CHAPTER TWO: A PLOT
The San Isidro was a smart little restaurant, fashionable, and close enough to the House of Commons to boast its very own division bell. The eurosceptics had booked a private room, a small trattoria in its own right with white roughcast walls and trompe-l'oeil alcoves opening dream windows onto Mediterranean seascapes. Hunter diplomatically arrived a few minutes early, to find Butcher discussing place settings with the head waiter.
‘Welcome, dear friend, welcome.’ Butcher was a big beefy man, with small sharp eyes under bristly eyebrows, a bristly moustache and slicked-back hair, florid in a check suit that look as though it had come straight from a racecourse. He pumped Hunter's hand, all the while continuing his planning.
‘Put Tim there, Foxy there, Croesus there, Delilah next to him, the Hon. Fozquoz over there, and Jack on the end.’
The head waiter smiled silkily as he scribbled busily; the plotters were obviously regular diners.
Hunter edged closer. Croesus’ presence means that he would be in double luck – for he had prudently tucked a photocopy of his Wonders piece into his pocket. Maybe Harris would give him a lead. But he would have to move carefully, and try to manoeuvre the Tory millionaire discreetly into a corner, to avoid triggering alarm and undesirable third party interest. This would be serious fishing.
‘I shall take the chair, and our new friend can come in on my left.’
Hunter's jaw tightened. He would be given a place of honour, but Harris would be at least three seats out of reach.
The head waiter was also doubtful. ‘What about Lord Doucereux?’
‘What? Dux?’ Butcher pondered for a moment, and then waved dismissively. ‘Put him next to our new friend here, opposite Delilah. They'll be able to play footsie.’
Plotters began to arrive, sidling mysteriously into the room. Harris entered, deep in conversation with Mary Bowman, deliciously silky junior minister and lascivious New Labour star, nominally married to somebody prosperous in property, but generally better known as Delilah. She was plainly dressed to kill, in a flamboyant silk dress that set off her dark eyes and slim figure to perfection.
Hunter beamed them both a welcome. But both frowned, parting quickly, almost as though they had been sharing some guilty secret, and Harris burrowed into a group of plotters gathered at the far end of the room.
Hunter tried to follow, but a wall of expensively-tailored Savile Row shoulders blocked his path, and began moving purposefully towards Butcher. There was a good deal of whispering, and Mary Bowman was now at Butcher's side looking ministerial.
Butcher listened, sketching dismissive gestures with his hands, as though rejecting unpleasant suggestions, and beckoned to Hunter.
‘Bit of a contretemps, old boy. They think you're going to tell tales.’ His whisper was diplomatically audible.
Several of the group frowned as he spoke, and Harris and Delilah both looked stern. Hunter judged that they feared he might mention them in the same breath.
‘I've told them you won’t be naming any names, but they want you to spell it out.’
Hunter bridled. They all knew the rules of the game. No names, and never a mention of pack drill. ‘You mean they want it in writing?’
Mary Bowman gleamed at him. ‘Discretion, Richard, discretion.’ She smiled, and her sternness melted, and for a moment Hunter was very nearly smitten. But he knew that he was not in Delilah’s league – for he was some way from being a colt, let alone a member of the first eleven. He held up his right hand, in an oath-taking gesture. ‘I'll be discreet.’
However Harris still scowled – for millionaires with dubious connections in the Middle East and around the edges of the former Soviet Union take nothing on trust. He was a hard man, fashioned in steel, with steel in his eyes and silvering his close-cropped grey hair. He jutted his chin: it was a sign of aggression. ‘What are you going to write?
Hunter looked vague. He would have to listen before he could take a view. ‘Don't know yet. I'll go with the flow.’
It was the truth. But he realised, as soon as he spoke, that his words sounded a little too pat, even cheeky.
Harris' eyes narrowed. ‘You mean you might set us up?’
This was fighting talk, and Hunter suddenly had an unpleasant feeling that he had begun to drift much too close to some perilous rocks. He had put his foot badly wrong, and must tack about quickly, and grovel his way back into favour. He shaped his face into an expression of humble contrition, casting around desperately for a peace offering.
Harris was staring at him fiercely.
