Читать книгу A Secret Worth Killing For - Simon Berthon, Simon Berthon - Страница 13

Post-election, Friday, 5 May, to Sunday, 7 May

On the Friday afternoon Anne-Marie Gallagher had called into Audax Chambers. A ‘Congratulations’ banner hung and they gathered in reception to applaud as she entered. Her timing was fortuitous; the TV was showing the new prime minister, Lionel Buller, leaving Buckingham Palace after ‘kissing hands’ with the monarch.

‘You did it,’ said Kieron Carnegie.

‘You did it, Kieron,’ she replied.

‘Wrong. It’s entirely your achievement. And it doesn’t surprise me one jot.’ They exchanged happy smiles. ‘That was some speech.’

‘I’m not sure what took hold of me.’

‘The risk taker that lurks within.’

He leant close to whisper. ‘You may find you get a phone call soon.’

‘What?’ For once she seemed genuinely puzzled.

‘I’m afraid this may be the one and only time you have to allow me to know something you don’t.’

‘You’re incorrigible,’ she murmured, turning to mingle.

The call came at 8.30 on the Sunday morning, the number showing private.

‘He wants to see me? Yes, of course, name your time.’

She was lying in her bath, soapsuds playing around her toes, incredulity around her eyes.

‘Four-thirty. I’ll look forward to it. Oh, and where do I arrive?’

The instruction was brief. ‘Sure, I’ll remember to smile.’

She dialled Kieron Carnegie’s number. ‘You set me up again!’

‘Not at all,’ he protested. ‘They called me out of the blue.’

‘Checking me out?’

‘Just one of Lionel’s boys. He was only asking if there was anything they needed to know.’

‘And?’

‘I said you were the most remarkable young woman I had ever met. It seemed to satisfy him.’ He paused. ‘Good luck. Don’t worry if he doesn’t smile, he left his sense of humour behind in the womb.’

At 4.28 p.m., conveying herself elegantly on black, lightly heeled boots, she was ushered through the gates of Downing Street by the duty policemen. ‘Good afternoon, Ms Gallagher.’ Their recognition shot a dart of pleasure through her. For the cameras parked outside Number 10 she affected a shy smile. ‘What’s he giving you, Anne-Marie?’ came a shout. She raised an eyebrow at the offender.

At 4.30 p.m. the black front door opened. A young man with floppy hair, a boy, it seemed to her, at the heart of government, shook her hand and addressed her with a silky maturity.

‘Welcome, Ms Gallagher. Philip Wells, private secretary to the Prime Minister. You’re the last by some way and he’s retreated to the flat. If you could bear to follow me up . . .’

Lionel Buller was dressed in charcoal grey suit trousers and a white shirt, top button open. In the corner, she saw a jacket and tie folded carefully over a chair.

‘Anne-Marie, good to see you.’

‘And you, too, Prime Minister,’ she replied.

Without a handshake or embrace, he gestured her to sit down. Somehow she had expected him to forgo formality and ask her to call him by his first name.

A second man looked on, similarly dressed but with tie in place, topped by retreating sandy hair whitening at the edges. ‘You know Rob McNeil,’ stated Buller. It was an assumption that neither of them challenged.

‘Good to meet,’ said McNeil stretching out his hand.

‘Yes, indeed,’ she replied, shaking it. She felt not just shock but a punch of dread. Over the years, she had occasionally noticed his rising profile and ultimate appointment as political editor. As she herself grew in her smaller world, there was little danger of their careers crossing paths – until her selection as a parliamentary candidate. Even then a little known, would-be MP was too small fry for a national political editor.

Now, without any rehearsal, she was pitched together with him. She told herself to stay calm and show nothing – there was no reason, in such a different context, why he should suddenly start thinking about a weekend twenty-four years ago.

‘I’ll be announcing Rob’s appointment tomorrow morning as the new Number 10 press secretary,’ said Buller. ‘Unexpected no doubt, but, given he’s done six years as The Times’ political editor, we might at least keep that paper onside.’ He grimaced. Hooded brown eyes, snuggling beneath heavy brown brows, bore in on her. ‘Well, congratulations.’

‘Thank you.’

‘It was a seat we had to win.’ He looked down at an untidy cluster of papers on the glass table in front of him. ‘I happened to arrive at Festival Hall just in time for your declaration. A turning point.’

‘Yes.’

‘I watched your speech.’

‘Oh.’

‘I watched it again yesterday. We recorded the night.’ He paused. ‘It was remarkable.’

‘Oh, good.’ She realized she was scuffing her hands together and told herself to stop.

‘Is there anything I ought to know . . .?’ His voice tailed off.

She suspected he had been told to ask the question. ‘No. I live to work. That’s it.’

‘Curiously enough,’ he resumed, as if he had not heard her, ‘I tend to believe the Security Service when it tells me it does not vet ministers.’ God, she thought, what’s this leading to? ‘Unless, of course, they think someone’s going to blow up Parliament.’ He manufactured a twisting of the face, intended to be a smile.

‘I’ll try to resist that temptation,’ she said. The face untwisted itself.

‘I want this to be a moral government.’ He blurted it out, his eyes coming alive, shining through the hoods. ‘We said that once before and it didn’t work out. This time it will.’

‘That’s why I joined the party,’ she said. ‘Why I stood for parliament.’

‘There are obstacles.’ Again he did not speak directly to her. ‘Not just from outside, but within the party too.’ He sprang up from his seat, walked to the window and peered down at the Downing Street garden below.

‘Steve Whalley.’ He stopped. She resisted any temptation to nudge him. ‘Stalwart of the party. I have asked him to be Home Secretary.’

