House of Cards (18 page)

Ignoring the tart look flashed at her by the conference steward on the next phone, she stalked across the foyer. 'I need a drink
’
she explained loudly to herself and everyone else within earshot, and made straight for the bar.

Th
e-steward was just raising the grille over the counter when Mattie arrived and slapped her bag and a five-pound note down on the bar. As she did so she knocked the arm of another patron who was already lined up at the varnished counter and clearly intent on being served with the first drink of the night.

'Sorry
’
apologised Mattie huffily, without sounding entirely as if she meant it. The other drinker turned to face her.

‘Y
oung lady, you look as if you need a drink. My doctor tells me there is no such thing as needing a drink, but what does he know? Would you mind if a man old enough to be your father joins you? By the way, the name's Collingridge, Charles Collingridge.'

'So long as we don't talk politics, Mr Collingridge, it will be my pleasure. Allow my editor to buy you a large one!'

The room was spacious, but it had a low ceiling and it was packed with people. The heat from the mass of bodies had combined with the central heating to make the atmosphere distinctly muggy, and many of the guests were quietly cursing the insulation and double glaring which the architects had so carefully installed throughout 'Overtime Alley'. As a consequence the chilled champagne being dispensed by Urquhart's constituency secretary was in great demand, and it was already on its way to being one of his more relaxed conference receptions.

Urquhart, however, was not in a position to circulate and accept his guests' thanks. He was effectively pinned in one comer by the enormous bulk of Benjamin Landless. The newspaper magnate was sweating heavily and he had his jacket off and collar undone, displaying his thick green braces like parachute webbing which were holding up his vast, flowing trousers. Landless refused to take any notice of his discomfort, for his full attention was concentrated on his trapped prey.

'B
ut that's all bloody Horlicks, F
rankie, and you know it. I put my whole newspaper chain behind your lot at the last election and I've moved my entire worldwide headquarters to London. I've invested millions in the country. And if you lot don't pull your fingers out, the whole bloody performance is going down the drain at the next election. Those buggers in the Opposition will crucify me if they get in because I've been so good to you, but you lot seem to be falling over yourselves to open the damned door for them.'

He paused to produce a large silk handkerchief from within the folds of his trousers and wipe his brow, while Urquhart goaded him on.

'Surely it's not as bad as that, Ben. All Governments go through sticky patches. We've been through this all before - we'll pull out of it!'

'Horlicks, Horlicks, bloody Horlicks. That's complacent crap, and you know it, Frankie. Haven't you seen your own latest poll? They phoned it through to me earlier this afternoon. You're down another 3 per cent, that's 10 per cent since the election. If you held it today, you'd get thrashed. Bloody annihilated!'

Urquhart relished the thought of the
Telegraph
headline tomorrow, but could not afford to show it. 'Damn. How on earth did you get hold of that? That will really hurt us at the by-election tomorrow.'

'Don't worry. I've told Preston to pull it. It'll leak, of course, and we'll probably get some flak in
Private Eye
about a politically inspired cover-up, but it'll be after the by-election and it will save your conference being turned into a bear pit' He sighed deeply. It's more than you bloody deserve,' he said more quietly, and Urquhart knew he meant it.

‘I
know the PM will be grateful, Ben,' said Urquhart, feeling sick with disappointment.

'Course he will, but the gratitude of the most unpopular Prime Minister since polls began isn't something you can put in the bank.'

'What do you mean?'

‘P
olitical popularity is cash. While you lot are in, I should be able to get on with my business and do what I do best -make money. That's why I've supported you. But as soon as your popularity begins to fade, the whole thing begins to clam up. The Stock Market sinks. People don't want to invest. Unions get bolshy. I can't look ahead. And it's been happening ever since June. The PM couldn't organise a farting contest in a baked bean factory. His unpopularity is dragging the whole Party down, and my business with it. Unless you do something about it, we're all going to disappe
ar down a bloody great hole.' D
o you really feel like that?'

Landless paused, just to let Urquhart know it wasn't the champagne speaking. 'Passionately,' he growled. Then it looks as if we have a problem.' 'You do so long as he goes on like he is.' 'But if he won't change
...'
Then get rid of him!'

Urquhart raised his eyebrows sharply, but Landless was not to be deflected, life's too short to spend it propping up losers. I haven't spent the last twenty years working my guts out just to watch your boss piss it all away.'

Urquhart found his arm gripped painfully by his guest's huge fingers. There was real strength behind the enormous girth, and Urquhart began to realise how Landless always seemed to get his way. Those he could not dominate with his wealth or commercial muscle he would trap with his physical strength and sharp tongue. Urquhart had always hated being called Frankie, and this was the only man in the world who insisted on using it. But tonight of all nights he did not think he would object. This was one argument he was going to enjoy losing.

'Let me give you one example, in confidence. OK, Frankie?' He pinned Urquhart still tighter in the comer. 'Very shortly I expect that United Newspapers will be up for sale. If it is, I want to buy it. In fact, I've already had some serious discussions with them. But the lawyers are telling me that I already own one newspaper group and that the Government isn't going to allow me to buy another. I said to them, you are telling me that I can't become the biggest newspaper owner in the country, even if I commit all of the titles to supporting the Government!'

