House of Cards

THURSDAY 10th JUNE

It seemed scarcely a moment since she had closed her eyes, yet already the morning sun was waking her as it crept around the curtain and began to shine on her pillow. She turned over irritably, resenting the unwanted intrusion. The past few weeks had been hard, with days of poorly digested snacks washed down by nights of too little sleep, and her body ached from being stretched too tightly between her editor's deadlines.

She pulled the duvet more closely around her, for even in the glare of the early summer sun she felt a chill. It had been like that ever since she had left Yorkshire almost a year before. She had hoped she could leave the pain behind her but it cast a long, cold shadow which seemed to follow her everywhere, particularly into her bed. She shivered, and buried her face in the lumpy pillow.

She tried to be philosophical. After all, she no longer had any emotional distractions to delay or divert her, just the challenge of discovering whether she really did have what it took to become the best political correspondent in a fiercely masculine world But it was bloody difficult to be philosophical when your feet were freezing.

Still, she reflected, sex as a single girl had proved to be excellent basic training for politics - the constant danger of being seduced by a smile or a whispered confidence, the unending protestations of loyalty and devotion which covered, just for a while, the bravado, the exaggeration, the tiny deceits which grew and left behind only reproach and eventually bitterness.

And in the last few weeks she had heard more outrageous and empty promises than at any time since - well, since Yorkshire. The painful memories came flooding back and the chill in her bed closed unbearably around her.

With a sigh Mattie Storin threw back the duvet and clambered out of bed.

As the first suggestion of dusk settled across the June skies, four sets of HMI mercury oxide lamps clicked on with a dull thud, illuminating the entire building with 10,000 watts of high intensity power. The brilliant beams of light pierced deep behind the mock Georgian facade, seeking out and attacking those inside. A curtain fluttered at a third floor window as someone took a quick glance at the scene outside before retreating quickly.

The moth also saw the lamps. It was resting in a crevice in the mortar of the building, waiting for the approaching dusk. As the shafts of light began to pierce through its drowsiness, the moth began to tingle with excitement.

The lamps glowed deep and inviting, like nothing it had ever known. It stretched its wings as the light began to warm the early evening air, sending a tremor throughout its entire body. The moth was drawn as if by a magnet and, as it approached, the glow of the lamps became more intense and hypnotic. The moth had never felt like this before. The light was as brilliant as the sun yet much, much more approachable.

Its wings strained still harder in the early evening air, forcing its body along the golden river of light. It was a source of unimaginable power which seemed to be dragging the willing moth ever deeper into its grasp. Nearer and nearer it flew - until, with one final triumphant thrust, it was there!

There was a bright flash and crackle as the moth's body hit the lens a millisecond before its wings wrapped around the searing glass and vaporised. A charred and blackened carcass fell back from the lamp towards the ground. The night had gained the first of its victims.

A police sergeant cursed as she tripped over one of the heavy cables. The electrician looked the other way. After all, where the hell was he supposed to hide the miles of wiring which now ran around the square. The graceful Wren church of St John peered down darkly in disapproval. You could almost feel it wanting to shake itself free of the growing crowds of technicians and watchers who now clung tenaciously around its footings. The ancient steeple clock had long since stopped at twelve, as if the church was willing time to stand still and trying to hold back the encroachment and pressures of the modern age. But like looting heathens they swarmed over and around it more vigorously with every passing minute.

Above the church's four soaring limestone towers, the dusk was slowly spreading red streaks through the skies over Westminster. Yet the day was far from over, and it would be many hours before the normal gentility of Smith Square crept back over the piles of discarded rubbish and empty bottles.

The few local residents who had remained in the square throughout the devastation of the campaign gave up a silent prayer to St John and his Creator that at last it was almost over. Thank God elections only happen every three or four years.

High above the square, in a portable cabin perched temporarily on the flat roof of party headquarters, the Special Branch detectives in their election base were taking advantage of the relative lull while the senior politicians were out of London making one last effort in their constituencies. A poker school was in full session in one comer, but the detective inspector had declined to join in. He had better ways of losing his money. All afternoon he had been thinking of the WPC who worked on traffic control at Scotland Yard, all starched efficiency on duty and unrestrained passion off. He hadn't seen his wife since the start of the campaign nearly a month before, but he hadn't seen the WPC either. Now his first free weekend beckoned, and he would have to choose between the open pleasures of his mistress and the increasing suspicions of his wife. He knew that his wife would not believe him if he told her he was on protection duty again this weekend, and he had spent all afternoon trying to decide whether he cared.

He cursed silently to himself as he listened once more to the raised voices inside him, tearing him in different directions as they argued between themselves. It was no damned good; the decisiveness which he had displayed to all of his police promotion boards had simply deserted him. He would have to do what he always did in such situations - let the cards decide.

Ignoring the jibes of the poker school, he took out a pack of cards and slowly began building the base of a house of cards. He had never got above six levels before; if he got up to seven now, he would spend the weekend with the WPC and to hell with the consequences.

He decided to give Fate a helping hand and reinforced the base with a double layer of cards. It was cheating, of course, but wasn't that what it was all about? He lit a cigarette to calm his nerves, but the smoke only got in his eyes, so he decided on a cup of coffee instead. It was a mistake. As the strong dose of caffeine hit his stomach, he felt the little knot give an extra twist of tension and the cards began to tremble in his hand.

Slowly, carefully so as not to disturb the rising construction of cards, he got up from the table and walked to the cabin door, taking in the view as he gulped down the fresh evening air. The roof tops of London were bathed in the red glow of the setting sun, and he imagined himself on some Pacific island, stranded alone with the incandescent WPC and a magical supply of ice cold lager. He felt better now, and with fresh determination returned to the cards.

The cards seemed to rise effortlessly in front of him. He had now reached the sixth level, as high as his card houses had ever gone before, and he started quickly on the seventh level so as not to destroy his rhythm. Two more cards to go - he was nearly there! But as the penultimate card got to within half an inch of the top of the tower, his hand began to shake again. Damn the caffeine!

He cracked his knuckles to relax his fingers, and picked up the card once more. With his left hand clamped firmly around his right wrist for extra support, he guided the card slowly upwards and sighed in relief as he watched it come to rest gently on top of the others. One more to go, but try as hard as he could he was unable to stop the tremble. The tower had become a great phallic symbol, his mind could see nothing but her body, and the harder he tried to control it the more his hand shook. He could no longer feel the card, his fingers had gone numb. He cursed Fate and implored it for just one last favour. He sucked in another lungful of breath, positioned the shaking card a half inch above the tower and, scarcely daring to look, let the card fall. It dropped precisely into its appointed place.

Fate, however, had other ideas. Just as the inspector watched the final card complete his masterpiece, the first cool breeze of evening passed across the top of Smith Square, lightly kissed the tall towers of St John's, and wafted through the door of the cabin which the inspector had left open. It nudged gently into the house of cards, which first trembled, then twisted, and finally crashed to the table top with a roar which cut dead the inspector's inner cry of triumph and echoed inside his head as loudly as if the house had been built of brick and steel.

For several long moments he stared at the ruins of his weekend, trying in desperation to convince himself that he had after all succeeded, if only for an instant, before his house of dreams had crumbled. Perhaps he had, but he knew now he would have to make up his own mind. He felt more miserable than ever.

His private misery and the poker game were cut short by the crackling of the radio in the corner. The Party Chairman was on his way back from visiting the troops at the front line, and soon other senior politicians would be joining him in party headquarters. The work of the long night was about to begin for the Special Branch protection officers. Just time for the inspector's colleagues to lay a few final bets as to which Ministers they would still be protecting next week, and which would by then have been dumped in the great waste bin of history.

The Right Honourable Francis Ewan Urquhart was not enjoying himself. Ministerial office brought many pleasures, but this was not one of them. He was squashed into the corner of a small and stuffy living room pressed hard up against a hideous 1950s standard lamp, which showed every sign of wanting to topple over. Try as he could, he had been unable to escape the devoted attentions of the posse of matrons who doubled as his constituency workers and who now surrounded him, chattering proudly about their canvass returns and pinched shoes. He wondered why they bothered. This was suburban Surrey, where Range Rovers stood in the driveways and only got mud on their tyres when being driven carelessly over the lawns late on a Friday night. They didn't count votes here, they weighed them.

He had never felt at home in his constituency, but then he never felt at home anywhere any more, not even in his native Scotland. As a child he had loved to wander through the bracing, crystal air of the Perthshire moors, accompanying the old gillie on a shoot, lying for hours in the damp peat and sweetly scented bracken waiting for the right buck to appear, just as he had imagined his older brother was waiting even at that same moment for German tanks in the hedgerows outside Dunkirk. But the Scottish moors and ancestral estates had never completely satisfied him and, as his appetite for politics and power grew, so he had come steadily to resent the enforced family responsibilities which had been thrust at him when his brother failed to return.

So amidst much family bitterness he had sold the estates, which could no longer provide him with an adequate lifestyle and would never provide him with a secure majority, and at the age of thirty-nine had exchanged them for the safer political fields of Westminster and Surrey. His aged father, who had expected no more of his only surviving son than that he devote himself to the family duties as he and his own father had done, had never spoken to him again. To have sold his heritage for the whole of Scotland would have been unforgivable, but for Surrey?

Urquhart had never disciplined himself to enjoy the small talk of constituency circles, and his mood had begun to sour as the day drew on. This was the eighteenth committee room he had visited today, and the early morning smile had long since been transfixed into a rigid grimace. It was now only forty minutes before the close of the polling booms, and his shirt was wringing wet under the Savile Row suit. He knew he should have worn one of his older suits: no amount of pressing would get it back into shape again. He was tired, uncomfortable and losing patience.

He spent little time in his constituency nowadays, and the less time he spent the less congenial his demanding constituents seemed. The journey to the leafy suburbs, which had seemed so short and attractive when he had gone for his first adoption meeting, seemed to grow longer as he climbed the political ladder from backbencher through Junior Ministerial jobs and now attending Cabinet as Chief Whip, one of the two dozen most powerful posts in the Government, with its splendid offices at 12 Downing Street just yards from the Prime Minister's own.

Yet his power did not come directly from his public office. The role of Chief Whip does not carry with it full Cabinet rank. Urquhart had no great Department of State or massive civil service machine to command; his was a faceless task, toiling ceaselessly behind the scenes, making no public speeches and giving no television interviews. Less than 1 per cent of the Gallup Poll gave him instant name recognition.

His was a task which had to be pursued out of the limelight for, as Chief Whip, he was responsible for discipline within the Parliamentary Party, for delivering a full turnout on every vote. Which meant he was not only the Minister with the most acute political antennae, knowing all the secrets of Government before almost any of his colleagues, but in order to deliver the vote day after day, night after night, he also needed to know where every one of his Members of Parliament was likely to be found, with whom they were conspiring, with whom they might be sleeping, whether they would be sober enough to vote or had any personal crisis which could disrupt their work and the smooth management of parliamentary business.

And in Westminster, such information is power. More, than one of his senior colleagues and many more junior members of the Parliamentary Party owed their continuing position to the ability of the Whips Office to sort out and occasionally cover up their personal problems. And many disaffected backbenchers had found themselves suddenly supporting the Government when reminded of some earlier indiscretion which had been forgiven by the Party and Whips Office, but never forgotten. Scarcely any scandal in Government strikes without the Whips Office knowing about it first, and because they know about it first, many scandals simply never strike-unless the Chief Whip and his ten Junior Whips wish it to.

Urquhart was brought up sharply by one of his ladies whose coyness and discretion had been overcome by the heat and excitement of the day.

'Will you still stand at the next election, Mr Urquhart?' she enquired brashly.

'What do you mean?' he spluttered, taken aback.

'Are you thinking of retiring? You are sixty-one years old now, aren't you? Sixty-five or more at the next election,' she persisted.

He bent his tall and angular figure low in order to look her directly in the face. 'Mrs Bailey, I still have my wits about me and in many societies I would just be entering my political prime’ he responded defensively. ‘I still have a lot of work to do and things I want to achieve.'

But deep down he knew she was right. Instead of the strong red hues of his youth, he was now left with but a dirty smear of colour in his thinning hair, which he wore over-long and straggly as if to compensate. His spare frame no longer filled the traditionally cut suits as amply as in earlier years, and his blue eyes had grown colder with the passage of time. While his height and upright bearing presented a distinguished image in the crowded room, those closest to him got no warmth from his carefully rationed smile, which revealed only uneven teeth badly stained by nicotine from his forty-a-day habit. He was not ageing with the elegance or the authority for which he would have wished.

Time-was not on his side. Like most of his colleagues he had first entered Parliament harbouring unspoken ambitions to make it all the way to the top, yet during his career he had watched as younger and less gifted men had found more rapid advancement. The bitter experience had tempered his ambition while not being able to extinguish it completely. If not Downing Street, then at least a major Department of State would allow him to become an acknowledged national leader, repaying his father's scorn with greater prominence than the old man could ever have dreamed of. He still had time to make his mark. He believed in his destiny, but it seemed to be taking an unholy long time to arrive.

Yet now was surely the time. One of the most important responsibilities of a Chief Whip is to advise the Prime Minister on any Ministerial reshuffle - which Ministers should be preferred, which backbenchers deserved elevation, which colleagues were dispensable and should make way. Not all the suggestions were accepted, of course, but the majority usually were. He had given the post-election reshuffle a lot of thought, and he had in his pocket a hand-written note to the Prime Minister covering all his recommendations. They would not only mean a stronger and more effective Government, and God knew they needed that after the last couple of years, but also one in which his close colleagues and allies would be in the strongest positions of influence. And he, of course, would have that prominent position which he had so long deserved. Yes, at last his time had come.

He tapped his pocket to reassure himself that the envelope was still there, just as Mrs Bailey switched her attention to the proposed one-way system for the High Street shopping centre. He raised his eyes in supplication and managed to catch the attention of his wife who was busily engaged in conversation on the far side of the room. One glance told her that his rescue was long overdue, and she hurried to his side.

'Ladies, you will have to excuse us, but we have to go back to the hotel and change before the count. I can't thank you enough for all your help, you know how indispensable you are to Francis.'

Urquhart made quickly for the door, but as he tried to complete his escape he was waved to a halt by his election agent, who was busily scribbling down notes while talking into the telephone.

'Just getting the final canvass returns together’ she explained.

That could have been done an hour ago’ snapped Urquhart.

The agent blushed. Not for the first time she resented Urquhart's sharp tongue and lack of gratitude, and promised herself that this would be her last election for him. She would swap this safe seat for a marginal seat as soon as she could. The pay would be even poorer and the hours longer, but at least she would be appreciated and not treated as another piece of constituency furniture. Or may be she would give up politics altogether and go and get a proper job.

It doesn't look quite as cheerful as last time’ she said. 'Turnout is poor, and a lot of our supporters seem to be simply staying at home. It's very difficult to read, but I suspect the majority will be down. I can't tell how much.'

Damn them. They deserve a dose of the Opposition for a few years. Maybe that would get them off their complacent rumps.'

'Darling,' his wife soothed as she had done on countless previous occasions, 'that's scarcely generous. With a majority of 22,000 you could allow for just a little dip.'

'Miranda, I'm not feeling generous. I'm feeling hot, tired and I've had as much chatter about doorstep opinion as I can take. For God's sake get me out of here.'

As she turned round to wave thanks and farewell to the packed room, she was just in time to see the standard lamp go crashing to the floor.

The air of controlled chaos which usually filled the editor's office had gone, to be replaced by a sense of panic which was getting out of hand. The first edition had long since gone to press, complete .with a bold front page headline proclaiming: 'Home and dry!’

But that had been at 6p.m., four hours before the polls closed. The editor of the Daily Telegraph, like all other editors, had taken his chance on the election result in order to make his first edition of even marginal interest by the time it hit the streets. If he was right, he would be first with the news. If he got it wrong, he would be covered in it and would not be allowed to forget. This was Greville Preston's first election as an editor. He was not feeling comfortable as he constantly changed the front page and demanded rewrites and updates from his political staff. He had been brought in just a few months earlier by the new owner of Telegraph Newspapers, and he had been given only one instruction: 'Succeed'. Failure was not an option if he wished to continue as editor, and he knew he would not be given a second chance - any more than would his staff. The demands of the accountants for instant financial gratification had required ruthless pruning, and a large number of senior staff had found themselves being 'rationalised' - as the accountants put it - and replaced by less experienced but equally less expensive substitutes. It was great for the bottom line but quite dreadful for morale. The purge left the remaining staff insecure, the loyal readers confused and Preston with a perpetual sense of impending doom, a condition which his proprietor was determined to do nothing to dispel.

Preston's efforts at increasing the circulation by taking the paper down-market had yet to show the promised results, and the smooth and dapper appearance which he effected was spoilt by the beads of perspiration and concern which constantly appeared on his brow and made his heavy rimmed glasses slip down his nose. The carefully manufactured attempt at outward authority had never fully hidden the. insecurity within.

He turned away from the bank of television monitors which had been piled up against one wall of his office to face the member of staff who had been giving him such a hard time.

