Fortress (12 page)

Sam laughed again because there was nothing else he could think of doing. So did Farmer, who looked at his watch, then picked up his BlackBerry and gestured with it. ‘So, here’s the deal. The Party’s in the shit. Most of your lot think we’re the enemy. And, frankly, we deserve everything you’re hurling at us – well, maybe not the petrol bombs. But the fact is we look like a bunch of fucking dinosaurs. Well, not Pippa, of course, who just looks fucking sexy.’

‘Fuck off, Derek.’

‘Oh? Thought it was worth a shot. Anyway,
apart
from Pippa, the Party’s a load of WASPs, who look as though the only
hoi-polloi
they know are the beaters on their grouse shoots. As for “Generation Now”, all we’ve got is a few chinless wonders whose grasp of Estuary English is about as good as their Mandarin, and a posse of Afros we bribed to join up with free iPads.’

He looked at Sam expectantly. ‘We need some Islamic cred. Someone who can speak to the street, reach out to the Muslim community, love them up a bit and make them feel more like we’re the party that has their interests at heart. Got it?’

Sam found himself nodding. All his time in academe he’d been surrounded by political correctness. Farmer’s refusal even to pay lip service to it was almost refreshing. ‘Yeah, I think I can help you out there.’

Farmer waved him on, like a traffic cop. ‘Go on, then. Do your stuff.’ He leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head, revealing large sweat stains round his armpits.

Sam looked at Pippa, who was smiling. He leaned forward. ‘Eh, okay, well. There’s a lot of people, not unlike me, really, who just want to get on with their lives. They’ve either fled tyranny or their parents struggled to get here so they can make something of themselves. None of us in this country have anything to gain by fighting with each other. We all want peace and quiet and prosperity.’

Farmer clapped. ‘Love it.
More!
’

Sam felt like a performing seal but he didn’t care: he had their attention and that made a welcome change. ‘Peace and prosperity only thrive where there’s the rule of law. As a criminologist, I know all about what happens when there’s no security. This party is right to support the police. Their job is very difficult and, yes, mistakes get made, but what’s the alternative?’

Farmer turned to Pippa. ‘I think our friend here has just talked himself into a job.’ He returned to Sam. ‘Got any skeletons?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Sex, drugs, rock and roll, anything the tabloids could stick you for?’

Was Karza a skeleton? If so, he wasn’t about to let on.

‘Married? Girlfriend – or boyfriend?’

‘None of the above – currently.’

‘Well, if you do snare one make sure it’s a she and, if possible, one of your lot. Some of our backwoodsmen cut up rough when they see their English roses being plucked by brown fingers. Sorry.’

Pippa gave Sam an apologetic look while Farmer ploughed on. ‘How’d you like to be on telly tonight?’

‘Sure.’

‘He actually has some media experience,’ said Pippa.

‘Fuck me – then he’s perfect. Channel 4 News are doing a hatchet job on us. We could put you up – surprise the shit out of them.’ Farmer seemed thrilled at the prospect.

Emboldened by their attention, Sam felt a surge of confidence. ‘I’ll need a briefing.’

‘Good man. Play your cards right, we might even parachute you into a safe seat.’ Farmer scooped up his papers and winked at Pippa. ‘Do the necessaries, Princess.’ He offered Sam a warm, sweaty hand. ‘See you in Makeup. Jon Snow’s gonna love you.’

21

Pall Mall

The smell of Hugh Buckingham’s club was a rich mixture of floor polish, port and old leather.

‘Excuse me, sir, if you would be so good …’ The ancient porter tottered into Tom’s path and raised a gnarled claw to his neck.

‘Oh – of course.’ Tom reached into his pocket and drew out the tie his mother had reminded him to bring. The porter sighed quietly, and glanced apologetically at the portrait of Wellington. But the First Duke’s attention was still focused on Waterloo.

‘Mr Buckingham’s waiting for you in the library, sir.’ The old man gestured jerkily, as if his arm was controlled by wires from above.

‘Thanks.’

As Tom went towards the huge double doors, he remembered his first lunch there with his father, just as he was signing up. It had been a difficult one. Put up to it by Mary, Tom’s mother, Hugh had been tasked to make one last-ditch attempt to deter him. Neither of them understood Tom’s military ambitions and were convinced it was all down to his wilfully rebellious spirit. His father’s pleas had fallen on deaf ears.

