CHAPTER
TWELVE: CANTEEN CLARET
Martin Scott and Mike Naismith were replete with steak and stilton and Financeday claret. The newspaper's diningroom was not the best place to eat in the City, but it was both cheap and convenient, and a perfect place to gossip. They had been discussing Madison's news conference disgrace, and reports that Cowan had gone to see Manning with word of in-house treachery. Madison's days with the paper looked numbered, and both men counted on having ringside seats to watch blood flow.
Naismith drained his glass, and eyed the claret bottle, but sadly it was quite empty. He was a thin, dark intense man in a crumpled suit, with deepset eyes, and a weakness for Financeday female employees. He had been much taken with Veronica Finch, and had counted on building on friendship. But now he feared that he would have to push his dream out of the window, and reconcile himself to the prospect of a cold bed in a cold home, for he was divorced, living a lonely life in a flat half an hour away along the Central Line, and sadly in need of consolation.
‘She was a sonsy lass.’ He spoke with a faint Aberdeen burr. ‘I woudna’ have minded...’ His voice trailed away reflectively.
Scott sniffed disapprovingly. He might be jovial, but he had no time for stationery cupboard seductions. He looked at his watch. He was married to a comfortable woman who kept a nice neat home. It was time for him to head homewards.
The diningroom door opened, and he caught his breath. ‘Well, well, look who comes here.’ He settled himself again in his chair. Perhaps it was a bit premature to think of leaving.
The two men watched Hunter approach, and Naismith licked his lips. Now they could have a really good gossip. He knew Hunter liked a glass, and a scandal rated several.
Hunter pulled up an empty chair. ‘Grant Madison’s trying to shaft me.’
‘So we’ve heard.’ Scott nodded. ‘That girl.’
Hunter eyed the empty claret bottle, and beckoned to the diningroom waitress. He needed sympathy and support. ‘I’ll have steak, very rare, and two more bottles. One of them straightaway.’
Scott and Naismith waited.
Hunter took a deep breath. ‘Mo told me. He said he’d warn Terry.’
Scott turned towards the door. ‘Here he is.’
Terry Manning, Financeday's editor, strode towards them. He had listened to Cowan, and already taken remedial measures. Now he was more interested in Wonders. The shares had begun to climb steeply in Hongkong trading, and he needed advice. He looked quickly at Hunter.
‘Good piece on Wonders. Keep it up.’ He beamed, pulling up a chair, and reached to take a clean glass from a neighbouring table before pouring himself a glass of claret. Hunter winced, and signalled to the waitress for a fresh bottle. Manning raised his glass in tribute. ‘Charlie Archell started buying at 167 this morning, now he's making a fortune.’ He paused between sips. ‘How high can Morissey fly?’
Hunter looked judicious. ‘Maybe two-thirty, two-forty.’
Manning beamed. Big numbers were just what he wanted to hear, for Lord Archell, Financeday's chairman, had spent the afternoon piling into Wonders in a spectacular way. Rapid calls to banks and stockbrokers at home and abroad had cut big, big deals in record time, and friendly institutions had both bought heavily, and committed all their purchases to Archell interests at pre-arranged prices, with never a thought of evading insider trading controls, whilst Manning had ridden profitably on his chairman's coat-tails.
Scott and Naismith looked equally wise. Every Financeday employee with a friend in the City and a penny to spare had started tucking a few Wonders away as fast as they could.
Manning looked at Hunter again, now attacking his steak. The slice was pinkly medium, but he chewed at it bravely. The Financeday canteen was not renowned for its cuisine. ‘By the bye, Grant asked me to say goodbye.’
The three men with him understood immediately.
‘He's going to Africa. Charlie's got a paper in Johannesburg. He thought Grant could do with a change of climate.’ Manning swirled his wine happily in his glass. Everything had been done neatly and cleanly.
Hunter looked severe. ‘You know about the girl?’
Manning nodded. ‘I know. I hauled him up, and he confessed. It was a nasty business - I would have shot the bastard. But Charlie thought it might give us some handy leverage in Downing Street. Grant’s gone on leave for a week from tonight, and then he’s got to go.’
Naismith leaned forward. ‘What happens to the girl?’ He really had fancied her strongly.
Manning shrugged. ‘The FO are sending her to Singapore as a passport clerk, and her boss at the FO is being shipped to Tehran - they couldn't think of anywhere worse - and his counterpart at the Treasury has been packed off to Newcastle, to help design new regional aid programmes.’