'How the hell do you know it's going wrong?' he shouted. Mattie Storin did not flinch. At twenty-eight she was the youngest recruit to the paper's political staff, having only recently replaced one of the senior correspondents who had fallen foul of the accountants for his habit of conducting interviews over extended lunches at the Savoy. Yet Mattie had a confidence about her judgement which belied the nine hectic months she had spent in the job. Anyway, she was as tall as Preston, 'and almost as beautiful' as she often quipped at his expense. She did not care for this new style of editor whose job was not so much to produce a prime quality newspaper but foremost to return a good profit. Preston came from the 'management school' of editing, where they teach readership audits and costs per thousand rather than what makes a good story and when to ignore the lawyers' advice; and it stuck in Mattie's gullet. Preston knew it, and resented Mattie and her obvious if raw and unfashioned talent, but he knew in many ways that he needed her more than she needed him. Even in the management school of journalism, a newspaper still requires a sharp journalistic nose to reach its circulation target, as Preston was slowly beginning to discover.

She turned to face him with her hands thrust defensively into the pockets of her fashionably baggy trousers, which in spite of the flowing lines somehow still managed to emphasise her willowy elegance. Mattie Storin very much wanted to succeed as a journalist and to develop the skills which she knew she possessed. But she was also a woman, a very attractive one, and was determined not to sacrifice her identity simply to conform to the typecasting expected of young women working their way up in journalism. She saw no reason why she should attempt either to grow a beard in order to have her talent recognised, or to play the simpering lovely lady to satisfy the chauvinistic demands of her male colleagues, particularly so inadequate an example as Preston.

She began slowly, hoping he would get the full flavour of her logic. 'Every single Government MP I've been able to talk to in the last two hours is downgrading his forecast, and every Opposition spokesman I have talked to is smiling. I've telephoned the returning officer in the Prime Minister's constituency, who says the poll looks as if it's going to be down by 5 per cent. That's scarcely an overwhelming vote of confidence. Something is going on out there. You can feel it. The Government are not yet home and are certainly not dry, and our story is too strong.’

'Crap. Every poll taken during the election suggests a strong Government win, yet you want me to change the front page on the basis of feminine instinct?'

Mattie could sense her editor's nervousness. All editors live on their nerves, but the secret is not to show it. Preston showed it.

'OK’ he demanded, 'they had a majority of 102 at the last election. Tell me what you think it's going to be tomorrow. All the opinion polls are predicting around 70 seats.'

'You trust the polls if you want, Grev,' she warned, 'but I'd rather trust the feel I get out on the streets. There's no enthusiasm amongst Government supporters. They won't turn out and it will drag the majority down.'

'Come on,' he bullied. 'How much?'

She shook her head slowly to emphasise her caution, her short blonde hair brushing around her shoulders. 'A week ago I would have said it would be about 50. Now it could be even less,' she responded.

‘Jesus, it can't be less. We've backed those bastards all the way and they've got to deliver.'

And you've got to deliver, too, she mused. She knew that the editor's only firm political view was that his newspaper couldn't afford to be on the losing side. The new cockney proprietor, Benjamin Landless, had told him so and editors didn't argue with Landless. As the country's most recent newspaper magnate constantly reminded his already insecure staff, it was easier to buy ten new editors than one new newspaper, thanks to the Government's competition policy, 'so we don't piss off the Government by supporting the other bloody side'.

He had delivered his growing army of newspapers into the Government camp, and he expected his newspapers to deliver the proper election result. It wasn't reasonable, of course, but Landless had never found that being reasonable helped get the best out of his employees. Over lunch a few weeks earlier the proprietor had explained to Preston that a change of Government could be difficult for Landless, but for Preston such a result would he fatal.

Mattie tried again. She sat herself on the corner of the editor's vast and far too tidy desk and marshalled her case, hoping that for a change he would concentrate on her arguments rather than her legs.

'Look, Grev, forget the opinion polls for a minute. Put it in perspective. When Margaret Thatcher at last decided to retire, they concluded in their wisdom that it was time for a change of style. They wanted a new fashion. Something less abrasive, less domineering; they'd had enough of trial by ordeal and being shown up by a woman.'

You of all people should understand that, she thought.

'So in their wisdom they chose Collingridge, for no better reason than he was confident on TV, smooth with little old ladies and was likely to be uncontroversial.' She shrugged her shoulders dismissively. 'But they've lost their cutting edge. It's rice pudding politics and there's no energy or enthusiasm left. He's campaigned with as much vigour as a Sunday school teacher. Another seven days of listening to him mouthing platitudes and I think even his wife would have voted for the other lot. Anything for a change.'

For the tenth time that evening Mattie wondered if her editor used lacquer to keep his carefully coiffured hair so immaculate. She suspected he had an aerosol and hairbrush in his drawer, and she was certain he used eyebrow tweezers.

'Let's dispense with the analysis and mysticism and stick to hard numbers, shall we?' challenged Preston.

'What's the majority going to be? Are they going to get back in, or not?'

It would be a rash man who said they wouldn't’ she replied.

'And I have no intention of being rash. Any majority will be good enough for me. In the circumstances it would be quite an achievement. Historic, in fact. Four straight wins, never been done before. So the front page stays.'

Preston quickly brought his instructions to an end by finding solace in his glass of champagne, but Mattie was not to be so easily put off. Her grandfather had been a modem Viking who in the stormy early months of 1941 had sailed across the North Sea in a waterlogged fishing boat to escape from Nazi-occupied Norway and join the RAF. He had handed down to Mattie not only her natural Scandinavian looks but also a strength and independence of spirit which she needed to survive in the masculine worlds of politics and newspapers. Her old editor on the Yorkshire Post who had given Mattie her first real job had always encouraged her to fight her own corner. 'You're no good to me, lass, if I end up writing all of your stories for you. Be a seeker, not just another scribbler.' It was an attitude which did not always commend itself to her new masters, but what the hell.

Just stop for a moment and ask yourself what we could expect from another four years of Collingridge. Maybe he's too nice to be Prime Minister. His manifesto was so lightweight it got blown away in the first week of campaigning. He has developed no new ideas and his only philosophy is to cross his fingers and hope that neither the Russians nor the trade unions break wind too loudly. Is that really what the country wants?'

'Daintily put, as always, Mattie,' he taunted, reverting, as was his custom, to being patronising whenever he was confronted by an argumentative woman. 'But you're wrong,' he continued, sounding none too certain. The punters want consolidation, not upheaval. They don't want the toys being thrown out of the pram all the time.' He stabbed his finger in the air to indicate that the discussion was almost over and this was now official company policy. 'So a quiet couple of years will be no bad thing. And Collingridge back in Downing Street will be a great thing!'

It'll be murder’ she muttered.

It was the Number 88 bus thundering past and rattling the apartment windows which eventually caused Charles Collingridge to wake up. The small one-bedroom flat above the travel agency in Clapham was not what most people would have expected of the Prime Minister's brother, but a messy divorce and an indulgent lifestyle had a nasty habit of making the money disappear much faster than it came in. He lay slumped in the armchair, still in his crumpled suit which had got him through lunch and which still carried some of it on the lapel.

He cursed when he saw the time. He must have been asleep for five hours yet he still felt exhausted. He needed a drink to pick himself up, and he poured himself a large measure of vodka. Not even Smirnoff any more, just the local supermarket brand. Still, it didn't hang on the breath or smell when you spilled it.

He took his glass to the bathroom and soaked in the tub, giving the hot water time to work its wonders on those tired limbs. Nowadays they often seemed to belong to an entirely different person. He must be getting old, he told himself.

He stood in front of the mirror, trying to repair the damage of his latest binge. He saw his father's" face, reproachful as ever, urging him on to goals which were always just beyond him, demanding to know why he never managed to do things quite like his elder brother Henry. They both had the same advantages, went to the same school. But somehow Henry always had the edge, and gradually had overshadowed him in his career and his marriage. He did not feel bitter. Or at least he tried not to be. Henry had always been there to help when he needed it, to offer advice and to give him a shoulder to cry on when Mary had left him. Particularly when Mary had left him. But hadn't even she thrown Henry's success in his face? 'You're not up to it. Not up to anything!' And Henry had much less time to worry about other people's problems since he had gone to Downing Street

As young boys they had shared everything together, as young men they had shared much, even a few girlfriends. But these days there was little room left in Henry's life for his younger brother, and Charles felt angry - not with Henry, but with life. It had not worked out for him, and he did not understand why.

He guided the razor past the old cuts on his baggy face, and began putting the pieces back together. The hair brushed over the balding pate, the fresh shirt and clean tie. He would be ready soon for the election night festivities to which his family links still ensured he was invited. A tea towel over his shoes gave them back a little shine, and he was almost ready. Just time for one more drink.

North of the river, a taxi was stuck in a traffic jam on the outskirts of Soho. It was always a bottleneck, and election night seemed to have brought an additional throng of revellers onto the streets. In the back of the taxi Roger O'Neill drummed his fingers impatiently, watching helplessly as the bikes and pedestrians flashed past. He did not have much time.

'Get over here quick, Rog’ they had said. 'We can't wait all bleedin' night, not even for you. And we ain't back till Tuesday.'

He neither expected nor received preferential treatment, even as the Party's Director of Publicity and one of its best-known members of staff. But then he doubted whether they voted at all, let alone for the Government. What did politics matter when there was a lot of loose tax-free money to make?

The taxi at last managed to make it across Shaftesbury

Avenue and into Wardour Street, only to be met by another wall of solid traffic. Christ, he would miss them. He flung open the door.

‘I’ll walk’ he shouted at the driver.

'Sorry, mate. It's not my fault Costs me a fortune stuck in jams like this,' replied the driver, indicating that O'Neill's impatience should not lead him to forget a tip.

O'Neill jumped out into the road, jammed a note into the driver's hand and dodged another motorcyclist as he made his way past peep shows and Chinese restaurants into a narrow, Dickensian alley piled high with rubbish. He squeezed past the plastic bin liners and cardboard boxes and broke into a run. He was not fit and it hurt, but he did not have far to go. As he reached Dean Street he turned left, and a hundred yards further down ducked into the narrow opening to one of those Soho mews which most people miss as they concentrate on trying either to find the whores or to avoid them. Off the main street; the mews opened out into a small yard, surrounded on all sides by workshops and garages which had been carved out of the old Victorian warehouses. The yard was empty and his footsteps rang out on the cobbles as he hurried towards a small green door set in the far, dark comer of the yard. He stopped only to look around once before entering. He did not knock.

Less than three minutes later he had re-emerged, and without glancing to either side hurried back into the crowds of Dean Street. Whatever he had come for, it clearly was not sex.

Inside party headquarters the atmosphere was strangely quiet. After the weeks of ceaseless activity during the general election campaign, most of the officers and troops had disappeared on election day itself to carry the combat into the far outposts of the constituencies, drumming up the last few and possibly crucial converts for the cause. Most of those who remained were by now taking an early supper at nearby restaurants or clubs, trying to sound confident and relaxed but lapsing repeatedly into insecure discussion of the latest rumours about voter turnout and exit polls. Few of them enjoyed the break, and they, soon began drifting back, pushing their way through the evergrowing crowds of spectators and cordons of police. They found great comfort in their overcrowded and cluttered offices which for the last month had become their home, and they settled in for what would seem an interminable wait.

As Big Ben struck 10 o'clock and dusk at last began to take a firm hold, an audible sigh of relief went up from around the building. The polling booths had closed and no further appeal, explanation, attack, insinuation or - more predictably - almighty cock-up could now affect the result. It was over. One or two of them shook each other's hand in silent reassurance and respect for the job done. Just how well done they would shortly discover.

As on so many previous evenings, like a religious ritual they turned their attention to the familiar voice of Sir Alastair Burnet. He appeared for every purpose like a latter-day Gabriel, with his reassuring tones and flowing silver hair which had just enough back lighting to give him a halo effect. For the next few hours God would have to take second place.

'Good evening. The election campaign is now over. Just seconds ago thousands of polling booths across the country closed their doors, and the first result is expected in just forty-five minutes. We shall shortly be going over live for interviews with the Prime Minister, Henry Collingridge, in his Warwickshire constituency, and the Opposition leader in South Wales.

'But first ITN's exclusive exit poll conducted by Harris Research International outside 153 polling booths across the country during today's voting. It gives the following prediction...'

The country's most senior newsreader opened a large envelope in front of him, as reverently as if the A4 Manila contained his own death certificate. He extracted a large card from within the envelope, and glanced at it. Not too quickly, not too slowly he raised his eyes once more to the cameras, and the venerable broadcaster held 30 million viewers in the palm of his hand, teasing them gently. He was entitled to his moment. After twenty-eight years and nine general elections as a television broadcaster, he had already announced that this was to be his last.

ITN’S exclusive exit poll forecast - and I emphasise this is a forecast, not a result - is...'

He glanced once more at the card, just to check he had not misread it. His professional, emotionless eyes betrayed not a hint of his own views on the matter. From somewhere within Smith Square the sound of a prematurely loosened champagne cork broke the straining silence, but they ignored the cold and sticky froth as it splashed over the desk top.

'... that the Government will be re-elected with a majority of 34.'

The building itself seemed to tremble as a roar of triumph mixed with relief came from deep within. It was winning and only winning that mattered to the professionals, not how they played the game or how close the result. Time enough later for sober reflection as to whether they would be deemed to have had a 'good' war or not.

The whoops of joy drowned out the protesting tones of Sir Alastair as he continued to remind his audience that this was a forecast and definitely not a result, and in any event was much closer than the opinion polls had been predicting. The screen briefly divided between mute shots of the party leaders taking in the prediction, Collingridge displaying a thin humourless smile which indicated no pleasure, while the broad grin and shake of his opponent's head left viewers in no doubt that the Opposition had yet to concede. 'Wait and see,' he was mouthing, 'wait and see', but the producer did not wait to see and cut back to Burnet as he proceeded to report on the rest of the election night news. .

'Bollocks’ Preston was shouting, his hair falling into his eyes. 'What have they done?' He looked at the ruins of his first edition, and began furiously scribbling on his notepad. 'Government Majority Slashed!' he tried. It's Too Close To Call'. 'Collingridge Squeaks In'. They all ended up in the bin.

He looked around desperately for some help and inspiration.

'Let's wait’ Mattie advised. It's only thirty minutes to the first result.'

Even without the first result, celebrations were already well under way at the Party's advertising agency. With the confidence that is shown by all positive thinkers, the staff of Merrill Grant Jones Company PLC had been squashed for nearly three hours in the agency's reception area to witness history in the making projected on two vast TV screens. Not that history would be made for at least another seventeen minutes or so, but like all positive thinkers they prided themselves in being ahead of the game, and the champagne was already flowing to wash down an endless supply of deep pan pizzas and Big Macs. Indeed, the predictions of a drastically reduced majority had only served to spur those present on to greater efforts. Even at this early hour it was clear that two ornamental fig trees which had graced the reception area for several years would not survive the night, and it seemed probable that several young secretaries wouldn't either. Most of the wiser heads were pacing themselves much better, but there seemed to be little reason to exercise excessive restraint. Particularly as the client was setting a fearsome example.

Like so many expatriate Dublin adventurers, Roger O'Neill was renowned for his quick wit, exaggeration and determination to be involved in everything. So many and varied had been his involvements and so wittily had he exaggerated them that no one could be quite certain precisely what he had done before he joined the Party - it was something in public relations or television, they thought, and there was rumour about a problem with the Inland Revenue - but he had been available when the post of Publicity Director had become vacant and he had filled it with great energy, fuelled by a ceaseless supply of Gauloises and vodka-tonics.

As a young man he had shown great promise as a fly-half on the rugby field, but had never fulfilled it, his highly individualistic style making him ill-suited for team games. 'With him on the field’ complained his coach, I've got two teams out there, Roger and fourteen other players’

At the age of forty his unruly shock of dark hair was now perceptibly greying and his muscle tone long since gone, but O'Neill refused stubbornly to acknowledge the evidence of middle age, hiding it beneath a carefully selected wardrobe worn with a deliberate casualness which displayed the designers' labels to their best advantage. His non-conformist approach and the lingering traces of an Irish accent had not always endeared him to the Party's grandees - 'all bullshit and no bottom' one of them had loudly observed - but others were simply overwhelmed by his unusual energy and charm.

And then there was his secretary. Penelope - Hi, I'm Penny' - Guy. Five foot ten, an exciting choice of clothes, a devastating figure on which to hang them. And she was black. Not just dusky or dark but a polished hue of black that made her eyes twinkle and her smile fill the entire room. She had a university degree in the History of Art, 120 wpm shorthand, and was ruthlessly efficient and practical. Of course there had been much gossip when she had first arrived with O'Neill, but her sheer efficiency had silenced, if not won over, the Doubting Thomases, of which there were many.

And she was totally discreet. 1 have a private life’ she explained. 'And that's just how it's going to stay.'

Right now at Merrill Grant Jones - Grunt Groans as Penny preferred to call them - she was effortlessly providing the centre of attention for several red-blooded media buyers plus the deputy creative director while at the same time carefully ensuring that O'Neill's glass and cigarettes were always available but closely rationed. She didn't want him going over the top tonight of all nights.

He was deep in conversation with the agency's managing director.

