Party Games (18 page)

            The lights seemed to take forever to change, but Colin took the time to compose himself.  He did some of his best thinking while driving, but his sudden craving for caffeine took him to the next service station.  He passed the news stand, keeping his gaze away from the glaring
Bulletin
headline, and bought himself a strong Americano.  Once back in the car, Colin scrolled the messages and missed calls on his phone.  He had put it on silent to stop the incessant ringing; every hack in the universe seemed to have tried to get hold of him for the next big exclusive.  Still feeling sick, he sipped his coffee gratefully and continued to check for angry messages from the Richmond camp.  There were none. 

            “Playing the long, silent game, are we, Rodney?” Colin said softly to himself.  If Richmond was going to play hard to get, then Colin would follow suit.  Matthew Gaines had left a message, asking him to call.  The poor guy would be on the receiving end of Richmond’s wrath soon enough, but he knew Gaines could handle himself, as his little private chat with McDermott had proved.   The extra quotes had worked wonders.  Fortunately for Colin, Gaines was a former spin doctor, so Colin would rely on his advice over the coming days.

It had hit him just before the truck nearly did – events were already running away from him and perhaps he didn’t have control of them nearly as much as he thought.  The Arnold story was about to break in the
Engager,
the newspaper edited by Colin’s old flame Rosie Lambert, and he was sure Dickenson would run the Jenny Lambert stuff soon.  The editor now had Richmond over a barrel ‘with a red-hot poker up his arse’, as he had so politely put it to Colin, but Colin still had the Tristan Rivers card to play before the potentially self-destructive Plan B.  Rivers was still to be useful, if he would play ball.  During his last conversation with him – the briefest of chats on his mobile as he drove out of London – the man had been decidedly luke-warm over a leadership bid.  To Colin’s intense frustration he had admitted he wished to put off any challenge until the New Year.  It was time to turn the screws on Rivers, force him into action.  The detective needed to hurry.

Cursing at his own nerves, and his sore neck, he switched on the car radio and turned up the volume on
Classic FM
for the Beethoven Evening Extravaganza.  Dramatic thinking needed dramatic music.  He vowed to sit tight that weekend and wait to see the reactions to the Arnold story and whether Jenny’s kiss-and-tell would come out in Monday’s edition of the
Bulletin
before he decided how to act next.  Once he had used Rivers for the purpose for which he was intended and was out of the way, then in would ride Colin Scott, like Richard returning from the Crusades, ready to bring the party back from the brink of self-destruction.

*****

Cash and information exchanged hands quickly and with little fuss in the chilly semi-darkness of St James’ Park.   Both men had stayed true to their word as both knew each had much to gain – and much to lose.

            “You better not be bullshitting me.”  McDermott muttered tersely, shooting a suspicious glance at the detective’s moonlit face. 

            “D’you really think I’d risk everything if I was taking you for a ride?”  The detective protested.  McDermott looked incredulous but raised a weak smile all the same.  The detective considered that the journalist should be more accommodating towards him; he had, after all, saved him an awful lot of work. 

             McDermott sniffed disdainfully as he made a move to indicate their little meeting was over.  “Don’t be going too far away, now.  I may need you again.”  He said warningly.

            The detective eyed the journalist thoughtfully, wondering if he had done the right thing in handing over copies of all the evidence he had on Rivers.  Colin Scott was likely to hunt him down and kill him once it had all come out, hiring a contract killer to do it of course, it wasn’t his client’s style to do any of his own dirty work.  That much was evident.  He would go far away until it had all died down.  The money from the
Bulletin
was enough to sustain him abroad for a while, and he fancied a change of scenery.  Maybe he could set himself up in America, he had a friend out there, in the same line of work, who owned three properties around the country and drove a Ferrari and a Lamborghini.  Nice if you can get it.

 “I think you’ll find, Fergus,” The detective retorted archly, “that our arrangement is now done with.  I’ve given you everything I have, but be warned my client has everything I have too so you’d best be quick if you’re going to use it.”

A nearby tree rustled and a squirrel bounced briskly down its trunk, pausing suddenly as if surveying the company.  The journalist laughed, a sanctimonious grin spreading across his lips.  “I don’t need your advice, thanks.  But if you
have
screwed me over I’ll find you.” 

