. Roger was simply not available much of the rest of the time.
To all intents and purposes Andrew Muncastle, Minister of State, four years an MP, was running the department himself.

He would have been the first to admit that he too had changed in the course of that four years. He recalled his terror at being the first maiden speaker of his intake and his certainty that he would make a mess of it. These days, offered the chance to stand out, he was no longer afraid or hesitant. He always prepared carefully and never strayed beyond his brief. In the Commons he turned in solid if unspectacular performances and had never once embarrassed the government while on his feet. He was not about to rush it: let others yearn for stardom. For him steady progress up the ladder was more appropriate and more sure.

The scandal had faded surprisingly quickly. Miranda had vanished to the other side of the world. He knew, should they ever meet again, that the greeting would be frosty. His conscience told him he had used her, yet it was easily salved by the reminder that it was she who had seduced him, that (at least when they started) she was the knowing, experienced partner and he a virtual beginner. It hadn’t worked out, that was all. Now she was gone the press had lost interest. There were other scandals, other victims. Andrew’s resolute dullness made it difficult to write any more, still less to make a fool of him. It helped not being a noisy self-publicist like David Mellor, not being well known. He intended to keep it that way for a good while yet.

Life with Tessa had also improved. She was stronger, less petulant, less dismal altogether, with more of the delicate prettiness that had attracted him in the first place. Her hostility to his marital approaches had subsided and now, albeit tentatively, he was welcomed to her bed. The years with Miranda had taught him one or two tricks of the trade, for that lady had enjoyed being caressed with the utmost gentleness in between bouts of rampant action. So too, it appeared, did his wife. Even so, the adventure with Miranda had awoken appetites he did not know he possessed. It was unlikely that he would only ever sleep with his wife between now and his deathbed.

For the time being, however, Tessa must be kept sweet. He could not afford a further bout of scandal. He reached for the phone.

‘Tessa? Hello, darling. Have you had a good day?’

He paused and listened, doodling on a notepad.

‘Look, I called to say we will be voting soon and then I’m free. How about dinner? … No, somewhere nice. The Gay Hussar is fun. Will you book a table for eight o’clock?… No, wear what you like… A dress, yes. See you shortly.’

There was a discreet knock on the half-open door. Fiona Murray came in, carrying a sheaf of papers.

‘I am sorry, minister, but these have just arrived. The Secretary of State has asked if you can give the Commons statement on controlling pollution on Thursday as he has to be in Glasgow. Hope that won’t spoil your evening.’

Andrew was getting used to the fact that officials seemed to know everything about ministers’ movements. Not that Fiona had been doing anything as crude as listening on the other line without permission; but their information systems were nevertheless extraordinary. He looked at her with renewed respect. She was tall and slim, red-haired, self-effacing in the way of unmarried women civil servants, but with attractive eyes, sharp and intelligent and occasionally humorous. And, presumably, ambitious. Quite a tough cookie. He wondered, idly, if there might be an opportunity to find out more. Perhaps on the next ministerial two-day meeting in Brussels.

‘No, Fiona, not at all. Would you arrange for a full briefing tomorrow? That would be most helpful. I am grateful to you.’

He smiled at her encouragingly. And Fiona Murray tilted her well-organised red head, just enough, and smiled back.

The Members’ tea room was full, as MPs queued for coffee and a sandwich before starting the long trek home. Maureen, the cheerful Irish tea lady, wielded the pot with a flourish, while the West Indian boy made beans on toast to order. Outside was dark and damp and uninviting.

Elaine had deliberately donned a pretty dress to raise her spirits but the ploy did not seem to be working. She moved into line beside Freddie Ferriman, who was clutching a plate of sticky brown cinnamon cake and two Kit-Kats.

‘How’s it going down your patch, Elaine?’ he asked affably.

They were surrounded by Opposition Members; she delayed her reply until they were seated at a table inside the second room, away from inquisitive ears.

‘So-so. It could go either way, I suppose. Right now we’re bashing away at local government elections. The results should be better than last time but that’s not saying much. Most people won’t vote, and many who do will cussedly vote the opposite way for the council, on the principle that we politicians must be kept under control. Divide and rule. Damned inconvenient.’

