A Parliamentary Affair (38 page)

‘You said yes the moment you let me do that,’ he ground at her. ‘And I’m bloody well having it, do you hear? What are you – some kind of prick-tease? If you didn’t want it, you shouldn’t fucking well have asked me up here.’

He was drunker than he had realised but she had really got him going. There was no way he could simply pick up his jacket and leave. Damned women – there was only one way; he’d show her who was master. He held her tight with one hand and unzipped his fly. Grabbing her right hand with his free one he shoved it inside and closed her shaking fingers over his penis. She was rigid with terror. Too bad: that was her problem, not his.

Karen tried to push him away but he kept her hand tight and lunged towards her, kissing her hard on her mouth, that would shut her up. The two swayed in a fitful embrace, then the girl lost her footing and slipped, almost fainted, down on one knee; there she found herself looking straight … at
it
, huge and red and wrinkled and horrible with an opaque drip on the end a few inches from her face. Betts gave her a push and she sprawled on the floor, half in and half out of the kitchen. The packet of coffee went with her and burst, scattering everywhere, its aroma filling the air.

He worked quickly now, ignoring her protests. There was no time for a condom – she would wriggle away while he was fiddling. His face was set in a grimace as he pulled off her panties and his
own trousers and underpants and laid himself on top of her, using his greater weight to counter her struggles. With one hand he pinned her arms over her head; the other he held near her face.

‘Now, if you don’t want to get hurt, you’ll open your legs like a good girl,’ he grunted. Eyes wide with fright she shuddered. ‘Yes, you will. Otherwise you will get a wallop. I mean it.’

Spangles of red and white exploded in her brain and she screamed as he hit her very hard, once, across the mouth.

‘Keep quiet, you little bitch! You just keep your knees wide open and your mouth shut, you hear?’

She could not get away. He drove himself into her hard, pounding brutally. It had not crossed his mind that she might be a virgin, not in that tight mini-dress and the provocative way she had wiggled in the restaurant and in the kitchen, with that come-on look. He cursed her for a stupid slag. Ten years ago he had been one of a gang of four boys that had held down a girl on Wavertree Common one summer evening, stuffing her knickers into her mouth to stop her screaming while they all had a go. She had been a sobbing heap when they had finished, but one of the older boys had told him comfortingly afterwards that the reason for all the blood was not because they had been particularly rough, but because she was a virgin. Virgins were harder work. Best to ignore her stricken expression and get on with it. In a moment he was spent, and sagged, panting, over her.

‘Right! I’m done,’ he said in a matter-of-fact voice. ‘That wasn’t so horrible, was it?’

He picked up her panties and wiped away the blood smears from himself and from between her legs. ‘Sorry about the mess.’

She found her voice from somewhere, a long way away. She was sober now if he wasn’t.

‘You shouldn’t have done that. I’m only fifteen.’

He was astonished. ‘What? But you said you were going to college next year.’

‘Right, I am.’ She sat up wearily. ‘But to do A levels, not a degree, not yet. I was fifteen on the first of June.’

Gathering up his clothes he looked at her uncertainly. There were coffee grounds in her hair, some in his mouth, He spat them out in distaste.

‘I shall say you asked for it. You would have to explain why you invited me in.’

‘I said no, and I meant no. What if I go to the police?’

Betts thought as rapidly as ever in his life. Then he got it. ‘I should tell my editor what I know about your mother and Mr Roger Dickson. I bet they did it here; I can describe it all now.’ He looked around at the disorderly flat. ‘On the sofa, maybe, or there on the carpet. Where do you think I should put them, two naked people rolling around among the Hansards?’

Her eyes widened in confusion and horror. ‘No! You mustn’t! You promised! You said you wouldn’t say a word about all that.’

‘That was before you started howling about fetching the boys in blue.’ He was gathering up his things, zipping up his fly. He had to get out as quickly as possible.

‘Right, then, Miss Karen. I want a promise in return. This little incident is between you and me, right? You don’t tell anybody, not your mother or anyone. After you’ve had a bath you’ll feel better. It happens to every woman sooner or later if they’re not to die old maids, so you could say I’ve I done you a favour. Not a word to anybody, or your ma and her boyfriend will be all over the front pages. Is that a deal?’

Karen cast around for an alternative and, finding none, nodded dumbly. Her body was stiffening up and she longed for hot water, flannel and soap. The side of her face throbbed. The flat was in a filthy state – it would have to be cleaned up before she collapsed into bed tonight.

What a God-forsaken mess. She felt a terrible sense of loss: whenever she had dreamed of this moment it involved some wonderful Adonis on a grassy bank under a blue sky, sunlight filtering through his hair from behind scudding clouds. Not a drunk, foul, ferrety man with a rough Liverpool
accent and brutal hard hands and the odour of curry, cigarettes and bitter coffee on his breath, in her hair, on her skin.

