Goodfellowe MP

  The instruction was delivered in the manner of a concrete block dropped from a great height. In normal circumstances press and politician exercised a mutual caution which disguised their underlying battle for supremacy, but these circumstances were not normal. Within forty minutes Corsa was stationed outside Lillicrap’s Notting Hill home leaning impatiently on the Rolls’ horn for attention. Three minutes later the Whip appeared on the steps, tieless, wild-eyed and munching a piece of toast, a smear of stale shaving cream still stuck behind his ear, scurrying as though the block of concrete had caught his toes.

  ‘Bloody hell, Freddy, can’t it wait until the percolator’s finished?’

  ‘No.’

  Reluctantly Lillicrap climbed in. A Dire Straits tape was playing, loud to the point of intimidation, scraping irritatingly upon Lillicrap’s raw eardrums, but he felt disinclined to interfere so he sat silent and felt small. Which was just as Corsa had intended. Corsa made no attempt at conversation as he drove in the direction of Hyde Park, turning off towards the Serpentine. He parked beside the lake in a secluded area which at night-time was the favoured haunt of lovers but which at this time of day was empty apart from the occasional dog walker and duck feeder. The still waters reflected a glorious, glistening early summer’s morning. Lillicrap shivered.

  Corsa switched off the tape, and suddenly the car was bathed in an oppressive silence. He turned to face Lillicrap. The eyes were utterly without compromise.

  ‘You said you’d fix him.’

  Lillicrap came out fighting. ‘Freddy, have you ever thought that maybe we never needed to fix him? That it’s the pressure we’ve been putting on him that has made him so bloody stubborn? If you hadn’t done the things you’ve done, and I like a fool hadn’t done the things you wanted, he would probably have come along with us for the ride, helped us, rather than pissing in the petrol tank. It’s our fault – your fault, Freddy. Have you ever thought about that?’

  ‘You think too much. All this introspection and self-analysis isn’t good for you, Lionel. You won’t like the things you find, believe me. And nothing changes the fact that it’s just one man set against a major piece of government legislation and your entire future. Your neck or his. He still requires fixing.’

  ‘The man’s incorrigible. There’s no way through to him. I’ve tried everything. Friendship. Blackmail. Even a public flogging from the Prime Minister. He won’t budge.’

  ‘He will. Everyone has their point of persuasion.’

  ‘I haven’t found it.’ Lillicrap sounded morose. He had tried to the point of shame to bring the man around. What the hell did Corsa expect?

  ‘You just haven’t looked hard enough. So we’re going to go over everything, you and I, right now. Every scrap of gossip, every speck of dirt. I want to know everything about his wife, his children, the accident, anything that might do damage. We are going to squeeze this man dry until there is nothing left.’

  Lillicrap looked aghast at the press man. ‘Now hold on, Freddy. I don’t mind putting around a bit of boot leather but I’ll not get involved in that. He is – was – a friend. There are limits.’

  Corsa smiled, relaxed, back on familiar territory. ‘There are no limits. And Lionel, dear boy, you will help. Unless, of course, you want me to tell your wife about Jennie Merriman.’

  ‘You complete bastard.’

  ‘Believe it, Lionel. I have the details of your goings and your comings at Miss Merriman’s flat for the last five weeks. She’s a considerable party contributor, you once told me, but it seems as if you’ve taken it upon yourself to collect most of the contributions. Although not all of them, you might be interested to hear. Anyway, I heard you’d promised your wife you’d given her up. Would never see her again. Clumsy.’

  Lillicrap emitted a mournful groan.

  ‘You see, Lionel, everyone has his point of persuasion.’

  ‘But he’s a decent man. He may be a pain in the arse with a lousy sense of timing, but he’s fundamentally decent.’

  ‘No women? No drugs?’

  ‘A drink-drive, but that’s all public.’

  ‘And what of his daughter? I understand they have a difficult relationship.’

  ‘Sure, but who doesn’t with a sixteen-year-old? She’s a good kid.’

  ‘A virgin?’

  ‘God’s teeth …’

  ‘Doesn’t he neglect her? Send her away to school? Or maybe he’s been paying her a little too much unpaternal attention as she’s been getting older? Let your imagination flow freely.’

