House of Cards (61 page)

'Another junkie taking his last fix,' muttered the police sergeant, who had seen more than
a few such sights in his time. ‘I
t's more usual to find them with a needle up their arm,' he explained to his young colleague who lacked the relevant experience. 'But this one looks as if he was doing cocaine, and either it was too much for his heart or he's got hold of some adulterated stuff. There's quite a lot of drug pushing goes on around these motorway service stations, and the junkies never know what they're buying from whom. You often get impure drugs being peddled, either diluted with anything from castor sugar to baking powder, or mixed with something rather more lethal. The pushers will sell anything for money and the junkies will pay anything for a fix, whatever it is. This is just one of the unlucky ones.'

He started rummaging through O'Neill's pock
ets for clues to his identity. F
unny way the body and face have contorted, though. Well, we can let the police surgeon and the coroner's office sort that one out. Let's get on with it, laddie, and call the ruddy photographers to record this sordid little scene. No use us standing here guessing about
...
Mr Roger O'Neill,' he announced as he found a wallet bearing a few credit cards. 'Wonder who he is?'

There's a car outside in the car park, been here all night by the looks of it
’
volunteered the janitor 'Probably his.'

'Well, let's take the details and check it out then
’
instructed the sergeant.

It was 7.20 by the time the coroner's representative had authorised the removal of the body. The sergeant was making sure the junior officer had finished with the required procedures and the ambulancemen were manhandling the rigid, contorted body out from its seat and onto their stretcher when the call came over the radio.

'Sod it
’
the sergeant told the radio controller. That'll set the cat amongst the pigeons. I'd better
make double sure we've done ever
y
thing this end before we have CI
D inspectors, superintendents and chief constables floating in for a look.'

He turned to the fresh-faced constable. 'Got yourself a prize one there, you have. Seems the car is registered to the Government's party headquarters, and our Mr Roger O'Neill is - rather was - a senior party official with his fingers in Downing Street and everywhere else, no doubt. Better make sure you write a full report, lad, or well both be for the high jump.'

It had been another sleepless night. Her physical reserves of stamina had just about run out and she was on the point of surrendering to her growing mood of depression when the phone call threw her the lifeline she needed. It was Johnnie, calling from the
Telegraph
news room.

'How's this for another one of your coincidences?' he enquired. 'Just come over on the tape. It seems the Southampton police found your Roger O'Neill dead in a public lavatory just a few hours ago.'

Tell me this is simply your tasteless way of saying good morning,' she said without humour.

'Sorry. It's for real. I've already sent a reporter down to the scene, but it appears the local police have called in the Drug Squad. Seems he may have overdosed.'

Mattie gasped as one of the pieces fell into place with a noise like a coffin lid slamming closed.

'So that was it. An addict. No wonder he was all over the place
...'
As she spoke she nudged in her excitement the large stack of dirty crockery which had built up beside the kitchen telephone, sending them crashing to the floor.

'Mattie, what on earth
...'

'Don't you see, Johnnie. He was the key man, the only man we knew for certain was involved in all the dirty tricks. Our Number One lead has just very conveniently disappeared from the scene, the day before they elect a new Prime Minister, leaving us with a big fat zero. Don't you see, Johnnie.'

'What?'

There's not a moment to waste!' she gasped, as he heard the phone go dead.

Mattie almost didn't find Penny Guy. She had rung the bell of the mansion block continuously for several minutes, and was just about to give up when the latch was released by the electronic buzzer and the door swung open. The door to Penny's flat on the first floor was also ajar, and Mattie walked in. She found Penny sitting quietly on the sofa, curtains drawn, staring at nothing.

Mattie did not speak, but sat down beside her and held her. Slowly Penny's fingers tightened around Mattie's hand, acknowledging her presence, begging her to stay.

‘H
e didn't deserve to die,' Penny said i
n a hushed, faltering voice. ‘H
e was a weak man, but not an evil one. He was very kind.'

'What was he doing in Southampton?'

‘H
e was spending the weekend with someone. Wouldn't say who. It was one of his silly secrets.'

'Any idea who?'

Penny shook her head with painful slowness.

‘D
o you know why he died?' Mattie asked.

Penny turned to face her with round, dark eyes which had a faraway look and from which the shock had squeezed any trace of emotion.

You
're not interested in him, are you? Only in his death.' It was not an accusation, simply a statement of fact.

‘
I'm sorry he died, Penny. I'm also sorry because I think Roger will be blamed for a lot of bad things that have happened recently. And I don't think he's the one who should be blamed.'

Penny blinked for the first time, as if the question had at last disturbed the emptiness which had taken hold of her.

'Why would they
...
blame Roger?' The words were formed slowly, as if half of her were elsewhere, in a world where O'Neill was still alive and where Penny could still save him.

'Because he's a victim who has been set up to take the blame. Someone has been using Roger, has been twisting him and bending him in a dirty little political game - until Roger snapped.'

Penny considered t
his for several long moments. ‘H
e's not the only one,'she said.

'What do you mean?'

'Patrick. Patrick was sent a tape, of him with me. He thought I'd done it.' 'Patrick who. Penny?'

'Woolton. He thought I had made the tape of us in bed together to blackmail him. But it was someone else. It wasn't me.'

'So that's why he quit,' exclaimed Mattie. 'Who could have made the tape, Penny?'

