Whispers of Betrayal (6 page)

‘And where d’you think you’re going, Sunny Jim?’

‘Let me through, please, Constable. I’m a Member of Parliament and I’ve got a vote to catch.’ Anxiety and lack of time made him sound pompous.

It riled the policeman. The constable inspected the figure clad in luminous yellow helmet and baggy trousers that had appeared
before him, then stood his ground. ‘Piss off before I nick you for obstruction.’

‘Don’t be offensive.’

‘Piss off – sir. Will that do you?’

‘Look, I’ve got a vote in the House of Commons in less than ten minutes. Let me pass. I insist!’ Goodfellowe reached out and shook the metal barrier that stood between them.

‘Don’t get violent or I’ll …’

‘Violence? Is that what you want? Because that’s what you’ll get when I report this to Chief Superintendent Ainsworth.’

The mention of his superior’s name gave the constable pause both for thought and for a little anxiety. ‘You really an MP?’ he demanded, sucking a broken front tooth. ‘Where’s your ID then?’

‘My ID?’ Goodfellowe began slapping his pockets in frustration. ‘I’m not carrying it. I rarely carry it.’

‘No ID, only cycle clips? Then they’re not going to let you into the House of Commons, are they?’

‘They all know me there, for God’s sake. Let me through!’

By this time a number of other cyclists, genuine demonstrators, had drawn up to witness the confrontation and to heckle Goodfellowe on, demanding not only that he be let through but that they all be let through. Goodfellowe groaned.

‘Look, Constable … 169OW. You prevent me from getting through and you’ll be in breach of the Sessional Order of the House of Commons. Can’t remember the exact quote, but something about the police ensuring that no obstruction be allowed to hinder the passage of Members to the House on pain of being inflicted with all sorts of cruel and unusual punishments. You’ll not only be on the Chief Super’s doorstep first thing tomorrow but also find your way into the pages of
Hansard
. Ainsworth’ll boil your balls for his breakfast. The rest of you’ll go for mince. You’ve got …’ – Goodfellowe glanced despairingly at his watch; he wasn’t going to make it – ‘about ten seconds to make up your mind or end up on the back shelf of your old mum’s fridge.’

The constable hesitated. If he let one through the others might follow and he’d have caused a cavalry charge down Whitehall. On the other hand, whoever this man was, he clearly knew Ainsworth and his appetites. God, if only he’d joined the
gendarmerie
he could
have beaten the crap out of them all and no questions asked. The constable tossed the consequences back and forth, weighing his doubts against the merits of his manhood, until eventually he relented. ‘The rest of you get back,’ he shouted at the demonstrators, ‘just this one’s getting through.’

It took more agonizing moments of delay before they complied, the barrier was dragged back, with a muttered apology from the policeman for any misunderstanding, and Goodfellowe was allowed to pass.

As he remounted his bike and began pedalling furiously, he could hear Big Ben striking in the distance, tolling for the bodies to be brought in for counting. Already he was sweating and he’d feel like a dish rag when he arrived. He had only a few more minutes before the doors of the voting lobbies would be locked. He took a huge breath to fill his lungs with oxygen. His legs ached with the effort and suddenly he felt very middle-aged. Time was running out for Goodfellowe, in all sorts of ways. There was still so much he wanted to do, to achieve, but he knew he could do none of it left out in the cold on a bicycle. There was also the matter of Elizabeth. How was he going to hang on to someone as classy as that if all he could offer her was the back of a bloody tandem? As he raced past the Red Lion, he knew that the time had come for him to move on in his life. The bicycle clips had to go.

Goodfellowe cast a despairing, angry look over his shoulder at the confusion he had just left behind. To his surprise he thought he caught sight of Sam, almost buried in the crowd on the other side of the barrier. But no, it couldn’t be. His daughter was in her first year at London University, she’d be busy right now with lectures or essays or something, not out causing mayhem. No, it couldn’t be, wouldn’t be Sam. Anyway, he didn’t have time to stop.

