This Honourable House (25 page)

‘So the first step is what?’

‘We can get you your birth certificate.’

‘Can you just send it to me, without further discussion? Then I can make my mind up what to do next.’

‘The names might mean nothing to you. Looking at the certificate will tell you very little, Mr Porter. But certainly, if that’s what you want, that is what will happen. It will take about a month. Then it will come by registered post. The original adoption papers can be retrieved at the same time on your written request. And then I hope you will make another appointment with me and we will discuss how to go from there.’

The two rose, shook hands formally and a trifle coldly. The counsellor handed over an information pack, which she feared would remain unread. Edward muttered gruff thanks and left the office.

Pansy Illingworth had had a struggle on her arrival in the editor’s office of the
Globe
to convince the hard-bitten hacks of the newspaper that she, whose most noteworthy task to date had been editing a woman’s glossy magazine, had what it took to run a national daily tabloid. Rumours abounded as to how she had landed the position, with the most reputable journalists willing themselves to believe that it had involved some version of the casting couch with the proprietor. The lady pandered to these suspicions with her low-cut jerseys, black leather trousers and the cloud of frizzy hair that never seemed to be under control. Such men would have resisted in public the calumny that their doubts were entirely due to misogyny, while proclaiming in the pub after a few whiskies that this was not a suitable job for a woman. But as her reign stretched from months into years, story coups mounted and circulation steadied, their disapproval turned slowly into acceptance and then into grudging
admiration.

One rumour that had proved true was that Pansy chose to defy the smoke-free ordinance of the building’s landlords in her own office, though for safety’s sake she felt obliged to enforce it elsewhere. It was said that she had arranged for the battery in the smoke detector above her desk to be removed, or for the instrument to be disabled in some way. That alone granted her the loyalty of most sub-editors and hacks. As far as they were concerned the militant non-smokers could go and work elsewhere, and several did.

Conferences on Pansy’s territory were therefore a powerful mixture of Gauloise, Silk Cut and stale air, enlivened by the editor pacing about, tossing her mane and poking a scarlet fingernail at whatever was on the table. Occasionally she would shriek with laughter, or raise objections in a low purr. She was proud to be called tactile; she had been known to stroke a man’s cheek or ruffle his hair, though she was careful not to touch a woman. Her behaviour was both sassy and unpredictable, for Pansy loved keeping her listeners guessing.

Seated at the table were Jim Betts and a thick-set man in his early fifties. The caretaker of a block of flats occupied by some of the most famous names in London had an upright, officious bearing with a distinctly obsequious manner as if accustomed to the presence of VIPs but wary of them. Pansy guessed that in a previous life he had been a batman in the army or a steward on a luxury liner.

In the background hovered the paper’s house lawyer, an anxious older man who preferred the security of a monthly pay packet to the rough and tumble of the courts. It had surprised the
Globe
that the caretaker, who insisted on being called a concierge, had decided not to bring a legal adviser or agent; that suggested arrogance on his part and some foolishness. The man seemed satisfied with repeated assertions that he was being offered a standard contract. His name was on the paper’s list as an occasional tipster about his residents’ more nefarious activities. Perhaps the prospect of substantial remuneration and a signed agreement seemed to him such a good deal that he felt it unnecessary to share the proceeds with some greedy lawyer. The
Globe
was not about to argue.

The contract ran to seventeen pages. As a courtesy and a precaution the house lawyer had read out every line in his well-modulated voice, asking the concierge if he understood. The man answered with a gruff Estuary affirmative: his irritation was obviously being kept in check. Not until all the pages had been initialled, the final page signed and witnessed and hands shaken could he count on his money.

Pansy picked up the brown envelope that was the subject of debate and tipped out its contents. The incriminating video was still in the machine. They had watched it from start to finish as a preliminary to the contractual discussion; its vivid fleshy images stayed in the mind. The concierge had been advised that if he wanted to negotiate international rights to the grainy excerpts, that was up to him, but the newspaper would buy the photographs outright. That was why he was being offered such a handsome sum. The only outstanding matters were in which country and which currency he wanted it paid, and whether in cash or by other means. Nobody was worried when he demanded cash in used notes and at once.