Freddie was flicking crumbs from his tie. He would much prefer a drink, but it was a long drive back through rain and heavy traffic to the constituency and not worth being breathalised, not with the big contest in the offing.

‘What about your family these days, Elaine? I always think it’s so hard on an MP’s family, especially for a woman. I really don’t know how you ladies manage.’

His plump face shone with insincerity. Elaine suppressed her annoyance. It was all very well being tired and anxious about the election, but she mustn’t let prats like Freddie get her down.

‘We manage just about the same way as you gents – with difficulty,’ she replied. ‘My daughter is almost grown up now – doing her A levels this summer, so if we have a June election she won’t be able to help, much to her chagrin. She has offers from two universities provided she gets decent grades. So we both have our fingers crossed.’

‘Oh, she’ll get in,’ said Freddie. ‘They wouldn’t turn the daughter of the famous Mrs Stalker down, now would they?’

‘What do you mean? She has to go through the application system fairly like everyone else.’

Freddie leaned forward, a knowing look on his face. ‘Nonsense. You know perfectly well what I mean, Elaine. The university authorities are open to persuasion. That’s what happened with my son. All your daughter’s effort is irrelevant, though I’m sure she’s very clever, just like you. If she doesn’t get good results you simply phone the vice-principal and ask him to fix it. He’ll say yes. They always do – they need MPs to vote for their grant money, don’t they?’

Elaine recoiled in anger. ‘I would do no such thing. And I don’t need to – Karen will be accepted at university on her own merits, not on mine.’

Freddie laughed uproariously. ‘Wonderful! A clean politician! I should put that on your election address. Cleaner than the rest of us, eh? That’s why you’re so unpopular here, Elaine: you won’t play the game. Never learned, have you?’

Elaine’s eyes flashed. ‘If that’s the game –’ she began, but Freddie was already leaving the table, a sneer on his face.

She was boiling. Under the table she clenched her fists, or she might have crashed one down and sent the teacups flying.
How dare he?
Yet Freddie’s self-satisfied back as he waddled away told her his only intention was to rile her, and he had succeeded. If she lost her seat in the Commons at this election there would be certain distinct compensations: she would not have to put up any more with horrors like him.

It was seven o’clock. The vote was called and she trailed through the lobby feeling depressed. She had hoped for three things when seeking election to this place: that she might be useful; that she might achieve a position of some importance; and that she might enjoy the life, make friends, steeped in the ambience of the most ancient parliament in the world. The first ambition, to a large extent, had
been achieved, mainly by the steady load of casework in the constituency. As for importance: her continued links with Northern Ireland had presumably been valued and had led to several enjoyable trips to the province, but there was no doubt that it would have been better right at the start to have involved herself with a more mainstream subject, such as environment or education. She had decisively missed out and was not sure she would welcome or accept the only possible prospect for promotion – to the Northern Ireland Office. Not that there was much chance of that happening. No woman had ever been appointed there by a Tory government; its activities were still, perhaps subconsciously, regarded as too dangerous for women.

Unreasoning anger rose again in Elaine, like bile. If Roger, or any of the other whips, had ever spoken up for her talents, as no doubt was done for Andrew Muncastle, who was walking nonchalantly ahead of her beside his boss, she would be at Roger’s side instead, and doing a far better job than Andrew ever could.

Jealousy. She was jealous. That was unworthy – yet entirely understandable. Freddie was right: she had not played the game, had not known what the game was.

As she came to the clerk’s desk she pointed at her name and ensured it was crossed off, then headed for the narrow gap between the two doors, bowed to the tellers and walked out into Members’ Lobby. She had been surrounded by jabbering colleagues for six or seven minutes yet not one had addressed her. The merry companionship she had assumed would be automatic on her arrival had never materialised. That was what made it so hard for a woman: the sheer masculinity of the place. Taking up with the chaps, however, could either mean playing Ferriman’s little games, or getting involved with somebody. As she had with Roger. Fat lot of good that had turned out to be.