A Woman's Place (11 page)

Lachlan slipped papers back into place and pondered. ‘He is a bit of a puzzle, I must say. The reports from St Kitts are detailed and worth reading: he seems to have good empathy there. And he responds well to medication and therapy.'

‘Gets his confidence back, more like. You'll have to come to my postgraduate class on release policy. It's secretly subtitled “These we have failed” – should turn your hair a bit.'

‘It can't be that bad, surely. I mean, isn't the whole point of research to ensure we know what we're doing when we sign discharge papers?'

Lachlan's earnestness made his tutor smile. ‘You mean, is forensic psychiatry an art or a science? The latter every time, naturally. But in a case like Dunn's it's all guesswork when you come down to it. Still, there's one consolation.'

‘And that is?'

The older man paused, but Lachlan was waiting respectfully.

‘That case in the European Court recently. Highly relevant, though our professional bodies were hostile. It ruled that the Home Secretary, not medics, has the last word on the release of convicted murderers. That's intended to keep the bad guys inside, of course, but it works both ways.'

The young American shook his head, puzzled. His professor clapped him cheerily on the back and moved him towards the door.

‘Don't you see? If anything goes wrong, we point our finger firmly at the politicians. After all, whoever heard of a doctor getting the blame?'

It was dark and miserable by the time Karen pushed open the front gate. Sodden leaves on the path made it slippery; feeling virtuous, the girl fetched a brush and piled the mess into a plastic bag to be left by the bins for collection. Then she shook raindrops off her jacket and hung it in the hall.

House-sharing was not quite as she had expected, not least because the other inhabitants were new acquaintances. Older men, really: Karen was a bit hazy about their ages and hadn't liked to ask for fear of exposing her own youth. Most of her college friends were in halls of residence where they moaned bitterly about the outrageous expense and persistent thefts, or in digs with rapacious landlords or bad drains or damp. She was fortunate to have the smallest bedroom in this house with such a relatively civilised bunch.

With the television over the fridge switched on she made hot chocolate and listened to the early-evening news. It would be sometime before anyone else came home, but she hoped there might be an opportunity to eat with a companion. There were chops in the fridge and potatoes to bake in the microwave. Somebody had bought avocado pears which would have to be eaten soon or they would go black – those could do for starters. Followed by cheese, the runny smelly kind Anthony liked. No one would starve.

Which of the other tenants might she prefer to come home first? Which – if only one were to be here for supper – might she choose?

Karen had had only two boyfriends – if you could call them that. One had turned out to be a murderer and the other, Jim Betts the tabloid journalist, had asked her out only to winkle out information about her mother. Years ago now. They'd had a lot to drink and later, at the flat, he'd got … very nasty. The memory was still vivid and horrible. For a moment she held her head in her hands. Jim Betts was an animal. If the chance ever came, she, Karen Stalker, would punish him, though goodness knew how.

But then London was full of dangers. These dark nights the walk home from the Tube gave her the shivers. Karen was well aware that her naturally swinging walk, and her pretty face, would turn heads, and saw no reason to hide herself. But that had implications. She ought to learn
self-defence
– karate or something similar. Maybe the local sports centre would have a class. She resolved to find out.

Yet she was not anti-sex – on the contrary, once she allowed herself to think more calmly about it. She wriggled on her seat and wondered how she would react if a charming and good-looking man put a proposition to her. If he put his hand on her body and whispered in her ear, would she recoil and scream blue murder?

There was one way to find out. A small experiment. Cautiously she moved her own hand over her breast and felt her nipple harden. Then she ran her palm gently but firmly up the side of her cheek like a caress. The effect was soothing but made her tingle. She paused before playing her fingers up the inside of her thigh – even done lightly it made her catch her breath. She sat back, pleased. Everything appeared to be in working order. Maybe it was simply a question of the right chap; and that, surely, was only a matter of time.

