House of Cards

AUGUST

The newspapers during August were dreadful. With politicians and the main political correspondents all away, second string lobby correspondents struggled to fill the vacuum and develop any story they could which would get their by-line on the front page. So they clutched at whispers and rumour. What was on Tuesday only a minor piece of speculation on page five of the Guardian had become by Friday a hard news story on the front page of the Daily Mail. This was the chance for the junior correspondents to make their mark, and the mark they chose to make was all too frequently on the reputation of Henry Collingridge. Minor backbenchers who were too self-promoting even to take a break during the holiday season were honoured with significant pieces quoting 'senior party spokesmen', putting forward their views as to where the Government was going wrong and how a new sense of direction had to be imposed. Rumours about the Prime Minister's dissatisfaction with and distrust of his Cabinet colleagues abounded, and since there was no one around authoritatively to deny the rumours, the silence was taken as authoritative consent. So the speculation fed on itself and ran riot. The early August rumours about an 'official inquisition' into Cabinet leaks had, by later in the month, grown into predictions that there would after all be a reshuffle in the autumn. The word around Westminster had it that Henry Collingridge's temper was getting increasingly erratic, even though he was in fact enjoying a secluded holiday on a private estate many hundreds of miles away near Cannes.

The Prime Minister's brother also became the subject of a spate of press stories, mostly in the gossip columns, and the Downing Street press office was repeatedly called upon to comment on suggestions that the Prime Minister was bailing out 'dear old Charlie' from the increasingly close attentions of his creditors, including the Inland Revenue. But Downing Street would not comment - it was personal, not official - so the formal 'no comment' which was given to the most fanciful of accusations was recorded in the news coverage, usually in the most damaging light.

As August drew on, with only the lightest of nudges down the telephone from Urquhart, the press tied the Prime Minister ever more closely to his impecunious brother. Not that Charlie was saying anything stupid. He had the common sense to keep well out of the way, but an anonymous telephone call to one of the sensationalist Sunday newspapers enabled them to track him down to a cheap hotel in rural Bordeaux. A reporter was despatched to pour enough wine down him to encourage a few vintage 'Charlie-isms', but instead succeeded only in making Charlie violently sick over the reporter and his notebook, before passing out. The reporter promptly paid £50 to a big-busted girl with a low-cut dress to lean over the slumbering form, while a photographer captured the tender moment for posterity and the newspaper's 11 million readers.

"I'm broke and busted" says Charlie' screamed the headline, while the copy reported for the umpteenth time the fact that the Prime Minister's brother was nearly destitute and cracking under the pressure of a failed marriage and a famous brother. Downing Street's 'absolutely no comment' seemed in the circumstances even more uncaring than usual.

The next weekend the same photograph was run alongside one of the Prime Minister holidaying in considerable comfort in the South of France - to English eyes a mere stone's throw from his ailing brother - and seemingly unwilling to leave his poolside to help. The fact that the same newspaper a week earlier had been reporting how deeply Henry was involved in sorting out Charlie's financial affairs seemed to have been forgotten - until the Downing Street press office called the editor to complain.

'What do you want?' came the reply. ‘We give both sides of the story. We backed him warts and all throughout the election campaign. Now it's time to restore the balance a bit.'

Yes, the newspapers during August were dreadful.

SEPTEMBER - OCTOBER

September was even worse. As the new month opened, the Leader of the Opposition announced that he was resigning to make way for 'a stronger arm with which to hold our banner aloft'. He had always been a little too verbose for his own good.

Like most political leaders he was pushed by the younger men around him who had more energy and more ambition, who made their move quietly and secretly almost without his knowing until it was too late and he had announced his intention to resign in an emotional late night interview. For a moment he seemed to have changed his mind under pressure from his still intensely ambitious wife, until he discovered that he could no longer rely on a single vote in his Shadow Cabinet. Yet they were warm in their praise of their fallen leader. As so often happens, the faithful were far more effusively united by his death than by anything he had achieved in office.

The news electrified the media, and Mattie was summoned back from her beach in Zakynthos, much to her silent relief. Eight days of lying in the sun watching couples grow increasingly tender and uninhibited in the Ionian sun had made her feel utterly miserable. She was lonely, very lonely, and the loving couples around her only served to rub the point home. When the telephone call came instructing her to return to cover the breaking story, she packed her bags without complaint and found a seat on the next flight home.

She returned to discover an Opposition Party which had been galvanised. Their seemingly endless internal divisions were now being played down as they stepped up the attack on a lacklustre Government, most of whose members were still away on holiday. The real prospect of power at the next election, even one which was still perhaps four years away, was helping to focus Opposition minds and encourage fraternal thoughts. Better as one of twenty senior Cabinet Ministers in Government than the sole Party Leader in endless Opposition, one explained.

So by the time the new leader was elected just a week before the Party's annual conference in early October, the Opposition had dominated the news for several weeks and the conference turned into a united salute to the new leader. Under an enormous slogan of 'Victory', the conference was unrecognisable as the assembly of a party which had lost the election only a few months before.

By contrast, just a week later the representatives gathered for the Government Party's conference in a spirit of trepidation and complaint The conference centre at Bournemouth could be uplifting if filled with 4,000 enthusiastic supporters, but now its bare brick walls and chromium-plated fitments served only to emphasise the sullenness of those who gathered.

As Publicity Director, it was Roger O'Neill's task to present and package the conference, but as the task of raising spirits became increasingly daunting, so he could be seen talking more and more feverishly to journalists -apologising, justifying, explaining, and blaming. And particularly he blamed Lord Williams. The Chairman had cut the budget, he explained, delayed making decisions, not got a grip on things. There were rumours circulating within party headquarters that he deliberately wanted the conference to be low key because he thought the Prime Minister was likely to get a rough ride from the faithful. Party doubts about Collingridge leadership' was the first Guardian report to come out of Bournemouth.

In the conference hall, the debates proceeded according to the rigid pre-set schedule. An enormous sign hung above the platform - 'Finding The Right Way'. The speeches struggled to obey its command beneath glaring television lights and an annoying buzz from the hall which the stewards were quite incapable of quelling. On the fringes of the hall the representatives, journalists and politicians gathered in little huddles to exchange views, a regular part of any political garnering, and a fertile breeding ground for idle gossip.

The 'buzz' around the conference was one of discontent. Everywhere they listened, the men from the media were able to hear criticism. Former MPs who had recently lost their seats were critical, but asked not to be quoted for fear of endangering their chances of being selected for safer seats at the next election. Their constituency chairmen showed no such reticence. They had not only lost their MP, but also faced several years of the Opposition Party ruling their local councils, nominating the mayor and committee chairmen, and disposing of the fruits of local office.

There was also growing concern that the parliamentary by-election, due on Thursday, would give a poor result. The Member for Dorset East, Sir Anthony Jenkins, had suffered a stroke four days before the general election. Elected while in intensive care, he had died only three weeks later.

His seat, just a few miles from Bournemouth, was a safe one with a majority of nearly 20,000, so the Prime Minister had decided tohold the by-election during conference week. He had been advised strongly against it, but he argued that on balance it was worth the risk. The conference publicity would provide good campaigning material for the by-election, there would still be a strong sympathy vote for the fallen MP, conference representatives could take a few hours off to undertake some much-needed canvassing, and the Prime Minister would be able to welcome the victorious candidate during his own conference speech—a good publicity stunt.

Now the busloads of conference-goers returning from a morning's canvassing were reporting a lack of sympathy on the doorstep. The seat would be held, of course, it had been in the Party since the War, but the thumping victory which Collingridge had demanded was beginning to look more distant with every day's canvass returns.

It was going to be a difficult week, not quite the victory celebration the party managers had planned.

WEDNESDAY 13th OCTOBER

A cold wet wind was blowing off the sea when Mattie Storin was woken by a pounding headache early on Wednesday morning. As the representative of a major national newspaper she was one of the fortunate few journalists offered accommodation in the headquarters hotel where she could mix freely with the key politicians and party officials. She had mixed a little too freely the previous evening, and she began her regular morning calisthenics with heavy limbs and a distinct lack of enthusiasm. Her whole body shouted at her that this was a rotten way to cure a hangover, so she quickly changed her mind and opted for an open window- a move which she immediately recognised as the second bad decision of the day. The small hotel was perched high on the cliff tops, ideal for catching the summer sun but exposed and unprotected on such grey and swirling autumn mornings. Her overheated hotel room turned into an icebox in seconds, and Mattie decided that she would make no more decisions until after a gentle breakfast.

She heard the scuffling of something being delivered outside in the corridor and pulled the blanket protectively around her shoulders, stumping her way across to the door. Work, in the form of the morning newspapers, was piled outside on the hallway carpet. She picked them up and threw them carelessly towards the bed. As they spread chaotically over the rumpled bedclothes, a sheet of paper fluttered from between the pages and fell to the floor. With a tired grunt she bent down to retrieve it, and through the morning mist which seemed completely to have enveloped her head read the words:

'Opinion Research Survey

No. 40, 6 October - secret',

emblazoned across the top.

She rubbed her eyes to open them properly. They've surely not started giving them away with the Mirror, she thought. Mattie knew the Party conducted weekly surveys to track the nationwide movement of public opinion on political issues, but these had a highly restricted distribution to Cabinet Ministers and only a handful of top Party officials. She had been shown copies rarely and only when they had good news to convey which the Party wished to publicise; otherwise they were kept under strictest security. She wondered what good news could possibly have been found in the latest survey, and why it had been delivered wrapped up like fried fish and chips.

The contents of the note made her rub her eyes once more. The Party, which had won the election with 41 per cent of the vote, now had only 31 per cent support, 14 per cent behind the main Opposition Party. Even more damaging were the figures on the Prime Minister's popularity. Less than one in four now preferred him while the new Leader of the Opposition stood at well over 50 per cent. It made Collingridge more disliked than any Prime Minister she could remember.

Mattie squatted on her bed. She no longer needed to ask why she had been sent the information. It was dynamite, and she felt the paper almost burning in her hand. 'Government crashes in opinion polls', it seemed to say as she composed her own introduction. And someone wanted her to throw this explosive news right into the middle of the party conference. It was a deliberate act of sabotage which would be an excellent story-her story, as long as she got it in first.

She grabbed for the telephone. 'Hello, Mrs Preston? It's Mattie Storin. Is Grev there, please?'

There was a short pause before her editor came on the phone, and his husky tones announced that he had just been woken up.

'Who's died?' 'What?'

'Who's bloody died? Why else would you call me at such a bloody stupid time?'

'Oh, nobody. I mean... I'm sorry. I forgot what time it was.'

'Shit.'

'Sorry, Grev.'

'Well, something must have happened, for pity's sake.'

'Yes, it came with my morning newspapers.' 'Well, that's a relief. We're now only a day behind the rest.'

'No, Grev. Listen will you? I've got hold of the Party's latest polling figures. They're sensational!'

‘How did you get them?'

They were left outside my door.'

'Gift wrapped, were they?' The editor was clearly having great difficulty controlling his sarcasm.

'But they're really sensational, Grev.'

'And who left them outside the door, Santa Claus?'

‘Er, I don't know.' For the first time a hint of doubt crept into the young journalist's voice. She was waking up very rapidly now.

'Well, I don't suppose Henry Collingridge left them there. So who do you think wanted to leak them to you?'

Mattie's silence could not hide her confusion.

'Were you out on the town with any of your colleagues last night?'

'Grev, what the hell's that got to do with it?'

'Have you never heard of being set up by your so-called friends?' The editor sounded almost despairing.

'But how do you know?'

‘I don't bloody know. But the point is, Wonder Girl, neither do bloody you!' There was another embarrassed silence from Mattie before she decided to have a last, despairing attempt to restore her confidence and persuade her editor. ‘Don't you even want to know what they say?'

'No. Not if you don't know where they come from or can't be certain they are not a stupid hoax. And remember, the more sensational they look, the more certain it is that you're being set up.'

The crash of the telephone being slammed down exploded in her ear. It would have hurt even had she not been hung over. What a mug. As her headline dissolved back into the grey morning mists of her mind, her headache returned, more insistent and painful than ever. She needed a cup of black coffee badly.

Twenty minutes later Mattie eased gently down the broad stairs of the hotel and slipped into the breakfast room. It was still early and there was only a handful of early morning enthusiasts yet about. She sat down at a table on her own and prayed she would not be disturbed. She hid herself in a copy of the Express and hoped people would conclude that she was working rather than fixing a hangover.

The first cup of coffee made no impact, but the second helped a little. Slowly her headache began to loosen its grip and she began to take some interest in the rest of the world. Perhaps she could even stand an early morning

gossip.

She looked around the intimate Victorian room and noted another political correspondent who was deeply engrossed in conversation with a Minister, and would not want to be disturbed. Two other people she thought she recognised but could not be sure. The young man on the next table she did not know and Mattie had just decided to finish a solo breakfast when she noticed the pile of papers and folders on the chair next to her neighbour. The papers and the rather academic scruffiness with which he was dressed suggested that the breakfaster was one of the many party officials Mattie had not yet got to know. The name scribbled on top of the folder was K. J. Spence.

The journalist's professional instincts had by now begun gradually to reassert themselves under the steady bombardment of caffeine, and she reached inside her ever-present shoulder bag for a copy of the internal party telephone list that at some point she had begged or stolen - she couldn't remember which.

'Spence. Kevin. Extension 371. Opinion Research.'

Mattie checked again the name on top of the folder, feeling that mistakes on opinion research had caused her enough trouble already that morning, but there was no confusion. Her editor's sarcasm had already demolished her faith in the leaked poll's statistics but she thought there would be no harm in trying to find out what the real figures were. She caught his eye.

