House of Cards (15 page)

'Opinion Research Survey

No. 40, 6 October -
secret
',

emblazoned across the top.

She rubbed her eyes to open them properly. They've surely not started giving them away with the
Mirr
or,
she thought. Mattie knew the Party conducted weekly surveys to track the nationwide movement of public opinion on political issues, but these had a highly restricted distribution to Cabinet Ministers and only a handful of top Party officials. She had been shown copies rarely and only when they had good news to convey which the Party wished to publicise; otherwise they were kept under strictest security. She wondered what good news could possibly have been found in the latest survey, and why it had been delivered wrapped up like fried fish and chips.

The contents of the note made her rub her eyes once more. The Party, which had won the election with 41 per cent of the vote, now had only 31 per cent support, 14 per cent behind the main Opposition Party. Even more damaging were the figures on the Prime Minister's popularity. Less than one in four now preferred
him
while the new Leader of the Opposition stood at well over 50 per cent. It made Collingridge more disliked than any Prime Minister she could remember.

Mattie squatted on her bed. She no longer needed to ask why she had been sent the information. It was dynamite, and she felt the paper almost burning in her hand. 'Government crashes in opinion polls', it seemed to say as she composed her own introduction. And someone wanted her to throw this explosive news right into the middle of the party conference. It was a deliberate act of sabotage which would be an excellent story-her story, as long as she got it in first.

She grabbed for the telephone. 'Hello, Mrs Preston? It's Mattie Storin. Is Grev there, please?'

There was a short pause before her editor came on the phone, and his husky tones announced that he had just been woken up.

'Who's died?' 'What?'

'Who's bloody died? Why else would you call me at such a bloody stupid time?'

'Oh, nobody. I mean
...
I'm sorry. I forgot what time it was.'

'Shit.'

'Sorry, Grev.'

'Well, something must have happened, for pity's sake.'

'Yes, it came with my morning newspapers.' 'Well, that's a relief. We're now only a day behind the rest.'

'No, Grev. Listen will you? I've got hold of the Party's latest polling figures. They're sensational!'

‘H
ow did you get them?'

They were left outside my door.'

'Gift wrapped, were they?' The editor was clearly having great difficulty controlling his sarcasm.

'But they're really sensational, Grev.'

'And who left them outside the door, Santa Claus?'

‘E
r, I don't know.' For the first time a hint of doubt crept into the young journalist's voice. She was waking up very rapidly now.

'Well, I don't suppose Henry Collingridge left them there. So who do you think wanted to leak them to you?'

Mattie's silence could not hide her confusion.

'Were you out on the town with any of your colleagues last night?'

'Grev, what the hell's that got to do with it?'

'Have you never heard of being set up by your so-called friends?' The editor sounded almost despairing.

'But how do you know?'

‘I
don't bloody know. But the point is, Wonder Girl, neither do bloody you!' There was another embarrassed silence from Mattie before she decided to have a last, despairing attempt to restore her confidence and persuade her edit
or. ‘D
on't you even want to know what they say?'

'No. Not if you don't know where they come from or can't be certain they are not a stupid hoax. And remember, the more sensational they look, the more certain it is that you're being set up.'

The crash of the telephone being slammed down exploded in her ear. It would have hurt even had she not been hung over. What a mug. As her headline dissolved back into the grey morning mists of her mind, her headache returned, more insistent and painful than ever. She needed a cup of black coffee badly.

Twenty minutes later Mattie eased gently down the broad stairs of the hotel and slipped into the breakfast room. It was still early and there was only a handful of early morning enthusiasts yet about. She sat down at a table on her own and prayed she would not be disturbed. She hid herself in a copy of the
Express
and hoped people would conclude that she was working rather than fixing a hangover.

The first cup of coffee
made no impact, but the second
helped a little. Slowly h
er headache began to loosen its
grip and she began to take s
ome interest in the rest of the
world. Perhaps she could even stand an early morning gossip.

She looked around the intimate Victorian room and noted another political correspondent who was deeply engrossed in conversation with a Minister, and would not want to be disturbed. Two other people she thought she recognised but could not be sure. The young man on the next table she did not know and Mattie had just decided to finish a solo breakfast when she noticed the pile of papers and folders on the chair next to her neighbour. The papers and the rather academic scruffiness with which he was dressed suggested that the breakfaster was one of the many party officials Mattie had not yet got to know. The name scribbled on top of the folder was K. J. Spence.

The journalist's professional instincts had by now begun gradually to reassert themselves under the steady bombardment of caffeine, and she reached inside her ever-present shoulder bag for a copy of the internal party telephone list that at some point she had begged or stolen -
she couldn't remember which.

'Spence. Kevin. Extension 371. Opinion Research.'

Mattie checked again the name on top of the folder, feeling that mistakes on opinion research had caused her enough trouble already that morning, but there was no confusion. Her editor's sarcasm had already demolished her faith in the leaked poll's statistics but she thought there would be no harm in trying to find out what the real figures were. She caught his eye.

'Kevin Spence, isn't it? From party headquarters? I'm Mattie Storm of the
Telegraph.
I haven't been on the paper long, but one of my jobs is to get to know all the party officials. Can I join you for a cup of coffee?'