It would be a day or two before articles using the photographs and out-takes from the videos would appear, accompanied by pieces written by Jim Betts with his pen at its most vitriolic. The exclusive would probably run on a Monday, with snippets shared with the Sunday press to ensure plenty of free coverage. Sunday-evening television advertising was cheap and might be justified if the story could be blown up into a corruption-and-perversion-at-the-highest-levels-in-our-land campaign. The proprietor would be relaxed, provided nobody currently in government was attacked. The newspaper’s job was to report on other people’s peccadilloes these days, now that disputes with such as Diane Clark had been settled. While that restricted the size of the zoo they were paid to observe, nobody in the paper’s employ was much troubled by it; with another election in the offing the rules
could change at any time.

At last the formalities were concluded. Betts and the house lawyer signed with a flourish as witnesses, and Pansy offered the man another cigarette. ‘So what do you plan to do with the money?’ she asked casually. The man’s name would never appear in the paper: he had asked for a confidentiality clause, but it was more than likely that other papers would track him down and do a hatchet job on him. If he had any sense he would charge them, too, for the privilege.

‘Go abroad,’ the man said, with a grin. ‘Gotta brother-in-law in Marbella. Says I can go in wiv him.’

‘Your employers at the block of flats, will they cause you or your family any grief?’ Pansy tried to sound anxious.

‘They’ll go ape-shit. Don’t matter. We’re packed, out on the first plane from Luton t’morrer.’

This fellow has more of a head on his shoulders than I thought, Pansy reflected. ‘You’ve been planning this for a while?’

‘Yeah, well,’ the concierge conceded, ‘stands to reason. Lots of dodgy goings-on in our block. In and out of each other’s bedrooms they are. All you need are sharp eyes. That basement, those lads tossing each other around. Butt-naked, mostly. Something seriously interesting here, I told meself. So I checks out the names. I dunno who anybody is, I ain’t interested in politics. Never vote. Then I rang Mr Betts here. We go back years, Mr Betts and me.’

‘I don’t suppose you actually saw them … having it off, did you?’ Pansy asked hopefully.

The man considered. ‘I don’t fink they was having it off, to be truthful,’ he answered. ‘They was chucking each other abaht like they wanted to ’ave it off but didn’t dare. A swanky pair, those two. Never said, “Good afternoon” or left a tip, even though I had to clean the place up special.’ He sniffed. ‘They’ll get what they deserve. I don’t care tuppence.’

Betts nodded agreement, but suddenly everyone in the room wanted the meeting to end. The cash would be fetched from the bank; the recipient was asked to return in an hour. Betts was motioned to remove him to the pub for a celebratory drink.

In the street outside they lit up ostentatiously to express solidarity with those members of staff too junior for Pansy’s office who were banished to the pavement for a smoke. Betts felt cautious. The newspaper could still be sued if they had made a horrible mistake: pictures don’t lie, but insinuations can be wide of the mark. ‘If you’re asked, though,’ he said, ‘ever, I mean, by anybody else, you reckon they were having it off, don’t you? That they’re a pair of poofters? Even though Ashworth’s married?’

The concierge considered. Betts repeated the question: ‘Do you think, deep down, from what you’ve seen and the way they behaved, that they’re poofters?’

‘I don’t approve of shirt-lifters,’ the man said firmly, avoiding a direct answer. ‘People like that deserve to be put in jail like they used to be, not paraded as examples to the rest of us. It’s not natural, is it? Especially when they’re pretending to be somefink else. That’s what gets my goat. Now, where are we goin’ for this drink?’

Gail was not sure when it happened. Not when she turned the machine on, that was clear in her memory. The menu page had appeared, more slowly than usual. It had been distorted, purple lines running through it diagonally, zizzing about with a strange crackling noise coming from the speakers. She had stared at the screen for a moment, pressed buttons, felt alarmed and frustrated. Perhaps the unit had been knocked about when the burglars were in, or the SOCOs had interfered with it during their investigations. Either way, something was wrong.

With a curse she switched it off and sat brooding as the purple faded. Just as she had psyched herself up to start work on the book: how infuriating and depressing to hit a malfunction.

She must resist the temptation to feel outgunned by an inert piece of equipment. It was merely
a collection of wires, metal and silicon chips. It would do what she told it to do, if only she could get it right. She took a breath and switched on the machine again.

Gail heard the bang almost before she felt it: she was blinded for an instant as the glass screen shattered in her face, but until she was lifted off the seat and blown with the force of the blast over to the far side of the room, she felt nothing but amazement. Computers were not supposed to explode. This could not be happening. She did not understand: what was going on?

