“Killed him?”
“I think so, Penny,” she said softly.
“Why…?” Penny wailed.
“To cover his tracks.”
“Will you find him for me, Mattie?”
“I’ll try,” she said. “I just don’t know where to start.”
* * *
The weather had grown bitterly cold but Mattie seemed unaware. Her mind had become like her laundry basket, overflowing with cast off ideas, and in the attempt to sort through them she had spent the day punishing herself. She had gone for a long run through the park, had attacked the masses of cleaning that had piled up in every corner of her flat, even got to ironing her underwear, but nothing helped. O’Neill’s death had slammed the door on every thought in her head. It was evening before she called Krajewski.
“Come over, Johnnie. Please.”
“You must be desperate.”
Her silence did nothing to make him feel any better.
“But it’s bloody snowing outside,” he protested.
“Is it?”
“Twenty minutes,” he muttered before putting the phone down.
It was nearer forty. He arrived clutching a large box of pizza.
“Is that for me?” she asked as she opened her door. “How sweet.”
“No, it’s for me, actually. I assumed you’d eaten.” He sighed. “But I guess there’s enough for two.” He was determined not to give her an easy time. She didn’t deserve it.
They finished the pizza with their backs propped against her living room wall, crumbs scattered around them, the box discarded, her newly cleaned floor once more a mess.
“Did you tell Grev I was writing a book?” she asked.
He wiped his fingers on some kitchen towel. “Decided not to. I didn’t think it was a great idea to let him know I was still in contact. You’re not exactly flavor of the month at the Chronicle, Mattie. Anyway,” he added, the touch of sourness back in his voice, “everyone would assume I was shagging you.”
“I’ve hurt you, haven’t I?”
“Yup.”
“Sorry.”
“There’s always the chance I might make a footnote in that bloody book, I suppose.”
“The story just gets bigger and bigger, Johnnie, but I haven’t got the ending, the missing piece.”
“Which is?”
“Who killed O’Neill.”
“What?” he spluttered in alarm.
“It’s the only thing that makes sense,” she said, earnest and animated once more. “None of what’s been going on was coincidence. I’ve found out that Woolton was deliberately blackmailed out of the leadership race. Somebody got rid of him, just as they got rid of Collingridge, and McKenzie, and Earle, I suspect. And O’Neill.”
“Do you have any idea what you’re saying? The stupid sod overdosed! This isn’t the KGB we’re dealing with.”
“As far as O’Neill is concerned it might just as well have been.”
“Jesus!”
“Johnnie, there is someone out there who will stop at nothing.”
“But who? Why?”
“That’s the bloody trouble. I don’t know! Everything leads back to O’Neill and now he’s gone!” She kicked the empty pizza box in frustration.
“Look, isn’t it much easier to suppose that any nonsense was down to O’Neill himself?”
“But why would he have gotten involved?”
“I don’t know. Blackmail. Money for his drugs, maybe. Perhaps a power thing. Addicts never know when to stop. He got too deeply involved—and got scared. Lost control and killed himself.”
“Who kills themselves in a public lavatory?” she said scornfully.
“His mind was blown!”
“And whoever killed him took advantage of that!”
They were both panting in frustration, shoulder to shoulder yet a world apart.
“Back to basics,” Krajewski said doggedly, trying once more. “All the leaks. Let’s play motive and opportunity.”
“Money wasn’t the motive. There’s no sign of that.”
“So it must be some dirty little power game.”
“Agreed. Which means O’Neill wasn’t the man behind it.”
“He had the opportunity, though.”
“Not for all the leaks. Some of them were from Government, not from the Party. Highly confidential stuff that wouldn’t have been available even to every member of the Cabinet, let alone a party official.”
“Not even Teddy Williams?”
“He would scarcely need to burgle his own files, would he? Least of all files that dropped his chum Samuel into the sewage system.”
“So…”
“Government. It has to be someone in government.”
Krajewski found a morsel of pizza stuck in his cheek and moved it around with his tongue while he thought. “You got a list of Cabinet ministers?”
“In a drawer somewhere.”
“Then get off that sensational arse of yours and find it.”
After a little rummaging that exposed the profound limitations of her efforts to clean up, she discovered the list among a pile of papers and handed it to him. He went to her work table and with his arm swept the piles of books and assorted debris to one side, exposing the smooth, laminated white work surface. The whiteness of the desk was like an open notepad waiting to be filled. He grabbed an artist’s pen and began scrawling down all twenty-two names.
“OK. Who could have been responsible for the leaks? Come on, Mattie. Think!”
She paced the room as she concentrated, trying to find her way through the bureaucratic maze. “There were two leaks which could only have come from inside the Cabinet,” she said at last. “The Territorial Army cuts and the Renox drug approval. And at a guess I think we can add the cancellation of the hospital program; I never bought into the idea that O’Neill and the Party were deeply involved.”
“So who in Government would have known about those?”
“Whoever was on the relevant Cabinet committee.”
“Ready to play when you are,” he said, pen poised.