'Kevin Spence, isn't it? From party headquarters? I'm Mattie Storm of the Telegraph. I haven't been on the paper long, but one of my jobs is to get to know all the party officials. Can I join you for a cup of coffee?'

Kevin Spence, aged thirty-two but looking older, unmarried and a life-long headquarters bureaucrat with a salary of £10,200 (no perks), nodded obligingly, and they were soon in conversation. Spence was rather shy and deeply flattered to be recognised by someone from a newspaper, and he was soon explaining with enthusiasm and in detail the regular reports he had given during the election on the state of public opinion to the Prime Minister and the Party's War Committee. Yes, he admitted, they did take opinion polls seriously in spite of what they always said on television. He ventured the thought that some even took opinion polls too seriously.

'What do you mean, too seriously? That's your job, isn't it?'

Somewhat donnishly Spence explained the foibles of opinion polling, the margin of error you should always remember, the rogue polls which in spite of all the pollsters' efforts still sneaked through and simply got it wrong. like the one I've just seen’ Mattie remarked with a twinge, still tender from her earlier embarrassment,

'What do you mean?' Spence enquired sharply.

Mattie looked at him and saw that the affable official had now developed a flush which even as she looked was spreading from the collar up to the eyes. The eyes themselves had lost their eagerness. Spence was not a trained politician and was not adept at hiding his feelings, and the confusion was flowing through. Why was he so flustered? Mattie mentally kicked herself. Surely the damned figures couldn't be right after all? The dynamic young reporter of the year had already jumped several somersaults that morning, and feeling rather sour with herself decided that one more leap could scarcely dent her professional pride any further.

‘I understand, Kevin, that your latest figures are quite disappointing. In fact, somebody mentioned a figure of 31 per cent.'

Spence, whose cheeks had been getting even redder as Mattie spoke, reached for his tea to give himself time to think, but his hand was trembling.

'And the PM personally is down to 24 per cent’ she ventured. ‘I can't remember any Prime Minister being as unpopular as that.'

At this point the tea began to spill from the cup, and Spence returned it quickly to the saucer.

‘I don't know what you're talking about’ he muttered, addressing the napkin which he was using to mop up the tea.

'Aren't these your latest figures?' Mattie reached once more inside her bag and pulled out the mysterious sheet of paper which she proceeded to smooth on the table cloth. As she did so, she noticed for the first time .the initials KJS typed along the bottom.

Spence reached out and tried to push the paper away from him, seemingly afraid to get too near to it 'Where on earth did you get that?' He looked around desperately to see whether anyone had noticed the exchange.

Mattie picked up the piece of paper and began reading it out loud.' "Opinion Research Survey Number 40" - this is yours, isn't it?'

Yes, but... Please, Miss Storin!'

He was not used to dissembling. Spence was clearly deeply upset, and seeing no way of escape decided to throw himself on the mercy of his breakfast companion. In a hushed voice, and still looking nervously around the room, he pleaded with her.

I'm not supposed to talk to you about any opinion research. It's strictly confidential.'

‘But Kevin, it's only one piece of paper.'

You don't know what it's like. If these figures get out, and I'm the one thought to have given them to you, I'd be out on my ear. Everyone's looking for scapegoats. There are so many rumours flooding around. The PM doesn't trust the Chairman. The Chairman doesn't trust us. Everybody says that heads are going to roll. I like my job, Miss Storin. I can't afford to be blamed for leaking confidential figures to you.'

‘I didn't realise morale was so bad.'

Spence looked utterly miserable. I've never known it worse. Everyone was exhausted after the election, and there was a lot of bad feeling flying around because the result wasn't as good as we expected. Then all those leaks and reports that the Cabinet were at each other's throats, so instead of a long break during the summer Lord Williams kept us all hard at it. Frankly, all most of us are trying to do is to keep our heads down so that when it hits the fan we get as little of it as possible.'

He looked at Mattie eye-to-eye for the first time. 'Please don't drag me into this.'

'Kevin, you did not leak this report to me and I shall confirm that to anyone who wants to know. But if I'm to help you I shall need a little help myself. This is your latest polling report, right?'

She slipped the paper back across the table. Spence took another anguished look at it and nodded in confirmation.

They are prepared, by you and circulated on a tightly restricted basis?’ Another nod.

'All I need to know from you, Kevin, is who gets them. That can't be a state secret, can it?'

There was no more fight left in Spence. He seemed to hold his breath for a long time before replying.

'Numbered copies are circulated in double-sealed envelopes solely to Cabinet Ministers and five senior headquarters personnel: the Deputy Chairman and four senior directors.'

He tried to moisten his mouth with another drink of tea, but discovered he had already spilt most of it. How on earth did you get hold of it?'

‘Let's just say someone got a little careless, shall we?'

'Not my office?' he gasped, his insecurity flooding out.

'No, Kevin. You've just given me the names of over two dozen people who receive the figures, and with their secretaries it would bring the possible number of sources to well over fifty.' She gave him one of her most reassuring, warm smiles. Don't worry, I won't involve you. But let's keep in touch.'

Mattie left the breakfast room. She should have been feeling elated about the front page story she was now able to write but she was wondering too hard how the devil she was ever going to identify the turncoat.

Room 561 in the hotel could not be described as five star. It was one of the smallest rooms, far away from the main entrance and at the end of the top floor corridor under the eaves. The party hierarchy did not stay here, it was definitely a room for the workers.

Penny Guy hadn't heard the steps outside in the corridor before the door burst open. She sat bolt upright in bed, startled and exposing two perfectly formed breasts.

'Shit, Roger, don't you ever bloody knock?' She threw a pillow at the intruder. 'And what the hell are you doing up so early? You don't normally surface until lunchtime.'

She did not bother to cover herself as O'Neill sat down at the end of the bed. There was an ease between them suggesting an absence of any sexual threat which would have startled most people. O'Neill constantly flirted with her, particularly in public, but on the two occasions when Penny had offered, O'Neill had been very affectionate and warm but had complained of being too exhausted. She guessed he had a deep streak of sexual insecurity running through him, which he hid beneath flattery and innuendo. Penny had heard from other women who had spent time with O'Neill that he was frequently too exhausted - attentive, Very forward, suggestive, but rarely able to commit himself fully. She was very fond of him, and longed to ease the insecurities out of him with her long, electric fingers, but she knew he would not drop his guard long enough to let her weave her magic. She had worked for O'Neill for nearly three years and had seen him slowly change as he found the pressures of political and public life increasingly infatuating, yet steadily more difficult to cope with.

To those who did not know him well he was extrovert, amusing, full of charm, ideas and energy. But Penny had watched him become increasingly erratic. He rarely came into the office nowadays before noon,’ he had started making many private phone calls, getting agitated, disappearing suddenly. His constant hay fever and sneezing were unpleasant, but Penny was devoted to him. She did not understand many of the odd ways he had developed -particularly why he would not sleep with her. She had that strange blindness for him which comes with daily familiarity and strong affections. But she knew he depended on her. If he didn't need her in bed, he needed her practically every other moment of his day. It wasn't the same as love, but her warm heart responded anyway. She would do

almost anything for him.

‘You got up this early just to come and woo me, didn't you? You can't resist me after all,' she teased.

'Shut up, you little tart, and cover up those gorgeous tits. That's not fair.'

Smiling wickedly, she lifted her breasts up towards him, goading him. 'Can't resist them after all. Well, who am I to refuse an order from the boss?'

Playfully she threw the bedclothes off her naked body and moved over on the mattress to make room for him. O'Neill's eyes couldn't help but follow the line of her long legs, and for the first time since Penny had known him he began to blush. She giggled as she noticed him staring hypnotically at her body, and he made a grab for the bedclothes to try and cover her up but instead succeeded only in losing his balance and getting tangled up in her long brown arms. As he lifted his head off the mattress, he found a rigid dark nipple staring at him from less than three inches away, and he had to use all of his strength to tear himself free. He retreated to the other side of the small room, visibly shaking.

‘Pen, please! You know I'm not at my best this early in the morning.'

'OK, Roger. Don't worry. I'm not going to rape you.' She was laughing playfully as she pulled the sheets loosely around her. ‘But what are you doing up so early?'

I've just left this incredibly beautiful Brazilian gymnast who has spent all night teaching me a whole series of new exercises. We didn't have any gymnastic rings, so we used the chandelier. OK?'

She shook her head firmly.

'How could one so young and beautiful be so cynical?' he protested. 'All right. I had to make a delivery in the vicinity and I thought I'd come and say good morning.'

He didn't bother to add that Mattie Storin had nearly caught him as he was placing the document amongst the newspapers, and he welcomed the chance to lie low in his secretary's room for a while. He was still elated at the trouble which the leaked poll would cause the Party Chairman, who had been openly hostile to him in the last few weeks. Through his paranoia, worked on by Urquhart, he had failed to notice that the hard-pressed Williams had been short with most of his colleagues as well.

Penny tried to bring him back down to earth. 'Yeah, but next time you come to say good morning, try knocking first. And make it after 8.30’

'Don't give me a hard time. You know I can't live without you.'

'Enough passion, Roger. What do you want? You have to want something, don't you, even if not my body?'

'Actually, I did come to ask you something. It's a bit delicate really...'

'Go ahead, Roger. You can be frank. You've already seen there's no one else in the bed!' She started laughing again.

O'Neill began to recover his salesman's charms, and started upon the story which Urquhart had drummed into him me previous evening.

'Pen, you remember Patrick Woolton, the Foreign Secretary. You typed a couple of his speeches during the election, and he certainly remembers you. He asked after you when I saw him last night and I think he's rather smitten with you. Anyway, he wondered if you would be interested in dinner with him but he didn't want to upset or offend you by asking direct, so I sort of offered to have a quiet word as it might be easier for you to say no to me rather than to him personally, you see’

'OK, Roger’

'OK what, Pen?'

'OK. I'll have dinner with him. What's the big deal?' 'Nothing. Except... Woolton's got a bit of a reputation with the ladies. He might just want more than - dinner.' Hoger, every man I've ever been out with since the age of fourteen has always wanted more than dinner. I can handle it. Might be interesting. He could improve my French!' She burst into fits of giggles once again, and threw her last pillow at him. O'Neill retreated through the door as Penny was looking around for something else to throw.

Five minutes later he was back in his own room and on the phone to Urquhart.

'Delivery made and dinner fixed.'

'Splendid, Roger. You've been most helpful. I hope the Foreign Secretary will be grateful too.'

'But I still don't see how you are going to get him to invite Penny to dinner. What's the point of all this?'

The point, dear Roger, is that he will not have to invite her to dinner at all. He is coming to my reception this evening. You will bring Penny, who you have established is more than willing to meet and spend some time with him. I shall introduce them over a glass of champagne or two, and see what develops. If I know Patrick Woolton - which as Chief Whip I do - it won't take more than twenty minutes before he's suggesting that they go to his room to discuss -how does Private Eye put it - Ugandan affairs?'

'Or French lessons,' muttered O'Neill. 'But I still don't see where that gets us.'

'Whatever happens, Roger, you and I will know about it. And knowledge is always useful.'

‘I still don't see how.'

Trust me, Roger. You must trust me.'

‘I do. I have to: I don't really get much choice, do I?'

That's right, Roger. Now you are beginning to see. Knowledge is power’

The phone went dead. O'Neill thought he understood but wasn't absolutely sure. He still often struggled to figure out whether he was Urquhart's partner or prisoner, but could never really decide. He rummaged in his bedside cabinet and took out a small carton. He swallowed a couple of sleeping pills and collapsed fully clothed on the bed.

‘Patrick. Thanks for the time’

‘You sounded quite serious on the phone. When Chief Whips say they want an urgent private word with you, they usually mean they've got the photographs under lock and key but unfortunately the News of the World has got the negatives!’

Urquhart smiled and slipped through the open door into the Foreign Secretary's room. He had not come far, indeed only a few yards from his own bungalow next door in what the local constabulary had named 'Overtime Alley’ the row of luxury private bungalows in the grounds of the conference hotel which housed leading Ministers, all of whom had a 24-hour rota of police guards running up huge overtime bills for the hapless local ratepayers.

'Drink?' the genial Lancastrian offered.

Thanks, Patrick. Scotch.'

The Right Honourable Patrick Woolton, Her Majesty's Principal Secretary for Foreign and Commonwealth Affairs and one of Merseyside's many successful emigres, busied himself at a small drinks cabinet which quite obviously had already been used that afternoon, while Urquhart placed the Ministerial red box he was carrying in the corner of the room beside the four belonging to his overworked host. The brightly coloured leather-clad boxes are provided to all Ministers to house their official papers, speeches and other items which they require to keep secure. Red boxes go wherever Ministers go, even on holiday, and the Foreign Secretary was habitually followed around by a host of the small suitcase-sized containers carrying telexes and despatches, briefing papers and the other paraphernalia of diplomacy. The Chief Whip, with no conference speech to make and no foreign crises to handle, had arrived in Bournemouth with his box filled with three bottles of twelve-year-old malt whisky. Hotel drink prices are always staggering, he explained to his wife, even when you can find the brand you want.

He faced Woolton across a paper-strewn coffee table, and dispensed with the small talk.

‘Patrick, I need to take your mind. In the strictest confidence. As far as I am concerned, this has to be one of those meetings which never took place.'

'Christ, you do have some photographs!' exclaimed Woolton, now only half joking. His eye for attractive young women was much discussed, but he was usually highly discreet, especially when he travelled abroad. Ten years earlier when he was just starting his Ministerial career, he had spent several painful hours answering questions from the Louisiana State Police about a weekend he had spent in a New Orleans motel with a young American girl who looked twenty, acted as if she were thirty and turned out to be just a few days over sixteen. The incident had been brushed over, but Woolton had never forgotten the tiny difference between a glittering political future and a charge of statutory rape.