  ‘You simply don’t understand. Get your mind out of the sewer. He loves her, always has. After Stevie was born they couldn’t have any more kids but they both desperately wanted another. So they adopted Sam. Now that’s one hell of a commitment. In spite of everything, no matter how much he’s crossed me, I rather admire the man.’

  ‘Lionel, you’re not being helpful. A piece of mush on the woman’s page about Goodfellowe and the adopted daughter? I can’t print that.’

  ‘You couldn’t print it anyway. So far as I’m aware she doesn’t know. He’s never found the right time to tell her, not after the accident and her mother’s illness. I only know because he discussed it with me over a bottle some while ago.’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Perfectly.’

  ‘She doesn’t know she’s adopted?’ Corsa’s hands came up to his forehead as though his hair had caught fire. ‘But that is absolutely wonderful.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘Spilling the story on the adoption. If she doesn’t know. What could give him more pain?’

  It all but took Lillicrap’s breath away. ‘But that’s evil. You can’t print that stuff.’

  ‘What’s this? An outbreak of innocence? Let’s pray it’s not infectious. Of course I can print it. It would be handled very tastefully. I’ll kill him with his own kindness.’

  ‘It violates every guideline on privacy,’ Lillicrap protested, his face contorted with indignation. ‘It would be a disgusting intrusion, there’d be one hell of a price to pay.’

  ‘You may be right.’ Corsa hung his head in apparent resignation. ‘In order to preserve the good name of the Herald I suppose I might be forced to sack the reporter, even the editor.’ The head slowly rose. He started to smile, like a coffin lid beginning to crack. ‘And in order to preserve their good names I would be forced to re-employ them elsewhere within the organization. At greatly inflated salaries, of course. Everyone would be happy.’

  ‘Except Tom and Sam. She doesn’t know.’ Lillicrap was shouting. ‘Do you hate him that much?’

  ‘Hate him? Why no, Lionel. I think I like him.’ God, he’d said it. What was even more extraordinary to Corsa, he thought he probably meant it. ‘I almost regret having to tear him apart. He’s one of the few politicians I actually admire.’ Corsa laughed, a sound full of coffin dust.

  Lillicrap had never mistaken himself for being over fastidious, but suddenly he felt sick. Bile was in his throat and he found himself swallowing hard. ‘I need some fresh air.’ He pulled savagely at the door handle. ‘Think I’ll walk back home.’ He tumbled out into the arms of the summer morning, feeling as though he had brushed with death.

  As the door slammed shut, Corsa began pounding the steering wheel in triumph. The horn began to blare, staccato, echoing across the lake, proclaiming victory. The ducks flapped and scattered in alarm, a dog howled in protest. The horn was still blaring as Lillicrap stumbled away in shame.

  Goodfellowe picked up the phone again, as he had begun to a hundred times. This time he dialled. He had tried to put Elizabeth out of his mind, to concentrate on the other pits of disaster that had been dug across the pathways of his life, but he never fully succeeded in shutting her out. He remained angry with her, bitter that she should have deserted him, run off, taking with her so many of his hopes. Yet still he missed her, more than ever he wanted to. She would enter his thoughts, his stomach would start to spin, he’d run to the phone, then hesitate,
forcing away temptation. But not this time.

  ‘Elizabeth? It’s Tom.’

  ‘Tom.’ Said softly. A pause. ‘How can I help?’

  ‘By letting me explain.’

  ‘You don’t owe me any explanation, Tom.’ Another pause, a silence of sadness. ‘I think I saw it explained in considerable detail on television.’

  ‘There is nothing between me and Jya-Yu. Please believe me.’

  ‘I’m not a jealous woman, I have no claim over your loyalties.’

  ‘Whether you like it or not, you do.’

  She sighed, an expression of resignation. ‘Perhaps I’m not what you imagine I am, Tom. Not the woman you think you care for. Try to understand. Beneath that extravagant exterior of mine there are still too many bruises. No children. No husband. A restaurant instead of a home. Deep down I suspect I’m rather traditional about those things. And I simply expected something much simpler from you. Not so complicated. I suppose it was only a matter of luck that I managed to leave your place without running a gauntlet of television cameras and finding myself all over the Nine O’Clock News.’