Above her the ceiling caved in with a crack; the electric light sparked, flashed and fused. The desk sagged in a cloud of smoke, bent and slowly collapsed, tipping the equipment forward, printer, monitor, paper, notes and hard-disk drive, to the carpet with a deafening crash of broken glass and metal. A doll mascot was the last to fall. The monitor with its empty black face looked agonised as if it had been personally responsible for the attack. The smell of singeing rose from a file cover. Above her head, torn scraps of paper, some with typing still visible, fluttered like snowflakes. The printer broke open and whirred for a minute, then with a shudder lay still.

‘Aah!’ Gail tried to stir, but she could barely see. She lifted a hand to her face; the palm came away covered in sticky blood. She was bleeding heavily from a deep gash above her eye. She tried to lift the other arm and found she could not: it hung useless at her side. Still there was no real pain, only bewilderment and confusion.

A banging came at the door. ‘Hello! What on earth was that? Are you all right?’

‘Don’t know,’ mumbled Gail. ‘Can’t get up …’ And with that she slumped senseless to the floor.

Frank was uncomfortable. It was an age, he realised, since he had last visited anyone personally in hospital. An auntie came to mind, an elderly lady he had hardly known, suffering from a chest infection that had proved terminal; the duty visit was undertaken solely because she had been his mother’s favourite sister, though he did not recognise the wizened creature with the yellowed skin and glassy eyes when at last he had traced her to the geriatric unit. Her open mouth with its purple toothless gums had scared him with reflections that he, too, might one day be like that, collapsed and empty.

That had been long before the election, when he was a mere shadow spokesman and not entitled to red carpet treatment. He had been in a hurry, and irritated at being twice misdirected, as if they had lost a paper parcel. He had introduced himself to staff and attempted to engage in banter, determined to glean something from the hour spent away from the campaign trail; but they had been too busy, or not interested. He had been glad to get out of there.

There had been happier official visits, of course. The opening of a new ward block at the infirmary in his constituency by a minor royal had been an occasion of some ceremony. Frank had been impatient again, but for different reasons: he would have preferred Nelson Mandela, or failing him the Prime Minister, but both had expressed regret that their timetables were too crowded. The local mayor had hinted that such delusions of grandeur were not really welcome. They had toyed with the idea of inviting a distinguished black trade unionist, or a leading nurse, or a local comedian to unveil the official plaque. But, as the mayor tartly pointed out, the first might not be quite as welcome as Frank would like in a constituency where black skin was uncommon, the second might excite jealousy from medical colleagues and the third had a tendency to appear in public drunk and ill-mannered. In the end the minor royal, who occupied a grace-and-favour mansion not far from the unit and who had been treated there following a polo accident, had expressed keenness to help. Before Frank could protest, hospital managers had accepted. The event had passed off without incident; Frank had been obliged to admit that the monarchy had its uses.

Today, however, he had insisted that his presence was private. The bodyguard had remained with the official Jaguar two streets away, parked as inconspicuously as was possible with such a vehicle; he would call on his mobile when it was required. In one hand he held, somewhat sheepishly, a paper-wrapped bunch of flowers bought from a shop in the lobby. The blooms were not at their freshest: the petals drooped and fell behind him like a coloured paper trail. Dank water dripped on his trousers.

He paused to check his destination. Two wheelchairs propelled by hefty porters bore down like tanks on a military exercise and he was obliged to press himself against the wall. A trolley with a patient on the way to theatre rattled past, the woman clutching her X-rays envelope to her chest with a pale, frightened expression. The very walls smelt of fear. An ache surged in Frank’s chest.

Then he was at the correct ward. He pushed open the double doors. Nobody greeted him. The narrow entrance was grubby and dismal. His nose wrinkled at the prevailing smell of urine; his eyes scanned the scrappy signs in felt-tip pen: ‘No rubbish bags here!’ and ‘Would all visitors please vacate the premises by 9 p.m.’ A green poster, scribbled on illegibly, invited staff to a union meeting. The toilet for female patients was out of order, he noted. A bucket and mop stood in the corridor, the mop-head like grey rats-tails. The place was a disgrace – no wonder patients often went home with infections. That old tyrant Florence Nightingale would have turned in her grave.

A male nurse sidled past, head down; Frank detained him with a question and managed to catch the mumbled reply. He wondered what should play on his features and settled for concern and sadness, neither of which was his dominant emotion but this was no time for anger. He walked hesitantly towards the room where Gail lay.