'Something which could be rather more serious. I've been picking up some unhealthy vibrations in the last few weeks about Henry. You've sensed some of the irritation with him around the Cabinet table, and the media seem to be falling out of love with him in a very big way. There was no reason to expect an extended honeymoon after the election, but it's in danger of getting out of hand. I have just been approached by two of the most influential grass-roots party members saying that feeling at local level is getting very bad. We lost two more important local council by-elections last week in what should have been very safe seats, and we are going to lose quite a few more in the weeks ahead. Our majority in the Dorset by-election tomorrow is likely to be hit badly. To put no finer point on it, Patrick, the PM's unpopularity is dragging the whole Party down and we would have trouble winning an election for local dogcatcher at the moment. We seem to have blown it rather badly’ Urquhart paused for a sip of whisky.

The problem is,' he continued, 'there's a view around that this is not just a passing phase. If we are to win yet another election, we will have to show plenty of vigour and life otherwise the electorate will want a change simply out of boredom. Quite a few of our backbenchers in marginal seats are already beginning to get nervous, and with a majority of just 24 we may not have as much time as we would like. A few lost by-elections and we could be forced into an early election.7

He took another sip of whisky, cupping his hands around the tumbler as if to draw reassurance for his difficult task from the warm, peaty liquid.

I’ll come to the point, Patrick. I've been asked as Chief Whip...' - notice the formality, nothing personal in this, old chap - '... by one or two of our senior colleagues to take some gentle soundings about how deep the problem actually goes. In short, Patrick, and you will appreciate this is not easy...' - it never is, but it never seems to stop or even slow the inevitable thrust - '... I've been asked to find out how much trouble you personally think we are in. Is Henry any longer the right leader for us?’ He took a deep draught and settled back in his chair.

The silence settled around the Foreign Secretary, impaling him on the point of the question. It took him more than a minute to respond. A pipe appeared out of his pocket, followed by a tobacco pouch and a box of Swan Vestas. He patiently filled the bowl, tamping down the fresh tobacco with his thumb, and took out a match. The striking of the match seemed very loud in the silence, and Urquhart shifted uneasily in his chair. Smoke began to rise from around Woolton as he drew on the pipe stem, until the sweet smelling tobacco was well alight and his face was almost hidden from view by a clinging blue fog. He waved his hand to disperse it and through the clearing air he looked directly at Urquhart, and chuckled. -

'You'll have to forgive me, Francis. Four years in the Foreign Office has not prepared me particularly well for handling direct questions like that. Maybe I'm not used any more to people coming straight to the point. I hope you will forgive me if I struggle a little to match your bluntness.'

This was nonsense, of course. Woolton was renowned for his direct, often combative political style which had found an uneasy home in the Foreign Office. He was simply playing for time, collecting his thoughts.

'Let's try to put aside any subjective views...' - he blew another enormous cloud of smoke to hide the patent insincerity of the remark-'... and analyse the problem like a civil service position paper.'

Urquhart continued to look strained and nervous, but smiled inwardly. He knew Woolton's personal views, and so he already knew the conclusion at which their hypothetical civil servant was going to arrive.

‘First, have we really got a problem? Yes, and it's a serious one. My lads, back in Lancashire are hopping mad, we have a couple of local by-elections coming up which we are going to lose, and the polls are looking awful. I think it's right that you should be taking soundings.

'Second, is there a painless solution to the problem? Don't let us forget that Henry has led us successfully through our fourth election victory. He is the leader of the party which the voters supported. So it's not easy so soon after an election to contemplate a radical alteration to either the policies or the personalities with which we were elected.'

Woolton was by now obviously beginning to relish the analysis.

'Think it through. If there were any move to replace him - which is essentially what we are discussing...' — Urquhart contrived to look pained at Woolton's bluntness and once more examined the drink in his glass — '... it would be highly unsettling for the Party, while the Opposition would be rampant. It would, look like a messy palace coup and an act of desperation. What do they say? "Greater love hath no politician than he lay down the life of his friends to save his own"! We could never make it look like the response of a mature and confident political party, no matter how we tried to dress it up. It would take a new leader at least a year to repair the damage and glue together the cracks. So we should not fool ourselves that replacing Henry represents an easy option.

'Third, when all is said and done, can Henry find the solution to the problem himself? Well, you know my views on that I stood against him for the leadership when Margaret retired, and I have not changed my mind that his selection was a mistake.'

Urquhart now knew that he had read his man well. While Woolton had never expressed any open dissatisfaction after the waves of the leadership election had settled, public loyalty is rarely more than a necessary cover for private ambition, and the Foreign Secretary had never done more than was strictly necessary to maintain that cover.

Woolton was now refilling their glasses while continuing his analysis. 'Margaret managed an extraordinary balance of personal toughness and sense of direction. She was ruthless when she had to be - and often when she didn't have to be as well. She always seemed to be in such a hurry to get where she was going that she had no time to take prisoners and .didn't mind trampling on a few friends either. It didn't matter so much because she led from in front. Yet Henry doesn't have any sense of direction, only a love of office. And without that sense of direction, when he tries to be tough it simply comes across as arrogance and harshness. He tries to mimic Margaret but he hasn't got the balls.

'So these we have it. If we try to get rid of him we're in deep trouble. If we keep him, to use an old Lancashire expression, we're stuffed.'

He returned to his pipe, puffing furiously to rekindle its embers until he disappeared once more behind the haze.

Urquhart hadn't spoken for nearly ten minutes, but now moved to the edge of his chair once again. 'Yes, I see. But I don't see. What is it you are saying, Patrick?'

Woolton roared with laughter. I'm sorry, Francis. Too much bloody diplomatic claptrap. I can't even ask the wife to pass the cornflakes nowadays without confusing her. You want a direct answer? OK. A majority of 24 simply isn't enough, and at the rate we are going we shall get wiped out next time around. We cannot go on as we are.'

'So what is the solution? We have to find one.'

'We wait. We need time, a few months, to prepare the public perception and pressure for the PM to stand down, so that when he does we shall be seen to be responding to a positive public demand rather than indulging in private squabbles. Perceptions are crucial, Francis, and we shall need a little time to get them right.'

And you need a little time to prepare your own pitch for the job, thought Urquhart. You old fraud. You want the job just as badly as ever.

He knew Woolton would need the time to spend as many evenings as possible in the corridors and bars of the House of Commons strengthening relationships with his colleagues, increasing the number of his speaking engagements in the constituencies of influential MPs, broadening his reputation with newspaper editors and columnists, building up his credentials. His official diary would get cleared very rapidly. He would spend less time travelling abroad and much, much more time travelling around Britain making speeches about the challenges facing the country in the year 2000.

You have a particularly difficult and delicate task, Francis. You are in a central position for judging whether there is any chance of Henry staging some sort of recovery or, failing that, when the time is right to move. Too early and we shall all look like assassins. Too late and the Party will be in pieces. You will have to keep your ear very close to the ground, and decide if and when the time has come to move. I assume you are taking soundings elsewhere?'

Urquhart nodded carefully in silent assent. He's nominated me as Cassius, he thought, put the dagger in my hand and left it to me to nominate the Ides of March. Urquhart was exhilarated to discover that he did not mind the sensation at all.

'Patrick, I'm very grateful that you feel able to be so frank with me. The next few months are going to be difficult for all of us, and if I may I will continue to take your counsel. And you may be sure that not a word of this will pass outside this room.' He rose to finish the meeting.

'My Special Branch team are all going on at me about how walls have ears. I'm damned glad you have the next door bungalow!' Woolton exclaimed, thumping Urquhart playfully between the shoulder blades as his visitor strode over to retrieve his red box.

‘I hope you will be joining me there for my reception this evening, Patrick. You won't forget, will you?'

'Course not. Always enjoy your parties. Be rude of me to refuse your champagne!'

I’ll see you in a few hours then,' replied Urquhart, picking up a red box.

As Woolton closed the door behind his visitor, he poured himself another drink. He would skip the afternoon's conference debates and have a bath and a short sleep to prepare himself for the evening's heavy schedule. As he reflected on the conversation he had just had, he began to wonder whether the whisky had dulled his senses. He was trying to remember how Urquhart had voiced his own opposition to Collingridge, but couldn't. 'Crafty sod. Let me do all the talking.'

As he sat there wondering whether he had been just a little too frank with his guest, he totally failed to notice that Urquhart had walked off with the wrong red box.

Mattie had been in high spirits ever since sending through her copy shortly after lunch and had spent much of the afternoon thinking of the new doors which were slowly beginning to open for her. She had just celebrated her first anniversary at the Telegraph, and her abilities were getting recognition. Although she was one of the youngest members of staff, her stories had begun to get on the front page on a frequent basis - and they were good stories, too, she knew that. Another year of this sort of progress and she would be ready to make the next step, perhaps move up as an assistant editor or find a role with more room to write serious political analysis and not just daily pot boilers. Mind you, she had no complaints today. It would take an outbreak of war to stop the copy she had just filed from making the splash headline on the front page. It was a strong story about a Government who had lost their way; it was well written and would certainly help to get her noticed by other editors and publishers.

But it was not enough. In spite of it all, she was beginning to realise that something was missing. Even as her career developed, she was gradually discovering an emptiness which hit her every time she left the office and got worse as she walked past her front door into her cold, silent apartment. There was a pit somewhere deep inside her which had begun to ache, an ache she hoped had been left way behind in Yorkshire. Damn men! Why couldn't they leave her alone? But she knew no one else was to blame; her own needs were gnawing away inside her, and they were becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.

Neither could she ignore the urgent message to call her office which she received shortly before 5 o'clock. She had just finished taking tea on the terrace with the Home Secretary, who was anxious to get the Telegraph to puff his speech the following day and who in any event wanted an excuse to avoid sitting through another afternoon of his colleagues' speeches. The hotel lobby was crowded as people began to desert the conference hall early in search of refreshment and relaxation, but one of the public telephones was free and she decided to put up with the noise. When she got through, Preston's secretary explained that he was engaged on the phone and connected her with the deputy editor, John Krajewski, a gentle giant of a man she had begun to spend a little time with during the long summer months, spurred on by a shared enjoyment of good wine and the fact that his father, like her grandfather, had been a wartime refugee from Europe. She greeted him warmly, but his response left her feeling like ice.

'Hello, Mattie. Look, let me not cover everything in three feet of bullshit but come straight to the point. We're not - he's not - running your story. I really am sorry.'

There was a stunned silence over the phone as she turned over the words in her own mind to make sure that she had understood correctly.

'What the hell do you mean you're not running it?'

'Just what I say, Mattie.' Krajewski was clearly having grave difficulty with the conversation. ‘I’m sorry I can't give you all the details because Grev has been dealing with it personally -’I haven't touched it myself - but apparently it's such a hot story that he feels he cannot run it without being absolutely sure of our ground. He says that we have always supported this Government loyally and he's not about to throw editorial policy out of the window on the basis of an anonymous piece of paper. He says we have to be absolutely certain before we move, and we can't be if we don't know where this piece of paper came from.'

'For God's sake, it doesn't matter where the bloody paper came from. Whoever sent it to me wouldn't have done so if he thought his identity was going to be spread all over our news room. All that matters is that it's genuine, and I've confirmed that.'

'Look, I know how you must feel about this, Mattie, and I wish I were a million miles away from this one. Believe me I've argued this one hard and long for you, but Grev is adamant. It's not running.'

Mattie wanted to scream. She suddenly regretted making the call from a crowded lobby, where she could not argue the case for fear that a rival journalist would hear, and neither could she use the sort of language she felt like using with dozens of constituency wives crowding around her.

'Let me talk to Grev.'

'Sorry. I think he's busy on the phone.'

‘I’ll hold!'

In fact’ said the deputy editor in a voice heaped with embarrassment, ‘I know he's going to be busy for a long time and insisted that I had to be the one to explain it to you. I know he wants to talk to you, Mattie - but tomorrow. There's no point in trying to scream him into submission tonight.'

'So he's not running the story, he hasn't got the balls to tell me why, and he's told you to do his dirty work for him!' Mattie spat out her contempt. 'What sort of newspaper are we running, Johnnie?'

She could hear the deputy editor clearing his throat, unable to find suitable words to respond. Krajewski appreciated just how tearingly frustrated Mattie felt, not only with the story but with Preston's decision to use him as a buffer. He wondered if he should have made more of a fight of it on her behalf, but in recent weeks he had become increasingly distracted by Mattie's obvious if unpromoted sexuality and he was no longer certain just how professionally objective he was.

'Sorry, Mattie.'

'And screw you, Johnnie!' was all she was able to hiss down the line before slamming the phone back into its cradle.

She was consumed with anger, not only with Preston and politics but also with herself for being unable to find a more convincing argument to fight her cause or a more coherent way of expressing it.

Ignoring the tart look flashed at her by the conference steward on the next phone, she stalked across the foyer. 'I need a drink’ she explained loudly to herself and everyone else within earshot, and made straight for the bar.

The-steward was just raising the grille over the counter when Mattie arrived and slapped her bag and a five-pound note down on the bar. As she did so she knocked the arm of another patron who was already lined up at the varnished counter and clearly intent on being served with the first drink of the night.

'Sorry’ apologised Mattie huffily, without sounding entirely as if she meant it. The other drinker turned to face her.

‘Young lady, you look as if you need a drink. My doctor tells me there is no such thing as needing a drink, but what does he know? Would you mind if a man old enough to be your father joins you? By the way, the name's Collingridge, Charles Collingridge.'

'So long as we don't talk politics, Mr Collingridge, it will be my pleasure. Allow my editor to buy you a large one!'