One of Harris’ constituency speeches surfaced in his mind, and he grasped at memory like a drowning man for a straw. ‘I'll write about a group of influential MPs leaning on the Government to toughen up over Europe.’
Harris looked a little less irritable. ‘Go on.’
‘I’ll speculate that the PM is tired, and losing his grip. The Tories are recovering, and want to attack.’ Hunter scrabbled deeper. ‘Lock out immigrants, toughen up householders’ rights, cast loose from Brussels. The Norwegians and Swiss have stayed out of the Community, we’re being played for suckers.’
This was populism with a vengeance, and several heads nodded approvingly. Mary Bowman smiled faintly.
However Harris was no man to take chances. ‘But no names.’
Hunter looked totally submissive. He had neatly finessed a tricky situation, and he was hungry. ‘No names at all.’
‘And Manning won't just build us up to shoot us down?’
Hunter shook his head firmly. He spoke fluent French, and Financeday's editor had been using him as an interpreter on some complex telephone negotiations. ‘You can count on Terry. We might be pro-European, but he's as pissed off as you were.’
The tension broke, and the plotters began taking their seats.
The San Isidro served good food in generous portions, and plates of finely sliced salsiccia and smoked ham - with avocado salads for Delilah and a quiet man named Austin near the end of the table, who were both vegetarian - led on into house minestrone and veal alla cacciatorre, with battered aubergines as an alternative. Soave flowed freely, and the conversation turned bitchy, and even a little scandalous, as several voices speculated about what might result from a renewed Gay Rights outing campaign, and homed in on a junior Minister with reputedly bisexual alliegances.
‘He's as queer as a bloody ballerina.’ Guy Guthrie, a plump man with darting eyes and darkening jowls, a fondness for gossip, and a habit of speaking from behind his hand, as though from the shadows, when negotiating tricky waters, sniffed grumpily. His Midlands seat was marginal, and he had been trying to steer some public works funding towards a pet project, only to find himself pushed down a queue heavily biased towards ministerial cronies. ‘They all go down to Brighton at weekends and bugger each other.’
Delilah coughed and looked a little shocked, but Guthrie would not be restrained. ‘He'll end up in bloody court.’
His remark plainly irritated the man on his right, a tall aquiline High Court judge with hooded eyes and a mop of white hair, born The Honourable Noel Fitzcarron, but better known to his intimates as Fozquoz.
‘Not nowadays, you know. We're all consenting adults.’
Guthrie snorted. ‘Not if we bugger small boys.’
He seemed about to launch into rather more detail, but Butcher rapped sharply on the table with the haft of his knife, and Guthrie retreated into a bad-tempered silence.
Lord Douceureux, a rotund and jovial aristocrat better known as Dux, and the plotters' eyes and ears in the House of Lords, filled the breach by beaming owlishly at Hunter. ‘Politics can be a grubby game, y'know.’
Delilah smiled graciously, and there appeared to be some shuffling under the table.
Dux looked pleased with himself, and continued urbanely. ‘What scoops are you working on? Apart from moves to drag the country back to its senses?’
Hunter had perhaps drunk a glass of Soave too many, or possibly the slimness of his salad lunch had pushed the wine a little too fast to his head, and he was in a mood to be indiscreet. ‘I'm looking at coups d'etat, here in Britain.’
Dux stared at Hunter hard, and he swallowed. Suddenly he had a feeling that he had spoken rather too freely and said something rash, and he regretted his words immediately. But he also knew that he had struck a bold stroke, for the dining eurosceptics included several Tory right wing elders, and none would be closer to the truth.
Dux frowned. ‘You go back an awful long way for a journalist, don't you?’ He furrowed a lordly brow. ‘You must be back in the Civil War, somewhere. Are you a historian on the side?’
Hunter decided to be forward. ‘Thirty-odd years wasn't very long.’
Suddenly he was the centre of a quiet pool - a group of plotters at the far end of the table were busy regaling each other with unsavoury anecdotes - but Butcher, Harris, Delilah and Dux were watching him closely.
‘It was all gossip, y'know.’ Dux threw the remark away, but it was also a bait, and Hunter decided to play it.