 “Ooh, I’m scared.”  The detective mocked as he shoved his hands back in his jacket, turning on his heels and striding away into the silence of the park.  He felt the envelope of money between his fingers.  Yes, this would get him far, far away.  If he hadn’t begun to whistle he might have caught his contact’s last, quiet words of warning: 

“You shouldn’t be scared of me, detective.  You should be fucking terrified.”

*****

After a hard afternoon entertaining her local Conservative branches with her wit and wisdom, Anthea had the evening to gather her thoughts in front of Friday night television along with a shepherd’s pie, a bottle of wine and a pile of correspondence.  She hadn’t heard from Rodney in the wake of Colin’s interview, but she could guess his mood.  She feared Rodney might start finding others to point the finger at.  What if he blamed Tristan?  What if he thought in no uncertain terms that Tristan was out for revenge?  If the idea had imbedded itself in Rodney’s mind then she knew from experience it would take quite a persuasive argument to shift it. 

            The Fisher ‘situation’ and the tiff during Shadow Cabinet had obviously been leaked by the usual suspect, and Rodney’s talk of a referendum had left her seething.  Poor Peter had been run far too ragged for a Friday, but Deborah had insisted the leader wasn’t forming policy on the hoof.  Peter had argued that if the Tory leader was putting it about to a major donor that a referendum on Cornish devolution would be an acceptable position to take, then this most certainly
was
making policy on the hoof. 

As well as tackling her workload, Anthea felt she should do her daughterly duty and call her mother.  Anthea had always been close to her mother but Mrs Culverhouse had become even more prying into her daughter’s life since Anthea’s father died; the never-ending questions about men – or lack of.  She had a knack of dropping Rodney’s name into conversation; how lovely he looked on television, what a nice manner he had and a naughty glint in his brown eyes meaning he was definitely on the look-out for a woman.  Anthea’s lame response of “he’s just a friend and colleague, Mother” would only elicit a knowing chuckle from the older woman and a rather curt: “You’re not getting any younger you know, darling, and if you want children!  I’m sure Rodney would make an excellent father.”

“Well if you think he’s so wonderful then why don’t you marry him?”  Anthea joked sarcastically once, but her mother’s response of “don’t think I haven’t thought about it, darling” made sure she now simply humoured her on the subject.  It was best, she decided, not to mention Tristan’s name just yet.  It was still early days and the fewer people who knew the better, and that most certainly included her mother. 

The dullness of the patron dinner and the shock of hearing Rodney freely bandying about referendums with Simon Clarke had made for a bad evening, but once her and Tristan got talking, once they had gone back to her flat, once they had progressed from colleagues, to friends, to lovers, Anthea could not have felt more alive.  They had made love twice before their urges were finally satisfied, their legs entwined, the rhythmic beating of his heart in her ear as she lay on his chest.  He felt warm and safe, rescuing her from yet another night alone.  The London traffic rumbled in the distance as he softly brushed her hair and bare back with tired fingers until eventually giving out to sleep.

Tristan was up and dressed early Friday morning, sitting in her living room with a large mug of strong coffee as she came through, bleary-eyed. 

“Someone looks shagged out.”  He grinned.  Anthea slouched next to him in her robe and kissed his neck.

“Fine greeting.”  She murmured, giving his waist a small tickle.  “And
someone
is back in the same dinner suit he wore the night before.  Naughty, naughty.”

            Tristan gave a laugh, but he was thumbing his BlackBerry, looking thoughtful.  He rested a gentle, soothing hand on her thigh, and although Anthea urged him to talk about the unexpected phone call, all he would say was that McDermott kept asking him about Martin Arnold’s resignation.  She knew there was more, but didn’t wish to push him.  Yet.  In the cold light of day, she decided that a weekend apart might give them some breathing space, it had been a whirlwind romance so far and she needed time to reflect.

She nearly jumped out of her skin when he mobile rang and vibrated on the table next to her, resulting in mashed potato dropping down her jumper.  The phone flashed up the Party Chairman’s number.

“Hi Jeremy.”  She answered, scratching flakes of melted cheese from the fibres.  “Quiet day?”

“Gosh, you’re funny.”

“How’s he doing?”

“He’s not called you, then?”

“No.  He probably thinks I’m not talking to him after Clarke.”

“And aren’t you?”

