House of Cards (57 page)

The sound of a girl's laughter filled the room, followed by her low, deep gasp. The noise hypnotised the Wooltons, rooting them to the spot. For several minutes, the speakers gave out the sound of a series of shorter, higher breaths as the unmistakable sounds of sex were accompanied by the rhythmic banging of a bedhead against a wall. The tape left little to the imagination. The woman's sighs became shorter and more shrill, as the two bodies climbed ever higher, pausing occasionally for breath before pressing on remorselessly until with a shrieking crescendo they had burst through to reach the summit of their mountain. They shared gasps of pleasure and satisfaction before descending gently together, accompanied once more by the sound of the woman's laughter mixed with the deep bass chuckling of her companion.

The laughter stopped for an instant, until the turning tape found the next distinctive sound.

'That was great, Pa
trick. Can we do it again?' The
woman's voice laughed.

'Not if you're going to wake up the whole of bloody Bournemouth!' the unmistakable Lancashire accent said.

Neither Woolton nor his wife had moved since the tape had begun, but now she stepped slowly across the room and switched it off. A soft, gentle tear fell down one cheek as she turned to look at her husband. He could not return her gaze.

'What can I say? I'm sorry, love,' he whispered. I
’
ll not lie and tell you it's bogus. But I am sorry, truly. I never meant to hurt you.'

She made no reply. The look of reproach and sorrow on her face cut into him far more deeply than any angry words could have done.

'What do you want me to do?' he asked gently.

She turned on him with real anger flaring in her eyes. 'Pat, I've turned many a blind eye over the last twenty-three years, and I'm not so much of a silly little housewife to think this is the only time. You could at least have had the decency to keep it away from me and not rub my face in it. You owed me that.'

He hung his head, and she let her words sink deep into him before she continued. 'But one thing my pride will not tolerate is having a little tart like that trying to break up my marriage and make a fool of me. I
’
ll not stand for it. Find out whatever the blackmailing little whore wants, buy her off or go to the police if necessary, but get rid of her. And get rid of this!' She flung the tape at him. It doesn't belong in my house. And neither will you if I have to listen to that filth again!'

He looked at her with tears in his own eyes now. I
’
ll sort it out first thing in the morning. You'll hear no more about it.'

THURSDAY 25
th
NOVEMBER

Penny cast an unwelcoming frown in the direction of the steel grey November sky, and stepped carefully onto the pavement from the Earl's Court mansion block in which she lived. The weather men had been talking for days about the possibility of a sudden cold snap, and now it had arrived with a vengeance. As she tried to pick her way over frozen puddles, she regretted her decision to wear high heels instead of boots. She was moving slowly along the edge of the pavement when a car door swung open in front of her, blocking her path.

She bent low to tell the driver to be more bloody careful when she saw Woolton at the wheel. She beamed at him but he did not return her warmth. He was looking straight ahead, not at her as she obeyed his clipped instruction and slipped into the passenger seat.

'What is it you want?' he demanded in a voice which was as frozen as the morning air.

'What are you offering,' she smiled, but
there was an edge
of uncertainty creeping in as she began to discern the ice in his words. She had never seen him so soulless.

He turned to look at her for the first time. He cursed quietly at his folly when he saw how attractive she still seemed to him.

Did you have to send that tape to me at home? It was a particularly cruel thing to do, because my wife heard it. It was also extremely stupid, because it means she knows about it and so you can't blackmail me. No newspaper or radio station will touch it, the potential libel damages will frighten them off, so there's not much use you can make of it.'

He hoped she would be too stupid to see how much damage the tape could do to
him
in the wrong hands, and his bluff seemed to have worked as he watched the sparkle drain out of her eyes and the lustre fade from her cheeks.

‘P
atrick, what on earth are you talking about?'

The tape you sent me
#
you silly trollop. Don't go bloody coy on me!'

‘I
sent you no tape. I haven't the slightest idea what you are talking about.'

The
unexpected assault on her feelings and the unfathomable questions he was throwing at her had come as a considerable shock, and she began to sob and gasp for breath. He grabbed her arm ferociously and tears of real pain began to flow.

'The tape! The tape! You sent me the tape!'

'What tape, Patrick? Why are you hurting
me...?'

The trickle had become a flood and now a torrent and, as the outside world began to disappear behind misted windows, he began to realise he had misunderstood. He began to spit out his words, staccato-like, so there could be no doubt about their seriousness.

‘L
ook at me and tell me you did not send me a tape of us in Bournemouth.'

'No. No. I sent no tape. I don't know
...'
She suddenly gasped and stopped crying, his words at last piercing through her confusion. 'There's a tape of us in Bournemouth? God, Patrick, that's horrid. But who?'

Her bottom lip quivered in surprise and horror. He released her arm, and his head sank slowly onto the steering wheel.

'Yesterday a cassette tape arrived at my home address. The tape was of us in bed at the party conference.'

'And you thought that I had sent it and was trying to blackmail you? Why, you miserable bastard!'

‘
I
...
I didn't know what to think. I hoped it was you, Penny.'

'Why? Why me?' she shouted in disgust.

He took his head off the wheel to look once more at her. He had suddenly aged, his skin stretched like old parchment across his cheeks, his eyes red and tired.

‘I
hoped it was you, Penny, because if it's not you then I haven't the faintest idea who did manage to record us. And it can be no coincidence that it has arrived now, so many weeks after it was made. It means they're not trying to blackmail me for money, but over the leadership race.'