Kevin Spence, aged thirty-two but looking older, unmarried and a life-long headquarters bureaucrat with a salary of £10,200 (no perks), nodded obligingly, and they were soon in conversation. Spence was rather shy and deeply flattered to be recognised by someone from a newspaper, and he was soon explaining with enthusiasm and in detail the regular reports he had given during the election on the state of public opinion to the Prime Minister and the Party's War Committee. Yes, he admitted, they did take opinion polls seriously in spite of what they always said on television. He ventured the thought that some even took opinion polls too seriously.

'What do you mean, too seriously? That's your job, isn't it?'

Somewhat donnishly Spence explained the foibles of opinion polling, the margin of error you should always remember, the rogue polls which in spite of all the pollsters' efforts still sneaked through and simply got it wrong.
like the one I've just seen
’
Mattie remarked with a twinge, still tender from her earlier embarrassment,

'What do you mean?' Spence enquired sharply.

Mattie looked at h
im and saw that the affable official had now developed a flush which even as she looked was spreading from the collar up to the eyes. The eyes themselves had lost their eagerness. Spence was not a trained politician and was not adept at hiding his feelings, and the confusion was flowing through. Why was he so flustered? Mattie mentally kicked herself. Surely the damned figures couldn't be right after all? The dynamic young reporter of the year had already jumped several somersaults that morning, and feeling rather sour with herself decided that one more leap could scarcely dent her professional pride any further.

‘
I
understand, Kevin, that your latest figures are quite disappointing. In fact, somebody mentioned a figure of 31 per cent.'

Spence, whose cheeks had been getting even redder as Mattie spoke, reached for his tea to give himself time to think, but his hand was trembling.

'And the PM personally is down to 24 per cent
’
she ventured.
‘I
can't remember any Prime Minister being as unpopular as that.'

At this point the tea began to spill from the cup, and Spence returned it quickly to the saucer.

‘I
don't know what you're talking about
’
he muttered, addressing the napkin which he was using to mop up the tea.

'Aren't these your latest figures?' Mattie reached once more inside her bag and pulled out the mysterious sheet of paper which she proceeded to smooth on the table cloth. As she did so, she noticed for the first time .the initials KJS typed along the bottom.

Spence reached out and tried to pus
h the paper away from him, seem
ingly afraid to get too near to it 'Where on earth did you get that?' He looked around desperately to see whether anyone had noticed the exchange.

Mattie picked up the piece of paper and began reading it out loud.' "Opinion Research Survey Number 40" - this is yours, isn't it?'

Yes, but
...
Please, Miss Storin!'

He was not used to dissembling. Spence was clearly deeply upset, and seeing no way of escape decided to throw himself on the mercy of his breakfast companion. In a hushed voice, and still looking nervously around the room, he pleaded with her.

I'm not supposed to talk to you about any opinion research. It's strictly confidential.'

‘
But Kevin, it's only one piece of paper.'

You don't know what it's like. If these figures get out, and I'm the one thought to have given them to you, I'd be out on my ear. Everyone's looking for scapegoats. There are so many rumours flooding around. The PM doesn't trust the Chairman. The Chairman doesn't trust us. Everybody says that heads are going to roll. I like my job, Miss Storin. I can't afford to be blamed for leaking confidential figures to you.'

‘I
didn't realise morale was so bad.'

Spence looked utterly miserable. I've never known it worse. Everyone was exhausted after the election, and there was a lot of bad feeling flying around because the result wasn't as good as we expected. Then all those leaks and reports that the Cabinet were at each other's throats, so instead of a long break during the summer Lord Williams kept us all hard at it. Frankly, all most of us are trying to do is to keep our heads down so that when it hits the fan we get as little of it as possible.'

He looked at Mattie eye-to-eye for the first time. 'Please don't drag me into this.'

'Kevin, you did not leak this report to me and I shall confirm that to anyone who wants to know. But if I'm to help you I shall need a little help myself. This is your latest polling report, right?'

She slipped the paper back across the table. Spence took another anguished look at it and nodded in confirmation.

They are prepared, by you and circulated on a tightly restricted basis?
’
Another nod.

'All I need to know from you, Kevin, is who gets them. That can't be a state secret, can it?'

There was no more fight left in Spence. He seemed to hold his breath for a long time before replying.

'Numbered copies are circulated in double-sealed envelopes solely to Cabinet Ministers and five senior headquarters personnel: the Deputy Chairman and four senior directors.'

He tried to moisten his mouth with another drink of tea, but discovered he had already spilt most of it. How on earth did you get hold of it?'

‘L
et's just say someone got a little careless, shall we?'

'Not my office?' he gasped, his insecurity flooding out.

'No, Kevin. You
've just given me the names of o
ver two dozen people who receive the figures, and with their secretaries it would bring the possible number of sources to well over fifty.' She gave him one of her most reassuring, warm smiles. Don't worry, I won't involve you. But let's keep in touch.'

Mattie left the breakfast room. She should have been feeling elated about the front page story she was now able to write but she was wondering too hard how the devil she was ever going to identify the turncoat.

Room 561 in the hotel could not be described as five star. It was one of the smallest rooms, far away from the main entrance and at the end of the top floor corridor under the eaves. The party hierarchy did not stay here, it was defi
nitely a room for the workers.

Penny Guy hadn't heard the steps outside in the corridor before the door burst open. She sat bolt upright in bed, startled and exposing two perfectly formed breasts.