‘Well documented gossip.’
‘Surely not?’
This was manoeuvering, jockeying for position, and Hunter bit his tongue to keep himself from showing too much of his hand.
‘People talked a lot of rot at the time.’ Butcher was jovial. ‘I expect someone had been feeding you with yellowing press cuttings.’
Hunter smiles sphinxishly.
‘I think ferreting around and digging up the past can be dangerous.’ Harris scowled, plainly disapproving. ‘People get upset. It's best to let sleeping dogs lie.’
‘No, I think it's a fascinating idea.’ Delilah was winsome. She was several years younger than her companions, and the three day week was no more than a schoolgirl memory. ‘I mean, someone playing General De Gaulle? Wouldn't that be just what we need, a strong man capable of taking and holding the reins of power?’
‘Coups don’t work in Britain.’ Dux frowned again – he spoke with a kind of weary certainty. ‘The army don’t have the stomach for home matches any more, they lost their nerve in Ulster. The police prefer sitting in front of computer screens. Anyway, we haven't got the man for the job.’ He looked gloomy, as though rehearsing past memories, and they saddened him.
Hunter decided to try just one more tiny jab. ‘Ted wasn't much of a De Gaulle figure either.’
Dux sniffed. ‘Pah, we had better men than Ted in those days.’
‘But not good enough for the chief constables?’ Hunter thought of a half forgotten tale he had heard at the time, a tale of senior ministers trying to push Ted Heath into action. Gossips said that strong men had sounded out the army and the police, and that the army might have moved, at least from Windsor via Heathrow to Downing Street. But the police had washed their hands.
‘Policemen were policemen.’ Dux scowled, but refused to be tempted, and the conversation changed, and moved on.
Zabaglione came in frothing glasses, and a large cheese board, and coffee and brandies, with port for some dissenters. The plotters planned political assassinations, and dreamed impressive dreams. But they seemed unsure about naming a leader, and Hunter decided that he must have a quiet word with Butcher and pick his own candidate, if only to sharpen up his attack.
He also realised that he must home in pretty quickly on Harris, because Mary Bowman seemed to have begun playing footsie with Dux again, and Harris had begun to fidget impatiently.
He was straight onto his feet as the dinner broke up in well-fed confusion, beaming at Butcher. ‘Must have a word with Ned, smooth ruffled feathers. Don't go without me.’
Butcher nodded in assent, and Hunter swivelled. Harris was already heading for the door, hot on Mary Bowman's elegant heels, and he had to move like a flash to catch the MP's sleeve.
Both Harris and Bowman paused.
Hunter was charm itself. ‘I'm really sorry, I didn't mean to be such a pain.’
Harris accepted magisterially. ‘No offence, no offence taken.’ He turned away, it was plain that he had much more interesting things on his mind.
Hunter judged that he must thrust direct and deep. He reached into his pocket and tugged out his photocopy. ‘I'm tipping Wonders for a defensive merger.’
Harris glanced at the copy quickly, and stared at Hunter for a moment before handing it back. He smiled a little wolfishly. ‘Come and have lunch tomorrow.’
Hunter remembered his mystery voice. ‘Sorry, I can't.’
Harris' smile faded. ‘Then call me in the afternoon.’ He turned away. It was a dismissal, and a moment later he was gone.
Hunter found Butcher back in his chair, now puffing on a large cigar. The florid man looked up at Hunter curiously. ‘What was that about?’
Hunter frowned dismissively, he needed to get back to politics. ‘I've written a bit of a bid story.’
‘Wonders?’
He nodded. This was a red herring. ‘It'll be in tomorrow's paper.’ He sat down, eyeing Butcher's glass: the MP had plainly refreshed himself.
Butcher signalled to a waiter clearing the table, and Hunter purred. ‘Good dinner ...’ He let his voice trail away.
‘But?’ Two rings of parliamentary cigar smoke swirled lazily upwards.
‘They were all fluffing about.’ Hunter watched the waiter fill him a glass, and took a generous sip. ‘It's got to be harder.’
Butcher tapped ash from his cigar, inspecting the smouldering tip. ‘You want a leader.’ His tone made it clear that they were speaking the same language.