Don't know. Almost anybody at the party conference I suppose. Anyone in Bournemouth, anyone at the hotel.'

'But Penny, I don't understand! Who could have blackmailed Patrick Woolton? Who could have known you were sleeping with him?'

'Roger knew. But Roger would never
...'

‘D
on't you see, Penny. Someone was blackmailing Roger, too. Someone who must have known he was on drags. Someone who forced him to leak opinion polls and alter computer files. Someone who
...'

'Killed him!' The words unlocked the misery which Penny had been trying to hide since they had telephoned her earlier that morning. But now the barriers burst and tears were flooding from her eyes, forced out by the cries of anguish which racked her body. Further discussion with her was clearly impossible, and Mattie helped the sobbing girl into bed,
making
her as comfortable as she could. She stayed with her until the tears had emptied her soul and she was fast asleep.

Mattie walked down the street in confusion. The first snow of winter was beginning to fall gently around her, but she did not notice it. She was lost in her own misery of doubt. All the firm evidence she had led back to O'Neill. Now he was dead and the door at which she had been pushing, behind which she knew she would find the answer, had suddenly slammed shut on her. It was not the first time that the frustrated ambition of men had led to blackmail and violence - the appeal of political power had fascinated, seduced and corrupted men and women throughout the ages - but none had daubed blood on the door of 10 Downing Street. Until now. It had to be washed clean. She had a day to do it - and no idea where to go next.

'Come on, come on, come on, come on!' she shouted, beating her hands on the desk in frustration. As the day had turned to evening and she had tossed the facts around fruitlessly in her mind she had become more tense, unable to find any new direction. The clock had ticked remorselessly on, and she found her mind crossing the same old ground, travelling up the same blind alleys and discovering the same dead ends. The harder she tried, the more elusive any new insight became. Perhaps a change of scene might fire her imagination. So she had gone for a walk, driven around, taken a bath and was now
sitting at home, crying for en
lightenment. But it was to no avail. Her inspiration and intuition had failed her as the sleepless nights took their toll, and the one man who could answer all her burning questions was dead, taking his secrets with him. She buried her head in her hands, reduced to praying for a miracle in a world which God seemed to have deserted.

Something sparked. Later she could never recall what aroused it, but among the dying embers of her confidence a small flame began to glow and lick itself back to life. -Perhaps it was not all over yet.

Two hours later Krajewski arrived clutching a large box of hot pizza. He had telephoned but got no answer. He was concerned, and was attempting to hide his concern beneath the pepperoni and extra cheese. He found Mattie sitting on the floor in the dark, huddled in the comer with her knees drawn up under her chin, clenching her arms around her tightly. She had been crying.

He said nothing but knelt beside her, and this time she allowed him to hug the tears away. It was some time before she could say anything.

'Johnnie, you told me that if I couldn't offer commitment I could never make it as a journalist, that I would be no better than a butterfly. I realise now that you were right. Until today I was simply chasing a story - oh, a big one, for sure, but what really mattered was ending up with my name at the top of the page one lead. Like a
film
- rooting out the wrongdoers from their hiding places, never giving a damn about the cost. I've been acting a role, the intrepid journalist struggling to unravel th
e lies in the face of overwhelm
ing odds. But it's no longer a game, Johnnie
...'

She looked into his eyes, and he saw that her tears were not tears of fear or pain, but tears of release, as if she had at last struggled from the clutches of the bog onto solid ground.

'All I wanted was a story, a great one. I threw away my job and I even trampled over your feelings just in case you got in the way. Now I would give anything for the whole story to disappear, but it's too late.'

She gripped his hand, needing someone now. 'You see, Johnnie, none of it was coincidence. Woolton was deliberately blackmailed out of the leadership race. Somebody got rid of him, just as they got rid of Collingridge, of McKenzie, of Earle. And of O'Neill.'

‘
Do you realise what you're saying?'

'O'Neill's death was suicide or murder. And how many people have you ever heard of committing suicide in a public lavatory!'

'Mattie, this isn't the KGB we are dealing with.'

'As far as O'Neill is concerned, it may just as well have been.'

‘J
esus!'

‘
Johnnie, there is someone out there who will stop at nothing to fix the election of the man who in a few hours' time will become the most powerful individual in the country.'

That's terrifying. But who
...
?'

She pounded the floor in anger.

That's the bloody trouble. I don't know! I've been sitting here in the dark knowing that there is a man, a name, some clue which will reveal it all, but I just can't find it. Everything leads back to O'Neill, and now he's gone
...'

You
are certain that it couldn't have been O'Neill, perhaps, who got so deeply involved
...
got scared. Lost control and killed himself ?'

'No! Of course it wasn't O'Neill. It couldn't have been
...'

The flame spluttered once more, warming her, its heat dispelling a little more of the mists of confusion which clung to her mind.

'Johnnie, while O'Neill played his part with most and possibly all of the leaks, he couldn't have done it by himself. Some of those leaks were from Government, not from the Party. Highly confidential information which would not have been available to all members of the Cabinet, let alone a party official
’

She took a deep breath, as deep as if it were the first breath of fresh air she had taken in days.

‘D
o you see what that means, Johnnie. There must be a common link. There must be, if only we could find it
..
‘

'Mattie, we can't give up now. There has to be a way. Look, have you got a list of Cabinet Ministers?'

‘
In the drawer of my work table.'