He looked pleased with himself. Lord Archell had spent an hour stirring up a major storm in Whitehall, and a Permanent Secretary at the Treasury had sent a handwritten letter of apology.
Naismith made a mental note to call a friend at the Foreign Office and ask him to pass on a message of sympathy. Perhaps Veronica would have a few days to spare before catching her plane. He might still be able to console a damsel in distress.
Hunter smiled to himself, and thought of a card and a scribbled telephone number tucked in his wallet. Poor Veronica would need tender loving care, and strong arms, and very possibly a bed in which to grieve.
Scott sipped at his glass thoughtfully. ‘Who's going to take Grant’s place?’ Sometimes he felt sorry for Naismith, living all alone. Financeday's industrial editor was expected to get out and about, and travel a good deal, and lavish expenses went with the job.
Manning understood perfectly. He glanced at Naismith and Hunter, but he already had a good idea who get take the job. Naismith was a solid man, but Hunter was a high-flyer. ‘How about one of you two?’
Naismith held his breath, and let it out slowly as Hunter shook his head.
‘Not me. I'm happy where I am.’ He was about to go on, when Manning cut in.
‘Thought so. You're doing some good stuff. Maybe you'll be editor one day.’
Hunter gathered himself together. Now was the time. He smiled politely. ‘Not when I'm sitting on the scoop of a lifetime.’
Manning narrowed his eyes. ‘Wonders?’ He looked incredulous. Wonders was good, but not epoch-making.
‘No. A coup d'etat.’ Hunter outlined Cradock quickly. ‘I've got enough signed memos and letters to blow half the government away.’
Manning listened, and looked thoughtful, and glanceed at Scott. But Financeday's news editor was studying his claret closely. Hunter's scoop of a lifetime sounded risky, and possibly fraught with political hazards, and he disliked problems. Manning must make up his own mind.
Manning glanced at Naismith. But Naismith was lost in his own world, dreaming of overnight trips with Financeday secretaries to smart provincial hotels.
‘I'm going to home in on one top name, open him up, and use him as a peg for the story.’ Hunter pressed home his attack. He must have Manning on side. Scott might be doubtful, but he would do as he was told.
‘Who's your target?’ Manning sounded guarded, but he was not opposed.
Hunter put his forefinger to his lips. This story had to be a blitz, with no possible chance of advance warning.
Manning nodded. ‘Hmm.’ He was silent for a moment, and swirled his glass again, as though gathering his thoughts. ‘I'll have to tell Charlie.’ He looked at Hunter quickly. ‘He's not in any of your papers?’
Hunter shook his head. ‘He was a reporter in Scotland at the time.’
‘Oh, right.’ Manning sounded reasssured, though he suspected that some of the chairman's latterday acquaintances might well have been be tainted, and might well cut up rough. ‘I'll consult with him and come back.’
Another silence, much longer this time. Then he guffawed, and reached for Hunter's second bottle of claret, now nearly empty, and suddenly banged the bottle on the table.
‘All right, I like it.’ His voice rose, and it was strong, and now he was beaming again. ‘We could run the bastards into the ground.’ He waved the bottle like a crusading sword. ‘They're bound to be eurosceptics - Charlie will love it. We’ll crucify the lot of them.’
He got to his feet, and looked businesslike. He had gossipped enough: now he must talk to the boss. Hunter's price projections would fill Charlie with joy, and his plot story might slide a nice little blockbuster under Jim Small. Archell had enmeshed himself in discussions with Sam Goodman over a new digital TV franchise, but they seemed to be going nowhere. A nice bit of pressure might come in handy. But he needed to warn Charlie a bit sharpish, because the plot story might also prove a political nuclear weapon, and good editors always shield themselves well from possible fall-out.
Hunter signalled to the waitress to bring his bill, added Scott and Naismith in a moment of generosity, and threw in a sizeable tip. Now all the prospects were brilliant. He followed Scott and Naismith up the stairs towards Financeday’s main door, stopping on the way to collect Cradock’s case. Veronica had tried to trap him, now it was his turn to trap her.
The military looking security guard was still on duty. He tugged Cradock's case from under his desk, watched Hunter pick it up, and led the way to the door, carrying a bunch of keys, with Scott, Naismith, and Hunter following in procession. Naismith eyed the case curiously as Scott went off to mobilise taxis.