The room was spacious, but it had a low ceiling and it was packed with people. The heat from the mass of bodies had combined with the central heating to make the atmosphere distinctly muggy, and many of the guests were quietly cursing the insulation and double glaring which the architects had so carefully installed throughout 'Overtime Alley'. As a consequence the chilled champagne being dispensed by Urquhart's constituency secretary was in great demand, and it was already on its way to being one of his more relaxed conference receptions.

Urquhart, however, was not in a position to circulate and accept his guests' thanks. He was effectively pinned in one comer by the enormous bulk of Benjamin Landless. The newspaper magnate was sweating heavily and he had his jacket off and collar undone, displaying his thick green braces like parachute webbing which were holding up his vast, flowing trousers. Landless refused to take any notice of his discomfort, for his full attention was concentrated on his trapped prey.

'But that's all bloody Horlicks, Frankie, and you know it. I put my whole newspaper chain behind your lot at the last election and I've moved my entire worldwide headquarters to London. I've invested millions in the country. And if you lot don't pull your fingers out, the whole bloody performance is going down the drain at the next election. Those buggers in the Opposition will crucify me if they get in because I've been so good to you, but you lot seem to be falling over yourselves to open the damned door for them.'

He paused to produce a large silk handkerchief from within the folds of his trousers and wipe his brow, while Urquhart goaded him on.

'Surely it's not as bad as that, Ben. All Governments go through sticky patches. We've been through this all before - we'll pull out of it!'

'Horlicks, Horlicks, bloody Horlicks. That's complacent crap, and you know it, Frankie. Haven't you seen your own latest poll? They phoned it through to me earlier this afternoon. You're down another 3 per cent, that's 10 per cent since the election. If you held it today, you'd get thrashed. Bloody annihilated!'

Urquhart relished the thought of the Telegraph headline tomorrow, but could not afford to show it. 'Damn. How on earth did you get hold of that? That will really hurt us at the by-election tomorrow.'

'Don't worry. I've told Preston to pull it. It'll leak, of course, and we'll probably get some flak in Private Eye about a politically inspired cover-up, but it'll be after the by-election and it will save your conference being turned into a bear pit' He sighed deeply. It's more than you bloody deserve,' he said more quietly, and Urquhart knew he meant it.

‘I know the PM will be grateful, Ben,' said Urquhart, feeling sick with disappointment.

'Course he will, but the gratitude of the most unpopular Prime Minister since polls began isn't something you can put in the bank.'

'What do you mean?'

‘Political popularity is cash. While you lot are in, I should be able to get on with my business and do what I do best -make money. That's why I've supported you. But as soon as your popularity begins to fade, the whole thing begins to clam up. The Stock Market sinks. People don't want to invest. Unions get bolshy. I can't look ahead. And it's been happening ever since June. The PM couldn't organise a farting contest in a baked bean factory. His unpopularity is dragging the whole Party down, and my business with it. Unless you do something about it, we're all going to disappear down a bloody great hole.' Do you really feel like that?'

Landless paused, just to let Urquhart know it wasn't the champagne speaking. 'Passionately,' he growled. Then it looks as if we have a problem.' 'You do so long as he goes on like he is.' 'But if he won't change...' Then get rid of him!'

Urquhart raised his eyebrows sharply, but Landless was not to be deflected, life's too short to spend it propping up losers. I haven't spent the last twenty years working my guts out just to watch your boss piss it all away.'

Urquhart found his arm gripped painfully by his guest's huge fingers. There was real strength behind the enormous girth, and Urquhart began to realise how Landless always seemed to get his way. Those he could not dominate with his wealth or commercial muscle he would trap with his physical strength and sharp tongue. Urquhart had always hated being called Frankie, and this was the only man in the world who insisted on using it. But tonight of all nights he did not think he would object. This was one argument he was going to enjoy losing.

'Let me give you one example, in confidence. OK, Frankie?' He pinned Urquhart still tighter in the comer. 'Very shortly I expect that United Newspapers will be up for sale. If it is, I want to buy it. In fact, I've already had some serious discussions with them. But the lawyers are telling me that I already own one newspaper group and that the Government isn't going to allow me to buy another. I said to them, you are telling me that I can't become the biggest newspaper owner in the country, even if I commit all of the titles to supporting the Government!'

Perspiration was slipping freely from his face, but he ignored it. You know what they said, Frankie? It's precisely because ‘I do support the Government that I'm in trouble. If I moved to take over United Newspapers the Opposition would kick up the most godawful stink. No one would have the guts to stand up and defend me. The takeover would be referred to the Monopolies and Mergers Commission where it would get bogged down for months with a herd of expensive lawyers stuck in a bloody committee room, with me having to listen to a bunch of closet queen bureaucrats lecturing me on how to run my own business. And whatever arguments I use, in the end the Government will bow to pressure and refuse to allow the deal to go through, because they haven't got the stomach for a public fight.'

He blew cigar smoke in Urquhart's face.

In other words, Mr Chief Whip, because your Government doesn't have the balls, my company is going to go through the wringer. Because you're buggering up your own business, you're going to bugger up mine as well!'

The point had been forcefully made and the pressure applied. It was not a subtle way to lobby a Minister, but he had always found the direct approach to be far more effective than complicated minuets. Politicians could be bullied like any other men. He paused to refresh himself from his glass, waiting for a reply.

Urquhart framed his response slowly, to emphasise that he too, like Landless, was speaking in earnest.

'That would be a tremendous pity, Ben. You have been a great friend of the Party, and it would be a great shame if we were unable to repay that friendship. I cannot speak for the Prime Minister. In fact, I find myself increasingly unable to speak for him nowadays. But from my point of view, I would do everything I could to support you when you needed it.'

'That's good to know, Frankie. I appreciate it, very much. If only Henry could be so decisive, but I know that's simply not his nature. If it were up to me, he'd be out.'

'But isn't it up to you?'

'Me?'

'You have your newspapers. They are tremendously influential, and you control them. One headline can make news and break politicians. You were saying that the polls show the public's dislike for the PM is undermining the whole Party. It's personal, not political.'

Landless nodded his assent.

‘Let you say you are not going to publish because it will turn the conference into a bear fight. Do you really think you are going to be able to sort this out without one hell of a fight?'

The bullying Landless of a few moments ago had disappeared, to be replaced by a subtle man who understood every nuance of what was being suggested to him.

‘I think I see your point, Frankie. And I think we understand each other.'

‘I think we do.'

They shook hands. Urquhart almost winced as his hand disappeared inside the vice-like grip of Landless. He knew the other's handshake was distinctly ambiguous - an expression of friendship, by all means, but also a promise to crush anyone who reneged on a deal.

'Then I have some work to do, Frankie. The Telegraph first edition is closing in less than thirty minutes and I shall have to make a telephone call.' He grabbed his jacket and draped it over his arm.

'Thanks for the party. It's been most stimulating.'

Urquhart watched silently as the industrialist, damp shirt sticking closely to his broad back, shuffled across the crowded room and disappeared through the door.

Across the other side of the room beyond the dignitaries, journalists and hangers-on who were squashed together, Roger O'Neill was huddled on a small sofa with a young and attractive conference-goer. O'Neill was in an excited and very nervous state. He fidgeted incessantly and his words rattled out at an alarming pace. The young girl from Rotherham had already been overwhelmed with the names O'Neill had skilfully dropped and the passion of his words, and she looked on with wide-eyed astonishment, an innocent bystander in a one-way conversation.

The Prime Minister's under constant surveillance by our security men. There's always a threat. Irish. Arabs. Black Militants. One of them's trying to get me, too. They've been trying for months, and the Special Branch boys insisted on giving me protection throughout the election. Apparently, they'd found a hit list; if the PM were too well protected they might turn to targets close to the PM like me. So they gave me twenty-four-hour cover. It's not public knowledge, of course, but all the journos know.'

He dragged furiously at a cigarette and started coughing. He took out a soiled handkerchief and blew his nose loudly, inspecting it before returning it to his pocket.

'But why you, Roger?' his companion ventured.

'Soft target. Easy access. High publicity hit,' he rattled. If they can't get the PM, they'll go for someone like me.'

He looked around nervously, his eyes fluttering wildly.

'Can you keep a confidence? A real secret?' He took another deep drag. They think I've been followed all week. And this morning I found my car had been tampered with, so the Bomb Squad boys went over it with a fine tooth comb. They found the wheel nuts on one of the front wheels had been all but removed. Straight home on the motorway, the wheel comes off at eighty miles an hour and - more work for the road sweepers! They think it was deliberate. The Murder Squad are on their way over to interview me right now.'

'Roger, that's awful’ she gasped.

'Mustn't tell anyone. The SB don't want to frighten them off if there's a chance of catching them unawares.'

‘I hadn't realised you were so close to the Prime Minister’ she said with growing awe. 'What a terrible time for...' She suddenly gasped. 'Are you all right, Roger? You are looking very upset. Your, your eyes...' she stammered.

O'Neill's eyes were flickering wildly, flashing still further lurid hallucinations into his brain. His attention seemed to have strayed elsewhere; he was no longer with her but in some other world, with some other conversation. His eyes wavered back to her, but they were gone again in an instant. They were bloodshot and watering, and were having difficulty in finding something on which to focus. His nose was dribbling like an old man in winter, and he gave it a cursory and unsuccessful wipe with the back of his hand.

As she watched, his face turned to an ashen grey, his body twitched and he stood up sharply. He appeared terrified, as if the walls were falling in on him. She looked round helplessly, unsure what he needed, too embarrassed to make a public scene. She moved to take his arm and support him, but as she did so he turned on her and lost his balance. He grabbed at her to steady himself, caught her blouse and a button popped.

'Get out of my way, get out of my way’ he snarled.

He thrust her violently backwards, and she fell heavily into a table laden with glasses before sprawling back onto the sofa. The crash of glass onto the floor stopped all conversation in the room as everyone looked round. Three more buttons had gone, and her left breast stood exposed amidst the torn silk.

There was absolute silence as O'Neill stumbled towards the door, pushing still more people out of the way as he tumbled into the night. The young girl clutched at her tattered clothing and was fighting back the tears of humiliation as he disappeared. An elderly guest was helping her rearrange herself and shepherding her towards the bathroom and, as the bathroom door shut behind the two women, a ripple of speculation began which quickly grew into a broad sea of gossip, washing backwards and forwards over the gathering. It would go on all evening. - Penny Guy did not join in the gossip. A moment before she had been laughing merrily, thoroughly enjoying the engaging wit and Merseyside charm of Patrick Woolton. Urquhart had introduced them more than an hour earlier, and had ensured that the champagne flowed as easily as their conversation. But the magic had been smashed with the uproar. As Penny had taken in O'Neill's stumbling departure, the sobbing girl's dishevelled clothing and the ensuing speculation and chatter, her face had dissolved into a picture of misery. She fought a losing battle to control the tears which had welled up and spilled down her cheeks and, although Woolton provided a large handkerchief and considerable support, the pain in Penny's face was all too real.

He really is kind. Very considerate,' she explained. 'But sometimes it all seems to get too much for him and he goes a little crazy. It's so out of character.' She pleaded for him, and the tears flowed still faster.

'Penny. I'm so sorry, dear. Look, you need to get out of this party. My bungalow's next door. Let's go and dry you off there, OK?'

She nodded in gratitude, and the couple squeezed their way through the crowd. No one seemed to notice as they eased their way out of the room, except Urquhart. His cold blue eyes followed them through the door where Landless and O'Neill had gone before. This was certainly going to be a party to remember, he told himself.

THURSDAY 14th OCTOBER

‘You're not going to make a bloody habit of getting me out of bed every morning, are you?' Even down the telephone line, Preston made it clear that this was an instruction, not a question.

Mattie felt even worse than she had the previous morning after several hours of alcoholic flagellation with Charles Collingridge who was clearly determined to prove his doctor hopelessly wrong. Now she was having great difficulty grasping what on earth was going on.

Hell, Grev. I go to bed thinking I want to kill you because you won't run the story, and I wake up this morning and find a bastardised version all over the front page with a by-line by someone called "Our Political Staff". Now I know I want to kill you, but first I want to find out why you are screwing around with my story. Why did you change your mind? Who's rewritten my story, and who the hell is "Our Political Staff" if it's not me?'

'Steady on, Mattie. Just take a breath and let me explain. If only you had been around when I tried to call you last night and not flashing your eyes at some eligible peer or whatever it is you were doing, then you would have known all about it before it happened.'

Mattie began vaguely to recall the events of last night through the haze, and her pause to persuade her memory to catch up with itself gave Preston time to continue. He began to search for his words carefully.

'As I think Krajewski may have told you, last night some of the editorial staff here didn't believe there was enough substantiation of your piece on the opinion polls for it to run today.'

He heard Mattie snort at the clumsy twisting of the tale, but knew he must press on or he would never get the chance to finish the justification.

'Frankly, I liked the piece and wanted to make it work, but I thought we needed more corroboration before we tore the country's Prime Minister apart on the day of an important by-election. A single anonymous piece of paper wasn't enough.'

'I didn't tear the Prime Minister apart, you did!' Mattie wanted to interject, but Preston rode through her objections.

'So I had a chat with some of my senior contacts in the Party, and late last night we got the corroboration we wanted just before our deadline. The copy needed to be adapted to take account of the new material and I tried to reach you but couldn't, so I rewrote it myself. I refused to let anyone else touch it, your material is too good. So "Our Political Staff" in this instance is me.'

'But that's not the story I sent in. I wrote a piece about a terrible opinion poll and the difficult days the Party was facing. You've turned it into the outright crucifixion of Collingridge. These quotes from "leading party sources", these criticisms and condemnations. Who else do you have working in Bournemouth apart from me?'

'My sources are my own business,' snapped Preston.