His voice faded to a whisper. 'As far as next Tuesday goes, I'm dead.'

Woolton spent the rest of the morning trying to think constructively. He had no doubt it was the leadership race which had caused the sudden appearance of the tape; a blackmailer simply wanting money would have had no reason to wait so long before striking. It was the leadership and its power, not money, they were interested in, and he knew their price would be too high. He suspected it was the Russians, who would not be as understanding as the New Orleans police. No, he could not stand.

Faced with such a problem, some might have decided to fade gently from the scene and pray that their quiet retirement would not be disturbed. That was not Woolton's style. He would rather go down fighting, and try to salvage whatever he could from the wreckage of his dreams.

He was in a determined mood by the time the press conference he had called gathered shortly after lunch. With no time to make more formal arrangements he had summoned the media to meet him on the other side of the river directly opposite the Houses of Parliament and under the shade of St Thomas's Hospital, where the Thames and the tower of Big Ben would provide a suitably dramatic backdrop. As soon as the cameramen were ready, he began.

'Good afternoon. I've got a short statement to make, and I'm sorry that I will not have time afterwards for questions. But I hope you will not be disappointed.

'Following the ballot on Tuesday, it seems as if only three candidates have any realistic chance of success. Indeed, I understand that all the other candidates have already announced that they do not intend to stand in the second round next week. So, as you gentlemen have put it, this is a three-horse race.

'Of course, I'm delighted and honoured to be one of those three, but three can be an unlucky number. There are not three real alternatives in this election, only two. Either the Party can stick to the practical approach to politics which has proved so successful and kept us in power for over a decade. Or it can develop a new raft of policies, sometimes called conscience politics, which will get Government much more deeply involved - some would say entrapped -in trying to sort out the everyday problems of individual people and families.'

There was a stir amongst the reporters at this sharp public acknowledgement of the division between the two wings of the Party which politicians habitually denied existed.

'I don't believe that a new emphasis on conscience politics would be appropriate - indeed, I think that however well intentioned that emphasis may be, it would in reality be a disaster for the Party and the country. I think that is also the view of the clear majority within the Party.

Yet paradoxically that is just the way we could end up drifting if that majority support for a pragmatic approach to politics is divided between two candidates, Mr Urquhart and myself. I am a practical man. I don't deal in personalities but in hard-nosed politics. Because of that I believe it would be wrong for my personal ambitions to stand in the way of achieving those policies in which I believe.'

The cold air was condensing his breath and setting fire to his words.

'So I have decided to ensure that the support for those general policies is not divided. I am withdrawing from the race. I shall be casting my own personal vote for Francis
Urquhart, who I
sincerely hope will be our next
Prime Minister. I have nothing more to say
’

His last words were almost lost in the clatter of a hundred camera shutters, which continued to click as they captured the sight of Woolton striding so fast up the riverside steps towards his waiting car that he was almost running. A few gave chase, but were unable to catch him before he reached the car and was driven off across Westminster Bridge in the direction of the Foreign Office. The rest simply stood in a state of considerable bewilderment, trying to ensure that they had not only accurately recorded but also understood what Woolton had said. He had given them no time for questions, no opportunity to develop theories or surmise any hidden meaning behind his words. They had only what he had given them, and they would have to report it straight-which is precisely what Woolton intended.

His wife was no less confused when he returned home later that evening and they watched his dramatic announcement lead off the
Nine O'clock News.

‘I
understand why you had to back out, Patrick, and I suppose that ought to be punishment enough. I shall go on supporting you, as I always have. But why did you decide to support Urquhart, for Heaven's sake? I never knew you were that close
’

That superior bugger? I'm not close to him. Don't even like him!'

Then why?'

'Because I'm fifty-five and Michael Samuel is forty-eight, which means that he could be in Downing Street for twenty years until I'm dead and buried as a politician. Francis Urquhart is sixty-two, and is likely to be in office for no more than five years. So with Urquhart, there's a chance that there will be another leadership race before I retire. In the meantime, if I can find out who is behind that tape, or they fall under a bus or get driven over by a Ministerial limousine, then I'm in with a second chance
’

His pipe was hurling thick blue smoke into the air as he worked on his logic.

‘
In any event, I had nothing to gain from remaining neutral. Samuel would never have tolerated me in his Cabinet. So instead I've handed the election to Urquhart on a plate, and he will have to show some public gratitude for that
’

H
e smiled at h
is wife for the first time since they had heard the tape. 'How do you fancy being the Chancellor of the Exchequer's wife for the next couple of years?'

FRIDAY 26
th
NOVEMBER

The following morning's weather was still well below freezing, but a new front had passed over London bringing with it crystal blue skies to replace the leaden cloud cover of the previous day. As Urquhart looked out from his Commons office across the Thames, the riverscape glowed brightly in the clear winter sunshine like a brilliant symbol of what lay ahead for him. As he gazed at the press reports of Woolton's endorsement, he felt invulnerable, almost home.

Then the door burst open. It was O'Neill. Even before Urquhart could demand to know what on earth he thought he was doing, the babbling commenced. The words were fired like bullets in a battle, being hurled at Urquhart as if to overwhelm and force his submission.

They know, Francis. They've discovered that the file is missing. The locks were bent and one of the secretaries noticed and the Chairman's called us all in. I'm sure he suspects me. What are we going to do? What are we going to
do?’