1 want you to complete the analysis as soon as possible, Jeremy. It's got to show just how effective our marketing and advertising have been in the election. It needs to be divided into the usual age and social groups so that we can show how we hit our target voters. If we win, I want everyone to know that they owe it to us. If we lose, God help us...' He sneezed violently.'... I want to be able to show the press that we beat them hands down at communications and it was only the politics which blew it. We shall have to live off this for the next few years, so don't screw it up. You know what we need, and it's got to be ready by Saturday morning at the latest if we're to get it in the Sunday papers as prominently as possible.'

He spoke a little more quietly. 'If you can't get the figures, make the bloody things up. They will all be too exhausted to look at them closely, and if we get in there first and loudest we'll be fine.'

He paused only to blow his nose, which did nothing to ease the other man's visible discomfort.

'And remember that I want you to send the most enormous bunch of flowers around to the PM's wife first thing in the morning. In the shape of a gigantic letter 'C. She must get them as soon as she wakes up. She'll get into a twist if they don't arrive because I've already told her they are corning. And I want the TV cameras to film them going in and to know who's sent them, so make sure they are bigger and more eye-catching than anything they've ever seen before. Even better, send them round in the back of oneof your company vans. That should look good pulled up outside Number Ten’

The advertising executive was used to his client's breathless monologues by now, and even to some of the extraordinary instructions and accounting procedures issued by O'Neill. But a political party was unlike any other client he had ever encountered, and the last two years working on the account had given him and his youthful agency more than enough publicity to stifle most of the lingering doubts.

Now the election was over, however, and he was waiting nervously for the results, a silent fear struck him as he thought of what would happen if they lost; to have supported the losing side, probably to be made the scapegoat for failure. It had all looked rather different when they had started the work, with the opinion polls predicting a comfortable win. But his confidence had begun to evaporate with the exit polls. In an industry of images, he realised that his business could wither as rapidly as the flowers which O'Neill was making such a fuss about

He sucked his tip nervously as O'Neill rattled on, until their attention was grabbed by the six-foot image of Sir Alastair, who was now holding his ear with his head cocked to one side. Something was corning through his earpiece.

'And now I believe we are ready for the first result of the evening, which looks likely to be in Torbay once again. Breaking all records. It is just forty-three minutes after the polls have closed, and already the candidates are gathering behind the returning officer and it's time to go over live...'

In Torbay Town Hall, amidst the banks of hyacinths and spider plants, rosettes and mayoral regalia, the first result was being announced. The scene resembled more a village pantomime than an election, as the promise of nationwide television coverage had attracted more than the usual number of crank candidates who were now doing their best to capture the moment by waving balloons and brightly coloured hats to attract the cameras' attention.

The Sunshine Candidate, dressed from head to toe in a bright yellow leotard and waving the most enormous plastic sunflower, stood firmly in front of the sober suited Tory, who tried to move to his left to escape from the embarrassment but only succeeded in bumping into the National Front candidate, who was inciting a minor riot in the crowd by displaying a clenched fist and an armful of tattoos. Not quite sure what his candidates manual would prescribe in such circumstances, he reluctantly retreated back behind the sunflower.

Sir Alastair came to his rescue. 'So there we have it from colourful Torbay. The Government hold the first seat of the night but with a reduced majority and a swing against them of, the computer says, nearly 8 per cent. What does that mean, Peter?' asked Burnet, as the screen cut to ITN's tame academic commentator, a bespectacled and rather ragged figure in Oxford tweeds.

It means the exit poll is just about right, Alastair.'

'Great show, Roger, isn't it? After all, it looks like another majority. I can't tell you how absolutely relieved and delighted I am. Well done indeed,' enthused the chairman of one of Grunt Groans major clients, thoroughly enjoying what was tinning into a fully-fledged victory party irrespective of the fact that the Government had just lost its first two seats of the night. He was standing crushed together along with two other invited clients and the agency's chairman in a corner which gave some slight relief from the pressure of celebration going on all around. 'That's very kind of you, Harold. Yes, I think a 30 or 40-seat majority will be enough. But you must take some of the credit.' O'Neill was gushing. ‘I was reminding the Prime Minister just the other day how your support goes way beyond the Corporate donation. I remember the speech you gave at the Industrial Society lunch last March. You know, it was extremely good, you really got the message home well. Surely you've had professional training?'

Without waiting for an answer, O'Neill rushed on. ‘you've pushed home the message about gaining cooperation from all sides by showing leadership from the top and I told Henry- I'm sorry, the PM - that we need to find more platforms for captains of industry like you to express these views.'

There was no need for that,' replied the captain without the slightest trace of sincerity. The champagne had already overcome his natural caution and images of ermine and the House of Lords began to materialise in front of his eyes. 'But that was very kind of you. Look, when this is all over perhaps we could have lunch together. Somewhere a little quieter, eh? I have several other ideas on which I would very much welcome your views.' y O'Neill's response was a series of enormous sneezes which bent him almost double, leaving his eyes tearful and rendering any hope of continued conversation impossible.

'Sorry,' he spluttered. 'Hay fever. I always seem to get it early.' As if to emphasise the point he blew his nose forcefully and wiped his eyes.

The TV screen promptly announced the loss of another Government seat, a Junior Minister with responsibility for Transport who had spent the last four years earnestly visiting every motorway crash scene in the country and who had quite convinced himself of the human race's unquenchable capacity for violent self-sacrifice. It did not help him, however, to accept their demand for his own self-sacrifice, and he was finding it very difficult to put on a brave face.

'More bad news for the Government,' commented Burnet, 'and we shall see how the Prime Minister is taking it when we go over live for his result in just a few minutes. In the meantime, what is the computer predicting now?'

He punched a button and turned to look at a large screen behind his shoulder. 'Still around 30 by the look of it.'

A studio discussion then began as to whether a majority of 30 was enough to see a Government through a full term of office, but the discussion was interrupted by more results which now began to flood in. O'Neill excused himself from the group of businessmen and fought his way through a growing and steadily more voluble group of admirers which had gathered around Penny. In spite of their protests he drew her quickly to one side and whispered briefly in her ear, as the ruddy face of Sir Alastair intruded once more into the celebrations to announce that the Prime Minister's own result was just about to be declared.

A respectful if not total silence grew over the revellers, and O'Neill returned to the industrial captains. All eyes were fixed on the screen. No one noticed Penny gathering her bag and slipping quietly out.

The screen announced another Government win, but yet again with a reduced majority. While the commentators analysed and sought to be the first to get in with their view that the Government were indeed having a less than splendid night of it, a loyal roar of approval arose from all the agency staff present, most of whom had by now totally forgotten their own political convictions and were ready to celebrate at the slightest excuse. After all, it was only an election.

The Prime Minister waved back from the screen, his stretched smile indicating that he was taking the result rather more seriously than was his audience. The festive mood began to drown out his speech of thanks to the returning officer and local police, and by the time he had left the platform to begin his long drive back to London two agency art directors were pronouncing the official demise of the battered fig trees.

A shout from across the room reached through to O'Neill's group.

'Mr O'Neill. Mr O'Neill. Telephone for you.' The security guard held the telephone up in the air and pointed dramatically to the mouthpiece.

'Who is it?' mouthed O'Neill back across the room.

‘What?’ queried the guard, looking nervous.

‘Who is it?' he mouthed again.

'Can't hear you,' the guard yelled above the hubbub, gesticulating wildly.

O'Neill cupped his hands around his mouth and once more demanded to know who it was.

It's the Prime Minister's Office!' screamed the frustrated guard, unable to restrain himself and not quite knowing whether he should be standing to attention..

His words had an immediate effect, and the noise of celebration subsided into an expectant hush. An avenue to the telephone suddenly opened up in front of O'Neill, and he slowly and obediently made his way over to the phone, trying to look modest and matter of fact.

It's one of his secretaries. She will put you through,' said the guard, obviously grateful to hand over the awesome responsibility.

'Hello. Hello. Yes, this is Roger.' A brief pause. 'Prime Minister! How are you? Many, many congratulations. The result is really very good in the circumstances. A victory is sweet whether you win 5-0 or 5-4 ... Yes, yes. Oh, that's so kind. I'm at the advertising agency as it happens.'

The room was now so hushed they could almost hear the fig trees crying. 1 think they have performed marvellously, and I certainly couldn't have done it without their support ... May I tell them that?'

He put his hand over the mouthpiece and turned to the totally enraptured audience. The Prime Minister just wants me to thank you all on his behalf for helping run such a fantastic campaign. He says it made all the difference.' He went back to the phone and listened for a few seconds more. 'And he's not going to demand the money back!'

With that the room erupted into a great roar of applause and cheers, and O'Neill held the phone aloft to catch every last sound.

'Yes, Prime Minister. I am totally thrilled and honoured to receive your first telephone call after your own election .. .I look forward to seeing you, too. Yes, I shall be at Smith Square later... Of course, of course. I will see you then, and congratulations once again. Good night’

He replaced the telephone gently in its cradle, and turned to face the whole room: Suddenly his face burst into abroad smile, and as he did so the entire gathering broke out into a series of ringing cheers. They pummelled him forcefully on the back as he tried to shake all their hands at once. He was still trying to force his way back to the beaming captains as, in the next street, Penny carefully put down the car phone and began to adjust her lipstick in the car mirror.

FRIDAY 11th JUNE

The onlookers in Smith Square had increased dramatically in number as they waited for the Prime Minister's arrival. Midnight had long since tolled but tonight biological clocks would be stretched to the limit. They could see from the TV technicians' monitors that his convoy, escorted by police outriders and pursued by camera cars, had long since left the Ml and was now approaching Marble Arch. It would be less than ten minutes before they arrived, and three youthful cheerleaders were encouraging the crowd to warm up with a mixture of patriotic songs and shouts.

They were having to work harder than at previous elections. While some people were waving enormous Union Jacks, the members of the crowd seemed to be less keen on brandishing the large mounted photographs of Henry Col-lingridge with which they had been supplied. Several of them were wearing personal radios, and informing those around them of the results. Even the cheerleaders would stop occasionally to discuss the latest information.

They also had competition, because several Opposition supporters had decided to infiltrate the crowd and were now proceeding to wave tneir own banners and chant their own slogans. Half a dozen policemen moved in to ensure that high spirits on both sides were kept under control, but they did not interfere.

Reports began to circulate that the computers were now forecasting a majority of 28, and two of the cheerleaders broke off to indulge in an earnest discussion as to whether this constituted an adequate working majority. They concluded that it probably was, and returned to their task. But the crowd had turned into an unresponsive audience, the early enthusiasm increasingly deflated with concern, and they decided to save their effort until Henry Collingridge arrived.

Inside the building, Charles Collingridge was getting increasingly drunk. His ruddy and capillaried face was covered in perspiration, and his eyes were liquid and bloodshot.

'A good man, brother Henry. A great Prime Minister’ he was babbling. Those around him who were still listening could detect the alcoholic lisp which had begun to creep into his voice as he repeated the familiar family history. ‘I always thought he would have been an even better manager of the family business, could have made it one of the country's truly great companies, but he always preferred politics. Mind you, manufacturing bath fittings was never my cup of tea, either, but it kept father happy. Henry could have grown the business, made something of it, I'm sure. Do you know they even import the stuff from Poland nowadays? Or is it Romania... ?'

He interrupted his monologue by knocking what was left of his glass of whisky over his already stained trousers and, amidst the fluster of apologies and appeals for help, the Party Chairman Lord Williams took the opportunity to move well out of range. His wise old eyes revealed none of it, but he resented having to extend hospitality to the Prime Minister's brother. Although Charles was not a bad man, he was a weak man who was becoming a bloody nuisance on a regular basis, and the Party's ageing and most senior apparatchik liked to run a very tight ship. Yet as experienced as he was, he was only the navigator and knew there was little point in trying to throw the admiral's brother overboard.

He had once raised the problem directly with the Prime Minister of the increasing rumours and the growing number of snide references to his brother in the gossip columns. As one of the few men left who had been a prominent player even in the pre-Thatcher days, he had the seniority and some would argue even the responsibility to do so. But it had been to no avail.

‘I spend half my time having to spill blood’ the Prime Minister had pleaded. 'Please don't ask me to spill my own brother's.'

Henry had agreed to ensure that Charles would watch his behaviour, or rather that he would watch Charles's behaviour himself. But he never really had the time, and he knew that Charles would promise anything even while he became increasingly incapable of delivering. He couldn't moralise or be angry, because he knew it was always the other members of the family who suffered most from the pressures of politics. And Williams understood that, too, for hadn't he gone through three marriages since he first entered politics nearly forty years ago?

It was not a matter of lack of love, more a lack of time for loving, with lonely women and neglected families stuck at home and suffering much more from the unkind barbs of politics than the politicians themselves. Politics left a trail of pain and tortured families in its wake, all the more hurtful because it was incidental and unintended. Even the hardened Party Chairman felt a twinge of sorrow as he watched Collingridge stumble from the room. But such feelings were not a sound basis on which to run a Party, and he resolved to have another discussion with the Prime Minister now that the election was over.

Michael Samuel, the Secretary of State for the Environment and one of the newest and certainly most telegenic members of the Cabinet, came over to greet him. He was young enough to be the Chairman's son, and he was something of a protegé for the elderly statesman. He had been given his first major step up the greasy Ministerial pole by Williams when, as a young Member of Parliament, on Williams' recommendation he had been made a Parliamentary Private Secretary, the unpaid skivvy to a senior Minister who is meant to fetch and carry, to do so without complaint and to offer his support without question on any issue — qualities designed to impress Prime Ministers when selecting candidates for promotion. Williams' help had ignited a spectacular rise through Ministerial ranks for Samuel, and the two men remained firm friends.

'Problem, Teddy?' Samuel enquired.

'Michael. A Prime Minister can choose his friends and his Cabinet, but unfortunately not his relatives.'

'Any more than we can select our colleagues.'

Samuel nodded towards Urquhart, who had just entered with his wife after driving up from his constituency. Samuel's glance was cold. He did not care for Urquhart, who had not supported his promotion to Cabinet and who on more than one occasion had been heard to describe Samuel as 'a latter day Disraeli, too good looking and too clever for his own good.'

The veneer over the traditional and still lingering anti-Semitism wore very thin at times, but Williams had offered the brilliant young lawyer good counsel. 'Don't be too intellectual,' Williams had advised, 'and don't look too successful. Don't be too liberal on social matters or too prominent on financial matters. And for God's sake watch your back. Many more politicians have been betrayed by their colleagues than have ever been destroyed by their opponents. Remember it.'

Samuel watched unenthusiastically as Urquhart and his wife were forced by the crush of people towards him. 'Good evening, Francis. Miranda.' Samuel forced his practised smile. 'Congratulations. A 17,000 majority. I know about 600 MPs who are going to be very jealous of you in the morning with a majority like that.'

'Michael! Well, I'm sure you managed to hypnotise the female voters of Surbiton once more. If only you could pick up their husbands' votes as well, you too could have a majority like mine!'

They laughed gently at the banter, accustomed in public to hiding the fact that they did not enjoy each other's company, but there was an embarrassed silence as neither of them could think of a suitable means of disengaging rapidly from the conversation.

They were rescued by Williams, who had just put down the phone. 'Don't let me interrupt, but Henry will be here any minute.'

I’ll come down with you,' volunteered Urquhart immediately.

'And you, Michael?' asked Williams.

I’ll wait here. There will be quite a rush when he arrives. I don't want to get trampled.'

Urquhart wondered whether Samuel was having a gentle dig at him, but chose to ignore it and accompanied Williams down the stairs, which had become crowded with excited office staff as the word had spread of the Prime Minister's imminent arrival. The appearance of the Party Chairman and Chief Whip outside on the pavement galvanised the cheerleaders, who resumed their attempts to raise the spirits of the crowd. An organised cheer went up as the armoured black Daimler with its battalion of escorts swung around the square, to be greeted by the brilliance of the television lights and a thousand flaring flashguns as both professional and amateur cameramen tried to capture the scene.

As the car drew to a halt, Collingridge emerged from the rear seat and turned to wave to the crowd and the cameras. Urquhart tried just a little too hard to get to him to shake his hand, and instead managed to get in the way. He retreated apologetically while on the other side of the car Lord Williams, with the chivalry and familiarity which comes of many years, carefully assisted the Prime Minister's wife out of the car and planted an avuncular kiss on her cheek. A bouquet appeared from somewhere along with two dozen party officials and dignitaries who all wished to get in on the act, and the whole heaving throng somehow managed to squeeze through the swing doors and into the building.

Similar scenes of confusion and congestion were repeated inside as the Prime Minister's party tried to push its way upstairs through the workers, pausing only for. a traditional word of thanks to the staff from the stairs, which had to be repeated because of the press photographers had not managed to assemble themselves quickly enough.

Once upstairs in the relative safety of Lord Williams' suite, the signs of strain which had been so well hidden all evening began to appear for the first time on the Prime Minister's face. The television set in the comer was just announcing that the computer was predicting a still lower majority, and Collingridge let out a long, low sigh. His eyes wandered slowly round the room.

'Has Charles been around this evening?' he asked quietly. Charles Collingridge was nowhere to be seen. The Prime Minister's eyes met those of the Chairman.

Tm sorry,' the older man replied.

Sorry for what?’ thought Collingridge. The fact that my brother's a drunk? Sorry that I seem almost to have thrown away our parliamentary majority? Sorry that you will have to carry the can along with me? But anyway, thanks for caring.

