Читать книгу To Play the King - Michael Dobbs - Страница 14

A politician has no friends.

‘This is truly appalling.’ Mortima Urquhart screwed up her nose with considerable violence as she surveyed the room. It had been several days since the Collingridges removed the last of their personal effects from the small apartment above 10 Downing Street reserved for the use of Prime Ministers, and the sitting room now had the ambience of a three-star hotel. It lacked any individual character, that had already been transported in the packing cases, and what was left was in good order but carried the aesthetic touch of a British Rail waiting room. ‘Simply revolting. It won’t do,’ she repeated, gazing at the wallpaper, where she half expected to find the faded impressions of a row of flying china ducks. She was momentarily distracted as she passed by a long wall mirror, surreptitiously checking the conspicuous red tint her hairdresser had applied earlier in the week as she had waited for the final leadership ballot. A celebratory highlight, the stylist had called it, but no one could any longer mistake it for a natural hue and it had left her constantly fiddling with the colour balance on the remote control, wondering whether it was time to change the television or her hair salon.

‘What extraordinary people they must have been,’ she muttered, brushing some imagined speck of dust from the front of her Chanel suit while her husband’s House of Commons secretary, who was accompanying her on the tour of inspection, buried herself in her notebook. She thought she rather liked the Collingridges; she was more definite in her views of Mortima Urquhart, whose cold eyes gave her a predatory look and whose constant diets to fend off the advance of cellulite around her expensively clad body seemed to leave her in a state of unremitting impatience, at least with other women, particularly those younger than herself.

‘Find out how we get rid of all this and see what the budget is for refurbishment,’ Mrs Urquhart snapped as she led the way briskly down the short corridor leading to the dark entrails of the apartment, fingertips tapping in rebuke the flesh beneath her chin as she walked. She gave a squawk of alarm as she passed a door on her left, behind which she discovered a tiny galley kitchen with a stainless-steel sink, red and black plastic floor tiles and no microwave. Her gloom was complete by the time she had inspected the claustrophobic dining room with the atmosphere of a locked coffin and a view directly onto a grubby attic and roof. She was back in the sitting room, seated in one of the armchairs covered in printed roses the size of elephants’ feet and shaking her head in disappointment, when there came a knock from the entrance hall.

‘Come in!’ she commanded forlornly, remembering that the front door didn’t even have a lock on it – for security reasons she had been told, but more for the convenience of civil servants as they came to and fro bearing papers and dispatches, she suspected. ‘And they call this home,’ she wailed, burying her head theatrically in her hands.

She brightened as she looked up to examine her visitor. He was in his late thirties, lean with razor-cropped hair.

‘Mrs Urquhart. I’m Inspector Robert Insall, Special Branch,’ he announced in a thick London accent. ‘I’ve been in charge of your husband’s protection detail during the leadership election and now they’ve been mug enough to make me responsible for security here in Downing Street.’ He had a grin and natural charm to which Mortima Urquhart warmed, and a build she couldn’t help but admire.

‘I’m sure we shall be in safe hands, Inspector.’

‘We’ll do our best. But things are going to be a bit different for you, now you’re here,’ he continued. ‘There are a few things I need to explain, if you’ve got a moment.’

‘Come and cover up some of this hideous furniture, Inspector, and tell me all about it…’

Landless waved as the crowd applauded. The onlookers had no idea who sat behind the darkened glass of the Silver Spur, but it was an historic day and they wanted a share in it. The heavy metal gates guarding the entrance to Downing Street drew back in respect and the duty policemen offered a smart salute. Landless felt good, even better when he saw the pavement opposite his destination crowded with cameras and reporters.

‘Is he going to offer you a job, Ben?’ a chorus of voices sang out as he prised himself from the back seat of the car.

‘Already got a job,’ he growled, showing off his well-known proprietorial glare and enjoying every minute of it. He buttoned up the jacket flapping at his sides.

‘A peerage, perhaps? Seat in the House of Lords?’

‘Baron Ben of Bethnal Green?’ His fleshy face sagged in disapproval. ‘Sounds more like a music hall act than an honour.’

There was much laughter, and Landless turned to walk through the glossy black door into the entrance hall but he was beaten to the step by a courier bearing a huge assortment of flowers. Inside, the hallway was covered with a profusion of bouquets and baskets, all still unwrapped, with more arriving by the minute. London’s florists, at least temporarily, could forget the recession. Landless was directed along the deep red carpet leading straight from the front door to the Cabinet Room on the other side of the narrow building, and he caught himself hurrying. He slowed his step, relishing the sensation. He couldn’t remember when he had last felt so excited. He was shown directly into the Cabinet Room by a solicitous and spotty civil servant who closed the door quietly behind him.

‘Ben, welcome. Come in.’ Urquhart waved a hand in greeting but didn’t rise. The hand indicated a chair on the other side of the table.