‘I've got to have a leader.’ Hunter spoke briskly. ‘People want fire, not just a lot of smoke.’
Butcher was silent for a moment, and seemed to be thinking deeply. Then he took a deep breath, exhaled a whole series of perfect smoke rings, and watched them melt away in wreaths of grey mist. ‘How about Dux?’ His voice was distant, as though they were talking in a dream.
Hunter stared at him. Lord Doucereux was no MP, and must be at least seventy. ‘Really?’
‘He's an elder statesman, and he commands cross-party support. We think Kent is so fed up waiting in the wings that he might well fall into line.’ Butcher blew more smoke rings.
‘But he's not very fierce.’
Butcher looked at Hunter quickly. ‘He’ll do as as an interim PM. Kent won’t knife Jim Small in the back, so we’ll do it for him. We’ll force Jim out, usher Dux in, wait for people to start moaning, and then hand the job to Kent on a plate.’ He spoke deliberately, as though rehearsing an argument already tried many times. ‘Dux could pull a lot of people together across party boundaries. He's wise, he's well-respected, he had the popular touch. He could deliver the blow, and nobody could call Kent a traitor.’
‘Shades of a National Committee?’
The florid man held up his hand. ‘Stay away from that.’ He paused, and puffed at his cigar thoughtfully for a moment before looking at Hunter again, and now his look was a warning. ‘Some people might have thought that a good idea, at the time. But ploughing old furrows can be a bad thing, Richard, a dangerous thing - you can dig up unexploded bombs.’ He paused again for a moment, and icicles suddenly hung in the air. Then he switched back into joviality. ‘Dux would give Kent a nice red carpet.’
Hunter smiled slowly. ‘Europhobes across the spectrum call for an elder statesman to sort out the mess, intense lobbying now focusses on the House of Lords?’
‘As long as you don't go any closer than that.’ Butcher's tone signalled a warning again. ‘Keep your ferreting instincts under control.’
Hunter thought for a moment. Now he had an arrow, complete with tip and shaft, but he needed more feathers. ‘You’ll need more support than this bunch tonight.’
Fresh circles of cigar smoke curled up into the air. ‘Try Bryan Marley.’
Hunter's jaw dropped. Marley was a dark horse at the centre of a radical New Labour faction. ‘Is he on board?’
Now it was Butcher's turn to smile sphinxishly. ‘We're talking to a lot of people.’
‘But he'd never get into bed with people like Croesus, would he?’
More perfect smoke rings. ‘Going to bed with people means planning to screw them.’
Hunter shook his head incredulously. For a moment he wondered whether Butcher had begun to float away on a tide of good brandy, for his own thoughts had begun to blur, and carry him cosily away from the world of cold reality into a mirage shaped by intrigue and conspiracy, a land of shadows and sharp knives. He stretched, and yawned. It was time for him to go home, knock up a few words on his laptop, file them, and go to bed. He could inspect Butcher's words again in the morning by the clear bright light of common sense, and take a more considered view then. He emptied his glass, and Butcher levered himself a little unsteadily to his feet, and they clasped hands in the warmest of alcoholic mistrusts.
‘But no names, old boy?’ Butcher slurred his words a little, and frowned. He had also drunk more than expected, and it was a nuisance, because he also had work to do. He gripped the back of a chair. He would have another strong black coffee once Hunter had gone.
‘No names.’ Hunter nodded. The florid man was releasing him, for now he could write what he liked, and class every word as pure speculation. He beamed a little drunkenly. He had done a good day's work, and it was time for him to return to Notting Hill Gate, tie up his loose ends, and then let Elaine warm him into slumber.
He roughed out his piece on his way home, and realised that the lights in his flat were still on as his cab slowed to a halt. He licked his lips in anticipation. It was not quite midnight, and he would still make the London edition. Elaine could make him some coffee whilst he was writing, and then comfort him nicely. For whilst a man might be full of good resoultions about changing his lifestyle when he is stone cold sober, alcohol can break the best inhibitions. He ran a fantasy reel in his mind - he might make Elaine pay rent in a most submissive coin, telling her to kneel in front of him, and pay him a most direct sexual tribute, or possibly shaft her on his sittingroom sofa, so that it would be clear who was dictating and who must obey.