  ‘I apologize. It’s not what I intended. But so much of my life seems to have been not what I intended.’

  He paused for a response, but she said nothing.

  ‘I seem to be going through one of those periods of my life when everything is warfare, Elizabeth, whether I want it or not. All I know is that there are things for which I have to fight, no matter what it costs me. I have to find out the truth about Corsa. About so many other things, too. It may leave me without a job, a career. But I can’t run away from it, not any more.’

  ‘But is there any pleasure in the search for truth?’

  ‘So far, only pain. Yet I have to go on. It’s not just the truth about Corsa I’m looking for, but the truth about myself. Who I am. What I’m about. I’ve grown confused about so many things in my life and I need more answers than ever. I had hoped you would help me find them. I still hold to that hope, Elizabeth.’

  She offered only a silence, both hurt and hurtful. He wanted to press her, to force some commitment from her, to say anything that would bring her back, smiling, through the door. Yet he hesitated, held back, knowing that by pressing her he might find only the rejection that he feared.

  ‘Whenever this is over, may I give you a call?’

  ‘I’m not changing my number. Not just because of this.’

  ‘Then I will call. I promise.’

  ‘Goodbye, Tom.’

  His heart sank, the words seemed so achingly final.

  ‘I am so sorry, Tom. And I wish you luck in the search for your truth,’ she added. Then the phone went dead.

  What did those last words mean? Hope? A final flicker of grace in farewell? He didn’t know and wasn’t going to find out, not until everything else had been resolved. The swirling in his stomach began again, like a persistent ulcer. He sat in his office, struggling to control the pain.

  He was glad it was Mickey, not anyone else, who came through the door some twenty minutes later. He wouldn’t have to pretend with her, there was no point, she could read everything in his face.

  ‘You practising for a misery of the month competition?’

  Immediately she forced a grudging smile from him. She was distraction. The pain was pushed to one side.

  ‘Your luck may be changing,’ she encouraged. ‘Either that or you’ve sold out like the rest.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  She held up a copy of the Herald. ‘And I quote: “Goodfellowe is a politician whose private life has come in for considerable criticism after it was revealed he had a close association with a young Chinese girl recently arrested on suspicion of prostitution and drug possession …”’

  Goodfellowe was about to curse but Mickey raised an agile eyebrow to demand his continued attention.

  ‘"… but like an increasing number of parents he took the step which counts for so much more. He and his wife, Elinor, adopted a daughter, Samantha. Now sixteen and strikingly good-looking …” – it’s a lovely photograph, Tom – “Samantha has helped sustain the Goodfellowe family through periods of great difficulty, particularly when their only natural child, Stevie, was drowned in a tragic swimming accident".’ She passed the newspaper across to him. ‘I never knew Sam was adopted! You never told me.’

  Goodfellowe sat haunted. Mickey was right, it was a wonderful photograph, taken recently at school, full colour and reproduced very large across the page of what was entitled an ‘Adoption Special’. Other well-known families were mentioned, many at greater length, but the visual impact was all Sam. ‘The Herald salutes these parents of caring and courage,’ it said. (Corsa had particularly liked that touch. They might be accused of an accidental invasion of privacy, of a sad and unfortunate mistake, but no one could find proof of malice …)

  Goodfellowe’s voice was hoarse, the words forced out like those of a man dying of thirst in the desert. ‘He is the Devil!’

  As Mickey watched, astonished, a physical change came over Goodfellowe as though he were being leached within, leaving him ashen.

  ‘Corsa. The Devil,’ he repeated. It was scarcely more than a croak. ‘Sam doesn’t know. But Corsa does. This is his message to me. A sign.’

  ‘Of what?’

  Goodfellowe shook his head savagely, once, twice, three times, as though trying in vain to rid himself of a yoke that had been cast around his neck. ‘A sign that there is no hiding place. Not for me. He will pursue me behind the locked doors of my home and even into my soul. For him there are no limits. He will use Sam, destroy everything I have with her, if that is the only way he has of destroying me.’