‘Great day, Francis. Great day for us all.’ Landless nodded towards Stamper, who was leaning against a radiator, hovering like a Praetorian Guard, and Landless found himself resenting the other man’s presence. All his previous dealings with Urquhart had been one-on-one; after all, they hadn’t invited an audience as they’d laid their plans to exhaust and overwhelm the elected head of government. On those earlier occasions Urquhart had always been the supplicant, Landless the power, yet as he looked across the table he couldn’t help but notice that things had changed, their roles reversed. Suddenly ill at ease, he stretched out a hand to offer Urquhart congratulation, but it was a clumsy gesture. Urquhart had to put down his pen, draw back his large chair, rise and stretch, only to discover that the table was too wide and all they could do was to brush fingers.

‘Well done, Francis,’ Landless muttered sheepishly, and sat down. ‘It means a lot to me, your inviting me here on your first morning as Prime Minister. Particularly the way you did. I thought I’d have to sneak in round the back by the dustbins, but I have to tell you I felt great as I passed all those cameras and TV lights. I appreciate the public sign of confidence, Francis.’

Urquhart spread his hands wide, a gesture meant to replace the words he couldn’t quite find, while Stamper jumped in.

‘Prime Minister,’ he began, with emphasis. It was meant as a rebuke at the newspaperman’s overfamiliarity, but it slid off the Landless hide without making a dent. ‘My apologies, but the new Chancellor will be here in five minutes.’

‘Forgive me, Ben. Already I’m discovering that a Prime Minister is not a master, only a slave. Of timetables, mostly. To business, if you don’t mind.’

‘That’s how I like it.’ Landless shuffled forward on his chair in expectation.

‘You control the Chronicle group and have made a takeover bid for United Newspapers, and it falls to the Government to decide whether such a takeover would be in the public interest.’ Urquhart was staring at his blotter as if reading from a script, rather like a judge delivering sentence. Landless didn’t care for this sudden formality, so unlike their previous conversations on the matter.

Urquhart’s hands were spread wide again as he sought for elusive words. Finally, he clenched his fists. ‘Sorry, Ben. You can’t have it.’

The three men turned to effigies as the words circled the room and settled like birds of prey.

‘What the ’ell do you mean I can’t bloody have it?’ The pronunciation was straight off the streets, the veneer had slipped.

‘The Government does not believe it would be in the national interest.’

‘Crap, Francis. We agreed.’

‘The Prime Minister was careful throughout the entire leadership campaign to offer no commitments on the takeover, his public record on that is clear,’ Stamper interposed. Landless ignored him, his attention rigidly on Urquhart.

‘We had a deal! You know it. I know it.’

‘As I said, Ben, a Prime Minister is not always his own master. The arguments in favour of turning the bid down are irresistible. You already own more than thirty per cent of the national press; United would give you close on forty.’

‘My thirty per cent supported you every step of the way, as will my forty. That was the deal.’

‘Which still leaves just over sixty who would never forgive or forget. You see, Ben, the figures simply don’t add up. Not in the national interest. Not for a new Government that believes in competition, in serving the consumer rather than the big corporations.’

‘Bullshit. We had a deal!’ His huge fists crashed down on the bare table.

‘Ben, it’s impossible. You must know that. I can’t in my first act as Prime Minister let you carve up the British newspaper industry. It’s not good business. It’s not good politics. Frankly it would make pretty awful headlines on every other front page.’

‘But carving me up will make bloody marvellous headlines, is that it?’ Landless’s head was thrust forward like a charging bull, his jowls shaking with anger. ‘So that’s why you asked me in by the front door, you bastard. They saw me coming in, and they’ll see me going out. Feet first. You’ve set up a public execution in front of the world’s cameras. Fat capitalist as sacrificial lamb. I warn you, Frankie. I’ll fight you every step of the way, everything I’ve got.’

‘Which only leaves seventy per cent of the newspapers plus every TV and radio programme applauding a publicly spirited Prime Minister,’ Stamper interjected superciliously, examining his finger nails. ‘Not afraid to turn away his closest friends if the national interest demands. Great stuff.’

Landless was getting it from both sides, both barrels. His crimson face darkened still further, his whole body shook with frustration. He could find no words with which to haggle or persuade, he could neither barter nor browbeat, and he was left with nothing but the physical argument of pounding the table with clenched fists. ‘You miserable little sh—’

Suddenly, the door opened and in walked Mortima Urquhart in full flow. ‘Francis, it’s impossible, completely impossible. The apartment’s appalling, the decorations are quite disgusting and they tell me there’s not enough money left in the budget…’ She trailed off as she noted Landless’s fists trembling six inches above the table.

‘You see, Ben, a Prime Minister is not master even in his own house.’

‘Spare me the sermon.’

‘Ben, think it through. Put this one behind you. There will be other deals, other interests you will want to pursue, in which I can help. It would be useful to have a friend in Downing Street.’

‘That’s what I thought when I backed you for Prime Minister. My mistake.’ Landless was once again in control of himself, his hands steady, his gaze glacial and fixed upon Urquhart, only the quivering of his jowls revealing the tension within.

‘I’m sorry if I’ve interrupted,’ Mortima said awkwardly.

‘Mr Landless was just about to leave, I think,’ Stamper cut in from his guard post beside the radiator.

‘I am sorry,’ Mortima repeated.

‘Don’t worry,’ replied Landless, eyes still on her husband. ‘I can’t stay. I just learned of a funeral I have to attend.’