Later she would cry, but right now she refused to give him the satisfaction. With as much dignity as she could muster, she stood up and put her dress back on, pulling it down as far as it would go.

‘It’s a deal. I won’t say anything if you won’t. Now you had better clear off before I change my mind. Shut the street door as you go.’

Betts felt almost jaunty as he walked into the night air. She was certainly a pretty girl and of course it had all been her fault, leading a man on like that. Still, a court case could be nasty. Even if they believed him it might cost him his job. How was he to know she was so young? She didn’t look or act it. He should have looked her up in her mother’s
Who’s Who
entry – a basic precaution, forgotten in the early heat of the chase. Rape, it was; sex with a minor. Karen weeping in the witness box. Maximum penalty, he knew: automatically, life, which meant ten years. Just for a bit of nooky. Didn’t bear thinking about. Have to keep his promise.

Stopping by a refuse bin he fished out of his pocket a used phone card, two old Tube tickets, several sweet wrappers, an empty cigarette packet, a grubby tissue and the crumpled bits of letter. Then he hesitated: he must be mad. No investigative journalist would ever discard a useful piece of incriminating evidence. These little scraps might help pay the rent some day.

Tossing the rest of the rubbish aside but shoving the particles of letter back into his pocket, he went on his way, feeling better than for ages. And whistling.

Betts knew something was wrong. Last time he had sensed an atmosphere like this had been in a police morgue after a misty shooting incident involving five children. Today he had crashed his way noisily through the street doors at
The Globe
as usual, its chief investigative reporter touching home base after a fortnight chasing a story up north. The reception area brought him up short.

Behind the desk there no longer sat a pretty young girl filing her nails but a tough-looking uniformed black man with hard thighs and cold eyes.

‘May I see your ID, sir?’ The man was correct, polite.

‘What? Here it is. Where’s Dolly?’

The guard examined Betts’s grubby NUJ card. ‘No, sir, your ID for this building, for
The Globe
.’

Betts was becoming irritated. ‘And who the hell are you?’

‘Jarman Security, sir.’ A steely half-smile. ‘Now if you’ll let me see your ID,
sir
, or I’m afraid I can’t let you in.’

Betts fidgeted with increasing incredulity and impatience while the grubby plastic card was examined and his name checked against a list. Satisfied, the guard nodded and motioned him away. As Betts walked on, puzzled, the guard sat immobile and watchful, a glossy copy of
Body Builder
in his lap.

Betts headed for the stairs. The main editorial and journalist offices were one floor up. Disorientation increased as he pushed open the door to the main corridor. The place was so damned
quiet
.

Several unlocked office doors swung open at a touch. The rooms inside were empty, papers scattered, files opened and tossed on desks. Sodden polystyrene cups littered the floor. On one wall was pinned a recent inside page of
The Globe
showing the proprietor at a party, Miranda grinning on his arm. Across his face was written ‘SHIT’ in red felt-tip.

Betts found Thwaite at last, at his desk, inputting text rapidly and swearing under his breath. An overflowing ashtray meant trouble. Betts, who had wedged his foot with impunity in a thousand reluctant doors, chewed his moustache a moment, then knocked, softly.

‘Mr Thwaite, sir. May I ask what’s going on? Where’s the reception girl? Where’s Dave, and Susie, and Nick the Greek? Where
is
everybody, for God’s sake?’

Thwaite swivelled round in his chair, reached for his cigarette packet and lit up. There were dark circles under his eyes, damp circles under his armpits. He slid over the packet. Betts accepted it in mute male comradeship.

‘Got the sack. This morning, first thing. Forty of them. That’ll save a million quid a year in salaries, more in expenses. All they got was a phone call – the earliest at seven last night after the board meeting, the last around seven this morning. Told to collect their cards, clear their desks by eleven. All gone.’

Thwaite’s tone was sardonic but his eyes were wild. ‘We’re the lucky ones, you and I. The features editor isn’t being replaced and only sport is more or less intact. That tells you something about the future direction of
The Globe
. All contracts have been ended that can be ended, but mine has a clause that means that as long as there’s a
Globe
I’m here till I’m fifty-five, if I want. I insisted on retaining three reporters. You’re one. Together we have to write the whole bloody newspaper.’

‘You’re kidding. How can we do that?’

‘Not so difficult, now the paper is to be thirty-six pages instead of forty-eight. Not that we have the advertising to fill much more. We have one page of politics – Andy Mack and Thompson are still here, but then they’ve been our entire political staff all year anyway. We have two other pages of news which it is our job to fill, plus the leader to write. When we’re stuck we’ll use agency tapes and
the phone. You and I are going to be writing a lot, ourselves, fast. And we’re to keep our mouths shut. No whingeing, or no job. Understand?’