  He gazed once more at the photograph, of a smiling, darkly serious young woman with an expression of worldly concern she always thought she had inherited from him. As he stared it grew smudged with tears.

  ‘There is only one thing in this world which I want more than to have him grovelling in misery at my feet.’

  ‘What’s that, Tom?’

  ‘That one day she will find enough courage to forgive me.’

  ‘Drive! Drive, man!’ Goodfellowe shouted from the back seat, urging the taxi on.

  The cabbie had decided it was his lucky day when he had been stopped in Parliament Square and asked to drive to Wooton Minster. The passenger had agreed the fare without a quibble, stopping at a cash machine for funds. The driver thought the man had looked unusually tense as he had waited for the money and, when it flooded into his hands, he seemed to have gone through some form of release. Rather like sex. People have strange relationships with their cash dispensers, the driver decided. Yet this was a weird one. No conversation, just overbearing anxiety and constant exhortation to go faster. Was he chasing, or being chased? The cabbie couldn’t decide. He thought he recognized him, too.

  The driver was surprised when he discovered that the passenger’s ultimate destination was a girls’ school. There were still further surprises in store. No sooner had they pulled into the drive than the man began tugging at the door in great agitation, shouting for the lock to be released, running for the arched red-brick entrance.

  It was there Goodfellowe was intercepted by Miss Rennie. She stood squarely in front of him, arms crossed defiantly, barring his way and making it clear he would have to bowl her over if he were to get any farther into her school.

  ‘I must see her. Has she heard?’ he panted.

  ‘I went looking for Samantha as soon as you telephoned this morning. I’m afraid she had already read the article.’

  A spark of hope dwindled and died, leaving only ashes inside.

  ‘How could you not have told her, Mr Goodfellowe? You owed it to her, surely.’

  Goodfellowe closed his eyes, exhausted, trying to recollect every false step he had taken along this road. ‘We had always agreed, her mother and I, that we would tell her when she was twelve. It seemed the right time. On her birthday. But a few weeks before that Stevie was drowned, there seemed more than en
ough turmoil for her to deal with. Then Elinor became sick, we always hoped she would recover, still be able to tell Sam together. Trouble is, Miss Rennie, I can’t think of a moment in the last few years which hasn’t been filled with some upheaval, some pain for Sam, some good reason for putting it off for just a little while longer. Some moment when I wasn’t drowning too.’ It sounded like a confession, an expiation of guilt. If it had been offered in any expectation of forgiveness, he was rapidly disabused.

  ‘Did you never think of the greater harm that would be done to the poor girl by her finding out in this manner? She is sixteen. Girls of that age find themselves in a world which seems to be inconsistent and hypocritical, their lives constantly changing. For Samantha that’s been more true than most. It wasn’t enough that she should lose her brother and her mother; on top of that she felt she had lost you. Now she’s lost herself, her very identity, the only thing she had to hold on to.’

  ‘I must see her, put it right.’ He advanced towards the Headmistress with the clear intention of passing. With maternal ferocity she held a hand out against his chest.

  ‘If you will take my very profound advice, Mr Goodfellowe, I tell you that trying to see her now is not a wise course of action. She needs a few days to recover. Time to think.’

  ‘But I must …’

  ‘You must? For whose sake? Hers? Or yours?’

  Flakes of Lothian granite filled her voice. He backed off, bemused.

  ‘In any event, I’m afraid you cannot see her at the moment. She has disappeared. Run away. Oh, it’s not as bad as it might seem,’ she instructed, waving away his rising alarm, ‘I have a good idea where she might have gone. But I must warn you, Mr Goodfellowe, that if you burst upon her in her present frame of mind she might well run away again. Then no one will know where she is.’

  ‘I can’t see my own daughter?’

  ‘If you insist on knowing, I must tell you where I believe she is. But I don’t advise it. Most strongly I don’t advise it. You’ve done enough harm to her already.’

  ‘I never meant …’

  ‘Nevertheless it happened. And now my concern is what is in the best interest of Samantha. That should be your concern, too.’