'Bullshit, Grev. I'm supposed to be your political correspondent at this bloody conference, you can't keep me in the dark like this. The paper's done a complete somersault over my story and another complete somersault over Collingridge. A few weeks ago he was the saviour of the nation as far as you were concerned, now he's - what does it say? - "a catastrophe threatening to engulf the Government at any moment". I shall be about as popular as a witch's armpit around the conference hall this morning. You've got to tell me what's going on!'

Preston, his carefully prepared explanation already in tatters, retreated into aggression and pomposity.

'As editor I am not in the dubious position of having to justify myself to every cub reporter stuck out in the provinces. You do as you're told, I do as I'm told, and we both get on with the job. All right?'

Mattie was just about to ask him who the hell it was who could tell the editor what to do when she heard the line go dead. She shook her head in amazement and fury. She couldn't and wouldn't take much more of this. Far from having new doors open up to her, she was finding her fingers getting caught as her editor kept slamming the doors shut. And who else had he got ferreting away at the conference?

It was a good thirty minutes later as she was trying to clear her thoughts and calm her temper with yet another cup of coffee in the breakfast room when she saw the vast bulk of Benjamin Landless lumbering across to a Window table for a chat with Lord Peterson, the party treasurer. As the proprietor settled his girth into a completely inadequate chair, Mattie wrinkled her nose. She didn't care for what she smelt.

The Prime Minister's political secretary winced. For the third time the press secretary had thrust the morning newspaper across the table at him, for the third time he tried to thrust it away. He knew how St Peter must have felt.

'For God's sake, Grahame.' The press secretary was raising his voice now; the game of ping-pong with the newspaper was irritating him. 'We can't hide every damned copy of the Telegraph in Bournemouth. He's got to know, and you've got to show it to him. Now!'

'Why did it have to be today?' he groaned. 'A by-election just down the road, and we've been up all night finishing his speech for tomorrow. Now hell want to rewrite the whole thing and where are we going to find the time? He’ll blow a bloody gasket, and that won't help the by-election or the speech either.'

He slammed his briefcase shut in uncharacteristic frustration. 'All the pressure of the last few weeks, and now this. There just, doesn't seem to be any break, does there?'

His companion chose not to answer, preferring to study the view out of the hotel window across the bay. It was raining again.

The political secretary picked up the newspaper, rolled it up tight, and threw it across the room. It landed with a crash in the waste bin, overturning it and strewing the contents across the carpet. The discarded pages of speech draft mixed with cigarette ash and several empty cans of beer and tomato juice.

I’ll tell him after breakfast.'

It was not to be his best decision.

Henry Collingridge was in a good mood and enjoying his eggs. He had finished his conference speech in the early hours of the morning, and had left his staff to tidy it up and have it typed while he went to bed. He had slept soundly if briefly for the first time during conference week.

The end-of-conference speech always hung over his head like a dark cloud. He disliked conferences and the small talk, the week away from home, the over-indulgence around the dinner tables - and the speech. Most of all the speech. Long hours of anguished discussion in a smoke-filled hotel room, breaking off just when progress seemed in sight in order to attend some ball-breaking function or reception, resuming a considerable time later and trying to pick up where they had left off, only more tired and less inspired. If the speech was good, it was only what they expected and required. If it was poor, they still applauded but said the strain of office was beginning to show. Sod's Law.

But it was now almost over, bar the delivery. The Prime Minister was enjoying breakfast with his wife, watched carefully from surrounding tables by his personal Special

Branch detectives. He was discussing the merits of a winter holiday in Antigua or Sri Lanka.

‘I would recommend Sri Lanka this year’ he said. ‘You can stay on the beach if you want, Sarah, but I would rather like to take a couple of trips into the mountains. They have some ancient Buddhist monasteries and some nearby wildlife reserves which are supposed to be quite spectacular. The Sri Lankan President was describing them to me last year, and they sounded really... Darling, you're not listening!'

'Sorry, Henry. I was... just looking at that gentleman's newspaper.'

'More interesting than me, is it? What's it got to say, then?'

He began to feel ill at ease, remembering that no one had yet given him his daily press cuttings. Someone would surely have told him had there been anything that important.

Come to think of it, he had never felt comfortable since his staff had persuaded him that he didn't need to spend his time reading the daily newspapers, that an edited summary of press clippings prepared by them would be more efficient. But were they? Civil servants had their own narrow views on what was important for a Prime Minister's day, and he found increasingly that their briefing on party political matters was scant. Particularly when there was bad news, the controversy and the in-fighting, he often had to find out from others, sometimes days or weeks after the event. He began to wonder if eventually he would never find out at all, and some great political crisis would burst upon the Party about which he was kept blissfully unaware. They were trying to protect him, of course, but the cocoon they spun around him would, he feared, eventually stifle him.

He remembered the first time he had stepped inside 10 Downing Street as Prime Minister. He had left the crowds and the television crews outside and, as the great black door closed behind him, he had discovered an extraordinary sight.

On one side of the great hallway leading away from the door had gathered some 200 civil servants, his civil servants now, who were applauding him loudly - just as they had done Thatcher, Callaghan, Wilson and Heath, and just as they would his successor. On the other side of the hallway facing the host of civil servants stood his political staff, the team of loyal supporters he had hurriedly assembled around him as his campaign to succeed Margaret Thatcher had begun to take off, and whom he had invited to Downing Street to enjoy this historic moment. There were just seven of them, four assistants and three secretaries, dwarfed in their new surroundings.

He told his wife afterwards that it was rather like the Eton Wall Game, with two hugely unequal sides lined up to do battle, with no clear rules and with him cast as both the ball and the prize. He had felt almost relieved when three senior civil servants called an end to the proceedings by physically surrounding him and guiding him off to the Cabinet Room for his first Prime Ministerial briefing. One of the party officials present had described it more as an Assumption, with the Prime Minister disappearing into a different world surrounded by a band of guardian angels -Civil Service, Grade 1, Prime Ministers, for the Protection and Guidance Thereof: Exclusive. His party officials had scarcely seen him for the next six months as they were effectively squeezed out by the official machine, and none of the original band was still left.

Collingridge's attention returned to the newspaper being read at the far-off breakfast table. At such a distance he had great difficulty in bringing it fully into focus, and he fumbled for his glasses, perching them on the end of his nose and trying not to stare too hard. He found his air of studied indifference difficult to maintain as the large headline print came into focus.

‘Poll crisis hits Government', it screamed. PM's future in doubt as personal slump hits party'. 'By-election disaster feared'. And this in what was supposed to be the most loyal of newspapers.

Collingridge threw his napkin down on the table and kicked back his chair. He left the table even as his wife was still discussing the finer advantages of January in Antigua.

It did not improve the Prime Minister's temper when he had to retrieve the copy of the Telegraph from among the cigarette ash in the waste bin.

'Over the bloody breakfast table, Grahame. May I, just occasionally, not be the last to know?'

‘I am sorry, Prime Minister. We were going to show it to you just as soon as you had finished,' came the meek response.

It's just not good enough, not good eno ... What the hell's this rubbish?'

He had arrived at the point in the Telegraph report when the hard news - if opinion polls can ever be considered to qualify as hard' news - had been superseded by sheer speculation and hype.

The latest slump revealed in the Party's own private opinion polls is bound to put intense pressure on the Prime Minister, whose conference speech tomorrow is awaited anxiously by party representatives in Bournemouth. Rumblings about the style and effectiveness of the Prime Minister's leadership have increased in intensity since the election, when his performance disappointed many of his colleagues.

These doubts are certain to be fuelled by the latest poll, which gives him the lowest personal rating any Prime Minister has achieved since these polls began nearly forty years ago.

Last night, a leading Minister commented, 'There is a lack of grip around the Cabinet table and in the House of Commons. The Party is restive. Our basically excellent position is being undermined by the leader's lack of appeal’

Harsher views were being expressed in some Government quarters. Senior party sources were speculating that the Party was fast coming to a crossroad. 'We have to decide between making a new start or sliding gently into decline and defeat’ one source said. 'We have had too many unnecessary setbacks since the election. We cannot afford any more.'

A less sanguine view was that Collingridge was 'like a catastrophe threatening to engulf the Government at any moment'.

The result of today's parliamentary by-election in Dorset East, reckoned to be a safe Government seat, is now being seen as crucial to the Prime Minister's future.

Collingridge was by now almost consumed with fury. His face had flushed and he gripped the newspaper like a drowning man, yet his years of experience in the political trenches kept him in control.

‘I want to find out who's behind this, Grahame. I want to know who wrote it. Who spoke to them. Who leaked the poll. And for breakfast tomorrow I want their balls on toast!'

'Shall I give Lord Williams a call?' the political secretary

offered as a tentative suggestion. ;

'Lord Williams!' Collingridge exploded. It's his bloody poll that's leaked! I don't want apologies, I want answers. Get me the Chief Whip. Find him, and whatever he is doing get him here right now’

The secretary summoned his courage for the next hurdle. 'Before he arrives, Prime Minister, could I suggest that we have another look at your speech. There may be various things you want to change as a result of the morning press, and we don't have too much time.’

'Grahame, the speech stays, just as it is. I'm not ripping up a perfectly good speech just in order to run in front of a pack of bloody news hounds. That's just what they want, and that is just what will make us most vulnerable. Maybe we can have another look at it later, but what is top priority at the moment is that we stop the leaks right now, otherwise they will turn into a flood. So find Mr Urquhart, and get him here immediately!'

With a look of resignation, the political secretary reached for the phone.

Urquhart was sitting in his bungalow waiting for a telephone call, which came not from the Prime Minister but from the Foreign Secretary. When Woolton got through, much to Urquhart's relief he was chuckling.

'Damned fool. I must put more water in your whisky next time. You walked off with one of my boxes yesterday and left your own behind. I've got your sandwiches and you've got a copy of the latest secret plans to invade Papua New Guinea, or whatever other damn fool thing they are trying to convince me of this week. I suggest we swap before I get arrested for losing confidential Government property. I'll be round in twenty seconds.'

Less than a minute later Urquhart was smiling his way through an apology to his Ministerial colleague, who was still in high spirits as he left, having thanked Urquhart for - as he put it - 'an exceptionally stimulating evening'.

As soon as Woolton had stepped outside, Urquhart's mood changed. His brow furrowed with concern as he locked the door from the inside, testing the handle to make absolutely certain it was closed. He wasted no time in pulling the blinds down over the windows, and only when he was certain that he could not be observed did he place the red box gingerly on the desk.

He examined the box carefully for any signs of tampering, and then selected a key from the large bunch which he produced from his pocket, sliding it carefully into the lock. As the lid came up, it exposed a thick slab of polystyrene packing which entirely filled the box. He extracted the polystyrene and laid it to one side before turning the box on its end. Delicately he eased up the corner of a strip of four-inch surgical tape which had been stuck across most of the side wall of the box, gently peeling it back until it revealed a small recess carved right through the wooden wall until only the rough red leather covering stood between the recess and the outside world.

Externally there was no sign that the leather covered anything other than a solid piece of wood, and he complimented himself that he had not forgotten the art of using a wood chisel which he had learned at school nearly fifty years before. The recess measured no more than two inches square, and snuggling neatly in its middle was a radio transmitter complete with its own miniaturised mercury power pack, compliments of its Japanese manufacturer.

The manager of the security shop just off the Tottenham Court Road which he had visited two weeks earlier had displayed a carefully practised mask of indifference as Urquhart had explained his need to check up on a dishonest employee, yet had shown great enthusiasm in describing the full capabilities of the equipment he could supply. This was one of the simplest yet most sensitive transmitters on the market, he had explained, which was guaranteed to pick up almost any unobstructed sound within a distance of fifty metres and relay it back to the custom-built receiver and voice-activated tape recorder, which he also highly recommended.

‘Just make sure the microphone is pointing generally towards the source of the sound, sir, and I guarantee it will sound like a Mahler Symphony’

Urquhart went over to his wardrobe and from the back pulled out another Ministerial red box. Like all such boxes, this one was secured with a precision-made, high-security tungsten lock for which he alone had the keys. Inside, nestling in another protective wrapping of polystyrene, sat a modified FM portable radio with inbuilt cassette recorder which was tuned to the wavelength of the transmitter. Urquhart noticed with satisfaction that the long-playing tape he had installed was all but exhausted. He had left the radio transmitter in Woolton's room pointing towards the bed.

‘I hope it's not simply because he snores,' Urquhart joked with himself. As he did so, the equipment clicked once more into action, ran for ten seconds, and stopped.

He pressed the rewind button and was watching the twin reels spin round when the telephone rang, summoning him to the Prime Minister for yet another 'plumbing lesson', as he called it.

'Never mind, you'll wait,' he whispered, and relocked both boxes before concealing them in the back of his wardrobe. He was reliving the explosion of excitement he had felt when he had set his first rabbit trap on his father's estate with the help of the gillie. They had gone out into the warm evening air to lay the trap together, but Urquhart could not contain his impatience and had returned alone before dawn the following morning, to find the creature swinging helplessly from the snare.

'Got you!' he exclaimed in triumph.

SATURDAY 16th OCTOBER

It was not just the Telegraph which, the day after the Prime Minister's speech, declared it to be a disaster. It was joined in varying degrees by all the other newspapers, several Government backbenchers, and the Leader of the Opposition. Particularly the Leader of the Opposition, whose animated braying appeared for all the world like a hound which had just scented the first sign of real vulnerability in its prey.

The loss of the Dorset East by-election, when the news had burst on the conference in the early hours of Friday morning, had at first numbed the party faithful. It had taken them until breakfast time before they began to vent their frustration and disillusionment, and there had been only one target - Henry Collingridge.