Slowly she began reciting the members of the various ministerial groups that would have had early knowledge of the decisions. “Right, the TA cuts,” she began. “There’s the Defense Secretary, the Financial Secretary, the Chancellor possibly.” The membership of Cabinet committees was supposed to be confidential but was the subject of informed gossip among everyone in the lobby. “And of course the Prime Minister.” She was counting off on her fingers. “Then there’s the Employment Secretary and the Foreign Secretary, too.”
He ticked the names on the list.
“The hospital scheme would have been an entirely different committee. Health Secretary, Treasury Ministers, Trade and Industry, Education, Environment. I think that’s it.”
More ticks.
“But the Renox drug approval…Damn it, Johnnie, that wouldn’t have gone to any Cabinet committee. It was a departmental thing, would’ve been handled by the Health Secretary and his Ministers. The Prime Minister’s office would have heard about it, of course. I can’t think of anyone else.”
Now she was at his side, both leaning over the table, staring at his handiwork. As she searched the list, her shoulders sagged.
“We seem to have screwed up,” Krajewski muttered quietly.
There was only one name with three ticks beside it, one man with access to all three bits of leaked information, one man who they could pronounce guilty.
Henry Collingridge. The man who had been the victim of these leaks. Their efforts had led them to the most absurd conclusion of all.
“Fuck!” she exclaimed bitterly and turned away, kicking the battered pizza box yet again and sending more crumbs flying. Then her frustration turned to quiet tears that began sliding down her che
ek and onto her breast.
He put his arms around her. “Sorry, Mattie,” he whispered, “I guess it was just Roger all along.” He kissed her cheeks, tasting the salt, then he kissed her lips in a manner that was intended to take her far away from her sorrows. She pulled back sharply.
“What’s wrong, Mattie?” he asked, hurt. “Sometimes we’re so close and then…”
She wouldn’t answer, shed more tears; he decided to give it one more chance.
“Can I stay the night?”
She shook her head.
“On the sofa?”
Another shake.
“It’s snowing like bloody Alaska outside,” he pleaded.
She raised her eyes, whispered. “I’m sorry, Johnnie.”
“There is someone else, isn’t there?”
Again no answer.
He slammed the door behind him with such force that more papers scattered around the floor.
Forty-Eight
Westminster is a zoo. There you will find great beasts on display, penned in behind bars, their strength drained, their spirits slowly crushed, objects of derision for those of small minds and profound disinterest for those of great thoughts.
I prefer the jungle.
Tuesday, November 30
The morning newspapers fell onto the doormats of a million homes like a death knell for Samuel’s candidacy. One by one, editor by editor, they lined up behind Urquhart, not just the titles that Landless had his fingers on but most of the others, too. Sometimes even editors like to play safe, swim with the tide, and it was flowing inexorably in Urquhart’s direction.
Only two newspapers among the quality press swam on their own, the Guardian because it was bloody minded and insisted on backing Samuel, and the Independent because it had too many minds and so refused to endorse any one.
The mood was reflected in the two camps, Urquhart’s supporters finding it difficult to hide their air of confidence, Samuel’s already working on excuses.
Even before the appointed hour of 10:00 a.m. a large group of MPs had gathered outside the oak doors of Committee Room 14, each hoping to be the first to cast a vote and qualify for a footnote in history. The thickening snow that was beginning to blanket Westminster gave the proceedings a surrealistic calm. It would be Christmas soon, the lights had already been switched on in Oxford Street. Peace on earth. In a few hours the battle would be over, with public handshakes and congratulations all round when the result was announced, even as in private the victors planned their recriminations and the losers plotted revenge.
* * *
Mattie hadn’t managed any sleep. She felt overwhelmed, there were too many ideas wrestling with each other inside her head. Why was she treating Johnnie so badly? Why was she falling for a man like Urquhart she could never have? Why couldn’t she see the pattern in what was going on around her? Too many dead ends. They made her feel a failure.
She had spent the morning trudging heedlessly through the snow searching for inspiration but ending up soaked, her feet frozen with her hair left in damp strings. It was early afternoon before she turned up at Westminster. The snow had stopped falling and the skies were clearing to blue crystal, leaving the capital looking like a scene from a Victorian Christmas card. The Houses of Parliament appeared particularly resplendent, like some wondrous gingerbread cake covered in white icing. The Union flag on Victoria Tower stretched proudly as Concorde flew overhead on its flight path to Heathrow. In the churchyard of St. Margaret’s, nestling under the wing of the great medieval Abbey, carol singers filled the air with song and rattled collecting tins at tourists. None of this she noticed.
Celebrations were already under way in various parts of the House of Commons. As she made her way beneath the shadow of Big Ben, one of her colleagues from the press gallery rushed over to share the latest news. “About eighty percent of them have already voted. Urquhart’s home and dry. It looks like a landslide.” He cast a curious eye at her. “Christ, Mattie, you look awful,” he said, before scurrying on.