He was suddenly feeling desperately tired as the adrenalin ceased to flow. After weeks of being hemmed in on all sides by people and without a single private moment to himself, he felt an overwhelming need to be on his own and he turned away to find somewhere a little quieter and a little more private. Instead he found his way blocked by Urquhart who was standing right by his shoulder. The Chief Whip was thrusting an envelope at him.

I've been giving some thought to the reshuffle’ he said. 'While this is hardly the time, I know you will be thinking about it over the weekend so I have prepared some suggestions. I know you prefer some positive ideas rather than a blank sheet of paper, so I hope you find this of use.'

Collingridge looked at the envelope and raised his exhausted eyes to Urquhart. ‘You're right. This is scarcely the time. Perhaps we should be thinking about securing our majority before we start sacking our colleagues’

The sarcasm cut deep into Urquhart, deeper than the Prime Minister had intended, and he realised he had gone too far.

I'm sorry, Francis. I'm afraid I am a little tired. Of course you're quite right to think ahead. Look, I would like you and Teddy to come round on Sunday afternoon to discuss it. Perhaps you would be kind enough to let Teddy have a copy of your letter now, and send one round to me at Downing Street tomorrow - rather, later this morning’

Urquhart stood rigid with embarrassment at the semi-public rebuke he had received. He realised that he had been all too anxious about the reshuffle, and cursed himself for his folly. His natural assurance seemed to desert him when it came to Collingridge, a grammar school product who in social terms would have had trouble gaining membership of his club. The role reversal in Government unnerved him, unsettled him, and he found himself acting out of character when he was in the other man's presence. He was frustrated with his inadequacy, and quietly loathed Collingridge and all his kind for undermining his position. But now was not the time, and he retreated into affability.

'Of course, Prime Minister. I will let Teddy have a copy straight away.'

'Better copy it yourself. Wouldn't do to have that list getting around here tonight,' smiled Collingridge as he tried to bring Urquhart back into the conspiracy of power which always hovers around Downing Street. In any event, I think it's time for me to depart. The BBC will want me bright and sparkling in four hours' time, so I shall wait for the rest of the results in Downing Street’

He turned to Williams. 'By the way, what is the computer predicting now?'

It's been stuck on 24 for about half an hour now. I think that's it.' There was no sign of pleasure or sense of victory in his voice. He had just presided over the Party's worst election result in nearly two decades.

'Never mind, Teddy. A majority is a majority. And it will give the Chief Whip something to do instead of sitting idly around with a majority of over a hundred. Eh, Francis?' And with that he strode out of the room, leaving Urquhart clutching his envelope.

With the Prime Minister's departure the crowds both inside and outside the building began perceptibly to melt, and Urquhart made his way to the back of the first floor where he knew the nearest photocopier could be found.

Room 132A was not an office at all, but a windowless closet barely six feet across which was kept for supplies and confidential photocopying. As Urquhart opened the door the smell hit him before he had time to find the light switch. Slumped on the floor by the narrow metal storage shelves was Charles Collingridge, who had soiled his clothes even as he slept. There was no glass or bottle anywhere to be seen, but the smell of whisky was heavy in the air. He had crawled away to find the least embarrassing place to collapse.

Urquhart coughed as his nostrils rebelled at the stench, and he reached for his handkerchief and held it to his face. He stepped over to the body and turned it on its back. A shake of the shoulders did little other than disrupt still further the fitful heavy breathing. A firmer shake gave nothing more, and a gentle slap across the cheeks produced equally little result.

He gazed with disgust at what he saw. Suddenly Urquhart's body stiffened as his contempt mingled with the lingering humiliation he had suffered at the Prime Minister's hands and welded into a craving for revenge. He turned cold and the hairs on the nape of his neck tingled as he stood-over the stupefied body. Slowly, powerfully, Urquhart's hand swung down and began to slap Collingridge's face and, as his signet ring began to rake across the flesh of the cheeks, the whole head whipped from side to side until blood began to seep from the mouth and the body coughed and retched. Urquhart bent over the other man, staring closely as if to see that the body still breathed. He remained motionless for several minutes, like a cat at its prey, his muscles tense and expression contorted until he straightened with a start, towering over the drunk.

'And your brother's no damned better,' he hissed.

He turned to the photocopier, took the letter out of his pocket, made one copy and left without looking back.

SUNDAY 13th JUNE

It was the Sunday after the election. At 3.50 p.m. Urquhart's official car turned from Whitehall into Downing Street to be greeted by a policeman's starched salute and a hundred exploding flashguns. The press were gathered behind the barriers which cordoned them off across the road from the world's most famous front door. It stood wide open as the car drew up - like a political black hole, Urquhart thought, into which new Prime Ministers disappeared and rarely if ever emerged without being surrounded and suffocated by the protective hordes of civil servants. Somehow the building seemed to suck all political vitality out of some leaders.

He had made sure to travel on the left-hand side of the car's rear seat that day in order that his exit in front of Number Ten would provide an unimpeded view of himself for the TV and press cameras, and as he climbed out and stretched himself to his full height he was greeted by a chorus of shouted questions from across the road, providing him with a good excuse to walk over for a few quick words amidst the jungle of notepads and microphones. He spotted Charles Goodman, the legendary Press Association figure, firmly planted under his battered trilby and conveniently wedged between ITN and BBC news camera crews.

'Hello, Charles. Did you have any money on the result?' he enquired, but Goodman was already into his first question as his colleagues pressed around him.

'Are you here to advise the Prime Minister with the reshuffle, Mr Urquhart, or has he called you to give you a new job?'

'Well, I'm here to discuss a number of things, but I suppose the reshuffle might come into it’ Urquhart responded coyly.

It's rumoured that you are expecting a major new post.'

'Can't comment on rumours, Charles, and anyway you know that's one for the PM to decide. I'm here at this stage solely to give him some moral support.'

‘You’ll be going to advise the PM along with Lord Williams, will you then?'

'Lord Williams, has he arrived yet?' Urquhart tried to hide any suggestion of surprise.

'About 2.30. We were wondering whether someone else was going to turn up.'

Urquhart hoped that they hadn't noticed the steel which he felt entering his eyes as he realised that the Prime Minister and Party Chairman had been working on the reshuffle without him for an hour and a half. Then I must go. Can't keep them waiting,' he smiled. He turned smartly and strode back across the road and over the threshold. He was annoyed, and it smothered the sense of excitement which he still felt whenever he passed that way.

The Prime Minister's youthful political secretary was waiting at the end of the corridor which led away from the front door towards the Cabinet Room at the rear of the building. As Urquhart approached, he sensed that the young man was uneasy.

The PM is expecting you, Chief Whip’ he said quite unnecessarily. 'He's in the study upstairs. I’ll let him know you have arrived,' and bounded off up the stairs.

It was a full twelve minutes before he reappeared, leaving Urquhart to stare for the hundredth time at the portraits of previous Prime Ministers which adorned the famous staircase. He could never get over the feeling of how inconsequential so many of the recent holders of the office had been. Uninspiring and unfitted for the task. Times had changed, and for the worse. The likes of Lloyd George and Churchill had been magnificent natural leaders, but one had been promiscuous and the other arrogant and often drunk, and neither would have been tolerated by the modern media in the search for sensationalism. The media's prying and lack of charity had cast a blanket of mediocrity over most holders of the office since the war, stifling individualism and those with real inspiration. Collingridge, chosen largely for his television manner, typified how superficial much of modem politics had become, he thought. He yearned for the grand old days when politicians made their own rules rather than cowering before the rules laid down by the media.

The return of the political secretary interrupted his thoughts. 'Sorry to keep you waiting, Chief Whip. He's ready for you now.'

As Urquhart entered the room traditionally used by modern Prime Ministers as their study he could see that, in spite of efforts to tidy up the desk, there had been much shuffling of paper and scribbling of notes in the previous hour and a half. An empty bottle of claret stared out of the waste paper bin, and plates covered with crumbs and a withered leaf of lettuce lurked on the windowsill. The Party Chairman sat to the right of the Prime Minister's desk, his notes spilled over the green leather top. Beside them stood a large pile of MPs' biographies supplied by party headquarters.

Urquhart brought up a chair and sat in front of the other two, who were silhouetted against the sun as it shone in through the windows overlooking Horse Guards Parade. He squinted into the light, balancing his own folder of notes uneasily on his knee.

Without ceremony, Collingridge got straight down to business. 'Francis, you were kind enough to let me have some thoughts on the reshuffle. I am very grateful; you know how useful such suggestions are in stimulating my own thoughts, and you have obviously put a lot of work into them. Now before we get down to the specific details, I thought it would be sensible just to chat about the broad objectives first. You've suggested - well, what shall I call it? - a rather radical reshuffle with six new members being brought into the Cabinet and some extensive swapping of portfolios amongst the rest. Tell me why you would prefer an extensive reshuffle and what you think it would achieve.'

Urquhart did not care for this. He had expected some inevitable discussion of individual appointments, but he was being asked to justify the strategy behind the reshuffle proposals before he had any chance to sniff out the Prime Minister's own views. He knew that it was not healthy for a Chief Whip to fail to read his Prime Minister's mind correctly, and he wondered whether he was being set up.

As he peered into the sunlight streaming in from behind the Prime Minister, he could read nothing of the expression on Collingridge's face. He desperately wished now that he had not committed all his thoughts to paper instead of talking them through, but it was too late for regrets.

'Of course, they are only suggestions, indications really of what you might be able to do. I thought in general that it might be better to undertake more rather than fewer changes, simply to indicate that you are firmly in charge of the Government and that you are expecting a lot of new ideas and new thinking from your Ministers. And a chance to retire just a few of our older colleagues; regrettable, but necessary if you are to bring in some new blood and bring on those Junior Ministers who have shown most promise.'

Dammit, he thought suddenly, that was a stupid thing to say with that ancient bastard Williams sitting on the PM's right hand. He knew he should have been more careful, and now he had a knot in the pit of his stomach. Collingridge had never seemed to be a Prime Minister with grip, one who enjoyed making decisions, and Urquhart had felt sure that most if not all of his proposals would be favourably received. All of his suggested promotions were men of talent which few would deny. He hoped that even fewer would realise that most were also men who owed him.

Ministers whom he had helped out of trouble, whose weaknesses he knew, whose sins he had covered up and whose wives and electors would never find out.

Williams was staring at him with his old, cunning eyes. Did he know, had he figured it out? The room was silent as the Prime Minister tapped his pencil on the desk, clearly having trouble with the argument Urquhart had put forward.

'We've been in power for longer than any Party since the war, which presents a new challenge. Boredom. We need to ensure we have a fresh image for the Government team,' Urquhart continued. 'We must guard against going stale.'

That's very interesting, Francis, and I agree with you to a large extent. Teddy and I have been discussing just that sort of problem. We must bring on a new generation of talent, find new impetus by putting new men in new places. And I find many of your suggestions for changes at the lower Ministerial levels below Cabinet very persuasive.'

'But they are not the ones that matter,' Urquhart muttered beneath his breath.

The trouble is that too much change at the top can be very disruptive. It takes most Cabinet Ministers a year simply to find their feet in a new Department, and a year is a long time to struggle through without being able to show positive signs of progress. Rather than Cabinet changes helping to implement our new programme, Teddy's view is that on balance it would more likely delay the programme.'

What new programme?, Urquhart screamed inside his skull. We deliberately published the most flaccid and uncontroversial manifesto we could get away with! He calmed himself before responding.

‘Don't you think by cutting our majority the electorate was telling us of its desire for some degree of change?'

'An interesting point. But as you yourself said, no Government in our lifetimes has been in office as long as we have: Without in any way being complacent, Francis, I don't think we could have rewritten the history books if die voters believed we had run out of steam. On balance, I think it suggests that they are content with what we offer, and there is no great sign of them demanding upheaval or change. There's another vital point’ he continued, lust because our majority has been cut, we must avoid giving the impression that we are panicking. That would send entirely the wrong signal to the Party and the country, and could bring about just that demand for change which you are so nervous of. Remember that Macmillan destroyed his own Government by panicking and sacking a third of his Cabinet. "The Night of the Long Knives" they called it, and he was out of office the following year. That was a mistake I am not anxious to repeat. So I'm thinking of a much more controlled approach myself.'

Collingridge slipped a piece of paper across the desk towards Urquhart, who picked it up. On it was printed a list of Cabinet positions, twenty-two in all, with names alongside them.

'As you see, Francis, I am suggesting no Cabinet changes at all. I hope it will be seen as a sign of great determination and strength. We have a job to do, and I think we should show we want to get straight on with it'

Urquhart quickly replaced the paper onto the desk, anxious that the tremble in his hand might betray his inner feelings.

If that is what you want, Prime Minister,' he said, slipping into a formal tone. ‘I have to say that I am not sure how the Parliamentary Party will react. I've not had sufficient chance to take soundings since the election.'

I'm sure they will accept it. After all, we are proposing a substantial number of changes below Cabinet level to keep them happy’ There was the slightest pause. 'And of course I assume I have your full support?' he asked quizzically.

There was another pause, slightly longer this time, until Urquhart heard himself responding.

'Of course, Prime Minister’

His own voice sounded strangely distant. He knew he had no choice: it was either support or suicide through instant resignation. The words of acceptance came out automatically, but without conviction. He felt the Whips Office closing around him like the walls of the condemned cell. Once again Urquhart felt uneasy in Collingridge's presence, not knowing how to read him or how to respond to him. But he could not leave it there. His words faltered as he found his mouth suddenly dry.

‘I have to say that I... was rather looking for a change myself. A bit of new experience... a new challenge’

'Francis’ the Prime Minister said in his most reassuring manner, 'if I move you, I have to move others. The whole pile of dominoes begins to fall over. And I need you where you are. You are an excellent Chief Whip. You have devoted yourself to burrowing right into the heart and soul of the Parliamentary Party. You know them so well, and we have to face it that with such a small majority there might be one or two sticky patches over the next few years. I need to have a Chief Whip who is strong enough to handle them. I need you, Francis. You are so good behind the scenes. We can leave it to others to do the job out front’

You appear to have made up your mind’ Urquhart said, hoping that it sounded like a statement of fact rather than the accusation which he felt.

‘I have’ replied the Prime Minister. 'And I am deeply grateful that I can rely on your understanding and support.'

Urquhart felt the cell door slam shut. He thanked them, cast a dark eye at the Party Chairman, and took his farewell. Williams hadn't uttered a single word.

He left through the basement of Number Ten which led him past the ruins of the old Tudor tennis court to the Cabinet Office, which faces onto Whitehall. He was well out of sight of die waiting press. He couldn't face them. He had been with the Prime Minister less than half an hour, and he did not trust his face to back up the lies he would have to tell them. He got a security guard at the Cabinet Office to telephone for his car to be brought round.

The battered BMW had been standing outside the house in Cambridge Street, Pimlico for almost a quarter of an hour. Amidst the chaos of discarded newspapers and granary bar wrappers which covered the vacant seats, Mattie Storin sat biting her lip. Ever since the reshuffle announcement from Downing Street late that afternoon, fevered discussions had been undertaken in editorial offices trying to decide whether the Prime Minister had been brilliant and audacious or simply lost his nerve,- they needed the views of the men who had helped shape the decisions. Williams had been persuasive and supportive as usual, but Urquhart's phone had only rung and rung.

Without knowing quite why, after work Mattie had decided to drive past Urquhart's London home, just ten minutes away from the House of Commons. She expected to find it dark and empty but instead she discovered that the lights were burning and there were signs of movement around the house, yet still the telephone rang unanswered.

She knew it was not the done thing in Westminster circles for political correspondents to pursue their quarry back to their homes; indeed, it was a practice which was darkly frowned upon not only by politicians but also by other correspondents. The world of Westminster is a club which has many unwritten rules, and those rules are guarded jealously by both politicians and press - particularly the press, the so-called Westminster 'lobby' of correspondents which quietly and privately regulates all media activity in the Palace of Westminster. The lobby system sets the rules of conduct which permit briefings and interviews to take place without their ever being reported, which encourage politicians to be indiscreet and to break confidences without ever being quoted, which allow the press to get round the Official Secrets Act and the oaths of collective Ministerial responsibility without ever giving their sources away. It was the lobby correspondent's passport, without which he - or she - would find all doors closed and all mouths firmly shut.

Mattie gave the inside of her cheek another bite. She was nervous. She did not lightly bend the rules, but why was the bloody man not answering his phone? What on earth was he up to?

A thick Northern voice whispered in her ear, the voice she had so often missed since leaving the Yorkshire Post and its old, wise editor. What had he said? 'Rules, my girl, are meant for the guidance of the wise and the emasculation of the foolish. Don't ever tell me you haven't got a good story because of somebody else's sodding rules.'

'OK, OK, you miserable bugger,' Mattie said out loud. She didn't feel good about breaking lobby rules, but she knew she would feel even worse missing a valuable opportunity. She checked her hair in the mirror, running a hand through it to restore some life, and opened the car door wishing that she were somewhere else. Twenty seconds later the house echoed with the heavy thumping of the ornate brass knocker on the front door.