Betts nodded. He realised he ought to feel grateful and patted his boss on the shoulder. It was not as if Fleet Street was crawling with jobs. Even if it were, there would now be forty more journalists chasing each vacancy.

‘Where does McSharry stand in all this?’

‘Our esteemed editor?’ Nick Thwaite allowed himself to sound bitter, then stared morosely at his cigarette, letting the ash fall on to the table. ‘He had to do the fucking telephoning. Came back from that board meeting white as a sheet and started. All he would say to me was “If twenty main board directors, not one of whom has ever worked on a newspaper, were deprived of their twenty chauffeur-driven cars, we’d save that million easily and still have a newspaper.” Right now he’s putting tomorrow’s edition together with Miranda. She’s still here.’

‘Friend of the family, her. Untouchable.’ A meaningful glance passed between the two men.

‘Skate over that, young man, if you intend to eat breakfast tomorrow at
The Globe
’s expense. The question you should be answering is, how are you getting on with your checking out of MPs with their trousers down? McSharry says he’s still interested. There’s still a budget for that. If we can’t use the material, one of the other papers in the group can.’ He did not need to add:
If we fold in a few weeks’ time
.

Betts concentrated and flicked through his battered notebook, discussing what he had found. First, murky finances. Freddie Ferriman had bought shares in four names at the last privatisation sale: that could mean prosecution. Martin Clarke had wept as he wrote out a cheque for a million to cover his losses at Lloyd’s with more to come. The charitable doings of the Hon. Rosemary Arbour MP had attracted police attention, after most of the money raised at a big charity ball seemed to have disappeared. Any of these events could result in bankruptcy, and, as Jeffrey Archer found, even the threat thereof could force a Member with a great future out of Parliament.

Thwaite chewed on a biro. ‘Freddie’s good for a run, but the bugger won’t resign. None of them ever do these days. We’ll have a word with Steve about Lloyd’s – that might be a goer. And just check with the Met if they are anywhere near charging the horrible Hon. Rosemary. Can’t stand the bitch; that woman’s voice is like metal on glass. Isn’t daddy a distinguished member of their Lordships’ House? Have you spoken to her yourself?’

‘Not yet. I’ll try the usual – “If you don’t talk to me, I’ll write it anyway, so you might as well pre-empt all the nasty lies and get the truth in first.” They always sing after that.’

‘There must be something about your charm that makes them confess, Betts, though it escapes me. What about sex, or are they all celibate these days?’

‘No-o-oo.’ Betts took a deep breath and chewed his moustache. ‘Though the new intake seem a bloodless lot. More interested in
Geld
than girls. Gelded by ambition, you might say.’ He paused for effect as Thwaite grimaced. At least the man was now smiling, or nearly. ‘Seventeen of them are suspiciously still single, so I shall keep my beady eye on them. Keith Quin is having it off with Dr Janey Irvine – but then they’re Labour. On the Liberal benches we have wee willie wonder Gordon McDonald, who’s rumoured to have a lady friend in the BBC. It’d be more exciting if the whole Lib Dem bench would simply climb naked into a London taxi together and let the rest of us watch.’

Thwaite chuckled. ‘Too many of them, these days. Go on.’

‘I have six who are bedding their secretaries, but the besotted cows won’t talk; I’ve tried every one. We’ll have to wait till the chaps start complaining about the coffee stains on the typing – then the fur may fly.’

Betts had run out of steam. Thwaite brooded, sighed. ‘They’re all too bloody normal. What we need is an MP who is rogering his dog, for heaven’s sake, or a real eccentric who likes being whipped while five in a bed with black women who can take razor blades out of their anuses.’

‘Come back, Madam Cyn, all is forgiven.’

‘Too right! I think we need bigger quarry, Jim. Let’s go through the Cabinet. What about our saintly bon viveur, Sir Nigel Boswood? There have been whispers about his … proclivity… for years. Do you think there’s anything in it? He must be coming towards the end of his wonderfully distinguished and overlong career. Maybe he’s ready to come out, as they say?’

Betts shrugged. Thwaite had a nose for possible stories and a theory, frequently proved correct, that a man could not deny his nature forever. The eerie silence was getting on Betts’s nerves; it was time to get out on the road again.

‘No idea, but might be worth trying. He lives down Ebury Street – Eaton Square way – doesn’t he? I remember doorstepping him over that row about imported nuclear waste, the
Karin B
. He never lost his temper – offered us all a glass of dry sherry, would you believe? Anyway, leave him to me.’

The house had belonged to Sir Nigel’s aunt. A tall, white, narrow terrace, returned to its original purpose of a gentleman’s town house, it was within walking distance of the Commons on a fine night, elegant for small dinner parties and comfortable enough to live in all the year round.