Now he was on the long sprint towards Parliament, putting his back into it, the noise of battle fading. As he pedalled he reflected; how easy it had been for a relatively small number of people armed with nothing more than a little initiative to overwhelm a modern city, to clog the arteries and bring the heart of a great metropolis to the point of seizure. The Cold War military blocs had amassed their arsenals of nuclear-tipped missiles along with chemical and biological agents, weapons that they could launch from land and
sea and air and even from space. Vast military machines constructed at huge and often crippling expense. When all they’d needed was a few bicycle pumps.

Goodfellowe chuckled in relief. Thank God the Soviets hadn’t been plugged in to Sky News.

‘Tom!’ A high, almost musical note, a sound of welcome.

Then: ‘Oh, Tom.’ Softer, deeper. About six feet deep. ‘By my mother’s beard, I really don’t know what to do with you. An angel in hobnail boots, if ever I saw one. Never know whether you’re coming into my office to bring me good news or give me a bloody good kicking.’

The Chief Whip waved him onto the single leather sofa and, without prompting, handed him a tumbler of whisky. ‘First you ask to see me. Then miss a bloody vote so I have to have you dragged in here by the cods anyway.’

Eddie Rankin sank wearily into the sofa beside Goodfellowe. The Chief was a Border Scot whose family over generations had seen all sides of the question as armies had tramped their way north and south across his country. His family had fought on all sides, too. Resilience and reticence were woven into the Rankin genes, which made him an ideal Whip. So unlike Battersby.

Goodfellowe had arrived at the House, panting after his dash down Whitehall, his collar askew, his hair like a nesting site for sparrows. He’d missed the vote. Battersby had been waiting for him. Wearing yellow socks.
Yellow
, for Christ’s sake.

‘Amazing what rubbish floats past if you sit by the river long enough,’ the Whip had weighed in. He was a little drunk, his tongue slow, and he was having trouble with the words, like some badly dubbed film.

‘Damn it, Battersby. I bust a gut trying to get here. Not my fault.’

‘Too busy shagging the waitress, were we? You gotta be careful, Tom, or the News of the Screws is gonna find out about that little arrangement of yours. Fact is, think I can guarantee it.’

‘You should be studied by ornithologists,’ Goodfellowe had countered. ‘As living proof of an old Chinese proverb.’

‘What Chinese proverb?’ the Whip had responded cautiously.

‘That everything which craps on you isn’t necessarily a bird.’

Battersby’s eyes narrowed. He was supposed to be in charge of this, yet somehow Goodfellowe always put him on the defensive. Still, he had one weapon in his locker. Time to produce it. ‘It’s not me you have to worry about, my old deary. The Chief wants to see you. Bit of a command performance, I’m afraid.’

‘Don’t worry. I had already made an appointment with him,’ Goodfellowe had smiled generously, leaving Battersby in confusion, which wasn’t all that difficult once one had progressed beyond counting to ten.

The Chief Whip was a different breed. Subtle. Even a friend, so far as politics allow. ‘You see, Tom, we’ve known each other so many years. I watched you when you were a Minister. Thought you were the one, perhaps the only one of our generation, who had the ability to make it to the top. Seriously I did. Yet now you can’t even make it to a bloody vote.’ His fingers drummed impatiently on the arm of the sofa. They were delicate, almost feminine fingers, carefully manicured, the mark of a man who had once played the classical guitar with the Scottish National Orchestra, fingers that could pick the conscience from a backbencher’s pocket without him ever knowing.

‘Not my fault, Eddie,’ Goodfellowe responded. ‘Not this time, at least. Got caught up in a demonstration at Trafalgar Square.’

‘Tom, just listen to yourself. Missed a vote because you got caught up in a mob demonstrating against your own Government? What do you think this is? A kindergarten class?’ The colour drained from Rankin’s voice. Goodfellowe was going to have to earn his whisky the hard way. ‘You’ve spent the last couple of years being about as much help as a nun in a knocking shop. We’ve been patient, sympathetic. Hell, after you lost your son, and Elinor cracked up …’ He paused in sorrow. The ancient leather of the sofa creaked as he leaned forward to refill their glasses. ‘You know as well as anybody that we’re not all prehistoric like Battersby. But we all have to move on, Tom. I’m running a parliamentary party, not a dog pound.’

