Party Games (16 page)

“So you didn’t go to Richmond yourself straight away, or advise him to confess to him?”  The journalist pushed.

“I said he should follow his conscience.”

“And what exactly
did
he tell you?  The whole truth?”

Tristan sighed and looked at the carpet.  He owed Martin his silence and he at least could pride himself on his discretion with his colleagues’ personal problems while Chief, if nothing else.  To him Fergus McDermott was a snake-in-the-grass, but he did realise he needed to sell papers.  “He told me what I needed to know.  I leave the inconsequential details to your profession.  I’ve no idea what he told Rodney Richmond.”

“Did he mention Laura Murphy to you by name?” McDermott asked calmly.  “Or did he just say he was having an affair with someone he most certainly shouldn’t?”

Tristan was beginning to feel infuriated.  If McDermott wasn’t careful he ran the risk of ruining Tristan’s evening – his third disappointing night in a row.

“As I say, Fergus, he told me what I needed to know.” 

Yes, then.  Excellent. 
“Ok, I’m nearly done.  Did you suggest to Arnold that, from your point of view as Chief Whip, he should resign?”

“That was a question for himself and for Rodney, not for me.  He came to me to warn me that there were to be very public consequences to his private actions, not to receive a moralistic rant.”  Tristan felt he was going round in circles with this idiot. 
Why wouldn’t he get the message?

“Well did you...”

“I’m sorry, Fergus, but I’m really the wrong person to talk to.”  The MP suddenly sounded indignant.  The conversation was turning from frosty to decidedly heated.

“I’ll wind up, then.  You say you were in no position to take the moral high ground with Arnold.  What did you think when he said he was having an illicit relationship with an MP of a different party?”

Tristan certainly didn’t like where the line of questioning was going.  He felt as if he had swallowed a rock.  Anthea was nowhere to be seen.  Maybe she had gone into the bedroom, perhaps she was lying semi-naked on the bed, waiting in anticipation for him to come to her.  His chest tightened in panic as the implications of the phone call sank in.  Whatever he said would be misconstrued and twisted, there was no way out. 

“What I thought surely isn’t important to your story, Fergus.  I
told
you, it wasn’t a judgment for me to make.  It was….”

McDermott interrupted with a well-timed cough.  “Yes, but surely the integrity of the two MPs involved can be called into question?”

“That is why Martin chose to resign.”  Tristan knew he was trying to perplex him, trick him into a hypocritical comment he could throw back at him. 
He knows about Anthea.
 
After only three days.

“Thank you Mr Rivers - Tristan - I’m sure you’re
desperate
to get to bed so I’ll let you go.  That’ll be all for now.” 

The line went dead. 

For a moment Tristan sat, his head in his hands, wondering how he was managing to get into such a God-awful mess with everything.  The last thing he wanted was his conduct as Chief Whip to become linked with the Arnold fiasco, and now with Scott snapping at his heels over the leadership, his plans for the Public Accounts Committee seemed to be fading.  On top of this, he had a headache.  He figured Anthea had become so fed up she had gone to bed again, and he would have to either call a cab or spend a second night on her sofa. So self-absorbed was Tristan in his own burdens, for a moment he failed to catch sight of Anthea, one arm stretched up along the doorframe of her bedroom.

“Why does my Right Honourable Friend look so sad?”  She cooed.  “Perhaps he should come over here and raise a point of order.”

Tristan looked up, the breath catching in his throat at the sight of Anthea Culverhouse, the woman his leader so secretly craved, standing provocatively in the doorway, a silk dressing gown tied loosely about her body.  All thoughts of McDermott and what he may or may not suspect left his mind.  She smiled sexily and beckoned him over.  As if being pulled by an invisible cord he followed her orders instantly, shrugging off his dinner suit jacket as he went.  He stood before her and raised his hand to her face, running his thumb over her chin.  Anthea allowed her gown to slip from her shoulders and fall to the floor to reveal the curves of her body, hugged in a black lace corset and stockings.

“Wow.”  Tristan murmured, his eyes raking over her.  “You look stunning.”

Anthea smiled coyly, slowly untying his bow tie with one hand and unfastening his dress shirt buttons with the other.  “Oh, this thing?  Got it to impress Ben but, guess what, he pissed off to Japan, so it’s sat in the drawer ever since.”

