First Among Equals (18 page)

“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 one of the other safe seats gets 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.”

“Port 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. As 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 tumed out to be
more expensive than he had bargained for, and the locksmith had insisted on
cash in advance.

The locksmith
grinned as he pocketed the money. “I make a fortune doing thisjob, 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 7:10
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 first cut,
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 against him and he may
come across a bit too 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
Pimkin’s only real challenger.”

Charles put the
phone down and dialed the Home Office. “Simon Kerslake, please.”

“Who’s
calling?”

“Hampton, Whip’s 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.”

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
wifl 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.”

When the Chief
Whip received the letter from Pimkin three days later, he immediately summoned
Charles.

“Well done,
Charles. How did you manage to succeed where we’ve all failed-and the disciples
as well?”

“Matter
ofloyalty,” said Charles. “Pimkin saw that in the end.”

On the final
day of the Great Debate on “the principle of entry” into Europe, Prime Minister
Heath 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 one hundred and twelve, far more than Charles could
have ever hoped for. Sixty-nine Labour MPs had helped to swell the Government’s
majority.

Raymond Gould
voted against the motion in accordance with his long-held beliefs. Simon
Kerslake and Charles Hampton stood 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-

–
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.

R
AYMOND 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 office hours as happily as they would in the witness box to a
ny
judge.

He dialed the
public prosecutor’s office.

Here was one
man who could cut his work in half with a sentence.

“Good morning,
Mr. Gould. What can I do for you?”

Raymond had to
smile. Angus Fraser was a contemporary of his since Raymond had come to the
bar, but once he was in his office he treated everyone as a stranger, making no
discrimination.

“He even calls
his wife ‘Mrs. Fraser’ when she rings the office,” Sir Nigel had once told him.
Raymond was willing to join in the game.

“Good morning,
Mr. Fraser. I need your advice in your official capacity.”

“I am always
happy to be of service, sir.”

This was
carrying formality too far.

“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
Raymond. “Then you’ll know what a help you can be to me in cutting through the
thicket. A group of my constituents, whom I wouldn’t trust further than I could
throw a boulder,
claim
O’Halloran was framed for the
Princes Street bank robbery last year.

They don’t deny
he has criminal tendencies
– ”

Raymond would
have chuckled if he hadn’t been speaking to Angus Fraser – “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. Fraser, is that you are sure
O’Halloran is guilty, and I’ll drop my inquiries. If you say nothing, I shall
dig deeper.”

Rayriond
waited, but he received no reply.

“Thank you, Mr.
Fraser. I’ll see you at the soccer match on Saturday.” The silence continued.

“Goodbye, Mr.
Fraser.”

“Good day, Mr.
Gould.”

Raymond settled
back. It was going to be a lengthy exercise, but at least this was an
opportunity to use his legal skills on behalf of a constituent, and perhaps it
would even add to his reputation in the House. 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 “Do anything for a pint” kept crossing his
mind. The time had come to talk with the proprietor.

“I couldn’t be
sure, Mr. Gould, 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. Gould.” The proprietor thought for a moment.
“However, there’s old Mrs. Bloxham,” he said, slapping the dish towel 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. “Ifshe
says he was here, he was.”

Raymond asked
the proprietor where Mrs.

Bloxharn lived
and then walked around the corner to 43 Mafeking Road in the hope of finding
her in.
He made his way through a group of’ young children
playing football in the middle of the road.

“Is it another
General Election already, Mr. Gould?” asked a disbelieving old lady as she
peered through the letter slot.

“No, it’s
nothing to do with politics, Mrs.

Bloxham,” said
Raymond, bending down. “I came around to seek your advice on a personal
matter.”

“Come on in out
of the cold then,” she said, opening the door to him.

“There’s a
terrible draft rushes through this corridor.”

Raymond
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 ofthe Virgin Mary. Mrs. Bloxham
beckoned Raymond to a wooden seat by a table yet untaid. She eased her plump
frame into a stuffed horsehair chair. It groaned under her weight and a strand
of horsehair fell to the floor.

Raymond averted
his glance from the old woman once he had taken in the black shawl and the
dress she inust have worn a thousand times.

Once settled in
her chair, she kicked off her slippers. “Feet still giving me trouble,” she
explained.

Raymond tried
not to show his distaste.

“Doctor doesn’t
seem to be able to explain the swellings,” she continued, without bitterness.

Raymond leaned on
the table and noticed what a fine 153 piece of furniture it was and how
incongruous it looked in those 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 got married,
Mr. Gould.”

“It’s
magnificent,” said Raymond.

But she didn’t
seem to hear, because all she said was, “What can I do for you, sir?”

Raymond went
over the O’Halloran story again. Mrs. Bloxham listened intently, leaning
forward slightly and cupping heir hand around 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 Heaven.” Raymond had to smile. “Not that I’m
expecting to meet all that many politicians when I get there either,” she
added, giving Raymond a toothless grin.

“Could
O’Halloran possibly have been there that Friday night as all his friends
claim?” Raymond 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 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
tell 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.”

Raymond
finished writing his notes and then rose to leave. Mrs. Bloxham heaved herself
out of the chair, dispensing yet more horsehair onto the floor. They walked to
the door together.

“I’m sorry I
couldn’t offer 154 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.

Raymond paused
on the doorstep.

“I get the
pension tomorrow, you see,” she replied to his unasked question.

Elizabeth took
a day off to travel to Redcorn with Simon for the interview. Once again the
children had to be left with the 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, Simon noted, and reached well below her knees.

“Well, I
wouldn’t have recognized you, Doctor,” said Simon grinning.

“Understandably,”
she replied. “I’ve disguised myself as a politician’s wife.”

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.
He reflected that the civil servants who worked full-time in the bureaucracy
rarely allowed politicians time to involve themselves in politics. They
wouldn’t have been pleased to learn that he had spent an hour of thejourney
reading the last four weekly copies of the Redcorn News.