He could not fathom what to think about Gail’s accident. All he knew was that his former wife had been hurt in an incident of some kind at home. The message had been relayed to him by his private secretary William, with the hint that, should he want to see her, the hospital authorities could accommodate him and would ensure that no press were around. William seemed to assume that he would wish to pay his respects in this manner, had indicated a gap of half an hour in the day’s diary and murmured that the itinerary would bring him conveniently close to the back entrance. Refusal would have been churlish and would have lowered him in the eyes of his officials. Frank was pretty sure that it would also have led to a story detrimental to his reputation appearing in a gossip column, probably in the
Globe
.

Gail was in a side ward, one with two beds: the other must be empty, for only one label – ‘Mrs G. Bridges’ – was on the door. He felt a surge of resentment at the name. It wasn’t hers any more, it was his. Would she never let go? Would she never find her own identity, and resume a life from which he was absent? Was she going to cause him grief forever?

He squared his shoulders. Such thoughts were unworthy, not least from a man who publicly professed to care deeply about the welfare of others and who was an important player in an elected government whose priorities were the poor and the sick. Gail was his former wife and had occupied a place of honour at his side. They had been happy together, once. Moreover Gail, whatever her faults, was a human being. She deserved as much consideration, even warmth, from him as did the most insignificant constituent. He sighed, hitched the flowers from one hand to the other, wiped his palm on the back of his trousers, and went in.

Gail was watching television. The hospital bed was too firm but she could drift in and out of sleep at will. The television set was small and at a slightly awkward angle, high up, controlled by the remote control under her bandaged hand. The sound came through headphones adjusted over her stitches. The flickering images were oddly pleasing, a reminder of normality outside.

The lunchtime news was on. Diane Clark had been filmed making an announcement at a conference, the details of which passed Gail by. What held her attention was Diane herself. Old revolutionary Marxist Diane with the slapdash body language had vanished. In her place was a modern, bold, larger-than-life figure. She looked handsome and assured, far more so than Gail remembered. Smartly dressed – at least for Diane, who had always made a virtue of disordered scruffiness. That cream jacket with tailored lines fitted her rather well. Her hair was fashionably cut, bobbed, and must have been tinted; Gail was under no illusions as to Diane’s age. And earrings, big stud pearls, their presence a revolution in themselves, glinted under the hairdo. But it was the minister’s demeanour that fascinated Gail. Whatever was going on in Diane’s soul, she was enjoying every minute. Even on a television screen, as her body moved before the camera, the glow was unmistakable. She was radiant: that was it. Lucky woman.

Slowly Gail became conscious of the embarrassed man at her bedside, the bunch of flowers held before him like a medieval shield. With an effort she continued watching the screen and pointed. ‘Looks great, doesn’t she?’ The words came out indistinctly through the swollen features.

‘Yeah.’ Frank drew up a chair and sat down. ‘Got herself a new boyfriend. Quite a decent sort of lad. Young, as usual. Works in her office, by all accounts.’

‘Not a reformed character, then?’ Gail attempted to smile.

‘God, no. Our Diane? Spectacularly chaotic, her love-life – that was her own description. This time she’s besotted. And he’s nuts about her.’

Silence fell. Frank thrust the bouquet on to the bed. Gail acknowledged the gift with a touch of her fingers to the battered petals, then gestured towards a vase near the sink. He did as she bade and set the filled vase near the bed. Apart from a scattering of cards and an unopened box of Quality Street, there were no other flowers or gifts. The ache in his chest returned: anger, undeniably, and
shame.

‘And what about you? How are you?’ he asked, in a forced jocular tone.

Gail turned her head. He recoiled, shocked. Her face was livid and blotchy, with curls of stitches caked with blood on her cheek and forehead. The skin round the eyes was puffy, one eye so thickened it was almost shut. Her upper body was covered with the sheet but there must have been wounds there too for a plastic drip line emerged from one shoulder. Both hands were bandaged, the fingertips peeping out like baby mice from a nest.

‘My God, you’re a mess,’ he exclaimed.

Gail turned away. Seeing his mistake, Frank struggled for something positive to say. ‘You should contact the Criminal Injuries Board. You’ll get compensation for that.’ He strained to hear her answer: ‘No thanks to you.’

‘What?’

He saw the lips set harder. ‘I said, no thanks to you. You must have realised, Frank, when you started your campaign.’

‘What campaign? What are you talking about?’