Urquhart was alone, and not expecting visitors. His wife had returned to the country, and the maid didn't work weekends. He opened the door impatiently, and he did not immediately recognise the caller.

'Mr Urquhart, I've been trying to contact you all afternoon. I hope it's not inconvenient but I need some help. Downing Street has announced that there will be no Cabinet changes, and I'd appreciate your help in trying to understand the thinking behind it.'

How do these damned journalists always find where you are? thought Urquhart.

I'm sorry but I have nothing to say,' he responded and began to close the door. He saw the journalist throw her hands up in exasperation and take a step forward. Surely the silly girl wasn't going to put her foot in the door, it would be too comic for words. But Mattie spoke calmly and quietly.

'Mr Urquhart. That's a great story. But I don't think you mean it.'

Intrigued, Urquhart paused. What on earth did she mean? Mattie saw the hesitation, and threw a little more bait into the water. The story would read: "There were signs last night of deep Cabinet divisions over the non-shuffle. The Chief Whip, long believed to have harboured ambitions for a move to a new post, refused to comment on or to defend the Prime Minister's decision." How would you care for that?'

Only now did Urquhart recognise the Telegraph correspondent away from her usual surroundings. He knew Mattie Storin only slightly as she was relatively new to the Westminster circuit, but Urquhart had seen her in action often enough to suspect she was no fool. He was therefore astonished that she was now on his doorstep trying to intimidate the Chief Whip.

"You cannot be serious,' Urquhart said slowly.

Mattie broke into a broad smile. 'Actually, no, sir. Although you won't answer your telephone or talk face-to-face, even I wouldn't go that far to get a story. But it does raise some very interesting questions in my mind, and frankly I would prefer to get the truth rather than having to concoct something out of thin air. And that's all you are leaving me at the moment, thin air.'

Urquhart was disarmed by the young journalist's candour. He ought to be furious and on the phone to her editor, demanding an apology for such blatant harassment. But Mattie had already sensed there might be a much deeper story behind the formal announcement from Downing Street. Now she stood in a pool of light at his front door, highlights glinting in her short, blonde hair. What had he got to lose?

‘Perhaps you had better come in after all - Miss Storin, isn't it?'

‘Please call me Mattie.'

He led the way upstairs to a tasteful, if very traditional, sitting room, covered in oil paintings of horses and country scenes, and crammed with ancient but comfortable furniture. He poured himself a large Scotch and, without asking her, a glass of white wine for his guest before settling into an overstuffed armchair. Mattie sat opposite, nervously perching on the edge of the sofa. She got out a small notebook, but Urquhart waved it away.

I'm tired, Miss Storin - Mattie. It's been an arduous campaign, and I am not sure I would express myself particularly well. So no notes and no quotations, if you don't mind.' Urquhart knew he had to be careful.

'OK, Mr Urquhart. Let's do this entirely on a lobby basis. I can use what you tell me, but I can't attribute it to you in any way and absolutely no quotations.'

'Precisely.'

He took a cigarette from a silver cigarette box and relaxed back in his chair, inhaling deeply. He did not wait for Mattie's questions before starting his defence.

'So what if I tell you that the Prime Minister sees this as being the best way of getting on with the job? Not letting Ministers get confused with new responsibilities and new civil service teams, but allowing us to continue full steam ahead?'

‘I would say, Mr Urquhart, that we would scarcely have to go off the record and on to a lobby basis for that!'

Urquhart chuckled at the young journalist's bluntness. Yes, he would have to be very careful.

‘I would also say that the election result showed the need for some new blood and some new thinking,' she continued. 'You lost a lot of seats, and your endorsement by the voters wasn't exactly gushing, was it?'

'Steady on, steady on. We've got a clear majority and won many more seats than the main opposition party. Not too bad after so many years in office...' He rehearsed the official creed.

'But not really full of promise for the next election, is it? Even some of your own supporters have described your programme for the next five years as being "more of the same". "Steady as she sinks", I think one of your opponents called it. And you may remember I came to one of your election rallies. You were speaking a great deal about new energy, new ideas and new enterprise. The whole thrust of what you were saying was that there would be change—and some new players.'

She paused, but Urquhart didn't seem keen to respond. 'Your own election address -’I have it here...' She fished a glossy folded leaflet from a wad of papers which were stuffed into her shoulder bag. Urquhart stared at her intently. 'It speaks about "the exciting years ahead". All this is about as exciting as last week's newspapers.'

‘I think that's a little harsh’ protested Urquhart, knowing he should be protesting more. He had no enthusiasm for inventing excuses, and he suspected that it showed.

‘Let me ask you bluntly, Mr Urquhart. Do you really think that this is the best the Prime Minister could do?'

Urquhart did not answer directly but raised his glass slowly to his lips, without for a moment taking his eyes off her. They both knew that they were role playing, but neither was yet clear quite how this theatre piece would finish.

Urquhart savoured the fine Islay malt around his tongue, and let it warm him inside before replying. 'Mattie, how on earth do you expect me to reply to a question like that? You know as Chief Whip I am totally loyal to the Prime Minister and his shuffle - or rather non-shuffle’ There was an edge of sarcasm in his voice.

'Yes, but what about Francis Urquhart, a man who is very ambitious for his party and is desperately anxious for its success. Does he support it?'

There was no reply.

'Mr Urquhart, in my piece tomorrow I shall faithfully record your public loyalty to the reshuffle and your justification of it. I know you would not wish to see anything appear in the press which even remotely hinted that you were not happy with events. But I remind you we are speaking on lobby terms. I sense that you are not content with what is happening. I want to know. You want to ensure that it doesn't get back to my colleagues, or to your colleagues, or become common Westminster gossip. I give you my word on that. This is just for me, because it might be important in the months ahead. And by the way, no one else knows I came to see you tonight’

Mattie was offering a deal. In exchange for Urquhart's real views she would ensure that nothing she wrote could ever be traced back to its source.

Urquhart toyed in his mind with a variety of stilettos, wondering which one to throw first. 'Very well, Mattie, let me explain the real story to you. It's really very simple. The Prime Minister has to keep the lid firmly closed on the pressure cooker in order to contain the ambition of some of his colleagues. Those ambitions have grown since the poor election result and, if he were to release the pressure now, there would be the danger of the entire Government getting plastered all over the kitchen ceiling.'

'Are you telling me that there is a lot of rivalry and dissent within the Cabinet?'

‘Let me put it this way.' He paused to consider his words carefully before continuing in a slow, deliberate voice. 'Some elements of the Party are deeply distressed. They believed the PM came dangerously close to throwing away the last election, and they don't see him as having the stamina or authority to last all the way through for another four or five years. So they are thinking of what life might be like in another eighteen months or two years, and what position they want to be in if there happened to be a leadership race. The game has suddenly become a very different one since Thursday and Henry Collingridge is no longer playing with a full team behind him. It could get very unsettling.'

'So why doesn't he get rid of the troublesome ones?'

'Because he can't risk having several former Cabinet Ministers rampaging all over the backbenches when he has got a majority of only 24 which could disappear at the first parliamentary cock-up. He has to keep everything as quiet and as low key as possible. He can't even move the Awkward Brigade to new Cabinet posts because every time you get a new Minister in a new Department they get a rush of enthusiasm and want to make their mark, while you gentlefolk of the press give them a honeymoon period and plenty of personal publicity. Their views suddenly take on a renewed importance for the leader writers, and all of a sudden we find that they are not simply doing their Ministerial jobs but also promoting themselves for a leadership race. The whole of Government business is thrown into chaos because everyone is looking over their shoulders at their colleagues rather than training their sights on the Opposition. Government becomes confused, the Prime Minister becomes even more unpopular - and suddenly we are confronted with a real leadership race.'

'So everyone simply has to remain where they are. Do you think that's a sound strategy?'

He took a deep mouthful of whisky. 'If I were the captain of the Titanic and I saw a bloody great iceberg dead ahead, I don't think I would be saying "steady as she goes". I'd want a change of course.'

Did you tell this to the Prime Minister this afternoon?'

'Mattie, you take me too far!' he chuckled in protest. 'While I respect your professional integrity and I am thoroughly enjoying our conversation, I think I would be offering you too much temptation if I started divulging the details of private discussions. That's a shooting offence!'

Mattie had not moved from the edge of her chair. She understood very clearly the significance of his words, and was determined to gather more. 'Well, let me ask you about Lord Williams. He was with the PM an extraordinarily long time this 'afternoon if all they were deciding was to do nothing’

Urquhart had been toying with this specific stiletto for several minutes. Now he threw it with deadly accuracy. 'Have you heard the phrase, "Beware of an old man in a hurry"?'

‘You surely can't imagine that he believes he could become Party Leader. Not from the Lords!'

'No, even he's not that egotistical. But he still has a couple of years left, and like so many elder statesmen would like to make sure that the leadership found its way into suitable hands’

'Whose hands?'

If not him, then one of his acolytes’ 'Like who?'

'Do you have no thoughts of your own?' 'You mean Michael Samuel’

Urquhart smiled as he heard the stiletto thud home. ‘I think I've said enough. We must call this conversation to a halt’

Mattie nodded reluctantly, and remained silent, pondering the pieces of the political jigsaw which now lay in front of her. Without further discussion Urquhart guided his guest downstairs, and they were shaking hands by the front door before she spoke again.

‘You've been very helpful, Mr Urquhart But one last question. If there were a leadership election, would you be part of it?'

'Good night, Mattie’ Urquhart said, and closed the front door firmly behind her.

Daily Telegraph. Monday 14th June. Page 1.

In a move which startled most observers, the Prime Minister yesterday announced that there were to be no immediate Cabinet changes following the election. After conferring for several hours with his Party

Chairman, Lord Williams, and also with the Chief Whip Francis Urquhart, Mr Collingridge issued a 'steady as she goes' message to his Party.

Downing Street sources said it was intended that the Government would be able to pursue their programme as quickly and as effectively as possible by leaving all Cabinet Ministers in place. However, senior Westminster sources last night expressed astonishment at the decision. It was seen in some quarters as betraying the weakness of the Prime Minister's position after the decimation of his parliamentary majority and criticisms of what was seen as a lacklustre campaign, for which both he and the Party Chairman are being blamed.

There was speculation last night that the Prime Minister was unlikely to fight another election, and that some senior Ministers were already manoeuvring for position in the event of an early leadership contest. One Cabinet Minister compared the Prime Minister to 'the captain of the Titanic as it was entering the ice pack'.

The decision not to make any Cabinet changes, the first time since the war that an election has not been followed by some senior reshuffle, was interpreted as being the most effective way for Collingridge to keep the simmering rivalries of some of his Cabinet colleagues under control.

Last night, the Chief Whip defended the decision as being 'the best means of getting on with the job'. However, speculation is already beginning as to who might be the likely contenders in the event of a leadership race.

Lord Williams described any suggestion of an imminent leadership election as 'nonsense'. He said, 'The Prime Minister has gained for the Party an historic fourth election victory, and we are in excellent shape.' However, the position of the Party

Chairman would be crucial during a leadership race, and Williams is known to be very close to Michael Samuel, the Environment Secretary, who could be one of the contenders.

Opposition spokesmen were quick to pounce on what they saw as indecisiveness on the part of the Prime Minister. Claiming that he had been greatly heartened by the gains his Party had made last Thursday, the Opposition Leader said: The fires of discontent are glowing within the Government. I don't think Mr Collingridge has the strength or the support to put them out. I am already looking forward to the next election...'

TUESDAY 22nd JUNE

Roger O'Neill sat back comfortably in the arms of one of the large leather armchairs which surround the snooker tables in the back room at White's Club. When the tables are not in use, the seats which are spread around the games room offer a quiet and confidential spot for members to take their guests. He had been delighted, and not a little astonished, to receive the invitation from the Chief Whip to dine at his prestigious club in St James's. Urquhart had never shown much warmth towards O'Neill in the past, and O'Neill had been more used to a cold and condescending gaze down Urquhart's aquiline nose, rather like a well-fed bird eyeing future prey, than an invitation 'to celebrate the splendid work which you have done for us all throughout the campaign'.

O'Neill, hypertense as always, had tried to calm his nerves with a couple of mighty vodka-tonics before he arrived, but they had not been necessary. Urquhart's cosy manner, two bottles of Chateau Talbot '78 and the large cognacs which Urquhart was even now ordering from the bar suggested that O'Neill had at last been able to break through the barriers which some traditionalists within the party leadership still erected against the likes of O'Neill and his 'marketing johnnies with their vulgar cars'. Even as O'Neill derided the traditionalists and their narrow jealousies, he desperately wanted their acceptance, and now he felt guilty for having misjudged Urquhart so badly. He beamed broadly as his host returned from the bar with two crystal glasses on a silver tray. O'Neill stubbed out his cigarette in preparation for the Havana which he hoped would be following.

'Tell me, Roger, what are your plans now the election is over? Are you going to stay on with the Party? We can't afford to lose good men like you.'

O'Neill flashed yet another winning smile and assured his host that he would stay on as long as the Prime Minister wanted him.

'But how can you afford to, Roger? May I be brutally honest with you? I know just how little the Party pays its employees, and money is always so short after an election. It's going to be tough for the next couple of years. Your salary will probably get frozen and your budget cut. Aren't you tempted by some of the more handsome offers you must be getting from outside?'

'Well, it's not always easy, Francis, as you've already guessed. It's not so much the salary, you understand. I work in politics because I'm fascinated by it and love to play a part. But it would be a tragedy if the budget gets cut.'

His smile faded as he contemplated the prospect and began to fidget nervously with his glass. 'We should start working for the next election now, not in three years' time when it may be too late. Particularly with all these rumours flooding around about splits within the Party and who is to blame for the loss of seats. We need some strong and positive publicity, and I need a budget to create it.'

'The Chairman receptive to all this?' Urquhart raised an enquiring eyebrow.

'Are Chairmen ever?'

'Perhaps, Roger, there is something I can do about that. I would like to be able to help you very much, because I think you've done such excellent work. Ill go in to bat with the Chairman about your budget, if you want. But there is something I must ask you first. And I must be blunt.'

The older man's blue eyes looked directly into O'Neill's, taking in their habitual flicker. He paused while O'Neill blew his nose loudly. Another habit, Urquhart knew. He examined O'Neill closely. It was as if there were another life going on within O'Neill which was quite separate from the rest of the world, and which communicated itself only through O'Neill's hyperactive mannerisms and twitching eyes.

‘I had a visit the other day from an old colleague I used to know from the days when I held directorships in the City,' Urquhart continued, lie's one of the financial people at the Party's advertising agency. And he was very troubled. Very discreet, but very troubled. He said you were in the habit of asking them for considerable sums of cash to cover your expenses.'

The twitching stopped for a moment, and Urquhart noticed just how rarely he had ever seen O'Neill stop moving.

'Roger, let me assure you I am riot trying to trap you or trick you. This is strictly between us. But if I am to help you, I must be sure of the facts.'

The face and the eyes started up again, and O'Neill's ready laugh made a nervous reappearance. 'Francis, let me assure you that there's nothing wrong at all. It's silly, of course, but I am grateful that you raised it with me. It's simply that there are times when I incur expenses on the publicity side which are easier and more convenient for the agency to meet rather than putting them through the Party machine. Like buying a drink for a journalist or taking a Party contributor out for a meal.'

O'Neill was speeding on with his explanation, which showed signs of having been practised. 'You see, if I pay for them myself I have to claim back from the Party. We have a pretty laborious accounts department which takes its own sweet time paying those invoices - two months or more. Frankly, with the way I get paid, I can't afford it. Yet if I charge them through the agency, I get the money back immediately while they have to put them through their own accounts before invoicing us at headquarters. That takes another month or so, which simply means that the Party gets an even longer holiday on repaying those expenses. It's like an interest-free loan for the Party. And in the meantime I can get on with my job. The amounts are really very small’

O'Neill reached for his glass.

‘Like £22,300 in the last ten months small?'

O'Neill nearly choked. He put his glass down quickly and his face contorted as he struggled simultaneously to gulp down air and blurt out a denial.

It's nothing like that amount’ he protested. His jaw dropped as he debated what to say next. This explanation he hadn't practised.

Urquhart turned away from him to signal for another two cognacs. His eyes returned calmly to O'Neill, whose twitching now resembled a fly caught in a spider's web. Urquhart spun more silken threads.

'Roger, you have been charging regular expenses to the agency without clearly accounting for those amounts to the tune of precisely £22,300 since the beginning of. September last year. What began as relatively small amounts have in recent months grown up to £4,000 a month. You don't get through that many drinks and dinners even during an election campaign.'

‘I assure you, Francis, that any expenses I've charged have all been entirely legitimate!' The choking had begun to subside. As the steward placed the fresh drinks on the table, Urquhart moved in to bind his prey with a lethal touch.

'And let me assure you, Roger, that I know precisely what you have been spending the money on,' he said quietly.