The lift in the three story modern block was already waiting, and this was another good omen. Hunter whirred upwards in a haze of happy expectation. He was a mercurial man, capable of veering from sad depression to excited elation in the blink of an eye, and just now life looked to be good, and getting better. He fumbled for a moment with his key on the landing, opened his flat door, and stopped short.
He could scent stale cigarette smoke. The smell soured his joy like a shower of cold water, for Elaine was strictly forbidden to smoke in the flat. But then his anger ebbed. He had rather more interesting things on his mind, and he could afford to be magnanimous. He would look stern, and make Elaine crawl.
He swept on into his small sittingroom, heading for his laptop, and paused in sudden bewilderment. The room was dark and empty, though he had plainly seen it lit from street level.
Something rustled behind him, and Hunter turned, to see Elaine standing in the doorway in a cream silk nightdress that clung to her tightly. Her eyes were inviting, and her short blonde hair demanded to be rumpled.
‘Welcome home.’ She smiled, and her smile was plainly an invitation: she was rubbing her back against the edge of the door like a cat.
Hunter readied himself to pounce. But then he drew back, for he sensed something shifty about Elaine’s boldness, and the gleam in her eyes seemed edged with guilt.
He sniffed pointedly, to make it plain that he could smell the lingering stink of tobacco, and she looked down.
‘I'm sorry, I couldn't stop them.’ She spoke in her little girl voice, one that she used to seek forgiveness for minor misdemeanours, like forgetting to stock up on butter or coffee. But she was tense, and her tenseness was a signal of something rather more serious than forgetfulness.
‘Them?’ For a moment Hunter was baffled. Then his anger returned, and now it burned fiercely. Elaine was his guest, and had no rights. But he knew that from time to time she had invited dubious antique dealers up from the Portobello Road market for a spot of off-street trading when he was working. She always claimed that she needed somewhere safe to do business, and Hunter’s flat was just a stone’s throw from the market. He did not like the idea of his flat serving as a possible thieves’ den, and also wondered whether she ever added a spot of dalliance into the bargain. He had warned her not to do it again, under pain of immediate eviction, and she had promised she would not. But now she had broken her promise. He struggled to keep his gathering fury under control. He must wring a neck, and file a story. But he must file first.
‘They were dealers, friends of mine from the market. They had some gold, and a lot of silver, and they didn't want to spread it out in public.’ Elaine’s voice caught, and she began to sound fearful, because she did not like the look in Hunter’s eyes. ‘They insisted on being somewhere private. They left just before you got back.’
Hunter glared at her. ‘You swore you'd never bring anyone up here again.’ He spoke very quietly, but his voice edged with sharp steel.
Elaine did not reply.
Hunter hardened his heart. This was the showdown moment he had been dreaming about.
‘You'll have to go, in the morning, as soon as you've packed.’ His voice was a tocsin, sounding a doom and a judgment, and his eyes held no pity. ‘It's my flat, not yours, and you've broken your word.’
They stared at each other, and Elaine sensed a chasm yawn before her. She had chanced her arm, and misjudged, and everything she had been carefully building for the past two years was crumbling.
‘Oh, Richard.’ She began to weep, crumpling onto her knees, and joining her hands together in theatrical supplication. ‘Please don't throw me out. Please give me another chance, just one more.’ Her voice broke with her sobbing. Now she was really afraid, and she was unsure whether she could wring blood from this stone. ‘I'll pay rent if you like, you don't know hard it'd be for me to find another place like this.’
‘Tomorrow.’ Hunter gritted his teeth. ‘You can pack all your stuff in the morning, but I want you gone by the time I get back from work.’
Now she had her arms around his knees, her face pressed against his trousers. ‘I promise I'll never do it again. Really, I won't. Please believe me, please.’ Her voice had taken on a hysterical edge, and she was shaking with the intensity of her emotion.