‘You know. Your campaign of intimidation.’ She had the greatest difficulty with the word and had to repeat it. ‘In-tim-i-dation.’

Frank sat back. ‘Me intimidate you? You must be mad. Why would I do that?’

‘To shut me up. And you’ve succeeded.’ A grim laugh came from Gail’s throat.

‘Now see here,’ Frank felt his blood pressure rise, ‘you’ve been making these allegations for months. Over a year now. They’re complete nonsense.’

Gail turned again. Her gaze was so ghastly that Frank swallowed hard. His heart was thumping. This was moral blackmail. However sorry he felt for Gail, whatever obligations he owed her for the many years of their marriage, he must not let his better judgement be overridden. Experience suggested that what was best with Gail, and women like her, was to be firm.

‘I can’t imagine from what depths of your mind you’ve dredged up this idea,’ he continued. ‘You must be off your rocker to suggest any such thing. Heavens, Gail, you could have made something of yourself. You were upset at the split but you could have used it as an opportunity. For freedom, whatever. Instead you focus on me, and tell all and sundry I’m out to get you. Nothing could be further from the truth.’

‘The police believe me,’ said Gail, with weary triumph.

‘They do?’ Frank became alarmed. Public figures never had the benefit of the doubt. Even if he was absolutely innocent a case could be made against him and, worse, might acquire the patina of credibility.

‘It’s being investigated properly now.’ Gail tried to nod.

‘Then I’ll be exonerated.’ Frank nodded back, aggressively.

The injured woman in the hospital bed shifted. Frank realised how cruel his words would sound if repeated to the press. ‘I’m so sorry this has happened,’ he continued, more gently. ‘Every bit of it – the hate mail, the attacks on your car. To be honest, Gail, to begin with I believed you were doing some of it yourself.’ She gave a little cry and he continued quickly, ‘No, that’s got to be wrong. Of course I see that now. But the police are bound to realise it’s got nothing to do with me.’

‘It has. Somehow. If it isn’t you, Frank, then it’s somebody on your behalf.’

Frank drew himself up. ‘You forget you’re talking to a Cabinet minister, and former police officer. I’d never countenance such a thing.’

The two glared at each other frostily, then relented. Frank felt disturbed, some remnant of the suspicious mind-set from his days in the force coming to the fore. He cursed inwardly that he was so busy: with the Cabinet job, the slide in the polls, Hazel’s petulant demands, he seldom had a spare moment to think. It had been easier to dismiss Gail’s problems in the hope that they would simply go
away. He spoke slowly and more softly: ‘Bugger me. If it’s not you, and it’s not me, then who the hell is it?’

The male nurse hated visitors. The agency had sent him to fill a gap, when what the hospital needed was fully operational nursing staff in its permanent employ. Plus a couple of clericals, those underrated necessities. The paperwork always had to be in last month, with consultants screaming for beds that were simply not available. Let them squeal about patients stuck on trolleys for ten hours. Or more. The fact was, if the staff were not in, then an empty bed did not exist. It might be visible in a side ward, its blankets folded neatly, the charge sheet empty and waiting. But that did not count without a bedder to make the bed, a cleaner to sweep under it and a couple of RGNs to administer the necessary medication to the occupant. As long as the government insisted on paying nurses less than a junior teacher and the management demanded that they come in all God’s hours and spend their time cleaning up vomit and refused to provide even the most basic facilities like a crèche, they would go elsewhere. He personally knew of three experienced nurses contentedly working in Sainsbury’s four mornings a week, glad to do so while their children were small. It was time the NHS got wise, or there’d be no NHS.

The hospital had fared badly in the published league tables. No one associated with it was surprised. There were no doctor vacancies, but a patient in Poland or Hungary would have seen more doctors. The waiting lists for surgery were within national guidelines, but a patient in France or Germany would have been seen at once, their cancer excised, their bypass operation performed the next week. Lab technicians, physiotherapists, radiographers all struggled with scrappy facilities and headed for the nearest teaching hospital whenever advertisements appeared. The budget for basic services had been cut so the cleaning company cut down too; three wards with thirty-six patients in each had to be done in four man-hours, a task so herculean that it regularly laid the operatives off sick themselves. The managers, to give them credit, filled in the forms with some accuracy and answered complaints with fulsome apologies, but then faced up to the difficulties by remaining in their offices half a mile away. He would not recognise one in a corridor, and neither would anybody else.