He took a sip from his cognac as his victim remained motionless, transfixed. 'Roger, as Chief Whip I have to become familiar with every problem known to man. Do you know, in the last two years I have had to deal with cases of wife beating, adultery, fraud, mental illness. I've even had a case of incest. We didn't let him stand for re-election, of course, but there was nothing to be gained by making a public fuss about such things. That's why you almost never hear about them, incest I draw the line at but in general we don't moralise, Roger. Every man is allowed one weakness or indulgence - so long as it remains a private one’

He paused. In fact, one of my Junior Whips is a doctor who was appointed specifically to help me spot the signs of strain, and we get quite practised at it After all, we have well over 300 MPs to look after, all of whom are living on the edge and under immense pressure. You'd be surprised, too, how many cases of drug abuse we get at Westminster. The specialists say there is something like 10 per cent of the population, including MPs, who are physiologically or psychologically vulnerable to chemical addiction of one sort or another. Not their fault, it's something in their makeup, and they have much more trouble than the rest of us in resisting drink, pills and the rest. There's a charming and utterly private drying-out farm just outside Dover where we send them, sometimes for a couple of months. Most of them recover completely and return to a full political life.'

He paused yet again to swill the cognac around his glass and sip it gently, but continued to watch O'Neill closely. The other man did not stir. He sat there as if petrified.

'But it helps to catch them early,' Urquhart continued, 'which is why we are so sensitive to the signs of drug abuse. Like cocaine. It's become a real problem recently. They tell me it's fashionable - whatever that means - and too damned easy to obtain. Do you know it can rot your nasal membranes clean away if you let it? Funny drug. Gives people an instant high and persuades them that their brain and senses can complete five hours' work in just five minutes. Makes a good man brilliant, so they say. Pity it's so addictive’

There was another pause. 'And expensive’

Urquhart had not taken his eyes off O'Neill for a second during his narrative, and had witnessed the exquisite agony which had racked O'Neill inside. Any doubt about his diagnosis that he had started with had been brushed aside with the whimpering which began slowly to emerge from the other man. Now his words were tortured and pleading.

'What are you saying? I am not a drug addict. I don't do drugs!'

'No, of course not, Roger.' Urquhart adopted his most reassuring tone. 'But I think you must accept that there are some people who could jump to the most unfortunate conclusions about you. And the Prime Minister, you know, is not a man to take chances. It's not a matter of condemning a man without trial, simply opting for a quiet life without unnecessary risks.'

The Prime Minister can't believe this!' O'Neill gasped as if he had been butted by a charging bull.

I'm afraid that the Chairman was a little less than helpful with the PM the other day - he knows nothing, of course, but I don't think the dear Lord Williams is one of your greatest fans. Don't worry, I reassured the Prime Minister about you, and you have nothing to fear. As long as you have my support.'

Urquhart knew full well of the paranoia which dominates the minds of cocaine addicts, and the impact which his totally invented story about the Chairman's disaffection would leave on O'Neill's helter-skelter emotions. He also knew that the paranoia was matched by a lust for notoriety, which O'Neill could only achieve through his political connections and the continued patronage of the Prime Minister, and this he could not bear to lose. 'As long as you have my support’ rang in O'Neill's ears. 'One slip and you are dead’ it was saying. The web around O'Neill was complete, and now Urquhart offered him the way out.

'You see, Roger, I have seen gossip destroy so many men. Gossip founded on no more than circumstantial evidence or even naked jealousy, perhaps, but you know that the corridors around Westminster have been killing fields for less fortunate people than you or me. It would be a tragedy if you were pilloried either because of Lord Williams' hostility towards you or because people misunderstood your arrangement about expenses and your - hay fever.’

'What should I do?' The voice was plaintive.

'Your position is a delicate one, particularly at a time when the political currents within the Government are ebbing and flowing. I would suggest that you trust me. You need a strong supporter in the inner circles of the Party, particularly as the Prime Minister appears to be getting into more difficult waters and will be concentrating on rescuing himself rather than spending his time rescuing others.'

He paused to watch O'Neill writhe in his chair. ‘I would suggest the following. I shall tell the agency I have fully established that your expenses are legitimate. I shall ask them to continue with the arrangement, on the basis that we are doing it this way to avoid unhelpful jealousy from some of your colleagues within party headquarters who do not support extensive advertising budgets and who might use your high but perfectly legitimate expenses to attack the whole communications set-up. The agency can regard it as a sensible insurance policy. Also, I shall ensure that the Prime Minister continues to be fully informed of the good work you are doing for the Party. I shall certainly try to persuade him of the need to continue a high level publicity campaign to get him through the difficult months ahead, so that your budget is not cut to shreds by the Chairman.'

'You know I would be most grateful...' O'Neill mumbled.

In return, you will keep me informed of eveiything that is going on at party headquarters and in particular what the Chairman is up to. He's a very ambitious and dangerous man, you know. Playing his own game while professing loyalty to the Prime Minister. Between us, though, I think we can ensure that no harm is done to the Prime Minister's - or to your - interests. You must be my eyes and ears, Roger, and you will have to let me know immediately of anything you hear of the Chairman's plans. Your future could depend upon it.' He punched home the words to let O'Neill be in no doubt that he meant it.

‘We must work together on this. You will have to help me. I know how much you love politics and the Party, and I think the two of us together can help steer the Party through some difficult times ahead.'

'Thank you,' O'Neill whispered.

WEDNESDAY 30th JUNE

The Strangers Bar in the House of Commons is a small, dark room overlooking the Thames where Members of Parliament may take their 'Stranger' or non-Member guests. As a result it is usually crowded and noisy with rumour and gossip. Tonight was no exception as O'Neill propped up the bar with one elbow and struggled valiantly with the other to avoid knocking the drink out of his host's hand.

'Another one, Steve?' he asked of his immaculately dressed companion.

Stephen Kendrick looked somewhat out of place in his light grey Armani mohair suit, pearl white cuffs and immaculately manicured hands clasped around a glass of Federation bitter, a draught beer for which the bars of the Palace of Westminster afford a warm home.

'Now you know better than me that Strangers can't buy drinks here. And anyway, I've only been here two weeks and I wouldn't want to ruin my career by having anyone see the Prime Minister's pet Irish wolfhound forcing drinks down the Opposition's newest and fastest rising backbencher. Some of my more dogmatic colleagues would treat that as treachery!'

He grinned and winked at the barmaid to attract her attention. Another pint of dark bitter and a double vodka-tonic were quick in coming.

‘You know, Rog, I'm still pinching myself. I never really expected to get here, and I still can't decide whether it's a dream or just a bloody awful nightmare. When we worked together at the same little PR shop seven years ago, who would have guessed you would now be the chief grunter for the Prime Minister and I would be a humble if wonderfully talented Opposition MP?'

'Certainly not that little blonde telephonist we used to take turns with’ ribbed O'Neill. They both chuckled at the memory of younger and more frivolous days.

'Dear little Annie’ mused Kendrick.

‘I thought her name was Jennie’ protested O'Neill.

'Rog, in those days I never remember you being fussy about what they were called.'

The banter finally broke the ice between the two men which had been slowly thawing with the drink. When O'Neill had telephoned the new MP to suggest a drink for old times' sake, they had both found it difficult to revive the easy familiarity which they had known in earlier years. They had been careful, perhaps too careful, to avoid the subject of politics which now dominated both their lives and it had forced their conversation along artificial lines. Now O'Neill decided to take the plunge.

'Steve, I don't mind you buying the drinks all night as far as I'm concerned. The way my masters are going at the moment, I think a saint would be driven to drink.'

Kendrick accepted the opening. Tour lot do seem to be getting their robes of office in something of a twist. There are all sorts of weird rumours going round this place about how Samuel is furious with Williams for putting his head on the block with the PM, Williams is furious with Collingridge for screwing up the election campaign, and Collingridge is furious with just about everyone.'

'Maybe it's simply that they are all tired after the election and can't wait to get away on holiday’ O'Neill responded. 'Like an irritable family squabbling about how the car is packed before taking a long trip.'

If you don't mind me saying, old chum, I think your leader is going to have to put an end to all the bickering very quickly, or else hell go into the Summer Recess with the family looking more like a pack of Westminster alley cats. No Prime Minister can afford to let those sort of rumours run away from him, otherwise they begin to gain a life of their own. They become reality. Still, that's where you and your vast publicity budgets come to the rescue, like the Seventh Cavalry over the hill.'

'More like Custer's last bloody stand’ O'Neill said with some bitterness.

'What's the matter, Rog, Uncle Teddy run off with all your toy soldiers or something?' Kendrick asked with genuine curiosity.

O'Neill emptied his glass and Kendrick ordered another round.

'Between you and me, just as old chums, Steve, he's run off with almost all of them. Hell, we need to find new friends more than ever, but instead of going onto the offensive the Chairman seems content to retreat behind the barricades’

'Ah, do I detect the cries of a frustrated Publicity Director who has been told to shut up shop for a while?'

O'Neill banged the bar in exasperation. 'I shouldn't tell you this, I suppose, but as it's not going to happen there's no harm. The new hospital expansion programme which we promised at the election giving matching Government funds for any money raised locally. We had a wonderful promotional campaign, all ready to go throughout the summer while all you bastards were off on the Costa del Cuba or wherever it is you go’

Kendrick held his silence, not responding to the jibe.

'By the time you all came back in October, we would have won the hearts and minds of voters in every marginal seat in the country. We had the campaign all set! Advertising, a party political broadcast, ten million leaflets, direct mail. "Nursing Hospitals Back To Health." It would have made a wonderful build-up to the party conference as "The Party Which Delivers". But... he's pulled the plug. Just like that’

'Why?' asked Kendrick consolingly. 'Money problems after the election?'

That's the damnable thing about it, Steve. The money's in the budget and the leaflets have already been printed, but he won't even let us deliver them. He just came back from Number Ten this morning and said the thing was off. Then he had the nerve to ask whether the leaflets would be out of date by next year. It's so bloody amateurish!'

He tried to sound morose as he took another large mouthful of spirits, and hoped that he had followed Urquhart's instructions properly, not showing too much disloyalty or too much frankness, just professional pique. He had no idea why Urquhart had told him to concoct an entirely spurious story about a non-existent publicity campaign to pass on in the Strangers Bar. But it seemed a small thing to do for a man on whom he knew he depended.

As he gazed into the bottom of his glass, he saw Kendrick give him a long and deliberate glance. With the air of camaraderie squeezed from his voice, the MP asked 'Why, Rog, why?'

If only I knew, old chum. Complete bloody mystery to me.'

THURSDAY 1st JULY

The Chamber of the House of Commons is of relatively modem construction, rebuilt following the war after one of the Luftwaffe's bombs had missed the docks and carelessly scored a direct hit on the Mother of Parliaments instead. Yet in spite of its relative youth the Chamber has an atmosphere centuries old. If you sit quietly in the comer of the empty Chamber, the freshness of the leather on the narrow green benches fades and the ghosts of Chatham, Walpole, Fox and Disraeli pace the gangways once again.

It is a place of character rather than convenience. There are seats for only around 400 of the 650 Members, who cannot listen to the rudimentary loudspeakers built into the back of the benches without slumping to one side and giving the appearance of being sound asleep. Which sometimes they are.

The Chamber places Members in face to face confrontation with their antagonists in opposition parties, separated only by the distance of one sword's length, lulling the unwary into complacency and into forgetting that the greatest danger is always but a dagger's length away, on the benches behind.

Least of all can a Prime Minister forget that well over half the members of his own Parliamentary Party usually believe they can do his job far better, with a firmer grip of detail, or diplomacy, or both. Prime Ministers are called to account twice a week when Parliament is sitting through the time honoured institution of Prime Minister's Question Time. In principle it gives Members of Parliament the opportunity to seek information from the leader of Her Majesty's Government; in practice it is an exercise in survival which owes more to the Roman arena of Nero and Claudius than to the ideals of the constitutionalists who developed the system.

The questions from Opposition Members usually do not seek information, they seek to criticise and to inflict damage. The answers rarely seek to give information, but to retaliate. Prime Ministers always have the last word, and it is that which gives them the advantage in combat, like the gladiator allowed the final thrust.

But Prime Ministers also know that they are expected to win, and it is the manner rather than the fact of their victory which will decide the level of vocal support and encouragement from the troops behind. Woe betide the Prime Minister who does not dispatch the Opposition's questions quickly but who allows them to return once again to the attack. The noisy enthusiasm of the Government backbenches can soon turn to sullen resentment and silent condemnation, for a Prime Minister who cannot dominate the floor of the House of Commons soon finds that he can count on the support of few of his colleagues. Then the Prime Minister must watch not only the opposition in front, but also the competition behind.

It was this constant challenge which made Macmillan sometimes sick with tension before Question Time, which caused Wilson to lose sleep and Thatcher to lose her temper. And Henry Collingridge was not quite up to any of their standards.

The day following O'Neill's evening foray into the Strangers Bar had not been going smoothly for the Prime Minister. The Downing Street press secretary had been laid low by his children's chicken pox, so the normal daily press briefing was of inferior quality and, even worse to the impatient Collingridge, was late. So was Cabinet, which had gathered at its accustomed time of 10 a.m. on Thursday to resolve Government policy. It had dragged on, embarrassed and confused by the explanation from the Chancellor of the Exchequer of how the Government's reduced majority had taken the edge off the financial markets, making it impossible in this financial year to implement the hospital expansion programme which they had promised so enthusiastically during the election campaign. The Prime Minister should have kept a grip on the discussion, but it rambled on and ended amidst acrimony.

'A great pity the Chancellor wasn't a little more cautious before allowing us to run off and make rash commitments,' the Education Secretary commented, dripping acid.

The Chancellor muttered defiantly that it wasn't his fault the election results were worse than even the cynical Stock Market had expected, a comment he had instantly regretted making although he knew it was precisely what all his colleagues were thinking. Collingridge had knocked their heads together and instructed the Secretary of State for Health to prepare a suitable explanation for the change of plans, which would be announced in a fortnight's time during the last week before the August recess.

'Let us hope,' said the septuagenarian Lord Chancellor, 'that everybody's minds will by then be on the lighter follies of summer rather than the more depressing follies of their political masters.'

Cabinet overran by twenty-five minutes, which meant that in turn the Prime Minister's briefing meeting with officials for Question Time was also late, and his ill-temper ensured that he took in very little of what they were saying. When he strode into a packed Chamber just before the appointed time of 3.15 p.m., he was not as well armed or as alert as usual.

This did not seem to matter for the first thirteen minutes fifty seconds of combat, as he batted back questions from the Opposition and accepted plaudits from his own party with adequate if not inspired ease. The Speaker of the House, in charge of parliamentary proceedings, decided that with just over a minute left there would be time for just one more quick question to round off the session.

'Stephen Kendrick,' he called across the Chamber to summon the Member whose question was next on the Order Paper. It was the first occasion on which the new Member had been involved at Question Time, and many older Members were nudging their colleagues to find out who this new man was.

'Number Six, sir’ Kendrick rose briefly to his feet to indicate the question from the Order Paper he wished the Prime Minister to answer: To ask the Prime Minister if he will list his official engagements for the day'. It was a hollow question, identical in form to Questions One, Two and Four which had already preceded it, and designed not to elicit information but to hide from the Prime Minister the nature of the following supplementary thrust. Such is the nature of the combat

The Prime Minister rose ponderously to his feet and glanced at the red briefing folder already open on the Despatch Box in front of him. He read in a monotone.

‘I refer the Honourable Member to the reply I gave some moments ago to Questions One, Two and Four’ Since his earlier reply had said no more than that he would spend the day holding meetings with ministerial colleagues and hosting a dinner for the visiting Belgian Prime Minister, no one had yet learned anything of interest about the Prime Minister's activities - which was precisely his intention.

Collingridge resumed his seat, and the Speaker summoned Kendrick once more to place his supplementary question. The gladiatorial courtesies were now over, and battle was about to commence. Kendrick rose to his feet from the rear row of the Opposition benches.

Kendrick was a gambler, a man who had found professional success in an industry which emphasised ostentatious reward, yet who had decided to risk his expense account and sports car by fighting a marginal parliamentary seat. Not that he had really expected or indeed wanted to win; after all, the Government had been sitting on a pretty reasonable majority. Fighting the seat, he reasoned, would give him a platform and a prominence which would help him both socially and professionally, and would certainly give him a higher profile in the public relations trade magazines. The man with the social conscience' always made good copy in an aggressively commercial industry, and the ability to be able to drop a name or two usually helped.

His majority of 76, after three recounts, at first had come as an unpleasant shock as suddenly he was forced to contemplate the reduced income and additional hours of a parliamentary career. It would not be much of a career at that, either, since he knew the odds were that after the next election he would probably be looking for a new seat or a new job. In either case he knew that the plodding progress of a loyal and patient backbencher was not for him. He would have to make his mark, and make it quickly.

Kendrick had spent all of the previous evening and much of that morning turning over O'Neill's remarks in his mind. Why cancel a publicity campaign promoting a vote-winning policy which had been sold heavily during the election, when the campaign was all set to go? Whichever way he looked at it, the pieces would only fit together into a pattern suggesting that it was the policy rather than the publicity campaign which was in trouble. But should he enquire or accuse? To question or condemn? Or simply take the course expected of new Members and be completely anodyne? He knew that if he got it wrong, the first and lasting impression he made would be that of the House fool.

His momentary uncertainty caused the general commotion of the House to die away as MPs sensed indecision and surprise. Had the new Member frozen? But Kendrick felt calm and at ease. He remembered his small majority, and he knew he must gamble. What had he got to lose, except his dignity, which in any event was a commodity of little practical value in the modem House of Commons? He took a deep breath.