“He cocked up, Jeremy.  He handed the whole thing to Colin on a plate.”  Anthea knew she sounded harsh, but she could be completely frank with Jeremy about their mutual friend and have him understand.

“Look, I know Rodney feels bad about the way he spoke to you in Shadow Cabinet.”

Anthea fell silent, unsure what to say.

“It’s not that he doesn’t trust you on the Bill, of course he does, he values your judgement.  He needs you.”

Anthea knew Jeremy was aware just how Rodney felt about her, but he would never say it.  He didn’t need to.  But this was a professional matter, and Anthea felt she had every right to be genuinely angry.

“He told you to say that, Jeremy?”  She asked sarcastically.  “You saw how he was, and then to go off-message with Simon bloody Clarke, ad-libbing on the policy – Peter can’t get a word of sense out of Deborah over it.  A referendum was spoken about after First Reading, but I don’t just want to lap up everything Fisher wants.”

Now it was Jeremy’s turn at silence. 

“Don’t you agree with me?”

“I think you should, perhaps, speak to Fisher soon.”  The Chairman finally offered.  “Especially now there is this perceived confusion in the press over our position.  He’ll think we’re dithering – look, I know we’re not, and I agree Rodney shouldn’t have said what he said to Clarke and Colin fanned the flames on purpose – but, from the rebels’ point of view, we need to be clear.”

Anthea sighed heavily.  “Ok, ok.  I’ll set up a meeting for mid-week.”

“I heard that the Labour rebels are meeting later next week, so perhaps get in there with Fisher beforehand.”  Jeremy said.  “I think you could make a good deal with them.  I agree with Rodney –we could knock this thing out of the water.”

“Unless – well, there is, of course, our
other
problem.”  Anthea said slowly.

“Hmm.  Little local difficulty and all that.”

“Bloody liability, more like.  We need to stop the bastard, bar tying bricks to his feet and throwing him into the Thames.”  Anthea lazily chased peas around her plate with her fork. “The last thing I have time for is another leadership election.”

“You and me both.  Rodney would win handsomely, of course, but Colin’s now far more than a fly in the ointment.  I’m going to try one last attempt to stop him through diplomatic means, but if that fails...”

“Then we need to ‘go to the mattresses’?”

Anthea was sure she could almost hear Jeremy smile.

“That’s certainly one way of putting it.  We all know Gaines is involved in this, but Robert is going to keep Fryer under surveillance next week. Hopefully we can take limited damage over the Arnold story tomorrow and Rodney’s education speech on Monday should get good coverage.”

“Well, if anyone can persuade Colin, it’s you.”  Anthea said.  She abandoned her food, suddenly no longer hungry.

“Yes. The only other person died a long time ago now…wait a minute, George, go and find Mummy, I’m just speaking to Auntie Anthea.”

Anthea smiled on hearing George in the background.  She enjoyed a good cuddle with her little godson, and she adored his garbled chatter and wide-eyed innocence.  She still hoped for her own and didn’t need her mother reinforcing the point.

 “Sorry about that.”  Jeremy sighed wearily.  “George is excited about starting school.”

“I bet he is. I’m looking forward to lunch with Linda next week.  Give her my love.”

“I will...look, how worried are you about Rodney?  Just between us.”  Jeremy sounded serious, almost sad.  Anthea rubbed her face and topped up her wine.

“He’s changed, Jeremy.”  She said quietly.  “I just can’t talk to him the same anymore.  I’m not one of the ‘quad’ or ‘big four’ or whatever the press calls it, but you are.  You, Deborah and Heidi are the only ones he really talks to these days.”

“Rodney’s just having a tough couple of weeks.  You know how he gets, how his moods can be.  He’ll be fine, he’s still the same Rodney, underneath all that hair spray and moisturiser.”

Anthea laughed.  She loved Jeremy’s eternal optimism and wished she shared it.  It was probably why he made such an excellent Chairman, without such positive vibes at the top of the party she doubted it would have survived at all much past polling day.  Even still, it wasn’t enough.  Rodney himself worked harder than anyone else, but he had handled Tristan’s sacking shockingly badly, his judgement over Jack Fisher was hot-headed and Colin was simply playing for time.  Anthea relied on her political intuition and this time it was giving her bad vibes.  Time would tell.