‘Aren’t we allowed the occasional bark?’

‘I haven’t got time to waste on rounding up stray mongrels,’ Rankin retorted. ‘In your case, some would argue that it was better
simply to have you put down. Including, so I’ve heard, some in your own constituency party.’

So, the ripples on the Marshwood pond had reached as far as the Chief Whip’s lair. Goodfellowe ran his finger around the rim of his glass. An average blend, not a single malt. Unmistakable evidence that this was serious rather than social.

‘Look at it from my point of view, Tom. If you were standing in my socks, what would you be saying?’

Goodfellowe stifled a sarcastic response – this wasn’t the moment for cheap lines – and gazed around the panelled room with its dark window and conspiratorial atmosphere. On Rankin’s desk lay a small pile of folders. Personnel files. Files from the safe, the armoury where the Whips stored most of their weapons, those little secrets and shames that were committed to paper and locked away, to be brought out and brandished whenever one of the dogs started barking. (No computer files here, too easy to copy, only the handwritten daily notes torn from the Whips’ Book, along with a few press cuttings and unpaid invoices. Perhaps even a couple of charge sheets, too.)

There were some secrets that even the Whips were unwilling to commit to paper, matters so sensitive they were confined only to that collective memory that bound together the brotherhood. Such as the whereabouts of the Foreign Secretary’s first wife, whom he had inconveniently forgotten to divorce before marrying the second. Her bank account number, too, although a slip of paper recorded details of the regular payments. There was also the identity of the MP’s daughter who fed her drug habit by prostitution and by playing the Stock Market with exceptional good fortune following her occasional visits to a Junior Minister for Industry. Nestling alongside the other secrets was the identity of the Whip, one of their own, who’d had a heart attack in his room, tied to his chair with underwear around his ankles. Women’s underwear. No need for a paper record. They would for ever remember him as Little Miss Naughty, baby pink, extra large. For a moment Goodfellowe wondered whether Rankin had been running through his own file, and what might be in it.

‘If, as you say, I were standing in your socks, Eddie,’ he responded, picking up the Chief Whip’s challenge, ‘I would say here was a
mongrel of some talent. Awkward sometimes, to be sure. The sort of dog who waits until you’ve built the kennel around him, driven home the last nail, then jumps over the bloody gate. But a dog who’s looking for a new …’ – he took a deep breath while he hunted for the right word – ‘adventure.’

‘Adventure? I prefer the quiet life. No surprises.’ Yet curiosity drew him on. ‘What sort of adventure?’

‘One that doesn’t require me to cycle in the rain around Westminster and get caught up in the crowd.’

‘You want money?’

‘No, you Scottish
teuchter
!’ His voice rang unnaturally jocular in his own ear, too loud, trying too hard. He sipped his whisky, finding it difficult to plead. ‘I want to be back with the team, Eddie. It’s a tough game in this place and I’m tired of trying to score goals all on my own.’

‘This is a new Goodfellowe,’ the Whip responded wryly. ‘Why the sudden change?’

‘I’ve got new interests, new friends …’

‘I’d heard.’

‘New enthusiasms,’ Goodfellowe continued, now certain that Rankin had undoubtedly reviewed his file, and that Elizabeth was on it.

‘You want back on the inside of the tent?’

‘It would be more comfortable than staying on the outside. For you, too. I’m so messy when I put my back into it.’

‘So you want in. And you thought the best way to impress me was to balls-up a simple vote?’

‘Think positive. Get me off my bike, Eddie, and you rob an old rebel of his excuse.’

They held each other’s gaze, testing.

‘You pick your moments, Tom,’ Rankin eventually responded. His tone was considered, contemplative. Not dismissive. ‘The tom-toms are beginning to beat from Downing Street. Testing the tune of an early reshuffle. One or two braves to be burnt at the stake, so rumour has it. Somebody will need to take their place.’

‘I’d like it to be me.’ There, he’d said it. No ambiguity, ambition to the fore. It felt good, like favourite shoes.

‘Ah, the appetite returns!’

‘Put it down to menopausal vanity. An insane desire for a higher profile. Before I have to start dying my hair.’