'Will the Prime Minister explain to the House why he is not implementing the promised hospital expansion programme?'

No criticism. No elaboration. No added phrase or rambling comment which would allow the Prime Minister to dodge or divert the question. Kendrick had thrown his grenade and he knew that if his gamble were wrong the grenade would be picked up by a grateful Prime Minister and thrown directly back to explode in his own lap.

A murmur went up as he resumed his seat. The sport had taken an interesting new turn, and the 300-odd spectators turned as one to look towards Collingridge. He rose aware that there was nothing in his red briefing folder from which to draw inspiration. The whole House could see the broad smile with which Collingridge accepted the challenge; only those sitting very close to him could see the whites of his knuckles as he gripped the Despatch Box.

‘I hope that the Honourable Gentleman will be careful to avoid being carried away by the summer silly season, at least before August arrives. As he is a new Member, may I remind him that in the last four years under this Government the health service has enjoyed a substantial real increase in spending of some 6 to 8 per cent?' Collingridge knew he was being inexcusably patronising, but he could not find the right words. 'The health service has gained more than any Government service from our success and continuing determination in defeating inflation, which compares...'

'Answer the bloody question,' came the irreverent growl from below the gangway on the Opposition benches, which was immediately echoed by several Members around the interrupter. Kendrick was no longer alone.

‘I shall answer the question in my own way and in my own time,' snapped the Prime Minister. It is a pathetic sham for the Opposition to whine on about such matters when they know that electors have reached their own conclusions and only recently voted with their feet for this Government. They support us and I can repeat our determination to protect them and their hospital service’

Increasingly rude shouts of disapproval began to rise from the Opposition benches, most of which would go unrecorded by Hansard but which were clearly audible to the Prime Minister. His own backbenchers began to shift uneasily, uncertain as to why Collingridge did not simply reaffirm often stated party policy.

The House will be aware that it is not the custom of Governments to discuss the specifics of new spending plans in advance, and we shall make an announcement about our intentions at the appropriate time’

You have. You've bloody dropped it, haven't you?' the Honourable and usually disrespectful Member for Newcastle West shouted, so loudly that even Hansard could not claim to have missed it.

The Opposition Front Bench smiled and chuckled, beginning to appreciate that the Prime Minister's increasingly taut smile hid inner turmoil. The Leader of the Opposition, not six feet from where Collingridge stood, turned to his nearest colleague and whispered loudly. T)o you know I think he's fluffed it. He's running away!' Opposition Members began taunting him from all around, slapping their thighs and chortling like old hags around a guillotine.

The tension and pain of a thousand such encounters in the House welled up inside Collingridge. He was unprepared for this. He could not bring himself to admit the truth, yet neither could he lie to the House, and he could find no form of words which would tread that delicate line between honesty and outright deceit. As he observed the sneers and smugness on the faces in front of him and listened to their jeers, he remembered all the many lies they had told about him in the past, the cruelty they had shown and the tears they had caused his wife to shed. As he gazed at the sea of waving Order Papers and contorted faces just a few feet in front of him, his patience vanished. He had to bring it to an end, and he no longer cared how. He threw his hands in the air.

‘I don't have to take comments like that from a pack of dogs’ he snarled, and sat down.

Even before the shout of triumph and rage had a chance to rise from the Opposition benches, Kendrick was back on his feet.

'On a point of order, Mr Speaker. The Prime Minister's remarks are an absolute disgrace. I asked a perfectly straightforward question about why the Prime Minister had reneged on his election promise to patients and nurses, and all I have got are insults and evasion. While I understand the Prime Minister's reluctance to admit to the House that he has perpetrated a gigantic and disgraceful fraud, is there nothing you can do to protect the right of Members of this House to get a straight answer to a straight question?'

A roar of approval grew from Opposition members as the Speaker struggled to be heard above the commotion. "The Honourable Member, although he is new, seems already to have developed a sharp eye for parliamentary procedure, in which case he will know that I am no more responsible for the content or tone of the Prime Minister's replies than I am for the questions which are put to him. Next business!'

As the Speaker tried to move matters on, a red-faced Collingridge rose and strode angrily out of the Chamber, gesticulating for the Chief Whip to follow him. The very unparliamentary taunt of 'Coward!' rang after him across the floor. From the Government benches there was an uncertain silence.

'How in Christ's name did he know? How did that son-of-a-bitch know?'

The door had barely closed upon the Prime Minister's .office just off the rear of the Chamber when the screaming began. The normally suave exterior of Her Majesty's First Minister had been drawn back to reveal a wild Warwickshire ferret.

'Francis, it's simply not good enough. It's not bloody good enough I tell you. We get the Chancellor's report in Cabinet Committee yesterday, the full Cabinet discusses it for the first time today, and by this afternoon it's known to every snivelling creep in the Opposition. Less than two dozen Cabinet Ministers knew, only a handful of civil servants knew, but now every single Member of the Opposition knows. Who leaked it, Francis, who? I'm damned if I know, but you're Chief Whip and I want you to find out who the hell it was.'

Urquhart breathed a huge sigh of relief. Until the Prime Minister's outburst he had no idea if the finger of blame was already pointing at him, and the last couple of minutes had been distinctly uncomfortable.

It simply astonishes me that one of our Cabinet colleagues would want deliberately to leak something like this,' Urquhart began, implicitly ruling out the possibility of a civil service leak and narrowing the circle of suspicion to include each and every one of his Cabinet colleagues.

They've got us by the balls now, and it's going to hurt. Whoever is responsible had humiliated me, and I want him out, Francis. I want-I insist- that you find the worm. And men I want him fed to the crows.'

I'm afraid there's been too much bickering amongst our colleagues since the election. Too many of them seem to want someone else's job.'

‘I know they all want my job, damn them, but who would be so - cretinous...' — the words were spat out — 'as to deliberately leak something like that?'

‘I can't say for sure, Prime Minister.'

'Can't you even give me an educated guess, for Chris-sake?'

That would not be fair.'

'Life's not fair, Francis. Tell me about it.'

'But...'

‘No "buts", Francis. If it's happened once it can and almost certainly will happen again. Accuse, imply, whatever you damned well like. There are no minutes being taken here. But I want some names!' Collingridge kicked a chair in frustration.

If you insist, I'll speculate. But I hope I’ll not live to regret anything I'm going to say. I know nothing for sure, you understand... let's work from deduction. Given die time scale involved, it seems more likely to have leaked from yesterday's Cabinet Committee rather than from today's full Cabinet. Agreed?'

Collingridge nodded his assent.

'And apart from you and me, who is on that Committee?'

'Chancellor of the Exchequer, Financial Secretary, Health, Education, Environment, Trade and Industry.' The Prime Minister reeled off those Cabinet Ministers who had attended.

Urquhart remained silent, forcing Collingridge to finish off the logic himself. 'Well, the two Treasury Ministers were scarcely likely to leak the fact that they had screwed it up. But Health bitterly opposed it, so Peter McKenzie had a reason to leak it. Harold Earle at Education has always had a loose lip. And Michael Samuel has a habit of enjoying the company of the media rather too much for my liking.'

The shadowy suspicions which lurk in a Prime Minister's mind were being brought into the light, and Urquhart relished the spectacle as he watched the seed of accusation grow alongside Collingridge's insecurity.

There are other possibilities, but I think them unlikely,' Urquhart joined in. 'As you know Michael is very close to Teddy Williams. They discuss everything together. It could have come out of party headquarters. Not from Teddy, I mean, but one of the officials there. They can be as tight-lipped as drunken Glaswegians on a Friday night.'

Collingridge pondered this possibility for some moments in silence. 'Could it really have been Teddy?' he mused. 'Et tu, Brute! Could that really be, Francis? He was never my greatest supporter - we're from different generations - but I made him one of the team. Now surely not this?'

Urquhart was delighted at the effect his words were having on his battered leader, who sat grey and tired in his chair, staring ahead, lost in surmise and suspicion.

‘Perhaps I have relied on him too much recently. I thought he had no axe to grind, no real ambition in the House of Lords. One of the loyal old guard. Was I wrong, Francis?'

‘I simply don't know. You asked me to speculate. I can do no more at this stage.'

'Make sure, Francis. I want him, whoever he is.'

With that the Prime Minister announced open season, and Urquhart felt himself back on the heather moors of his childhood, gun in hand, waiting for the bucks to appear.

FRIDAY 16th JULY -THURSDAY 22nd JULY

The life of the House of Commons is arduous and little appreciated. Long hours, heavy workloads, too much entertaining and too little respite ensure that the long summer break beckons to all Members like an oasis in a desert. As they approach closer to the oasis during the dog days of July, their thirst and their irritability increase, particularly after the exhaustion of an early summer election campaign.

During the next couple of weeks, Urquhart was prominent in moving steadily around the corridors and bars of the House, trying to bolster morale and calm the doubts of many Government backbenchers about Collingridge's increasingly scratchy performance. Morale is easier to shatter than to rebuild, and some old hands thought that Urquhart was trying perhaps a little too hard, his high profile serving to remind many that the Prime Minister was in especial need of support at a time when he should have been dominating events. But if it were a fault, it was one they recognised as aggressive loyalty in the Chief Whip. In any event, the end of the Session was only a week hence and the grapes of the South of France would soon be washing away much of the parliamentary cares.

It was because of this safety valve of August that Governments have developed the knack of making difficult announcements on the last day of the Session by means of Written Answers published in Hansard, the voluminous official report of parliamentary proceedings. Statements of Government intent can be placed openly and clearly on the public record, but at a time when most Members are packing up their desks rather than poring over the endless pages of Hansard, and when in any event there is little time or opportunity to make a fuss. The truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth - so long as you read the fine print.

Which is why it was most unfortunate that a photocopy of a draft Written Answer from the Secretary of State for Defence informing the House of substantial cuts in the Territorial Army on the grounds that they were increasingly less relevant in the nuclear era should have been found, a full ten days before it was due to be published, lying under a chair in Annie's Bar where Members and journalists congregate to exchange views and gossip. It was still more unfortunate that it was found by the lobby correspondent of the Independent, because everybody liked and respected him, and he knew how to check the story out. When the story was reported as the lead item in the Independent four days later at the start of the final full week of the Parliamentary Session, people knew that it was reliable.

Stories of 'cuts' are nothing new for Governments to deal with. If they maintain spending at existing levels while new and inevitably more expensive techniques for performing the task are discovered, they are accused of 'cuts'. If they increase expenditure in vital areas, but not as much as the self-appointed 'experts' require, they are still accused of 'cuts'. If they shift resources from one area to another, once again the accusations of 'cuts' fly. But should they dare make actual 'cuts' in any area other than their own salary levels, retribution is swift.

Retribution on this occasion came from unusual sources. While Territorial Army pay is not large, their numbers are great and they represent important votes to Government Members of Parliament. Moreover, throughout the higher echelons of the Government's constituency parties up and down the country could be found prominent figures with the initials ‘TD' after their names - Territorial Decoration' - someone who has served in, respects and will defend The Terrors to their last drop of writing ink.

Thus it was that, when the House gathered next to discuss forthcoming Parliamentary Business with the Leader of the House, the air was heavy with the midsummer heat, made more oppressive by the accusations of betrayal and emotional appeals for a change of course which on this occasion were corning from the Government benches, while the Opposition sat back like enthusiastic and very contented Roman lions watching the Christians do all the work for them.

The Right Honourable Sir Jasper Grainger, OBE, JP, TD, was on his feet. The old man proudly sported a carefully ironed regimental tie along with a heavy three piece tweed suit, refusing to compromise his personal standards in spite of the inadequate air-conditioning. And as the elected Chairman" of the Backbench Defence Committee, his words carried enormous weight.

'May I return to the point raised by several of my Honourable Friends about the unnecessary and deeply damaging cuts in our Territorial Army establishment? Will the Leader of the House be in no doubt about the depth of feeling amongst his own supporters on this matter? Have he and the Prime Minister yet fully understood the damage that will be done to the Government's support over the coming months? Will he even now allow the House time to debate and reverse this decision, because I must ask him not to leave his colleagues defenceless to the accusations of bad faith which will follow if this goes through?'

The Leader of the House, Simon Lloyd, straightened and readied himself once again to come to the Despatch Box, which he was beginning to feel should have been constructed with sandbags. It had been a torrid twenty minutes of trying to defend the Government's position, and he had grown increasingly tetchy as he found the response he had prepared earlier with the Prime Minister and Defence Secretary affording increasingly less protection from the grenades being thrown by his own side. He was glad Collingridge and the Defence Secretary were sitting beside him on the Front Bench. Why should he suffer on his own?

'My Right Honourable Friend misses the point. The document which found its way into the newspapers was stolen Government property. These are issues which rise high above the details of the document itself. If there is to be a debate, it should be about such flagrant breaches of honesty. Will he not join me in wholeheartedly condemning the theft of important Government documents as being the major issue at stake here? He must realise that by coming back to the details of expenditure he is as good as condoning the activity of common theft and assisting those who are responsible for it’

Sir Jasper rose to seek permission to pursue the point and, amidst waving of Order Papers throughout the Chamber, the Speaker consented. The old soldier gathered himself up to his full height, back as straight as a ramrod, moustache bristling and face flushed with genuine anger.

‘Does my Right Honourable Friend not realise that it is he who is missing the point’ he thundered, 'that I would rather live alongside a common British thief than a common Russian soldier, which is precisely the fate this policy is threatening us with?'

The uproar which followed took the Speaker a full minute to calm sufficiently for any chance of a response to be heard. During that time, the Leader of the House turned and offered a look of sheer desperation to the Prime Minister and the Defence Secretary, huddled together on the Front Bench. Collingridge muttered briefly in the ear of his colleague, and then gave a curt nod to the Leader of the House.

'Mr Speaker’ the Leader of the House began, and paused to let the clamour subside and to clear his throat, which was by now parched with tension. 'Mr Speaker, I and my Right Honourable Friends have listened carefully to the mood of the House. I have the permission of the Prime Minister and the Secretary of State for Defence to say that, in light of the representations put from all sides today, the Government will look once again at this important matter to see whether any alternative solution can be found.'

He had run up the white flag, and he didn't know whether to feel sick or relieved.

The cries of victory and relief reached far outside the Chamber as the parliamentary correspondents drank in an emotional scene and recorded it in their notebooks. Amidst the hubbub and confusion on all sides, the lonely figure of Henry Collingridge sat small and shrunken, staring straight ahead.

Some minutes later, a breathless Mattie Storin had pushed her way through the crowd of politicians and correspondents who were jostling in the lobby outside the entrance to the Chamber, as Opposition Members claimed victory for themselves while Government supporters with considerably less conviction tried to claim victory for common sense. Few were in any doubt that they had witnessed a Prime Minister on the rack. Above the mel£e Mattie saw the tall figure of Urquhart edging his way around the outside of the crowd, avoiding the questions of several agitated backbenchers. He disappeared through a convenient door, and Mattie pursued him. By the time she had almost caught up with her quarry, Urquhart was striding two at a time up the stairs which led to the upper galleries surrounding the Chamber.

'Mr Urquhart,' she shouted breathlessly after the fleeing Minister, promising herself once again that she would give up late nights and resume jogging. ‘I need your view.'

I'm not sure I have one today, Miss Storin.' Urquhart did not stop.

'Surely we're not back on the "Chief Whip refuses to endorse Prime Minister" game again?' Urquhart stopped and turned to face the still panting Mattie. He smiled in amusement at the young correspondent's cheek. Tea, Mattie, I suppose you have a right to expect something. Well, what do you think?'

If the PM had trouble in controlling his Cabinet before this, his task now is going to be - what, a nightmare? Impossible?'

‘It is not unusual for Prime Ministers to change their minds. But to be forced to change your mind publicly, simply because you are unable to defend your own decision, is...'

Mattie waited in vain for Urquhart to finish, but realised he would not do so. He would not condemn his Prime Minister, not openly on the stairs, but it was clear there would be no justification either. She prompted the Chief Whip yet again. Isn't the Government getting accident prone - the second major leak in a matter of weeks? Where are these leaks coming from?'

'As Chief Whip I am responsible only for discipline on the Government backbenches. You can scarcely expect me to play headmaster to my own Cabinet colleagues as well.'

‘But if it's coming from Cabinet - who, and why?'

‘I simply don't know, Mattie. But doubtless the Prime Minister will instruct me to find out who and why.'

'Formally or informally?'

‘I can't comment on that,' muttered Urquhart, and continued up the stairs pursued by Mattie.

'So we have got to the point where the Prime Minister is about to launch an inquiry into which of his own Cabinet colleagues is leaking sensitive information. Is that what you are saying?'

'Oh, Mattie. It seems I have already said too much. You're a damn sight quicker on the uptake than most of your colleagues. It seems to me that your logic rather than my words has led you to your conclusions, eh? And I trust that you will be keeping my name out of this.'

'Usual lobby terms, Mr Urquhart,' she assured him. 'Just let me get this perfectly clear. You are not denying, indeed you are confirming that the Prime Minister will order an investigation into his Cabinet members' conduct?'

'If you keep my name out of it - yes.'

‘Jesus, this will set them all flapping,' Mattie gasped. She could already see her front page lead taking shape.