‘My dear boy!’

Several of the other readers jumped as Hugh Buckingham pierced the silence. He threw down his
Telegraph
and leaped out of his chair with an energy that belied his sixty-eight years. He was tanned and bright-eyed, with strong arms that clasped Tom in a brief but impressively firm hug.

‘Hey, Dad.’ It was months since he had seen his father. He had lost even more weight, having late in life discovered the joys of serious exercise. ‘Just looking at you makes me feel exhausted.’

Hugh clasped his waist.

‘Thirty-four and counting – inches not years, of course. And keeping the Alzheimer’s at bay.’ He grabbed Tom’s arm and spun him round, as if he was a clockwork toy. ‘Come on, I’m famished.’ He marched him towards the dining room, where a table for two was waiting by the window. ‘Bloody good to see you.’

Behind the bonhomie, Tom detected his father’s anxious glances. Over the years, Hugh had seen him return from tours thin and bearded, bruised and battered, but always exhilarated by the job that was his life. But Tom knew he could count on Hugh to keep his observations to himself. Tom would discuss what had happened in his own time, if he chose to; there wasn’t going to be any third degree.

‘They’ve got rack of lamb on today – seem to remember it’s one of your favourites.’

‘Why are you staying up in town?’

‘Board meetings.
Very
bored.’ Hugh chuckled. ‘The old firm’s in the throes of a takeover.’ The city company he had served for three decades had persuaded him to come back as a non-executive director.

The wine waiter glided towards them. ‘Something to start, gentlemen?’

‘How about kicking off with a couple of glasses of your house champagne?’

‘We’re not celebrating anything, are we?’

‘Well, we won’t let that get in the way of a glass of fizzy pop!’

Behind his excitement at seeing Tom, Hugh seemed sheepish.

‘You’re so transparent, Dad. You would’ve made a terrible spy.’

A waitress passed them in the sort of black and white uniform no one wore any more.

‘So what’s it to be?’

‘Yeah, I’ll go with the lamb.’

Hugh waved the menu to flag down the waitress, like a ground-crew member directing a jumbo jet. Tom recalled being embarrassed by the expansiveness of his movements when he was a boy. Now his enthusiasm felt life-affirming and rather welcome.

‘Two lambs.’ Hugh winked at Tom. ‘And leave some space for jam roly-poly – bet you don’t get that in Afghanistan.’

As the waitress retreated, she gave Tom an appreciative look, which Hugh noticed. He leaned across. ‘Always good to see my DNA getting the attention it deserves.’ Tom gave his father a withering look.

The champagne arrived. They raised their glasses and drank.

‘Ah, that’s better.’ Hugh’s fitness regime had done nothing to dull his appreciation of alcohol.

‘Bit of a mess you’ve come back to. What’s your take on it all?’

‘I’m still catching up.’

Hugh furrowed his brow so it resembled rough terrain. ‘Some would say – indeed, are saying – that it’s the inevitable consequence of open borders.’ He gestured at the other diners, all older than himself. ‘That’s the prevailing view of many of us wrinklies. And these people coming and going from Syria, that’s another bee in their bonnet. Frankly, I think that aspect’s been blown out of proportion.’

Tom knew he could count on his father not to swim with the tide. In fact, he made a habit of taking the contrary view, something that had brought a good many dinner parties to a premature halt, requiring Mary’s anxious apologies to smooth things over. It occurred to Tom, perhaps for the first time, that it was one way in which they were alike.

‘What do they think in here, the powers that be?’

Hugh looked round. ‘Well, Chatham House rules, of course, so one can’t pass anything on. But there were very strong words on the subject in here last night. A chap who’s quite high up in the civil service hinted that the government’s terrified. They daren’t do anything drastic for fear of alienating parts of the electorate. And public confidence in the cabinet is ebbing away, never mind in Parliament itself. So the MoD and the police have been meeting privately to lay out emergency measures – even talking about putting your lot on the streets, if things don’t die down. The PM’s buggered off to the States, you know, and that woman Garvey’s been left holding the fort.’

Tom winced inwardly at the reference to ‘your lot’ but let it go. His father was getting into his stride and at least it deflected the conversation away from him. ‘Well, she is the home secretary, Dad.’