Perspiration was slipping freely from his face, but he ignored it.
You
know what they said, Frankie? It's precisely because
‘I
do
support the Government that I'm in trouble. If I moved to take over United Newspapers the Opposition would kick up the most godawful stink. No one would have the guts to stand up and defend me. The takeover would be referred to the Monopolies and Mergers Commission where it would get bogged down for months with a herd of expensive lawyers stuck in a bloody committee room, with me having to listen to a bunch of closet queen bureaucrats lecturing me on how to run my own business. And whatever arguments I use, in the end the Government will bow to pressure and refuse to allow the deal to go through, because they haven't got the stomach for a public fight.'

He blew cigar smoke in Urquhart's face.

In other words, Mr Chief Whip, because your Government doesn't have the balls, my company is going to go through the wringer. Because you're buggering up your own business, you're going to bugger up mine as well!'

The point had been forcefully made and the pressure applied. It was not a subtle way to lobby a Minister, but he had always found the direct approach to be far more effective than complicated minuets. Politicians could be bullied like any other men. He paused to refresh himself from his glass, waiting for a reply.

Urquhart framed his response slowly, to emphasise that he too, like Landless, was speaking in earnest.

'That would be a tremendous pity, Ben. You have been a great friend of the Party, and it would be a great shame if we were unable to repay that friendship. I cannot speak for the Prime Minister. In fact, I find myself increasingly unable to speak for him nowadays. But from my point of view, I would do everything I could to support you when you needed it.'

'That's good to know, Frankie. I appreciate it, very much. If only Henry could be so decisive, but I know that's simply not his nature. If it were up to me, he'd be out.'

'But isn't it up to you?'

'Me?'

'You have your newspapers. They are tremendously influential, and you control them. One headline can make news and break politicians. You were saying that the polls show the public
's dislike for the PM is underm
ining the whole Party. It's personal, not political.'

Landless nodded his assent.

‘L
et you say you are not going to publish because it will turn the conference into a bear fight. Do you really think you are going to be able to sort this out without one hell of a fight?'

The bullying Landless of a few moments ago had disappeared, to be replaced by a subtle man who understood every nuance of what was being suggested to him.

‘I
think I see your point, Frankie. And
I
think we understand each other.'

‘I
think we do.'

They shook hands. Urquhart almost winced as his hand disappeared inside the vice-like grip of Landless. He knew the other's handshake was distinctly ambiguous - an expression of friendship, by all means, but also a promise to crush anyone who reneged on a deal.

'Then I have some work to do, Frankie. The
Telegraph
first edition is closing in less than thirty minutes and I shall have to make a telephone call.' He grabbed his jacket and draped it over his arm.

'Thanks for the party. It's been most stimulating.'

Urquhart watched silently as the industrialist, damp shirt sticking closely to his broad back, shuffled across the crowded room and disappeared through the door.

Across the other side of the room beyond the dignitaries, journalists and hangers-on who were squashed together, Roger O'Neill was huddled on a small sofa with a young and attractive conference-goer. O'Neill was in an excited and very nervous state. He fidgeted incessantly and his words rattled out at an alarming pace. The young girl from Rotherham had already been overwhelmed with the names O'Neill had skilfully dropped and the passion of his words, and she looked on with wide-eyed astonishment, an innocent bystander in a one-way conversation.

The Prime Minister's under constant surveillance by our security men. There's always a threat. Irish. Arabs. Black Militants. One of them's trying to get me, too. They've been trying for months, and the Special Branch boys insisted on giving me protection throughout the election. Apparently, they'd found a hit list; if the PM were too well protected they might turn to targets close to the PM like me. So they gave me twenty-four-hour cover. It's not public knowle
dge, of course, but all the journ
os know.'

He dragged furiously at a cigarette and started coughing. He took out a soiled handkerchief and blew his nose loudly, inspecting it before returning it to his pocket.

'But why you, Roger?' his companion ventured.

'Soft target. Easy access. High publicity hit,' he rattled. If they can't get the PM, they'll go for someone like me.'

He looked around nervously, his eyes fluttering wildly.

'Can you keep a confidence? A real secret?' He took another deep drag. They think I've been followed all week. And this morning I found my car had been tampered with, so the Bomb Squad boys went over it with a fine tooth comb. They found the wheel nuts on one of the front wheels had been all but removed. Straight home on the motorway, the wheel comes off at eighty miles an hour and - more work for the road sweepers! They think it was deliberate. The Murder Squad are on their way over to interview me right now.'

'Roger, that's awful
’
she gasped.

'Mustn't tell anyone. The SB don't want to frighten them off if there's a chance of catching them unawares.'

‘I
hadn't realised you were so close to the Prime Minister
’
she said with growing awe. 'What a terrible time for
...'
She suddenly gasped. 'Are you all right, Roger? You are looking very upset. Your, your eyes
...'
she stammered.

O'Neill's eyes were flickering wildly, flashing still further lurid hallucinations into his brain. His attention seemed to have strayed elsewhere; he was no longer with her but in some other world, with some other conversation. His eyes wavered back to her, but they were gone again in an instant. They were bloodshot and watering, and were having difficulty in finding something on which to focus. His nose was dribbling like an old man in winter, and he gave it a cursory and unsuccessful wipe with the back of his hand.

As she watched, his face turned to an ashen grey, his body twitched and he stood up sharply. He appeared terrified, as if the walls were falling in on him. She looked round helplessly, unsure what he needed, too embarrassed to make a public scene. She moved to take his arm and support him, but as she did so he
turn
ed on her and lost his balance. He grabbed at her to steady himself, caught her blouse and a button popped.

'Get out of my way, get out of my way
’
he snarled.