Goodfellowe MP (26 page)

Alone.

‘Good news.’

‘The boy stood on the burning deck when all but he had fled, and you think there’s good news?’ Goodfellowe eyed Mickey with more than a dash of scepticism.

‘Something to fight the flames with. I’ve run the check of share prices against the
Herald
stories you wanted. There’s a match. Not in every case, but in enough to make a damn fine liverwurst. The Wonderworld fiasco sent the share price of its only real rival soaring. That’s Hagi Entertainments. It’s a Japanese number. And the only ones to benefit from the attack on Killer Coal seemed to be the nuclear industry, no specific firm but there are only a handful anyway and one of those, Nuclear Reprocessors, has been getting a lot of favourable coverage in the
Herald
recently.’

As they huddled closely together in conference, Goodfellowe became aware of an unusual hush. The eyes of the Dragonaria were upon them, the man of marked morals and his altogether too young, too attentive and too impertinent assistant. Suspicion sat in every stare. He straightened up and waved an extravagant arm. ‘Good afternoon, ladies. My apologies for not greeting you all personally as I came in. Are you well? Would any of you care to join me and Miss Ross for tea?’ Instantly heads dropped and the noisy clatter of typewriters and correcting tapes resumed.

‘What about Diane Burston?’

‘More difficult,’ Mickey replied. ‘No direct correlation, but the environmental groups like Greenpeace
and The Earth Firm have been a pain in her purse for years. The
Herald
has certainly taken some of that pressure off.’

‘Any more?’

‘I think we can show a link with one of the drug companies.’

‘What a tangled web he weaves. But perhaps not quite twisted enough.’ He sat close beside Mickey for an hour, watching intently as she brought up information on her screen and demanding more, promising that one day he’d gather up his courage and take that computers-for-muddled-Members course himself. It all made him late for the start of the Standing Committee, and when he arrived Betty Ewing was in full swing. He slipped into his seat and was spreading his papers when a voice whispered in his ear.

‘I did warn you. You’re playing in the big boys’ league.’

Goodfellowe examined Lillicrap as though he were a debt collector asking directions, then went back to his papers.

‘For one last time, Tom, don’t turn away from us,’ the Whip persisted. ‘You need us. Don’t reject the hand of friendship.’

‘The Prime Minister’s hand of friendship just shoved me overboard, Lionel.’

‘There’s still time to climb back on,’ the Whip insisted. ‘But the way you’re going, they’ll even take your lifebelt away.’

‘Meaning?’

‘I told you this was the big league, Tom. No walking
wounded. Outside groups don’t normally like their parliamentary consultants splashed all over the front pages of the newspapers. They want advisers who can work within the system, not Members who wander round this place like a dose of salmonella.’

‘As you say, Lionel, we are all big boys. After all this I was scarcely expecting your help to find another consultancy.’

‘I’m talking about your existing deal. The Caravan Park Owners’ Federation.’

‘So you’ll take that away, will you?’ The light was beginning to dawn.

‘Not my call, Tom. They may insist.’

Goodfellowe grunted in defiant understanding, then returned to the study of his papers as proceedings droned on around them.

Lillicrap bit his lip in exasperation. ‘You’re a bloody fool, Tom. I’ve given you every chance. So now you listen, and listen damned well. You were in trouble a couple of years ago and we bailed you out. Arranged a loan so you could take care of Elinor. I was happy to do all that. But you never knew where the money came from, did you?’

‘Didn’t it come from you? You gave the very clear impression it did …’

‘How the hell can I afford to throw around fifteen thousand pounds on a Whip’s salary, for Christ’s sake? Look at my frayed cuffs.’ He shook a sleeve in front of Goodfellowe’s face, to whom the cuff and the rest of the suit seemed to be in perfect order. ‘Be real. This job is costing me a fortune. Overdraft Alley. I can scarcely afford the water for the whisky any
more. No, it wasn’t me, old chum. The loan came from a wealthy supporter, someone who wanted to help the party. I was merely the channel. The honest broker.’

‘Who is it?’

‘You’ll never know. That’s the way to keep the system smelling sweet. Blind bail. We get you out of trouble, you owe us, yet you can’t be accused of selling favours to the real donor.’

‘But now I know he exists.’

‘More to the point, he knows you exist, too, and what you’ve been up to. A slip-up in the system, I’m afraid. Shouldn’t have happened … And he wants his money back.’

‘You’re kidding,’ Goodfellowe gasped in surprise.

‘He wants the loan repaid, Tom. He says he intended to help the party, not – and I quote – a freeloader.’

‘This is nothing short of blackmail.’

‘It’s business, Tom. Satan’s teeth, can’t you see what you’re doing to yourself? Pull back. Stop. Even now it’s not too late.’

Betty Ewing had sat down, her denunciation of the Bill for the moment completed, and a vote on her amendment was about to take place. ‘As many as are in favour say Aye!’ the Chairman was demanding – ‘Aye!’ the Opposition benches responded in ritualistic chant – Those to the contrary?’ – ‘No!’ the Government supporters shouted in their turn – ‘Division!’ the Chairman declared.

They would wait a few minutes for stragglers before locking the doors, but the Opposition was
already present in full number. If Goodfellowe insisted once more on abstaining it would be another drawn vote, another pothole on the road to progress. As the minutes dragged on Lillicrap spent the time fretting, nibbling at his nails.

‘You’re not as tough as you pretend, Lionel.’

‘You think I enjoy this? I’m your friend.’

‘Really? And when friendship collides with your conscience, Lionel, which would you choose?’

‘Don’t preach conscience to me, Tom, it’s little more than an excuse for prevarication, for doing nothing. For letting others take the blame.’

‘You accuse me of allowing others to take the blame? I seem to have piled a mountain of it upon my own back.’

‘That’s the trouble with your type of conscience. You can’t control it.’

‘And you can’t buy it, either.’ Goodfellowe’s tone had grown sharp.

‘Tom, I’m only doing my job.’

‘As I am trying to do mine.’

‘And it will dance you all the way to the scaffold.’

Their exchanges had grown rapidly more heated, but now Goodfellowe held back, taking stock. ‘I see how little we understand each other, Lionel. I thought we were friends, but perhaps our friendship was nothing more than idleness.’

‘For friendship, for self-interest, for loyalty to the party – whichever speaks loudest to you. Listen to it. Just don’t sit on your brains and abstain, Tom. Vote.’

‘A wise old Chinaman once said that if you sit by
the river long enough, the bodies of your enemies will float past.’

‘Sit by the river long enough and you become fish bait. For God’s sake start playing the game.’

‘Lock the doors!’ the Chairman instructed. The attendants complied and the Clerk began calling the vote in alphabetical order. Sheila Fagin and Barry Gedling had voted, now the Clerk was looking towards Goodfellowe, pen poised.

‘Lionel, I think you’re right. It is time to start playing the game.’

The Whip sighed in relief. ‘You won’t regret it, Tom.’

‘I dare say. But you will.’

With that, Goodfellowe voted against the Government. The Opposition amendment was passed. The Bill was grinding to a halt.

Corsa had telephoned at six thirty the following morning, twenty seconds after spotting the report in the final edition. It was only a small item tucked away on the
Herald’s
parliamentary page, but even a short piece about a Government defeat in committee had been enough to curdle his enthusiasm for breakfast. He didn’t know that Lillicrap had been working until two, and even if he had he wouldn’t have given a damn.

‘Lionel, dear boy. You and I must meet.’

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.’