‘No.’ Hunter's word was final. He pulled away in an attempt to free himself. But she held fast, and his patience snapped. He put both hands on her shoulders, pushing her away hard, and for a moment they struggled in silence. Then suddenly Elaine relaxed her grip on his legs, and shuffled back on her haunches to stare up him, her face streaked with her tears. Now her eyes matched Hunter's for hardness, for she had tried her best, and she would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her crawl out on all fours.
‘Sod you, then.’ She struggled slowly to her feet, standing with her back to him. ‘I'll go and sleep on the sofa, and move out in the morning, and I hope you bloody well rot.’
Hunter made his own coffee, and drove Elaine from his mind as he polished up his political speculation, and cold fury drove him on. Then he undressed slowly, alone in his bedroom, and felt drained. He was a wordsmith, not a blacksmith, and abhorred violence. But he knew that he had done the right thing, even though it had been hard. He buried himself under a lonely duvet, and wished that life could be free from squabbles and complications.
However he also knew that he would not relent. He had met a couple of Elaine's dealer friends whilst helping her man her Portobello Road stall from time to time on a Saturday, and not liked the look of them. It would be a cruel break, but a clean one, and one for the best. He would try to find someone else to fill the breach, and pursue his quest for perfection.
He was soon asleep. But something woke him in the middle of the night, scrabbling softly at his side. It was Elaine: she was naked, and lying beside him, stroking his shoulder.
Hunter tugged his duvet tight around him and pretended to sleep. He would not yield. But stroking fingers found a gap, burrowing down his side.
After a moment he rolled onto his back. ‘What do you want?’ He made his voice gruff.
‘I'll give you back my key, as well as paying half the rent.’ Elaine's voice was soft and girlish and tempting, for she prized Hunter and his flat highly, had turned the matter over and over in her mind, and felt a fool for giving up so weakly.
‘No.’ His refusal was adamant.
‘Then I'll only be able to get in when you were here.’ She essayed a nibble at his earlobe, all the while forcing her way inside his pyjama trousers.
‘No.’
Elaine's hand began to probe across his groin towards his genitals, and Hunter's blood began to heat despite himself, though he knew he should hold firm. He pulled away, attempting to wrap his duvet around him again as a shield, but her hands tugged it free, and she began to caress him again, running her fingertips as lightly as feathers up and down the base of his spine and over his hips, down across his groin to his penis in little butterfly caresses that made him swell beyond controlling, and his blood boiled, and gathering lust overtook reason.
‘All right.’ He could feel warm flesh slide up against him, and her hand tugging him gently towards her, and he turned over, because his lust was now irresistible. ‘But you’d better start looking around for a new home.’
Elaine was meek in submission. ‘Yes, Richard.’ Now her arms were around him, and she was close against him, and they were both sweating a little. ‘I’ll do whatever you want.’ But she was quite sure in her own mind that there was one thing she would not do, and that was to move. They had rowed before, and the rows had all blown over. She might crawl for a while, until he relented. But she liked his flat, and she counted on staying.
Hunter thought only of sating his fury. But others were also taking a close interest in him. It was late, and two men were talking on a secure line.
‘Cradock must have got to him.’ The voice was clipped, possibly military.
‘I
thought he was dead.’ The second man sounded weary, as though he had enjoyed a
good evening, and pleasure had weighed on him just a little too heavily.
‘No, he's still very much alive. He just vanished from sight for while.’
‘Can we do anything about him?’
‘What sort of thing?
‘Anything.’ The weary voice was hard. ‘Something definitive.’
‘Really?’ The clipped voice sounded surprised. ‘I'd need it in writing.’
‘Something accidental?’
‘I'll think about it.’ The clipped voice was giving no hostages. ‘I'll have to put a man on your journalist johnny, make sure he doesn't get at the papers.’
‘Had Cradock still got them?’ Now fear touched the second man's voice.
‘We think so.’
‘They're dynamite, you know.’
‘I know.’ The clipped voice hardened. ‘Could be embarrassing for a lot of people.’
He waited for a reply, but the line had clicked, and was dead.
Fear is a fearful master, and only terror can assuage terror. Decisions were now going to have to be made, and agreed, and implemented, and consequences would have to be considered. Calm, prosperous lives possibly faced frightening sea changes. Two men thought of steps they must take, and both knew that they were now gambling for the very highest possible stakes.