‘What's that?’
Hunter winked. ‘Research for my big one.’
‘You think Terry will go through with it?’
‘Hope so.’ Hunter was giving no hostages to fortune. But he brimmed with optimism.
He trundled the case down the Finance steps, and the three men parted on the pavement in a haze of claret bonhomie.
However the security guard walked quickly back to his desk and picked up his telephone. He had an intent look in his eyes.
‘Sorry to disturb you so late, sir.’ He surveyed the Financeday lobby to make sure it was free from curious ears before he spoke again. ‘Your man had taken the case home again.’
A gruff voice muttered at him irritably.
The security guard bit his lip. ‘Yes, sir, I know it's late. But he was with the news editor and his deputy, and the deputy knew what it was. From something he said I think Manning does as well.’
The telephone muttered again, but this time it was wholly alert.
‘Yes, I did, sir. Now we can clock it, wherever it is.’ The security guard replaced his telephone, and made himself comfortable again behind his desk. Sometimes initiative and alertness are key qualities, even if dozy old men preferred to sleep.
Hunter rehearsed a short but sympathetic little speech as his taxi bore him back towards Notting Hill Gate. He would be warm, and caring, and wholly kindhearted.
His flat was dark, and somehow very lonely without Elaine, but he switched on the lights in his drawingroom and kitchen, put a kettle on for coffee, and switched on his telephone. Mobiles might be fine for business, but romance must always be free from interference.
A girl's voice answered. But she was not Veronica. ‘I'm sorry, she's already in bed.’
‘I'm calling because I've just heard.’ Hunter's voice dripped with warm compassion. ‘Tell her I think she was set up. She's been made a scapegoat.’
The telephone clicked, and for a moment he thought he had been cut off. But then a small tearfilled voice snuffled at him.
Hunter made soothing noises. ‘There, there. It's not your fault. Your people stitched you up.’
More snuffling.
‘You didn't deserve it. Not Singapore.’
The telephone let out a sharp little wail, and Hunter struggled to keep his face straight. ‘Don't admit defeat. You should be out painting the town red.’
The telephone sniffed, and murmured interrogatively. Veronica's flatmates had been saying much the same thing, but girlfriends' shoulders were not the best shoulders on which to cry when sorrow brought humiliation.
‘A bottle of bubbly, somewhere smart.’ Hunter felt his way carefully. He could sense a fish on his line, and he wanted to land it.
‘Tonight?’ Veronica's voice climbed, tight with excitement and alarm. She was mightily flattered. But her face was a mess, and her hair all rats' tails. She also feared a trap. She had just come out of a plot to set Hunter up, and he must be aware. Perhaps he was plotting revenge.
‘Why not?’ Hunter glanced at his watch. The girl had a Kensington phone number, and could not be far. ‘I'm not bitter. Madison and the Treasury were the villains. They wanted to use you.’
‘I wish I could. But I'm a mess.’ Veronica was now sitting up in bed, inspecting herself in a mirror. She was sorely tempted, but prudence counselled caution, and her face was a sight too puffy for flirting. ‘I could do tomorrow.’
Hunter remembered Gorbodey. ‘Wednesday? Say dinner, and then a spot of slowdancing?’
‘I'd love that.’ Veronica warmed. Bubbly and slowdancing suggested a nightclub, and nightclubs were always fun. She reeled off her address, and set a date for eight, replaced her telephone, and smiled at herself. Suddenly life was not quite so desperate after all.
A military sounding man with a regimental tie was also deep in a telephone conversation as Hunter angled.
‘I want him to have an accident, and pretty damn quick.’ His voice was clipped and brisk. ‘Try and tidy him away by the end of the week, make it a hit-and-run, and make sure it's definitive. And I want you to keep a very close eye on Hunter. We need to know his movements, and we're going to have to relieve him of that case sooner or later.’
He listened for a moment, and chuckled. ‘Yes, I like that. Monitor him round the clock, then we'll know where he is, day and night. We can follow the case as well, if he moves it again.’
His telephone talked again, and he shook his head. ‘No, nothing violent, yet. Just Cradock, for the time being. Let's see how things develop.’
The military man replaced his telephone and smiled grimly to himself. Cradock was shaping into a tasty little earner, and Hunter might possibly ice a very nice cake.