Or maybe, if she found somebody she liked, she ought to take the lead: the best, kindest man might be terribly shy. Anthony, most certainly; even Fred and Lachlan. She could imagine each of them confronting a girl they liked yet being hesitant. If the moment came, she would not waver – she'd make the most of it.

Like a dog she shook herself, then realised that the temperature must have fallen outside and the kitchen was cold. Snow was forecast. She rose and adjusted the heating thermostat and settled down again at the table, trying to retrace her thoughts. Before the spectre of Betts had entered her
mind, she had been about to start on a much more entertaining track – what was it? Ah yes, which of the three men with whom she shared the house might she like to come home and share her supper? And maybe eventually more than a meal?

Most girls would envy her such flatmates. All graduates, working and earning, all with superb prospects. No unpleasant habits – at least, nothing serious, especially if Fred could become slightly better organised. Anthony, she realised, must be wealthy – he never mentioned a mortgage on the house – and Lachlan too; it cost a fortune to go through medical school in the USA. Fred was a different matter – he often said that his parliamentary salary at just over £33,000 was the most money he'd ever earned and felt like riches. Remarks like that made the other two exchange amused glances which the good-natured Fred didn't seem to mind.

Fred, then? Would she like him to be the first home, to sit with her across this table, and maybe touch knees under it? It was hard to see him like that. Although he was probably four years older than she was, his lack of familiarity with London, his continual surprise at being there at all and his general inexperience of life made him seem awkward and adolescent. Some girls like to mother their boyfriends but her preference would be for a man to look up to. Fred was a pal, and she could foresee herself becoming very fond of him, but as a potential lover he was not in the frame.

What about Lachlan? She pictured the slim American at the door, shaking the night from his coat and unwinding his scarf. His hair would be wet; would she jump up and fetch a towel, or would that be too obvious? In a house like this good manners were essential: they had to respect each other, as Lachlan had asserted that morning. It might be better to have a hot mug of tea or soup ready instead. She rose, filled the kettle and plugged it in. That would be neutral – appropriate for anybody.

Lachlan was a dear, and nice-looking. He treated her with courtesy, but in the end he was only in the UK for a short while and was buried in his studies. He shared with his cousin an essential seriousness about life which to Karen was attractive but strange. Not wildly academic herself, she had never known the thrill of pitting her wits in an intellectual battle and winning. If a book bored her, she put it down. If it was a set book, she would struggle and complain bitterly. Neither Lachlan nor Anthony, she knew instinctively, would be satisfied with that. Fred would have understood completely.

That left Anthony. He was the eldest and, as she had said to her mother, did not seem at all sure of himself when it came to girls. He was unmarried and did not appear to have a girlfriend. Not that he was gay – at least, there was no evidence; he was manly enough. A curious contrast was emerging between his apparent shyness and the complete confidence on display when it came to his job. Anthony was full of gruff comments in the morning as he read
The Times
or picked up nuggets from radio or TV news. More than once he'd been collected early from the house by a BBC car. His tenants, pretending nonchalance, would listen for his contribution, and hug themselves with pride when he did well, and congratulate him later in the day. The whole household was wrapped up in Anthony's career, even Fred, who had never been approached by the BBC and received calls only from the
Milton and Hambridge Gazette
.

Suppose she could get Anthony to unbend a little? It was hard to believe that he'd
never
had a sexual relationship – he must have, surely. Perhaps he'd had an unhappy love affair and was still upset. A fresh young girl like herself could coax him out of his unhappiness. As the child of an MP she understood the pressures of his job all too well. In fact they had a lot in common. And as the landlord – the boss, the authority – he ought to have first refusal.

Have to play it carefully, though. He might easily be scared off. He'd need a companion for the Blue Ball or constituency events: she'd be willing. It had been such ages since she'd dressed up for any lad, and Anthony was a
man
. He had a fine body and looked splendid in a tuxedo. Maybe he'd buy her a ball dress in blue silk, or a necklace, or both…

The back door clattered open. Gusts of freezing air blasted into the kitchen. Karen started, a
guilty expression on her face, as if her thoughts might be instantly readable.