She nodded, maintaining a strategy of silence. ‘One of my strongest backers for the leadership. He’s a traditionalist. Needs support from a strong, modern voice. Someone with an unblemished record in human rights.’

He walked back, sat down and fiddled again with the papers. Was it an act that allowed him to judge her reactions – or was he hamstrung by a social gaucheness? Especially, perhaps, with women. ‘The Home Office, as presently structured – a structure I see no need to change – has three Ministers of State. One oversees crime prevention, the second policing and criminal justice, the third security and immigration.’ He paused. ‘You know all this.’

‘Yes,’ replied Anne-Marie, breaking her silence, ‘I’ve had dealings on the other side of the table with the outgoing Minister for Security and Immigration.’

‘Of course.’ A hint of a smile appeared and instantly dissolved. ‘It’s a difficult portfolio. Asylum, extradition, national security.’ He paused. ‘The surveillance which makes that possible.’

‘All areas of great professional interest to me,’ said Anne-Marie. ‘And now political interest too.’

‘We should not always be a predictable government. I’m determined that now, right at the beginning, we show that we can be bold.’ He looked up and, for the first time, fully locked eyes with her. ‘I would like to offer you a post in my government as Home Office Minister of State for Security and Immigration.’

‘Jesus.’ Her language relapsed, the astonishment was so real. A welling of emotion caught her unawares. She swatted it like a fly. ‘I don’t know what to say.’

McNeil caught her eye. ‘I think what the Prime Minister would like you to say is whether or not you accept his offer,’ he said gently.

She had that odd sensation – not for the first time in her life – of her words emerging ahead of her thoughts. ‘Yes, of course.’ She did not hesitate. ‘Of course I do.’

‘Good,’ stated Buller without emotion.

‘I have no experience in government.’

‘Few of us do. But you have expertise.’

‘What about Steve Whalley?’ she found herself asking.

‘Don’t worry about Steve,’ replied Buller, ‘you’ll find a way.’

She sensed the conversation was over and stood up. This time, unlike at her arrival, he stretched out a hand and she shook it. ‘Any problems you ever have, just ring Rob. He’ll be my eyes and ears.’

‘I’ll see you out,’ McNeil said with a nod.

He waved her ahead of him and followed her down a modest corridor lined with nondescript watercolours before emerging at the grand staircase. Anne-Marie considered the scions of the British establishment looking down on her. The blessed Theresa, fleshy Cameron, glowering Brown, Blair, the grinner in anguish by his end, Major, the nothing man, Thatcher, the femme fatale who had haunted Anne-Marie’s teenage years.

‘History’s proving kind to her, isn’t it?’ remarked McNeil, scrutinizing Anne-Marie’s eyes trained on the famous face and bouffant hair.

She stopped to look more closely at the portrait. The journey she had made suddenly seemed so improbable. To think that the idea of Thatcher as the mortal enemy was one of the certainties of her political upbringing. And yet here she was stepping down the very staircase this iconic foe had once graced. Of course, it was not only she: the one-time leaders of the IRA now too were politicians, collaborating with a British state they had wanted to destroy.

‘In that case, history is being somewhat premature,’ Anne-Marie replied tartly.

‘Perhaps that depends on when history begins,’ Rob continued.

She turned sharply, again feeling the dread. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Only musing.’ He smiled. ‘Just thinking of how quickly they can come and go.’ She thought she detected admiration in his eyes. Perhaps it was nothing more.

She turned away and accelerated down the stairs. McNeil skipped down them behind her. As they crossed the chequerboard floor and approached the front door, she stopped again. He caught up and she inspected him more thoroughly. The furrowed seriousness was even more apparent, enhanced by the widow’s peak of his pale hair.

‘I should have congratulated you in there,’ she said. ‘It’s a great achievement. A huge job too – the voice of government.’

He smiled again. ‘That’s rather an intimidating way of putting it. I meant to congratulate you too. Yours was an important victory.’ He paused, looking around. ‘And now all this.’

‘I know. Doesn’t quite feel real, does it?’

She spun on her heel, nodded to the policeman at the door, and left to the clicking of photographers and yells of reporters. Despite her trembling knees, she paused, smiled, waved, took a deep breath and strode off up Downing Street.

She had anticipated the return walk would be a celebration, wordless though with a smile for the camera. Now, the smile fought the thumping in her head. Coming face to face with McNeil had brought the past abruptly to unwelcome life. She sensed walking invisibly beside her the three men – one brother, two lovers – who had truly mattered in her life. All long gone, swept away from her, disappeared. Who knew where? Or how? Were they now to be the ghosts at her banquet?

She crossed the Embankment, red flashes of passing buses appearing abstract, almost unreal. What if I stepped out now? She caught herself, reflecting on the idiocy of the thought, worse still the failure of nerve, and headed for the pedestrian lights.

Over Westminster Bridge she increased her pace, wanting to run, but knew she must not. There could be more photographers, followers, pursuers even. She found herself watching out for men in hats. Her pulse raced. Calm it down, slow deep breaths, smile, admire the reflections of the river, enjoy the rainbow colours of tourist groups.

Big Ben struck five – she could only have been in there twenty minutes; it felt not just an eternity but a distant one.

She reached the other side of the river, crossed and flitted down the steps onto the Thames pathway. To the right the Houses of Parliament, a mile or so ahead the boorish shape of MI6’s grandiose contribution to the London skyline and James Bond films. The monstrous palace of games.

The South Bank unshackled her. She took off her heels and, despite the constrictions of her skirt, broke into a jog. As the last neo-Gothic vestiges of the Houses of Parliament slipped from her eyeline, the building rhythm of her movement slowed her heartbeat. A sense of mission seeped down and reinforced her.