Mattie felt a flutter of excitement. With Francis in Downing Street she had a chance of rebuilding her life. Yet even as she thought of such things a cold hand of doubt closed around her. She didn’t deserve it. Foolishly, early that morning, she had walked toward his house in Cambridge Street, drawn to him, desperate for his wisdom, only to see him on his distant doorstep kissing his wife Mortima for the benefit of cameras. Mattie had put her head down and hurried quickly away, ashamed of herself.
Yet her doubts, and her needs, had grown. Some wickedness, some outrage was taking place but the world seemed stubbornly blind to it. Surely Francis would understand, know what to do. She knew she would never be with him on her own again, not once he was in Downing Street surrounded by body guards and diary secretaries. If she were to get to him, it had to be now. Her only chance.
Urquhart wasn’t in his room, nor in any of the bars or restaurants of the Palace of Westminster. She asked in vain around the corridors but no one seemed able to help. She was about to conclude that he had left the premises, for lunch or interviews, when one of the friendly Palace bobbies told her he’d seen Urquhart not ten minutes earlier headed in the direction of the roof garden. She had no idea that such a place existed, or even where it was.
“That’s right, miss,” he laughed, “there aren’t many who do know about our roof garden. Only the staff, really, not the politicians. We like to keep quiet about it in case they all rush up there and spoil it for us. But Mr. Urquhart, he’s different, seems to know every corner of this place.”
“Where is it? Will you tell me?”
“It’s directly above the Chamber itself. A roof terrace where we’ve put some tables and chairs so that in summer the staff can catch a little sun, take sandwiches and a flask of coffee. It’ll be empty this time of year, though. Except for Mr. Urquhart, that is. I guess he wants to do a bit of pondering on his own. Chosen the right place for it, he has. Now don’t you go disturbing him or after tomorrow I’ll have to arrest you!”
She had smiled, he had succumbed, and now she was following his directions, using the stairs past the Strangers’ Gallery and up again until she had passed the paneled dressing room reserved for the Palace doorkeepers. Then she saw a fire door that had been left ajar. As she stepped through it she emerged onto the roof, bathed in sunlight, and let out a gasp of awe. The view was magnificent. Directly in front of her, towering into the cloudless sky and made brilliant in the sunshine and snow, was the honey-drenched tower of Big Ben. Every detail of the beautifully crafted stone stood out with stunning clarity and she could see the tremor of the great clock hands as the ancient mechanism pursued its remorseless course. To her left she found the vastness of the tiled roof of Westminster Hall, the oldest part of the Palace, survivor of fire, war, bomb, riot, and revolution; to her right the irrepressible Thames ebbed and eddied in its own timeless fashion.
There were fresh footsteps in the snow. He was standing by the balustrade at the far end of the terrace, looking out beyond the rooftops of Whitehall to the white stone walls of the Home Office. Behind it lay Buckingham Palace where, later that evening, he would be driven in triumph.
She trod in his footsteps, for comfort. He turned suddenly, startled, when he heard the creaking of her step.
“Mattie!” he exclaimed. “This is a surprise.”
She advanced toward him, reaching out, but something in his eyes told her this was neither the time nor the place. Her arms fell to her side.
“I had to see you, Francis.”
“But of course. What is it you want, Mattie?”
“I’m not entirely sure. To say good-bye, perhaps. I don’t think we’re going to get much chance to see each other anymore, not like…”
“Our time the other night? I think you may be right, Mattie. But we will always share that memory. And you will always have my friendship.”
 
; “I also wanted to warn you.”
“About what?”
“Something evil is going on.”
“Where?”
“All around us—around you.”
“I don’t understand.”
“There have been so many leaks.”
“Politics is a soggy business.”
“Patrick Woolton was blackmailed.”
“Really?” He looked at her in sudden alarm, as though he had been slapped.
“The Collingridges were set up over the Renox shares.”
He was silent now.
“And I think someone killed Roger O’Neill.” She looked at the incredulity bubbling up in his eyes. “You think I’m mad?”
“No, not at all. You looked distressed, not mad. But that’s a very serious allegation, Mattie. Do you have any sort of proof?”
“A little. Not enough. Not yet.”
“So who is behind it all?”
“I don’t know. For a while I thought it might be Teddy Williams, it might still be, but I can’t do this on my own, Francis. I don’t even have a newspaper to write for any more. I was hoping you might help.”
“And how would you like me to help, Mattie?”
“I believe one man was behind it all. He used Roger O’Neill, then got rid of him. If we can find one link in the chain, just one, perhaps the shares, then it will lead to the others, and everything will come out, it always does, and we can—”
She was babbling as it all tumbled forth. He stepped toward her and held her arms, squeezing them gently, forcing her to stop.
“You look tired, Mattie. You’re very upset.”
“You don’t believe me.”
“Far from it. You may have stepped upon the greatest story you will ever write. Westminster is a dark and sometimes dirty corner where men trade their principles for a few years in power. It’s a very old game. But it’s also a dangerous game. You must be very careful, Mattie. If you’re right and someone has been responsible for Roger O’Neill’s death, that places you in the line of fire, too.”