“Well, Ben doesn’t know a good thing when he’s got it, and you – you’re the most beautiful, intelligent woman I’ve ever met.”  Tristan made his move, taking her full lips between his as they collapsed against the bedroom door.  Anthea pulled him in as the kiss progressed from tender to hungry; he could feel the warmth of her body through his clothing, his rapidly growing interest hard against her hip as she raked down his trousers.  Tristan tried desperately not to think how Richmond would feel if he knew until he realised, perversely, such thoughts were only serving to turn him on even more. 
The illicit pleasure of it all. 
He wondered if Anthea felt the same.  As she wrapped a leg around his she urged him closer, enjoying the most intense kiss he had experienced for years, since the early days of marriage, before his mouth explored her throat, her breasts.  Tristan’s hands were busy, his fingers daring to investigate the lace of her underwear, her curves, her soft inner thighs.  Neither wished to rush the explosion of passion to which they had been building, but as Tristan’s caressing became more intimate Anthea broke away and lead him over to the bed.

“I thought you wanted to be wooed, chased after before this.”  Tristan said breathlessly.  Anthea ripped his shirt off his arms and began peppering his chest with soft, erotic kisses, pulling him down on top of her as she lay back onto the sheets. 

“Oh, I did.”  She replied throatily, reaching between his legs.  “But now – now, the chasing is over.”

*****

The journalist hopped out of his London run-around, an ageing Ford Fiesta, and eyed with suspicion the driver of a silver Mercedes who had been stealthily snapping away at the lovers as they canoodled on the doorstep.  He wondered if it was one of his contacts, but he was too far away to tell.  If it was another paper sniffing round he wondered if he could strike up some sort of deal, so drawing breath McDermott shoved his hands firmly inside his jacket pockets and walked cautiously and silently towards the car.  The night air was still and incredibly crisp for the time of year but a fog had begun to descend and dampen the atmosphere.  His breath smoked before his eyes as he watched the window slowly opening.  This was his chance.  The driver flicked out a cigarette stub but before he could raise the window the journalist moved swiftly and gripped the top with gloved hands.  McDermott’s eyes widened in surprise as a startled private detective stared back at him, the stale smell of a McDonalds meal escaping from within the vehicle.

“Jesus, where’d you come from?”  The detective gasped in surprise, leaning backwards in the car.  McDermott snorted as he leant against the window, a sardonic smile curling his lip.  He saw the detective wince as the gear stick dug uncomfortably into his spine. 

 “Call yourself a detective?  I’ve been watching you for about an hour now.  I think you’d better let me in.”  McDermott said smoothly.

The detective regained his composure and pursed his lips sourly. 

“Why should I?  We’ve got no business at the moment, Fergus, and I’m on a job.  I’m not your informant on this one, I’m not doing that anymore.  I’m too professional.”

McDermott skirted around the front of the Merc, glancing from side to side.  Although it was central London it was eerily quiet along the street except for some distant noise pollution from the surrounding main roads.  Nobody was watching him, but he was well aware Rivers might hurriedly appear from the building opposite at any moment.  From the tone of Rivers’ voice on the phone, the journalist had managed to put the fear of God into him. 

Before the detective could react, McDermott had flung the passenger door open and thrown himself into the seat, slamming it shut behind him.  The detective groaned as litter from his meal scattered over the floor.

“I was right, you
are
a crap detective, you could at least learn to lock your doors if you’re going to act tough and play hard to get.”  McDermott glanced up at Anthea’s window but the thick curtains were drawn and no movement was visible. 
No sign of Rivers yet
.  He held out his hand.   “Now, you can kill your radio contact with that black van in the next street for a start.”

Sighing heavily, the detective pulled out an earpiece and dropped it begrudgingly into McDermott’s gloved palm.  “Look, I’m not interested, I can’t afford to trade with your damn paper anymore!  I’m being paid enough for this one so I really don’t need you.”  The detective said indignantly. 

“Come on, mate, we’ve worked together before.”  McDermott felt the need to at least try the nice option first, heavy-handedness wasn’t a style he liked to use.  “I know what’s going on here, you’re watching Anthea Culverhouse’s apartment because she’s having it away with a still-very-married Tristan Rivers on a regular basis and you’re working for the rag which is going to splash on it.  Am I right?”