Correspondents in Bournemouth seemed to have been inundated with nameless senior Party officials, each of whom claimed personally to have warned the Prime Minister not to hold the by-election in conference week and who were now absolving themselves of responsibility for the disastrous defeat. In turn, the Prime Minister's office retaliated - unattributably, of course - that the blame was really in the organisational deficiencies of the party headquarters for which, of course. Lord Williams was responsible. The explanation, however, fell on deaf ears. The pack instinct had taken hold of the press as well as the Leader of the Opposition, as the scarcely restrained phrases of one normally pro-Government newspaper indicated.

The Prime Minister yesterday failed to quell growing doubts being expressed within his Party about his leadership with a closing speech to his party conference in Bournemouth which one Cabinet colleague described as 'inept and inappropriate'. Following this week's leaking of disastrous internal opinion polls and the humiliating by-election defeat in one of the Party's safest seats, conference representatives were looking for a realistic acknowledgement of the problems which have caused the collapse of voter support for the Government.

Instead, in the words of one representative, 'we got a stale rehash of an old election speech'.

The open disenchantment with the Prime Minister is no longer being voiced with traditional caution within Government circles, particularly amongst anxious backbenchers with marginal seats. Peter Bearstead, MP for Leicester North, said last night: The electorate gave us a warning slap across the knuckles at the election, and we should be responding with fresh initiatives and a much clearer statement of our policies. But all we got was more of the same, cliches and suffocating complacency. It may be time for the Prime Minister to think about handing over.'

In an office tower on the South Bank of the Thames, near the spot where Wat Tyler 600 years before had gathered disenchanted rebels to launch his attempt at overthrowing the Establishment, the editor of Weekend Watch, the leading current affairs programme, studied the newspapers and called a hurried conference of all his staff. Twenty minutes later, the programme planned for the following day on racketeering landlords had been shelved and the entire sixty-minute slot had been recast. Bearstead was going to be invited to participate, as were several opinion pollsters and pundits, in a new programme entitled 'Collingridge - Time To Go?' From his home in the leafy suburbs near Epsom, the senior manager of market makers Barclays de Zoete Wedd telephoned two colleagues. They agreed to be in the office very early on Monday. 'All this political nonsense is going to upset the markets, and we mustn't be caught holding on to stock when every other bastard is selling.'

The Chief Whip, at his magnificent Palladian country home in the New Forest of Hampshire, received several calls from worried Cabinet colleagues and senior backbenchers, none wishing to make a break from cover but all of them expressing concern. The chairman of the Party's grass-roots executive committee also called him from Yorkshire reporting similar worries. ‘I would normally pass these on to the Party Chairman,' the bluff Yorkshire-man explained, 'but with relations between Downing Street and party headquarters so poor, I just don't want to get caught in the middle of that particular battle.'

The defeated candidate in Thursday's by-election was contacted by the Mail on Sunday just after a lunch spent drowning his sorrows, and showed no reticence in his broadside against Collingridge. He cost me my seat. Can he feel safe in his?'

At Chequers, the Prime Minister's official country residence set amidst rolling lawns and massive security in rural Buckinghamshire, Collingridge just sat, ignoring his official papers and devoid of inspiration. The rock had begun to roll down hill, and he had no idea how to stop it.

When it hit later that afternoon, the news caught almost everyone by surprise. Even Urquhart. He had expected the Observer to take at least a couple more weeks checking the bundle of papers and photostats he had sent them and obtaining their lawyers' clearance. Clearly, however, they had felt pressured by the growing political clamour and feared that a competitor might also be on the trail. 'Damned if we don't publish, damned if we do. So let's go!' the editor had shouted at his investigative reporters.

Urquhart was adjusting the triple carburettors on his 1933 Rover Speed Pilot, which he kept for touring around the lanes of the New Forest, when Miranda called from inside the house.

'Francis! Chequers on the phone!' He picked up the extension on the garage wall, wiping his hands carefully on a greasy rag.

'Urquhart here.'

'Chief Whip, please hold on. I have the Prime Minister for you,' a female voice instructed.

The voice which now came on the end of the phone was almost unrecognisable. It had no more vitality than a voice from the grave.

'Francis, I am afraid I have some bad news. The Observer have just called up the Downing Street press office to let us know of a story they will be running tomorrow. I can't explain it all, but apparently my brother Charles has been buying shares in companies just before they benefit from Government decisions, and making a killing on them. They say they've got documentary evidence - bank statements, brokers' receipts, the lot. He bought nearly £50,000 worth of Renox, they say, a couple of days before we are supposed to have approved a new drug of theirs for general use, and sold them a day later for a substantial profit They say he used a false address in Paddington. It's going to be the lead story.'

There was an exhausted pause, as if he no longer had the energy to continue. 'Francis, everyone's going to assume I'm involved with this. What on earth do I do?'

Urquhart settled himself comfortably in the front seat of the car before replying. It was a seat from which he was used to taking risks and making split-second decisions.

Have you said anything to the Observer’'

'No. I don't think they were expecting a comment from me. They were really trying to find Charlie.'

'Where is he?'

'Gone to ground, I hope. I managed to get hold of him. He... was drunk. I just told him to take the phone off the hook and not to answer the door.'

Urquhart gripped the steering wheel, staring ahead. He felt strangely detached. He realised for the first time that he had set in motion a machine which was far more powerful than his ability to control it. He had manipulated, analysed and considered, but in spite of weeks of planning he knew that events were no longer under his command. He imagined that he was speeding down a country lane, the Rover ready to respond to his every command as he slammed it through its four gears and accelerated around the curve of the road, knowing now that he was lost in the exhilaration of its speed. He thrilled to its performance and the scent of danger in his nostrils, pressing ever more firmly down on the accelerator, oblivious of what lay around the next blind corner. It was already too late for second thoughts. It was instinct, not intellect, which would take over now.

'Where is he?'

'At home in London.'

Yes, I know it. You must get someone down there to take care of him. Look, I know it must be painful as he's your brother, but there's a drying-out clime outside Dover which the Whips Office has used for the occasional backbencher. Very confidential, very kind. Dr Christian, the head of the clinic, is excellent. I'll give him a call and get him to Charles immediately. You must arrange for someone else from the family to be there, too, in case your brother proves to be difficult. Your wife, Sarah, perhaps? I will find someone from the Whips Office to get there and keep a careful eye on it all. But we must move fast, because in four hours' time when the Observer hits the streets your brother's home is going to be besieged by journalists. We have to beat them to the punch. With Charles in his present state there is no knowing what he might say or do.'

'But what do we do then? I can't hide Charlie for ever. He's got to face up to it sooner or later, hasn't he?'

'Is he guilty?'

‘I simply don't know,' the words said, but the tone conceded doubt and probable defeat 'The office checked after they got the phone call. Apparently we did license a new Renox drug a couple of months ago, and their shares jumped sharply. Anyone holding any of their shares would have made a handsome profit. But Charlie hasn't got any money to splash around on shares. And how would he know about Renox?'

Urquhart came back in a tone which did not imply any argument. 'Let's worry about that when we have taken care of him. He must be put away somewhere quiet, somewhere the press can't get to him. He needs help, whether he wants it or not, and you must get some breathing space. You must be very careful how you decide to respond.'

There was a short pause for the words to sink in. 'You cannot afford to get this one wrong.'

Collingridge's wearied assent was mumbled down the phone. His Chief Whip's sudden authoritativeness had stripped away piece by piece both his family pride and the dignity of his office. He had neither the will nor the capacity to argue. He looked through the leaded windows across the fields surrounding Chequers to an ancient beech wood. He tried to draw strength and confidence from the magnificent trees glowing golden in the evening sunshine of autumn. They had always been an inspiration to him, a constant reminder that all problems eventually pass, yet this evening, no matter how he tried, they left him feeling empty and hollow.

'What else do I do?'

'Nothing. Let us see precisely what the Observer says, then we shall have a better idea. In the meantime, instruct your press office to say nothing while we sort out your brother.'

Thank you, Francis. May I call you later when we see what they print? In the meantime, I would be grateful if you would contact Dr Christian. Sarah will be at my brother's home in just under two hours if she leaves right now. I'll instruct her immediately.'

Collingridge had adopted a formal tone in an attempt to stifle the tension inside him, but Urquhart could hear the emotion trembling in his voice.

‘Don't worry, Henry. Everything will work out. Trust me.'

Charles Collingridge did not object when his sister-in-law let herself into the flat with the spare key. In fact, he was snoring soundly in an armchair, the clutter of an afternoon's heavy indulgence spread around him. He only began to object when Sarah had spent five frustrating minutes trying to shake him awake, and had resorted to ice wrapped in a tea towel. His objections became more vigorous when he began to understand what Sarah was saying, persuading him to 'come away for a few days', but the dialogue became totally incoherent when she began to question him about shares. She could get no sense out of him, and neither could she persuade him to move.

It took the arrival of Dr Christian and a Junior Whip almost an hour later before the situation progressed any further. An overnight bag was rapidly packed, and the three of them bundled the still-protesting brother into the back of Dr Christian's car, which was parked out of sight at the back of the building. Fortunately for them, he had lost the physical coordination to take his objections further.

Unfortunately, however, the whole matter had taken some considerable time, so that when the doctor's Granada swept out from behind the building into the High Street with Sarah and Charles in the back, the whole scene was witnessed by an ITN camera crew, the first to arrive on the scene.

The video tape of a fleeing Charles apparently hiding in the back seat of the car and accompanied by the Prime Minister's wife was played on the late evening news, together with details of the Observer's allegations. The night duty editor at ITN had phoned the managing editor to get approval to play the tape before putting it on air. He wanted his arse covered by senior management on this one. As he had explained, 'Once this gets out, there's no way the Prime Minister can argue he's not involved right up to his neck.'

SUNDAY 17th OCTOBER

The scenes of the fugitive Charles Collingridge were still being played at midday on Sunday as Weekend Watch came on the air. The programme had been thrown together in frantic haste, and there were many untidy ends. The control room reeked of sweat and tension as the programme started. It had not been rehearsed fully, much of it was being done live, and the autocue for the latter stages of the programme was still being typed as the presenter welcomed his viewers.

It had been impossible to find any Minister who would agree to appear on the programme, and one of the invited pundits had not yet arrived. A special overnight opinion poll had been commissioned through Gallup and the polling company's chief executive, Gordon Heald, was presenting the results himself. He had been kicking his computer all morning and was sitting slightly flushed under the hot lights. The computer analysis did nothing to help his sense of ease, for his polling agents had uncovered still further disenchantment with the Prime Minister.

Yes, admitted Heald, it was a significant fall. No, he acknowledged, no Prime Minister had ever won an election after being so low in the polls.

The gloomy prognostications were supported by two senior newspaper commentators and an economist forecasting turmoil in the financial markets in the days ahead, before the presenter switched his attention to Peter Bearstead. Normally the garrulous East Midlands MP would have been videotaped beforehand, but there had been no time for recording. The Honourable and diminutive Member for Leicester North was on live. He was scheduled on the director's log for only two minutes fifty seconds, but the presenter soon discovered that it was the politician whohad taken charge of proceedings.

‘Yes, Mr Bearstead, but how much trouble do you think the Party is in?'

That depends.'

'On what?'

'On how long we have to go with the present Prime Minister.'

'So you are standing by your comment of earlier in the week that perhaps the Prime Minister should be considering his position?'

'Not exactly. I'm saying that the Prime Minister should resign. His present unpopularity is destroying the Party, and now he has become enmeshed in what looks like a family scandal. It cannot go on. It must not go on!'

'But do you think that the Prime Minister is likely to resign? After all, there are almost another five years before an election is necessary, and that must leave enormous scope for recovering lost ground.'

'We will not survive another five years with this Prime Minister!' The MP was clearly agitated, rocking back and forth in his studio chair. It is time for clear heads, not faint hearts; and I am determined that the Party must come to a decision on the matter. If he does not resign, then I shall stand against him for election as Leader of the Party.'

You will challenge him for the Party leadership?' the presenter spluttered in surprise. He was nervous, trying to follow the voluble MP while at the same time listening to instructions in his earpiece which were getting rapidly more heated. 'But surely you can't win?'

'Of course I can't win. But it's up to the senior figures within the Party to grasp the initiative and sort the problem out. They are all constantly griping about it, but none of them has the guts to do anything. If they won't take a stand or won't act, then I will. Flush it into the open. We can't let this continue to fester behind closed doors.'

‘I want to be absolutely clear about this, Mr Bearstead. You are demanding that the Prime Minister resigns, or else you will stand against him for leadership of the Party... ?'

'There has to be a leadership election no later than Christmas: it's Party rules after an election. Instead of a mere formality I shall make it into a real contest where my colleagues will have to make up their minds.'

There was a pained expression on the presenter's face. He was holding his earpiece, through which a shouting match was under way. The director was demanding that the dramatic interview should continue and to hell with the schedule; the editor was shouting that they should get away from it before the bloody fool changed his mind and ruined a sensational story.

'We shall be going for a short commercial break,' announced the presenter.

MONDAY 18th OCTOBER - FRIDAY 22nd OCTOBER

Shortly before midnight in London as the Tokyo financial markets opened, sterling began to be marked down heavily. By 9 a.m. and with all the Monday newspapers leading on the public challenge to Collingridge's leadership, the FT All Share Index was down 63 points, and down a further 44 points by ‘I p.m. when it became clear that Bearstead intended to proceed. The money men don't like surprises.

The Prime Minister wasn't feeling on top form, either. He hadn't slept and had scarcely talked since Saturday evening. His wife had kept him at Chequers rather than allowing him to return to Downing Street, and had called the doctor. Dr Wynne-Jones, Collingridge's loyal and highly experienced physician, had immediately recognised the signs of strain and had prescribed a sedative and rest. The sedative gave some immediate release in the form of the first lengthy spell of sleep he had had since the start of the party conference a week earlier, but his wife could still detect the tension which fluttered beneath his closed eyelids and which kept his fingers firmly clamped onto the bedclothes.