‘God! It's foul out there. Evening, Karen!'

She jumped up. ‘You need a coffee. I'll put the kettle on.'

‘Great girl. Thanks.'

The door opened wider and two more figures entered. Karen started to laugh. The three men had arrived home together.

‘Right, now let's have the review of the week. Chadwick, what's on the agenda?'

Ted Bampton was enjoying himself. When you thought about it, one government department was much the same as any other. He had been wrong, he realised, to jib at this mongrel conglomerate of a ministry and he should never have opened his mouth to the Prime Minister in protest. That tiff had rapidly become part of Whitehall legend and he would always regret it. Funny how there was no such thing any more as a private conversation.

If it came to prestige, there was plenty to be had in the DHWF – he was already thinking in the jargon. He had reason to be grateful. Under different circumstances he might have entered the Cabinet as the most lowly of its twenty-three members; but the sheer size of his new empire guaranteed his position at number eighteen. And if he handled the job well that'd bring a leap to a more significant department next time. He sighed inwardly. Even in his wildest dreams, the role of Chancellor of the Exchequer did not come to the likes of Ted Bampton and privately he doubted if he was capable of its complexities. Better to make a success of the task in hand.

The wife had been thrilled and the girls had danced a jig around him and flung their arms around his neck. The constituency association had decided to throw a party. Local newspapers had carried many versions of Bampton's ruddy visage, at the count and in the department, proudly displaying a Secretary of State's gold-encrusted red box. It was, he reflected, probably the right job at this stage in his career: high profile, but needing a calm, mature hand. A pity, therefore, that he hadn't had more say in the choosing of his team.

Harrison, for example. A good chap, but … flaky, was that the word? And put straight to number two despite his record. Bampton and his wife had discussed Derek in the peace of their marital bed, where he often expressed concern, knowing no words said there would ever go any further. She distrusted the man but acknowledged his charm and slickness with the media. Bampton rehearsed the phrases he might have to use, about a Minister's private life being nothing whatever to do with his ability at his job. He hoped Harrison would have the wit to practise discretion.

And Mrs Stalker. Goodness knows why she'd been promoted. Never even been a PPS: knew nothing of the inner workings of government. Yet there had to be a woman, he supposed, otherwise militant feminists would cause an outcry. It was all wrong, this positive discrimination. Choosing on the basis of sex – colour was even worse – kept good blokes out of the frame. The old Prime Minister had got it right when he declared he always promoted on the basis of merit alone. To the dollies that was a deliberate insult and had made them livid; to Bampton it was no more than the truth.

Back to work. Martin Chadwick was leading the team through the parliamentary agenda.

‘And the second reading of the Matrimonial Causes Amendment Bill will be on Thursday. It's Lord Chancellor's business, so the Home Secretary will open the debate, and we're invited to close it. I thought Mrs Stalker –'

‘Oh, we can hardly allow a debate that's been opened by a Cabinet Minister to be closed by a junior,' Derek objected. ‘It ought to be you, Ted, surely? We'll all be in support of course.'

Bampton would not otherwise be involved in the bill and would not expect to serve on its standing committee. The winding-up speech of an important debate so early in the session would require a trough of hard work for which he was not about to volunteer. ‘Not needed, I think, on this one. But how about you, Derek? Minister of State's about the right level.'

Harrison tried to sound hesitant but he had got what he wanted. ‘If you're sure, Secretary of State…'

‘That's settled. Mrs Stalker can attend during the day and take notes for you. Now, is there any other business?'

‘Only to remind all Ministers to read the document you will find in your boxes tonight on the financial position of the department following the Budget.' Chadwick had a copy in front of him, marked ‘secret': only civil servants had seen it as yet, after bitter feuds with their counterparts at the Treasury. ‘Inevitably money is tight. There will have to be some difficult decisions before the year is out, I'm afraid. Ministers might like to start briefing affected Members – at least, those minded to be friendly – in the next few weeks.'