‘Of course, of course.’

Hugh leaned across the table and dropped his voice. ‘You know what I think? There are some people who actually
want
things to get worse, precisely so they can take drastic action.’

‘Such as?’

‘Oh, you know, dumping some of this human-rights legislation that keeps coming at us from Brussels, all the politically correct stuff that ties the hands of the police and the judiciary.’

‘You agree with that?’

‘Trouble with today is, the collective memory of the last war – I mean the Second World War, when our forebears had to muck in and all pull together, when there was a real threat of invasion – has pretty well died out. The truth is, us baby boomers have had it too easy. So we’re panicking.’

The lamb arrived: two huge plates of roasted meat and a bowl of vegetables. Gradually, Tom felt himself perking up.

‘And let’s have some of the house claret to keep this company.’

As they tucked in, the waitress returned with a bottle and two fresh glasses.

‘That’s the one – just pour it.’

Hugh fell silent as they attacked their food. Tom was well aware of how little he was giving away, but Hugh would have to lump it as he topped up the claret, no doubt hoping it would oil the wheels.

‘Did you um, get back to Rolt?’ The question broke the silence. Tom stared at his father warily. ‘Vernon Rolt. You were at school with him.’

‘Yeah, you said. Look, I’m not talking to anyone right now.’ He drained his glass.

His father refilled it. ‘He’s very keen to get hold of you.’

‘So you gave him my number.’

Hugh could tell straight away that this had been a mistake. Tom’s face had turned to stone.

‘Look, I’m sorry, old boy. I know it’s private and all that but I just thought, what with you being back and … He’s a pretty big deal, these days, as I’m sure you know. Quite a hero – and they seem to be in pretty short supply right now. And he was a mate of yours.’

‘Hardly. I seem to recall I once decked him in a boxing match. What sort of a “big deal” is he?’

‘You don’t know? Well, it’s quite an interesting story. He dropped out of university, drifted around America, fell in with the dotcom crowd in California and made himself a fortune. Then he got homesick for Blighty, came back and ploughed a load of his savings into starting up Invicta.’

‘Why? Is there some military angle to his family?’

‘Apparently he encountered a homeless guy outside his pad in Mayfair who turned out to be a decorated hero of Iraq Two, and that’s where it all started. More than two thousand ex-service chaps have been through his programme.’

‘Impressive.’

‘He stays out of the limelight and shuns attempts to credit him for what he’s done. But among those who know, he’s much admired. And there are plenty of people in high places who have the wit to realize his programmes saved a lot of these guys’ lives and cleared up a lot of sick that the MoD’s left behind.’

‘What did he say he wanted?’

‘He was very charming, said he’d heard you were back …’

Tom could feel his face heating up. He smelt a rat. As he was going through the army recruitment process, his father had engineered a number of occasions when acquaintances of his with Interesting Jobs in the City had been invited to join them for dinner. It was painfully obvious that he had cajoled them into coming in the vain hope that Tom could be diverted from the army. And having set his heart on that course, Tom had refused to go to Sandhurst and become an officer.

‘Hope this isn’t another of your career-management initiatives.’

Hugh took a gulp of wine. ‘I learned that lesson a long time ago. I’m sure it’s quite innocent. He’s making a name for himself through his work with these—’

‘Yeah, these people whose lives are in freefall. You aren’t suggesting I’m one of them, are you?’ Tom realized his voice had risen several decibels. A couple of old buffers at the next table were staring at them.

‘What do you mean?’ Hugh was stung. ‘Steady on, old boy. I’m not implying you’re on the scrapheap, if that’s what you mean. The chap called me out of the blue. I’m sure his intentions are entirely noble.’

The room felt stifling. Tom pushed his chair back. His father gazed at him in horror. ‘I’m going for a leak.’

Tom marched out, pushing his way through the doors and nearly knocking over an elderly member. Outside it was starting to rain. He took a deep lungful of grey London air and cursed himself for being so sharp with his father, who only had the best intentions, who had put up with his waywardness, and the uncertainty, all these years, and who loved him.

What the fuck was he going to do anyway? He hadn’t given it a second’s thought. But before he could descend into any kind of self-pity he found himself thinking of Blakey. He took out his phone and searched the number for Selly Oak.