. Late on Monday afternoon when he had come out of his drugged sleep, he instructed the besieged Downing Street press office to make it known that of course he would contest the leadership election and was confident of victory. He was too busy getting on with official Government business to give any interviews, but undoubtedly he would have something to say later in the week. He effected to give a display of total authority and Prime Ministerial stature, but unfortunately no one had yet been able to get any sense out of Charles and there was not a word to be said to refute the allegations of illegal share dealing.

While Downing Street tried to give the impression of business as usual, over at party headquarters Lord Williams ordered additional opinion research to be rushed through. He wanted to know what the country really thought.

The rest of the party machinery moved less quickly. For a further forty-eight hours it was stunned into silence by events which had suddenly sprung off in a totally unexpected direction. The rules for a contested leadership election following a general election were dusted off both in party headquarters and in the media, with many discovering for the first time that the process was under the control of the Chairman of the Parliamentary Party's Backbench Committee, Sir Humphrey Newlands, although the choice of timing was left in the hands of the Party Leader. This proved to be a wise decision since Sir Humphrey, displaying an acutely poor sense of timing, had left the previous weekend for a ten-day holiday on a private island in the West Indies, and was proving extraordinarily difficult to contact. Some speculated that he was deliberately keeping his head low while the awesome but invisible powers of the party hierarchy were mobilised to persuade Bearstead to withdraw. It would be only weeks rather than months, they thought, before Bearstead found himself preoccupied wilii a senior directorship in industry, in Government as a Junior Minister, or silenced in some other lucrative fashion.

By Wednesday, however, the Sun had discovered Sir Humphrey on a silver stretch of beach somewhere near St Lucia along with several friends, including at least three scantily clad young women who were obviously nearly half a century younger than him. It was announced that he would be returning to London as soon as flights could be arranged, for consultation about the election with the Prime Minister.

Collingridge was back in Downing Street, but not in better spirits. Every day brought racy new headlines about turmoil in the Party as newspapers fought to find some new angle on the story. As still further reports began to circulate of growing disaffection between Downing Street and party headquarters, Collingridge began to find himself drifting, cut off from the information and advice which he had previously gained so freely from his wise and wily Party Chairman.

He had no specific reason to distrust Williams, of course, but the constant media discussion of a growing gulf between the two began to make a reality of what previously had been only irresponsible and inventive gossip. Distrust is a matter of mind, not fact, and the press had created strong and virulent perceptions. In the circumstances the ageing and proud Party Chairman felt he couldn't offer advice without being asked, while Collingridge took his silence as probable evidence of disloyalty. Anyway, rationalised Collingridge, party headquarters had let him down badly if not deliberately, and who was responsible for that?

Sarah went for the first visit to Charles, and came back late and very depressed. They were in bed before she could bring herself to talk about it. 'He looks awful, Henry. I never realised quite how ill he was making himself, but it all seems to have caught up with him in a few days. The doctors are still trying to detoxify him, get all the alcohol out of his system. They said he was close to killing himself.' She buried her head in his arms.

‘I blame myself. I could have stopped him. If only I hadn't been so preoccupied ... Did he say anything about the shares?'

'He's scarcely coherent yet; he just kept saying "£50,000? What £50,000?" He swore he'd never been anywhere near a Turkish bank.'

She sat bolt upright in bed, looking deep into her husband's eyes. Is he guilty?'

‘I simply don't know, darling. But what choice do I have? He has to be innocent. If he did buy those shares, then who on earth is going to believe that I didn't tell him to do so. If Charles is guilty, then I shall be judged guilty with him.'

She gripped his arm in alarm.

Collingridge smiled to reassure her. ‘Don't worry, my love, I am sure it will never come to that.' But his voice was tired, unconvincing.

'Couldn't you say that Charles was ill, he didn't know what he was doing, he somehow... found the information without your knowing...' Her voice faded away as she began to realise how transparent the argument was.

He took her gently in his arms, surrounding her with warmth and comfort. He kissed her forehead and felt a warm tear fall on his chest. He knew he was close to tears, too, and felt no shame.

'No, Sarah, I shall not be the one to finish off Charlie. God knows he's been trying hard enough to do that himself, but I am still his brother. On this one we will survive, or sink if we must, as a family. Together.'

Mattie's original intention had been to take the whole week off recovering from the after-effects of the media circus which had spent the best part of six weeks travelling around some of the country's less splendid bars and boarding houses following the various political parties' annual conferences. It was an exhausting schedule, and most of the following weekend she had intended to devote to sampling some exotic Chilean wines and soaking in the bath. But the relaxation she sought proved to be elusive. Her indignation at the way Preston had not only trampled on her story but also abused her sense of journalistic pride seemed to make the wine taste acidic and the bathwater turn cold.

So she tried burning off her anger with strenuous physical work, but after three days of taking it out on the woodwork of her Victorian apartment with sandpaper and paint, she could stand hex frustration no longer. On Tuesday morning at 9.30, Mattie was planted firmly in the leather armchair in front of the editor's desk, determined not to move until she had confronted Preston. He would not be able to put me phone down on her this time.

She had been there nearly an hour before his secretary peered apologetically round the door. 'Sorry, Mattie. He's just called in to say he's got an outside appointment. He won't be in until after lunch.'

Mattie felt as if the world was conspiring against her. She wanted to scream or smash something or put chewing gum in his hair brush - anything to get her own back. It was therefore unfortunate timing that John Krajewski decided at that moment to see whether the editor was in his office, only to discover an incandescent Mattie.

‘I didn't know you were in!'

I'm not,' she said between clenched teeth. 'At least, not for much longer.' She stood up to go.

Krajewski was ill at ease and awkward, glancing around the room to make sure they were alone.

'Look, Mattie, I've picked up the phone a dozen times to call you since last week, but...'

'But what?' she snapped.

'I was afraid I couldn't find the words to stop you biting my head off,' he said softly.

'Then you were right!' But Mattie's voice had changed, growing gentler as she realised how totally she had lost her sense of humour. It wasn't Johnnie's fault, so why take it out on him, just because he was the only man around to kick? He was worth more than that.

Since his wife had died two years earlier, Krajewski had lost much of his self-confidence, both about women and his professional abilities. He had survived in his demanding job on the strength of his undoubted journalistic talents, but his confidence with women was only slowly returning, penetrating and gradually cracking the shell which his pain had built around him. Many women had tried, attracted by his tall frame, dark hair and deep, sad eyes. But he wanted more than their sympathy, and slowly he had begun to realise that he wanted Mattie. At first he had allowed himself to show no special interest in her, just the respect of a professional colleague which had only slowly developed into something more relaxed during their shared moments in the office and over countless cups of machine coffee. The thrill of the chase was at last beginning to return to his empty life, helping him tolerate the lash of Mattie's tongue. And now he sensed the softening in her mood.

'Mattie, let's talk about it. But not here, not in the office. Over dinner where we can get away from all this.' He made an irritated gesture in the direction of the editor's desk.

Is this an excuse for a pick up?' The slightest trace of a smile began to appear at the comers of her mouth.

'Do I need an excuse... ?'

She grabbed her bag and swung it over her shoulder. 'Eight o'clock,' she instructed, trying in vain to look severe as she walked past him and out of the office.

I’ll be there,' he shouted after her. ‘I must be a masochist, but I'll be there.'

And indeed at eight o'clock prompt, he was. They hadn't gone very far, just around the comer from Mattie's flat in Notting Hill to The Ganges, a little Bangladeshi restaurant with a big clay oven and a proprietor who ran an excellent kitchen during the time he allowed himself away from his passionate preoccupation with trying to overthrow the Government back home.

They were waiting for the chicken tikka to arrive when Mattie told him. ‘Johnnie, I've been burning up with anger all afternoon. I think I've made a terrible mistake. With all my heart I want to be a journalist, a good journalist. Deep down I always thought I could be a great journalist, but it will never happen working for a man like that, Grev Preston is not what I left everything behind and came to

London for, and I'm not taking any more of his crap. I'm quitting.'

He looked at her sharply and took his time in responding. She was trying to smile defiantly, but he could see the sense of bitter failure tearing at her inside.

Don't rush it. And don't leave until you have something else to go to. You would regret it if you were out of action right now, just when the political world seems to be falling apart.'

She looked at him quizzically. 'Frankly, Johnnie, you surprise me. That's not the impassioned plea to stay on as part of the team that I was expecting from my deputy editor.'

I'm not speaking as the deputy editor, Mattie. You mean more to me than that.' There was a short, embarrassed, very English silence which he covered by elaborately breaking a large hunk of nan bread in two. 'I understand why you feel like that. I feel exactly the same way.' There was an edge of bitterness in his words.

'You are thinking of leaving, too?' said Mattie with astonishment.

His eyes were dark and sad once more, but with anger rather than self pity.

I've been with the paper over eight years. It used to be a quality paper, one I was proud to work for - before the takeover. But what they have done to you, and what they are doing to everyone there, is not my idea of journalism.' He bit into the warm, spicy bread as he considered carefully what he would say next.

'As deputy editor I bear some responsibility for what appears in the paper. Perhaps I shouldn't tell you the story of what happened the other night, but I'm going to because I can't tolerate any more being stuck with the responsibility for the things that are happening now. Mattie, do you want to know what happened to your story?'

There was no need to answer the question. The chicken tikka and vegetable curry had arrived, with the strongly flavoured dishes crowded onto the tiny table, but neither of them showed any interest in the food.

That night a few of us were standing around in the news room shortly before the first edition deadline. It was a quiet night, not much late breaking news. Then Grev's secretary shouted across the floor that there was a phone call for him and he disappeared to take it in his own office. Ten minutes later he reappeared, very flustered. Someone had really lit a fire under him. 'Hold everything," he shouted. "We're going to change the front page." I thought, Jesus, they must have shot the President. He was in a real state, very nervous. Then he asked for your story to be put up on one of the screens. He announced we were going to lead with it, but first we had to beef it up.'

'But the reason he spiked it in the first place was because he said it was too strong!'she protested.

'Of course. But wait, it gets better. So there he was, looking over the shoulder of one of our general reporters who was sitting at the screen, dictating changes directly to him. Twisting it, hyping it, turning everything into a personal attack on the Prime Minister. And you remember the quotations from senior Cabinet sources on which the whole rewrite was based? He made them up, on the spot. Every single one of them. It was fiction from beginning to end. You should have been delighted that your name wasn't on it.'

'But why? Why on earth invent a story like that? Changing the whole editorial stance of the newspaper by dumping Collingridge. What made him change his mind in such a hurry?' She paused for a second, biting her lip with impatience. 'Wait a minute. Who was he talking to on the phone? Who was this so-called source in Bournemouth?' she demanded. 'Of course, I see it now.' She let out a low sigh of understanding. 'Mr Benny Bunter Landless.'

He nodded confirmation.

'So that's why Grev was jumping through the hoops and screwing around with my story. I should have realised it earlier. The ringmaster was cracking the whip’

'And that's why I feel I can't go on either, Mattie. We are -no longer a newspaper, we're beginning to act as the proprietor's own personal edition of Pravda’

But Mattie's curiosity had already begun to overhaul her own anger and disappointment. There was a story lurking somewhere, and the excitement of the chase began to take a hold on her. 'So Landless has suddenly turned against Collingridge. All his newspapers were craven sycophants during the election, yet now we are running a lynch party. Why, Johnnie, why?'

'That's an excellent question, Mattie, but I don't know the answer. It can't be politics, Landless has never given a damn about that. He has politicians of every party in his pocket. I can only think it's personal in some way’

If it's personal it must be business. That's the only thing which really rattles his cage.'

'But I can't figure out why he should have fallen out with Collingridge over business.'

'And I would love to know who he's got on the inside.'

'What do you mean?' asked Krajewski.

'Grev couldn't have concocted that article without the material on the opinion poll. Without my copy on which to work he had nothing, and without the leaked statistics I had nothing either. And at the same time as this occurs, Landless decides to ditch Collingridge. It's too much of a coincidence for that all to have come together by chance’. She banged her hand on the table with a renewed passion. 'But it can't be Landless on his own. There's somebody on the inside of the Party leaking polls and pulling strings.'

The same person who's supposed to have been leaking all the material since the election?'

'The one the Chief Whip was trying to sort out? That's a fascinating thought. He found nothing definite and before tonight I was never convinced that it was a deliberate campaign of leaks rather than a series of cock-ups ...'

'But now...?'

'Now I've got just two questions, Johnnie - who, and why?'

The adrenalin was pouring into her veins, replacing her earlier despondency with electric urges which tingled throughout her body and brain. She felt exhilarated. Something had touched her deep down, an almost animal lust to pursue her prey until she had found and trapped it. This is what she had come south for. This made it all worthwhile.

‘Johnnie, you sweet man. How wise you are! Something smells and I want to find out what -’I knew it when I saw Landless prowling around at Bournemouth. You're right. Now is definitely not the time to throw in the towel and resign. I'm going to get to the bottom of this even if I have to kill someone. Will you help me?'

If that's what you want - of course.'

'There's another thing I want, Johnnie.' She felt alive, charged with excitement and a feeling burning deep inside her which she thought she had long ago forgotten. Xet's pass on the bloody biryani and go back to my place. I've got a bottle of vintage Sauteme in the fridge, and I need some company tonight. All night. Would you mind?'

'Mattie, it's been a long time...'

'Me, too, Johnnie. Too long.'