Betts was whistling as he examined it from the other side of the street. Its white stone was set off well by purple and pink asters in window-boxes. The first frost would kill them, but frost was rare in central London. A nearby estate agent’s window had valued such a house at half a million. That Boswood was wealthy Jim Betts did not doubt; the calculation started off with this chunk of real estate, a modest mansion in his constituency, and that shooting lodge in Ayrshire. Worth at least a couple of million altogether, or more. He made a note to find out more about the place in Scotland, maybe by phoning a mate on the
Glasgow Herald
who owed him a favour.

It was time to put flesh on the bare bones. He climbed the steps to the front door and rang the doorbell.

Boswood did not keep living-in staff. Mrs Perkins came in mornings, tidied up, watered the plants and was available to help if guests, were expected. He preferred his privacy. Betts rang again, long and loud this time.

The basement door flew open and a tousle-haired youth poked his head out. He was naked to the waist down and was rubbing wet blond hair with a blue towel. Betts’s eyes widened.

‘Can you cut out that racket? If you’re looking for Nigel, he’s not here. He’s at the House of Commons.’

Nigel
. Betts pricked up his ears and smiled encouragingly.

‘I’m so sorry to bother you. Actually I’m from the council and we’ve had complaints about smells from the sewers down this end of the square. I wonder if I might just check? Could I come in?’

‘I guess so. Wait a minute – got to see your ID, Nigel said.’

For the second time that day Betts flourished his union card. This time it worked.

‘Front door’s locked so you’d better come in this way. Sorry about the mess but I’ve only just got up.’

Hardly believing his luck, Betts sauntered down the steps. The basement flat was dark, for the curtains were still drawn; an unmade bed appeared recently occupied and the bath was still full of soapy water. A wardrobe hung open, clothes were tossed on the floor. The place had a stale body smell as if not frequently cleaned. Betts made a pretence of checking around taps and outlet pipes and peering down sinks, as the boy dried his hair and pulled on sweater and jeans in the bedroom. It was three o’clock in the afternoon.

‘Live here, do you?’ the journalist enquired. If Boswood really was a queer then he was taking a hell of a chance. If he wasn’t, then who was this bloke sleeping in his basement in broad daylight? Memories of the goings-on in Norman Lamont’s basement stirred in Betts’s brain. Even
though the ex-Chancellor had let the rooms entirely innocently, the activities of a temporary tenant, a rough-looking female with a penchant for suspenders and whips and a curriculum vitae including appearances in porn films, had provoked much ribaldry.

‘Sort of,’ the boy said.

Betts was making mental notes feverishly. Very young; very good-looking – that fine bone structure, those high cheekbones would photograph superbly. The blond hair had some help from a bottle, perhaps. Nice body, what he’d seen of it – tanned even in November. Looked after himself. What for? Who for?

‘Ah – have you noticed any strange odours? Anything untoward? Have you been here long?’

‘’Bout five months. Nigel lets me doss down because I’ve nowhere else to stay. If it’s a bit whiffy in here it’s probably my fault – I don’t get round to changing the bed too often. Sorry.’

‘Mind if I smoke?’

The boy shook his head and indicated an ashtray. He was combing his wet hair carefully in the mirror, slicking it with gel. Betts seated himself politely on the edge of the scrambled bed.

‘I suppose I really ought to ask What’s-his-name’ – consulting his notebook –’Mr Boswood? Would you be a relative of his?’

‘It’s Sir Nigel, and no, I’m not a relative. Just a friend.’

Betts was already writing the first paragraph:
Just good friends, says boy lodger
. His eyes glittered.

‘Oh, I’ve heard of him. What’s he like? Nice bloke? Must be to let you stay in his house like this.’

The boy was defensive. ‘I told him I’ll pay rent when I have the money but he said it wouldn’t matter. Yes, he’s a good sort. Been good to me, anyway.’

Peter glanced curiously at the sandy-haired man seated awkwardly on his bed smoking a cheap cigarette and chewing a tattered moustache. The council certainly attracted grotty types – not his sort at all. It would be fun to make this twerp envious.

‘He’s going to take me skiing after Christmas,’ the boy boasted. ‘Switzerland – Davos. With the House of Commons and House of Lords ski team, against MPs from the Swiss Parliament. He goes every year. The Swiss beat us every time but we might do better this winter because I’m quite good. Officially I’m his research assistant. Bit of all right, that.’

‘Ye-e-s, I can see that, Mr … what did you say your name was?’ The notebook came out again.

‘Me? Oh, just Peter. Everyone calls me Peter.’

Betts rose and moved to the door. It was time to be out and making rapid phone calls.