The detective sniffed and tapped his steering wheel nervously.    “Actually, yes.  Well done.  Although if you think you know it all then what d’you want from me?” 

McDermott buried his hand in a bag of boiled sweets on the dashboard, much to the detective’s obvious irritation.  Calmly he unwrapped one and popped it into his mouth, sucking on it thoughtfully. 

“Ok, if you don’t tell me who your client is then it’s doubtful I will get my story out before they do, and if I don’t have anything to run with then I’ll have to indulge my disappointment by writing something else.”  He glanced out the car window and crunched on his sweet. 
Still nothing.
  “My editor would love to know your name, I’m sure, as would Anthea Culverhouse and Tristan Rivers.  They could wipe the floor with you, what you’re doing is illegal.  Won’t be long before you’re phone hacking, I bet.  I can, however, protect you if you tell me where your evidence is.  I won’t breathe a word about you, but if you don’t, well – there’s not a lot I can do for you.” 

            “Do you enjoy being the scum of the earth?”  The detective’s tone was half mocking, half sincere.  McDermott didn’t care, the man’s opinion hardly mattered.

            “Well I always knew we had something in common.  Look, I know you won’t have been paid your full amount so I’ll double what your client would be paying you.”  McDermott realised he had to give him something in return at least, he wasn’t all unreasonable, although if the threat of exposure wasn’t enough to make him bend then he wasn’t feeling all that charitable. 

            The detective shivered in the chill of the car, their breath steaming up the windows as the fog outside began to settle.  McDermott knew he was leaving the detective with little choice.

 “It’s a red-top paper, yes, but I’m not revealing which one.  I have a duty to protect my client.  The money’s the deal-breaker here, you give me the fifteen grand I’m still owed and I’ll give you copies of everything I have, straight up.  But that’s it.  If you want my client’s name then you can go to hell and print what you like, it’ll
never
be as good a story as the one I’ve discovered.”

The detective’s expression was inscrutable but his smug attitude began to grate with the journalist.  McDermott didn’t think this guy should be quite so conceited considering he had him firmly over a barrel, but nevertheless decided to take the deal.   If he was taking him for a ride he’d be bloody sorry.  Fifteen grand was a lot.  Whichever rag the detective’s client was, and he had his suspicions, they must have been sure they were onto something. 
Rivers was still married
.  So predictable, yet such a seller.

            “Fine.”  McDermott snorted, sliding down the seat.  It wouldn’t be long now.  Soon, very soon, he’d be out of that house like a terrified rabbit.  “But I want to see the proof before you get so much as a whiff of the cash.  And no bloody funny business.  I’ll meet you in our usual drop-off, same time tomorrow night.”

            The detective scowled, smoothening down his dark, gelled hair.  It was thinning on top and it appeared the flatter he could keep it, the less obvious he thought it was. 

“Look, I’ve only got evidence for the past few days, anything further back, you’ll have to do that investigation yourself.  Although from what they’ve said to each other, there’s no hint of anything long-term.  His wife is well and truly out of the picture, but obviously that’s up to you if you want to write it that way.”

            “It’s got bugger all to do with you what I write, just get me the evidence.”  McDermott grimaced, patting his acquaintance on the arm.  “Nice doing business with you, laddie.  Tomorrow.  Don’t be fucking late.”

Perhaps he could get something in Hornby’s blog -  the man was often desperate for some ‘news’, his type of ‘journalism’ was all about prying into the private lives of others and Hornby
had
tipped him off about Miss Culverhouse and Rivers having a rather “intimate-looking” meal but decided, stupidly, not to write about it himself.  McDermott guessed it had nothing to do with the possibility of libel, more to do with whom the blogger himself was dining with that afternoon - the open secret that was Patrick Hornby and one Bartholomew Phillips.

As he headed back towards his car, McDermott thought of Richmond.  He wished he hadn’t, his old boss was the last person on the planet he wanted to picture before sleep.  Simmering loathing resurfaced as he shut his car door and stared into the night. 
It had been his story.  The biggest damn scoop for months.
   But Richmond had stopped him, protected his own skin.  McDermott didn’t believe a word of his reasoning then, and he didn’t now.  Richmond’s time was nearly up. Hell hath no fury like a journalist scorned.