The statement - or briefing, in fact, because it was not issued in the form of a quotable press release - was made available on Wednesday and was simple. As the Downing Street press secretary told the gathered lobby correspondents, The Prime Minister has never provided his brother with any form of commercially sensitive Government information, and has never discussed any aspect of Renox Chemicals with him. The Prime Minister's brother is extremely ill, and is currently under medical supervision. His doctors have stated that he is not in a fit state to give interviews or answer questions. However, I can assure you that he categorically denies purchasing any Renox shares, having a false address in Paddington, or being involved in this matter in any way whatsoever. That's all I can tell you at the moment’

'Come on, Freddie,' one of the correspondents carped, 'you can't get away with just that. How on earth do you explain the Observer story if the Collingridges are innocent?'

‘I can't. Perhaps they were getting confused with another Charles Collingridge, how do I know? But I've known Henry Collingridge for many years, just as you've known me, and all of my experience tells me he is incapable of stooping to such ridiculous and sordid depths. My man is innocent, and you have my word on that!'

He spoke with the vehemence of a professional placing his own reputation on the line along with that of his boss, and the lobby's respect for one of their old time colleagues swung the day for Collingridge - just.

'We're innocent!' bawled the front page of the Daily Mail the following day, with most of the other newspapers following on cue. Finding no more incriminating information with which to play, the media and the Party together sat back exhausted, relishing the opportunity to concentrate for just a moment on other disasters.

Urquhart once again had stepped from the Chief Whip's office at Number 12 Downing Street along to Number 10 at the request of Collingridge. 'You're the only smiling face I see at the moment, Francis, and I need you to keep my spirits up!' They were sitting together in the Cabinet Room reviewing the newspapers, with Collingridge at last managing a smile of his own. For the first time in days he felt he could see the mists beginning to clear.

'What do you trunk, Francis?'

‘Perhaps we are through the worst.'

'No, not necessarily. But at least we have a breathing space and I can tell you, I need that more than anything. The pressure.. ‘ He shook his head slowly. 'Well, you understand, I'm sure.'

Collingridge took a deep breath to summon up fresh resources from within. 'But it is only a breathing space, Francis.' He waved to the empty seats around the Cabinet table. 'I don't know how much firm support I still have amongst colleagues, but I have to give them something to hold on to. I can't afford to run away. I have to show I've nothing to hide, to take the initiative once again.'

'What do you intend to do?'

The Prime Minister sat quietly, beneath the towering oil painting of Robert Walpole, his longest-serving predecessor who had survived countless scandals and crises and whose magnificent portrait had inspired many leaders during times of trial. As Collingridge gazed in contemplation across St James's Park, the sun burst through the grey autumn skies, flooding the room with light. The sound of children playing rose up from the park. Life would goon.

He turned to face Urquhart. ‘I have an invitation from Weekend Watch to appear this Sunday and put my own case — to restore the balance. I think I must do it - and I think I must do it damned well! They've promised no more than ten minutes on the Observer nonsense, the rest on broad policy and our ambitions for the fourth term. What do you think?'

Urquhart chose not to express any opinion. He was more than content to let Collingridge use him as a sounding board while he made up his own mind, bouncing ideas and arguments off him to see how they sounded, letting Urquhart know of every move along the way.

'At times like these, men must make up their own minds.'

'Good!' Collingridge exclaimed with a chuckle. I'm glad you think that way. Because I've already accepted.' He took a deep breath and exhaled fiercely through flared nostrils. 'The stakes are high, Francis, and I know there are no easy options. But for once I feel lucky!'

It was Urquhart's turn to gaze out through the window and think hard. As he did so, the sun disappeared once more behind the clouds, and the rain began to beat down on the pane.

Penny put the call from the Chief Whip through to O'Neill in his office. A few seconds later the door was carefully closed. Penny heard the sound of O'Neill's raised voice some minutes later, but could not decipher what he was shouting about.

When the red light on the extension phone flashed off to indicate the call was finished, there was no sound at all from O'Neill's office. Pressed forward by a mixture of curiosity and concern, she knocked gently on his door, and opened it cautiously. O'Neill was sitting at his desk with his head in his hands. He looked up as he heard Penny come in, and confronted her with wild, staring eyes.

His voice croaked and his speech was disjointed.

'He ... threatened me, Pen. He said if I don't he would... tell everyone. I said I wouldn't but... I've got to alter the file...'

'What file, Roger? What have you got to do?' She had never seen him like this. 'Can I help?'

'No, Pen, you can't help. Not on this... Damned computers!' He seemed to regain a little self-control. 'Penny. I want you to forget all about it. I want you to go home. Have the rest of the day off. I'm ... going out shortly. Please, don't hang around waiting for me, go home now.'

‘But, Roger, I...'

'No questions, Pen, no questions. Just leave!'

She gathered her things in tearful confusion as O'Neill slammed his door shut once again and she heard it locking from the inside.

SUNDAY 24th OCTOBER

Collingridge began to relax as the programme unfolded. He had rehearsed hard for the previous two days, and the questions were much as expected, giving him an excellent opportunity to talk with genuine vigour about the next few years. He had insisted that the questions concerning the Observer allegations be kept until the end, partly so that Weekend Watch could not renege on its promise to restrict the section to ten minutes, and partly because he wanted to be into his stride and in command before grappling with them. He hoped that after forty-five minutes of him talking about the bright future for the country the questions would look mean and irrelevant.

Sarah was smiling encouragingly from the edge of the studio as they went into the final commercial break. He gave her a thumbs-up sign as the floor manager waved his arms to let them know that they were about to go back on air.

'Mr Collingridge, for the final few minutes of this programme, I would like to turn to the allegations printed in the Observer last week about Charles Collingridge and possible improper share dealing’

Collingridge nodded seriously into the camera to show that he had nothing to fear from such questions.

‘I understand that earlier this week Downing Street issued a statement denying any connection of your family with the matter, and suggesting that there may have been a case of mistaken identity. Is that correct?'

'There may have been some confusion with another Charles Collingridge for all I know, but I am really not in a position to explain the extraordinary Observer story. All I can tell you is that none of my family have anything whatsoever to do with this matter. You have my word of honour on that.' He spoke the words slowly, leaning forward, looking directly at the presenter to give added dramatic emphasis.

‘I understand that your brother denies ever having opened an accommodation address in a Paddington tobacconists’

'Absolutely’ Collingridge confirmed.

'Prime Minister, earlier this week one of our reporters addressed an envelope to himself, care of Charles Collingridge, at the Paddington address used to open the bank account. He used a vivid red envelope to make sure it stood out clearly. I would like you to look at this video tape which we took at that address yesterday when he went to reclaim it. I apologise for the poor quality, but I am afraid we had to use a concealed camera, as the proprietor of the shop concerned seemed very reluctant to cooperate.'

The presenter swivelled his chair so that he could see the dark and fuzzy but still discernible video which was being projected onto the large screen behind him. Collingridge flashed a concerned look at Sarah, and cautiously swivelled his own chair around. He watched as the reporter approached the counter, pulled out various pieces of plastic and paper from his wallet to identify himself, and explained to the counter assistant that a letter was waiting for him in the care of Charles Collingridge, who used this address for his own post. The assistant, the same overweight and balding man who had served Penny several months before, explained that he could not release letters except to someone who could produce a proper receipt. 'Lots of important letters come here’ he sniffed. 'Can't go handing them out to just anyone.'

'But look, it's there. The red envelope. I can see it from here.'

A little uncertain as to what he should do, the assistant turned and extracted the envelopes from a numbered pigeon hole behind him. There were three of them. He placed the red envelope on the counter in front of the reporter, with the other two envelopes to one side. He was trying to confirm that the name on the envelope, c/o Charles Collingridge, matched that of the reporter's identitycards while the camera zoomed in closely on the other two envelopes. It took a few seconds for the operator to focus the concealed equipment properly, but as he did so, the markings on the envelopes came clearly into view. Both were addressed to Charles Collingridge. One bore the imprint of the Union Bank of Turkey. The other had been sent from the Party's Sales and Literature Office at Smith Square.

The presenter turned once more to confront Collingridge - and there was no doubt left in Collingridge's mind that the triumphant interview had now turned into open confrontation.

'The first envelope would seem to confirm that the address was indeed used to buy and sell shares in the Renox Chemical Company through the Union Bank of Turkey. But we were puzzled about the letter from your own party headquarters. So we called your Sales and Literature Office, pretending to be a supplier with an order from Charles Collingridge but with an indecipherable address.'

Collingridge was just about to shout an angry denunciation of the immoral and underhand methods adopted by the programme when the studio was filled with the recorded sound of the telephone call.

'... so could you just confirm what address we should have for Mr Collingridge and then we can get the goods off to him straight away.'

‘Just one minute, please’ said an eager young man's voice. I’ll call it up on the screen.'

There was the sound of a keyboard being tapped. 'Ah, here it is. Charles Collingridge, 216 Praed Street, Paddington, London W2.'

Thank you very much indeed. You have been most helpful.'

The presenter turned once again to Collingridge. 'Do you wish to comment, Prime Minister?'

He shook his head, uncertain of what to say, or whether he should walk off the set. He was astonished that Charles was registered with the Sales and Literature Office, because he had only ever shown interest in the social side of politics. But he suspected that this was likely to be the least of his surprises.

'Of course, we took seriously your explanation that it might be a case of mistaken identity, of confusion with another Charles Collingridge.'

Collingridge wanted to shout in protest that it was not 'his' explanation, that it was simply an off-hand and speculative remark made without prejudice by his press secretary. But he knew it would be a waste of time, so he remained silent.

‘Do you know how many other Charles Collingridges there are listed in the London telephone directory, Prime Minister?'

Collingridge offered no response, but sat there looking grim and ashen faced.

The presenter came to the assistance of his silent guest. There are no other Charles Collingridges listed in the London telephone directory. Indeed, sources at British Telecom tell us that there is only one Charles Collingridge listed throughout the United Kingdom Your brother, Prime Minister.'

Again a pause, inviting a response, but none was offered.

'Since a Mr Charles Collingridge seems to have acted on inside information concerning the Renox Chemical Company and decisions of the Department of Health relating to it, we asked both organisations if they had any knowledge of a Charles Collingridge. Renox tells us that neither they, nor their subsidiaries, have any Collingridge amongst then-employees. The Department of Health's press office was rather more cagey, promising to get back to us but never did. However, their trade union office was much more cooperative. They, too, corifirmed that there is no Collingridge listed as working at any of the Department's 508 offices throughout the country.'

The presenter shuffled his notes. 'Apparently they did have a Minnie Collingridge who worked at their Coventry office until two years ago, but she went back to Jamaica.'

"They're laughing at me’ screamed Collingridge to himself. 'They have convicted, sentenced and now are executing me!' In the background he could see Sarah, and the tears which were running like rivers of blood down her cheeks.

'Prime Minister. We have almost come to the end of our programme. Is there anything you wish to say?'

Collingridge sat there, staring ahead at Sarah, wanting to run to her and embrace her and lie to her that there was no need for tears, everything would be all right. He was still sitting motionless in his chair a full minute later, as the eerie studio silence was broken by the programme's theme music. While the lights dimmed and the credits rolled, the viewers saw him rise from his seat, walk slowly over to v embrace his sobbing wife, and start whispering all those lies.

When they arrived back at Downing Street, Collingridge went straight to the Cabinet Room. He entered almost like a visitor, looking slowly and with a new eye around the room, at its elegant furnishings, fine classical architecture and historic paintings. Yet his gaze kept corning back to the Cabinet table itself, symbol of the uniquely British form of collective Government. He walked slowly around it, trailing his hand on the green baize cloth, stopping at the far end at the seat he had first occupied ten years ago as the Cabinet's most junior member. He raised his eyes to meet those of Robert Walpole, who seemed to be looking directly at him.

'What would you have done, old fellow?' he whispered. ‘Fight, I suppose. And if you didn't win that one then fight and fight again. Well, well see.'

He reached his own chair and settled slowly into it, feeling physically lost as he sat alone at the middle of the great table. He reached for the single telephone which stood beside his blotter. There was a duty telephonist on call every hour of the day and night.

'Get me the Chancellor of the Exchequer, please.'

It took less than a minute before the receiver buzzed, with the Chancellor on the line.

'Colin, did you see it? How badly will the markets react tomorrow?'

The Chancellor gave an embarrassed but honest opinion.

'Bloody, eh? We shall have to see what can be done about it. We shall be in touch.'

He then spoke to the Foreign Secretary. 'What damage, Patrick?'

Woolton told him bluntly that with the Government's reputation so weak it would now be impossible to achieve the reforms of the Common Market's budgetary system which the United Kingdom Government had long been demanding and which had been made a clear priority during the election. 'A month ago it was there, within our grasp, after all these years. Now we carry about as much political clout around the negotiating table as O'Reilly's donkey. Sorry, Henry, you asked me to be brutally frank.'

Then it was the turn of the Party Chairman. Williams could hear the formal tone being used by Collingridge on the end of the phone, and responded in kind.

'Prime Minister, within the last hour I have had calls from seven of our eleven Regional Party Chairmen. Without exception, I am sorry to say, they think the situation is quite disastrous for the Party. They feel that we are beyond the point of no return.'

'No, Teddy,' contradicted Collingridge. 'They feel that I am beyond the point of no return. There's a difference.'

He made one more phone call, to his private secretary asking him to seek an appointment at the Palace around lunchtime the following day. The secretary rang back four minutes later to say Her Majesty looked forward to seeing him at ‘I o'clock.

He felt suddenly relieved, as if the tremendous weight had already shifted from his shoulders. He looked up one last time to face Walpole.

'Oh, yes. You would have fought. You would probably have won. But this office has already ruined my brother and now it is ruining me. I will not let it ruin Sarah's happiness, too. If you will excuse me, I had better let her know.'

Walpole's forty-ninth successor as Prime-.Minister strode towards the Cabinet Room door for almost the last time and, with his hand on the brass handle, turned once more.

'By the way, it already feels better.'