'June 10th does seem a long time ago, doesn't it, Mattie?'

Urquhart continued up the stairs which led to the Strangers Gallery, where members of the public perched on rows of cramped, narrow benches to view the proceedings of the House, usually with a considerable degree of discomfort and a still larger degree of astonishment. He caught the eye of a small and impeccably dressed Indian for whom he had previously obtained a seat in the Gallery, and signalled to him. The man struggled past the outstretched knees of other visitors packed into the benches, and emerged with obvious embarrassment past two extremely buxom middle-aged ladies. Before he had any opportunity to speak Urquhart motioned to him for silence and led him towards the small hallway behind the gallery.

'Mr Urquhart, sir, it has been a most exciting and highly educational ninety minutes. I am deeply indebted to you for assisting me to obtain such a comfortable position.'

Urquhart, who knew that even small Indian gentlemen such as Firdaus Jhabwala found the seats acutely uncomfortable, smiled knowingly. ‘I know you are being very polite in not complaining about the discomfort of the seating. I only wish I could have found you some more comfortable position.'

They chatted politely while Jhabwala secured the release of his black hide attaché case from the attendant. When he had arrived he had firmly refused to hand it over until he discovered that his entry to the Gallery would be forbidden unless he lodged it with the security desk.

‘I am so glad that we British can still trust ordinary working chaps with our possessions,' he stated very seriously, patting the case for comfort.

'Quite’ replied Urquhart, who trusted neither the ordinary working chap nor Jhabwala. Still, he was a constituent who seemed to have various flourishing local businesses, and had provided a £500 donation towards his election campaign expenses and had asked for nothing, in return except, shortly afterwards, a personal interview and private meeting in the House of Commons.

'Not in the constituency,' he had explained to Urquhart's secretary on the phone. It's a matter of national rather than local attention.'

Urquhart led the way under the great vaulted oak ceiling of Westminster Hall, at which point Jhabwala asked to stand for a while. ‘I would be grateful for a silent moment in this great hall in which Charles I was tried and condemned and Winston Churchill lay in state.'

He noticed the condescending smile appearing at the corner of Urquhart's mouth.

'Mr Urquhart. Please do not think me pretentious. My own family associations with British institutions go back nearly 250 years to the days of the Honourable East India Company and Lord Clive, whom my ancestors advised and to whom they loaned considerable funds. Both before and since my family has occupied prestigious positions in the judicial and administrative branches of Indian Government.'

Jhabwala's eyes lowered, and a strong sense of sadness filled his voice. 'But since Independence, Mr Urquhart, that once great subcontinent has slowly crumbled into a new dark age. Muslim has been set against Hindu, worker against employer, pupil against teacher. You may not agree, but the modem Gandhi dynasty is less inspired and far more corrupt than any my family ever served in colonial days. I am a Parsee, a cultural minority which has found little comfort under the new Raj, and the fortunes of my family have declined. So I moved to Great Britain, where my father and grandfather were educated. I can tell you without a trace of insincerity, Mr Urquhart, that I feel more at home and more attached to this country and its culture than ever I could back in modem India. I wake up grateful every day that I can call myself a British citizen and educate my children in British universities’

Urquhart saw his opportunity to interrupt this impassioned and obviously heartfelt monologue. 'Where are your children educated?'

‘I have a son just finishing a law degree at Jesus College, Cambridge, and an elder son who is undertaking an MBA at the Wharton Business School in Philadelphia. It is my earnest hope that my younger son will soon qualify to read medicine at Cambridge’

They were now walking towards the interview rooms beneath the Great Hall, their shoes clipping across the worn flagstoned floor where Henry VHI had played tennis and which now was splattered with shafts of bright sunlight slanting through the ancient windows. It was a scene centuries old, and the Indian was clearly in great awe.

'And what precisely do you do?' asked Urquhart.

‘I, sir, am a trader, not an educated man. I left behind any hope of that during the great turmoil of Indian Independence. I have therefore had to find my way not with my brain but by diligence and hard work. I am happy to say that I have been moderately successful’

'What sort of trade?'

‘I have several business interests, Mr Urquhart. Property. Wholesaling. A little local finance. But I am no narrow minded capitalist. I am well aware of my duty to the community. It is about that I wished to speak with you.'

By now they had arrived at the interview room and at Urquhart's invitation Jhabwala seated himself in one of the green leather chairs, fingering with delight the gold embossed portcullis which embellished the upright back of this and all the other chairs in the room.

'Mr Urquhart. I was not born in this country, and I know that of necessity I must work particularly hard to gain respectability in the community. That is important, not so much for me but for my children. I wish them to have the advantages which my father could not secure for me at a time of civil war. So I try to participate. I assist the local Rotary Club. I help with many local charities. And as you know, I am an ardent supporter of the Prime Minister’ {

‘I am afraid that you did not see him to best advantage this afternoon’

Then I suspect he needs his friends and supporters more than ever’

There was a short silence. Urquhart struggled to find the meaning and direction behind his guest's remarks, but it eluded him, although meaning and direction he knew there must be. Jhabwala began again, a little more slowly.

'Mr Urquhart. You know that I have great admiration for you. I was happy to assist in a modest way with your election appeal and would be happy to do so again. I am also a fervent admirer of the entire Government. I would wish to help you all’

'May I know how?'

‘I know election campaigns are expensive, and perhaps I could make a small donation to Party coffers. I imagine that funds must be short at times like these.'

Indeed, indeed,' said Urquhart. 'Could I ask how much you were thinking of giving?'

Jhabwala lifted his case onto the table top, twirled the combination and flipped the two brass catches. The lid sprang open and he slid the black leather case around to Urquhart.

'I would be delighted if the Party could accept £50,000 as a gesture of my support.'

Urquhart resisted the ferocious temptation to pick up one of the bundles of notes and start counting. He noticed that all the wads were of used £20 notes and were tied with rubber bands rather than bank cashiers' wrappers.

'This is ... most generous, Mr Jhabwala.' He found himself using his guest's name for the first time since they had met earlier in the afternoon. 'But it is a little unusual for me to accept such a large donation on behalf of the Party, particularly in cash.'

‘You will understand that during the civil war in India my family lost everything. Our house and business were destroyed, and we narrowly escaped with our lives. In 1947 a Muslim mob burned my local bank to the ground - with all its deposits and records. The bank's head office apologised, of course, but without any records could only provide my father with their regrets rather than the funds he had deposited with them. It may seem a little old fashioned of me, but I still prefer to trust cash rather than cashiers’

The businessman's smile shone reassuringly from beneath his dark features. Urquhart did not trust him or his story.

‘I see.' Urquhart took a deep breath. 'May I be blunt, Mr Jhabwala, and ask if there is anything you wish from us in exchange for your support? It is sometimes the case with first-time donors that they believe there is something the Party can do for them, when in reality our powers are very limited...'

Jhabwala beamed and shook his head to halt Urquhart's question. There is nothing I wish to do other than to be a firm supporter of the Prime Minister and yourself, Mr Urquhart. You will understand as a local MP that my business interests often bring me into friendly contact with local authorities for planning permission or tendering for contracts and so forth. I cannot guarantee that you will never find my name in the local press or that I will not ask at some point to seek your guidance through the maze of local decision makers, but I assure you I am looking for no favours. I want nothing in exchange, other than to request that I and my wife have the honour of meeting with the Prime Minister at some suitable time, particularly if he should ever come to the constituency. It would mean a great deal to my wife, as you will appreciate.'

And the photographs of Jhabwala closeted with the Prime Minister would go down remarkably well in the local and ethnic press, as Urquhart well knew. He didn't care for the hint about local planning or contract decisions, but he was an experienced hand at dealing with such requests when they arose. Urquhart began to relax and to return the Indian's smile.

‘I am sure that could be arranged. Perhaps you and your wife would like to attend a reception at Downing Street?'

The Indian was nodding. It would be an honour, of course, to be able to have just a few private words with him, simply to express my great personal enthusiasm.'

"That might be possible, too, but you will understand that the Prime Minister himself could not accept the money. It would not be-how should I put it? - delicate for him to be involved with such matters.'

'Of course, of course, Mr Urquhart. Which is why I would be delighted if you would accept the money on his behalf.'

I'm afraid I can only give you a rudimentary receipt. Perhaps you would prefer to deliver the money directly to the party treasurers.'

Jhabwala threw up his hands in horror. 'Sir, I do not require a receipt from you. You have my fullest trust. It was you as my local Member of Parliament I wished to see, not a party official. I have even taken the liberty of engraving your initials on the hide case, Mr Urquhart, a small gesture which I hope you will accept for all your dutiful work in Surrey.'

You crafty, ingratiating little sod, thought Urquhart, all the while smiling broadly at Jhabwala and wondering how long it would be before he got the first call about planning permission. Perhaps he should have thrown the Indian out, but an idea was already forming in his mind. He reached across the table and shook Jhabwala's hand warmly.

It has been a great pleasure meeting you at last, Mr Jhabwala.'

The night was hot and humid, even for late July. Mat tie had taken a long, cool shower and thrown the windows wide open, but she could get no relief from the still and heavy air. She lay in the darkness upon her bed, feeling her hair stick clammily to the nape of her neck. She could not sleep while the scenes of parliamentary turmoil she had witnessed earlier in the day kept tumbling through her thoughts. But there was something else, too, something not of the mind but in her body that was disturbing her, making her restless.

She lay back on her lonely, cold bed and felt the dampness trickling between her shoulder blades. She could not forget that it was the first time since Yorkshire she had sweated in bed, for any reason...

FRIDAY 23rd JULY

The following morning a young black woman walked into a scruffy newsagents just off Praed Street in Paddington and enquired after the cost of accommodation address facilities advertised on the card in the shop window. She explained that she was working in the area and needed a local address to which she could direct her mail. It was a brilliant summer's day in London, but behind the thick shutters and dirty windows the shop was dark and musty. At first the fleshy, balding assistant behind the counter scarcely lifted his eyes from his copy of Playboy. This was one of London's notorious red light areas, and young women or seedy men asking to open an accommodation address was one of the less surprising requests he had to deal with. This girl was particularly attractive, though, and he wondered where she did business. His wife was staying with her mother over the weekend, and a little distraction would be better than the long list of household jobs she was threatening to leave behind.

He brushed away the cigarette ash he had spilled over the counter and smiled encouragingly at her. He got no response, however. With scarcely another word, the young woman paid the fee for the minimum three months, carefully put away the receipt which would be needed for identification, and left.

The assistant had time only for one last look at the retreating and beautifully curved backside before he was engaged by the complaints of an old age pensioner who had not yet received her morning newspaper, and he did not see the young woman get into the taxi outside.

'All right, Pen?' asked the man waiting inside.

‘No problem, Roger’ his secretary answered. 'But why couldn't he do it himself?'

'Look, I told you that he has some delicate personal problems to sort out and needs some privacy for his mail. Dirty magazines for all I know. So no questions, and not a word to anyone. OK?'

Urquhart had sworn him to secrecy, and he suspected that the Chief Whip would be furious if he discovered that O'Neill had got Penny Guy to carry out his dirty work. But he knew he could trust Penny with such chores. After all, what were secretaries for?

As the taxi drew away, Penny once again remarked to herself how strangely O'Neill was beginning to act nowadays.

The day was growing ever hotter by the time the man in the sports jacket and trilby hat ventured into the North London branch of the Union Bank of Turkey on the Seven Sisters Road. The Cypriot counter clerk often swore that Englishmen only ever had one set of clothes which they wore throughout the winter or summer, irrespective of the temperature. And this one obviously had money since he wanted to open an account. In a slight but perceptible regional accent which the clerk could not quite place, he explained that he lived in Kenya but was visiting the United Kingdom for a few months to develop the holiday business which he ran. He was interested in investing in a hotel which was being built just outside the Turkish resort of Antalya, on the southern Mediterranean coast.

The clerk responded that he did not know Antalya personally, but had heard that it was a beautiful spot, and of course the bank would be delighted to help him in whatever way possible. He offered the prospective customer a simple registration form, requiring details of his name, address, previous banking reference and other details.

Five minutes later, the customer had returned to the clerk's window with the completed form. He apologised f6r being able to provide a banking reference only from Kenya, but this was his first trip to London in nearly twenty years. The clerk assured the older man that the bank was very accustomed to dealing with overseas enquiries, and the banking reference in Kenya would be no problem.

That's what you think, the other thought. He knew it would take at least four weeks for the reference to be checked, and probably another four before it could be clearly established that the reference was false. By that time the account would have been closed with all bank charges paid, so no one would care or question.

The clerk sought no further verification of any of the other items on the form. 'How would you like to open your account, sir?'

‘I would like to make an initial deposit of £50,000 - in cash’

The man pulled open a brown corduroy holdall and passed the bundles of notes across the counter. He was glad he did not have to count them. It had been years since he had last worn these glasses, and in the meantime he had changed his contact lens prescription twice. His eyes were not focusing properly and they ached, but Urquhart knew that his simple disguise would be more than enough to avoid recognition by any but his closest colleagues. There was after all some benefit in being the most faceless senior member of Her Majesty's Government, he told himself sarcastically. He delighted at long last in being able to take advantage of his enforced anonymity.

The clerk had finished counting the money, with a colleague double checking the total, and was already filling out a receipt. Banks are like plumbers, Urquhart thought, cash in hand and no questions asked.

'Rather than have the cash just sitting idle in a current account, I would like you to purchase some shares for me. Can you arrange that?' he requested.

It took only another five minutes for Urquhart to fill out two further forms placing an order for 20,000 ordinary shares in the Renox Chemical Company PLC, currently trading at just over 240p per share. He was assured that the order would be completed by 4 p.m. that afternoon, at a cost of £49,288 including stamp duties and brokers' fees, leaving him exactly £712 in his new account Urquhart signed the forms with a flourish and a signature that was illegible.

The clerk smiled as he pushed the receipt across the counter. 'A great pleasure doing business with you, Mr Collingridge’

MONDAY 26th JULY -WEDNESDAY 28th JULY

Seventy-two hours later MPs gathered in the House to begin the final week of bickering before the summer recess. There were relatively few Members present, as many of their colleagues had tried to take their leave of London early. There had been little attempt to dissuade them, since there was already enough tetchiness around Westminster without piling on needless aggravation. There was very much an end-of-term mood amongst the parliamentarians and little business was done. However, the Hansard record of parliamentary proceedings for that day would be thick, fleshed out with a remarkable number of Written Answers to MPs' questions which the Government were anxious to deal with while attention was diverted elsewhere and before Ministers and their civil servants left for their own recuperation. Ministers from the Department of Health were particularly careful not to be seen around the corridors of Westminster that day, because one of the many Written Answers they had issued concerned the long-awaited postponement of the hospital expansion programme. They did not expect to get much comfort from MPs of any party on that subject.

It was not surprising, therefore, that few noted another announcement from the Department concerning a list of three drugs which the Government, on the advice of their Chief Medical Officer and the Committee on the Safety of Medicines, were now licensing for general use. One of the drugs was Cybernox, a new medication developed by the Renox Chemical Company PLC which had proved startlingly effective in controlling the craving for nicotine when fed in small doses to addicted rats and beagles. The same excellent results had been obtained during extensive test programmes with humans, and now the drug had been approved for general use under doctor's prescription.

The announcement caused a flurry of activity at Renox Chemicals. A press conference for the medical and scientific press was called for the following day, the Marketing Director pressed the button on a pre-planned mail shot to every single general practitioner throughout the country, and the company's broker informed the Stock Exchange of the new licence.

The response was immediate. Shares in the Renox Chemical Company PLC jumped from 244p to 295p. The 20,000 ordinary shares purchased two days before by the Union Bank of Turkey's brokers were now worth exactly £59,000.

Shortly before noon the next day, a telephone call instructed the bank to sell the shares and credit the amount to the appropriate account. The caller also explained that regrettably the hotel venture in Antalya was not proceeding, and the account holder was returning to Kenya. Would the bank be kind enough to close the account, and expect a visit from the account holder later that afternoon?

Just before the bank closed at 3 p.m. the same bespectacled man in the hat and sports jacket walked into the branch on Seven Sisters Road and collected £58,962 which he placed in bundles of £20 notes in the bottom of his brown corduroy bag. He bridled at the £750 in charges which the bank had levied on his short-lived and simple account but, as the deputy manager had suspected, he chose not to make a fuss. He asked for a closing statement to be sent to him at his address in Paddington, and thanked the clerk for his courtesy.

The following morning and less than one week after Firdaus Jhabwala had met with Urquhart, the Chief Whip delivered £50,000 in cash to the party treasurers. Substantial payments in cash were not unique, and the treasurers expressed delight at discovering a new source of funds. Urquhart suggested that the treasurers office make the usual arrangements to ensure that the donor and his wife were invited to a charity reception or two at Downing Street, and asked to lie informed when this happened so that he could make a specific arrangement with the Prime Minister's political secretary to ensure that Mr and Mrs Jhabwala had ten minutes alone with the Prime Minister beforehand. One of the party treasurers made a careful note of the donor's address, said that he would write an immediate cryptic letter of thanks, and locked the money in a safe.

Probably uniquely amongst Cabinet Ministers, Urquhart left for holiday that night feeling utterly relaxed.